A Memoir: David Ruffin - My Temptation

Mom and Dick had, by this time, moved to Baltimore, leaving ruin in their wake. She left the three little ones behind with their father. I doubt if those kids ever forgave her for that, and I'm sure she never forgave herself either. Matter of fact, she died 5/3/88 from a stomach aneurysm-- just blew herself up; something which I believe was caused by all her pent-up negative emotions collected and internalized from a whole lifetime.

For the first year, I tried to live with Mom and Dick, but they wouldn't allow all my friends inside (only the white ones). So we often just hung out and/or rode around until after Dick went to work at dawn. Or, we passed out in the car--whichever came first.

Many early mornings, I'd be coming in when they were in the kitchen throwing condiments at each other--salt and pepper shakers, sugar and creamers, bottles of milk, whatever. It was at that apartment, she told me later, that mom had found Dick smelling my dirty underwear. So, I guess I got out of there in the nick of time. But not before I went through a year of torture, frustration, humiliation and drunken degradation regarding my having black friends. She'd go through my phone book and scream, "Black or white? Black or white?" as she ripped out pages and threw them on the floor like so much garbage. He and Mom went especially berserk with the idea that there was a chance (no, make that a given) that I might (God forbid) have a black boyfriend. They even sent me to a shrink. I refused to go after the first humiliating time. It was a joke. A disgustingly bad joke. He was a racist too. The first thing he did was ask me if I was pregnant, so I pooched my stomach out and sat as if I were. That shrink needed a shrink--far worse than I did!

The "pregnant" part was especially hurtful to me as I was still a virgin. In fact, I had just gotten my period a few months before. I was so innocent that I couldn't quite figure out how to put in a tampon at eighteen--my mom had to help me. One night, a drunken Mom and Dick followed me to a jazz club--a spot frequented by athletes--where I worked as a waitress. She argued loudly with Carter, the owner, she humiliated me in front of all my friends and co- workers, and, for an encore, she attacked me. She punched me in the stomach, ripped my necklace off me and threatened to rip the earrings out of my pierced ears when I reached to take them off in anticipation of same. After much embarrassment and many threats, they finally staggered out. I was in shock. Next day the place blew up. Exploded. Kaboom. I've always thought that Ralph did it.

I'd heard he carried a sub-machine gun in the trunk of his car and he often shadowed my friends in an effort to find out where I was living (read hiding), and who I was seeing (read screwing). Once he tailed my girlfriend's car so tight that she had no choice but to jump out and ask him what the hell he wanted. A big confrontation ensued. He also ferreted out the house of an older male friend--good ol' "Willie Off the Pickle Boat" as he called himself, and threatened him. And when he finally did trace me, he just put a big plain scrap of torn white paper in my mailbox to terrify me. And, yes, it did work--very, very well. Shades of Little Italy--again. He watched and waited, then appeared at my door just after I got home from my job at a wig shop. I was scared and too intimidated to not open it. Having finally come face-to-face, we had a huge argument. He wound up strangling me on my bed, screaming how I was a disgrace to the family name. A family which, by the way, did include such things as drug users, dealers, thieves, bookies and God-only-knows-what. But, hey, no nigger-lovers allowed. Botta-boom, botta-bing! That reminds me: Mom used to have two favorite sayings: "A wop ain't nothin' but a nigger turned inside out", and "Ain't nothin' worse than a nigger but a nigger-lover." I apologize for her. I don't like and I don't do racial slurring, thank you. The words just don't feel good in my mouth. But this is what I had to listen to as a young girl--I guess she did too.

At any rate, Ralph informed me that he hadn't tried to kill me, or I'd have been dead. Whatever. And, yes, this is the same Ralph and Dorothy who, as newlyweds, were also victims of bias. Yet, as I was later informed by my hypocritical, two-faced, racist, sexist boy cousins whenever they screwed a black girl, "This is different." Indeed it was!

Dad just happened to be going to trial at that time for illegally booking numbers, so I figured I'd better take advantage of this unique opportunity. Although I was terrified of it, I pressed assault charges in hopes that, together with the first charges, they would carry enough weight to get him jail time, in spite of his connections to the judge--A Nice Italian Boy from the Neighborhood.

Anyhow, Ralph did get a sentence of six months in jail. The main thing I remember, besides fright, is trying to rush past him where he stood under guard by the back door of that courtroom. He had on the signature overcoat he always wore Little Italy style, but his hands were cuffed behind his back. Regardless, he still petrified me.

I must've gone into slo-mo as I passed him, because I remember his hissing that no matter where I went he'd find me. He listed several cities, including Detroit, so I'd think--make that know--that he was one step ahead of me. And for years, I did look behind every tree and jump at every shadow. I figured that while he was in jail would be an auspicious time for me to get out of town--even though I knew he'd be in hot pursuit the moment he was released. At least I'd be a jump ahead, plus I had no choice.

Then, when I was twenty, I met my David. And he said he loved me. He didn't have a horse or shining armor, but he was my knight just the same. This was the savior my mother had always promised. But I don't really think she meant for him to be quite so tall, dark and handsome. Especially the dark part! This brings us back to the first question people always ask me: How did we meet? Let me put it this way:

David Ruffin of The Temptations! Even the mention of the name never failed to arouse emotion. If you'd ever seen him perform live, regardless of your gender, that name incited a riot in your heart. If you were among those who'd had the "honor" of actually meeting the man, you had a definite reaction to him. That was the effect he had. His charisma enchanted many--others hated him. Still others both loved and hated him. I was one of those. It wasn't always like that. At first he didn't elicit such strong emotions as love or hate--at least, not from me. In fact, the first time he tried to attract my attention, he simply succeeded in attracting my indifference. Which, knowing him as I do now, may have been a large contributing factor toward his piqued interest in me. Anyhow, interested he was!