My Fingerprint: A True Story

I’ve shared bits and pieces of my story with a few folk and the reaction is usually the same – mouth open, eyes wide, speechless. I couldn’t make this stuff up even if I tried, I’m not that creative. This is who I am and why I am and I can’t be ashamed, afraid or apologetic because it is what it is. I will forever be my momma’s daughter and my daddy’s secret.

I was born on Monday, July 15, 1974 at or around 12:55 in the morning. My momma pushed all 7lbs 15oz. of me naturally through her small size eight frame. I came out calm, cool and collected just as I am today. I am the youngest of three, my brother, SB is ten years my senior and my sister, Sissy is six years older. I am the baby of the family and I can’t deny that I did not enjoy all the perks. I can not tell a lie, I used it to my advantage every chance I got. My momma was twenty-nine when she had me, four years younger than what I am now and I can’t imagine raising three kids alone. That is why I honor her and give her the utmost respect. She is truly my rock and the epitome of strength and courage. I asked my momma why she named me Wanda Monique. When I think about the name Wanda, all I can see is an old white woman with a bunch of cats so I was more than curious to know my momma’s reasoning. She said her first name choice was Tara Monique but her roommate in the maternity ward had named her daughter Tara. Had my momma and her roommate discussed the potential names for their brand new daughters? No. My momma wanted Tara but she got Wanda and I’m sure she would not exchange me for the world. I was destined to be here and destined to be Wanda which is of German decent and means “wanderer”. My birthday is 7-1-5, my birth weight was 7-1-5 and the time I was born can be manipulated into 7-1-5. I am here for a reason, my story says so.

Me, my momma, and my two older siblings lived in a four room house on the south side of Suffolk, Virginia. The house was made of wood and painted the ugliest color of blue I had ever seen. It wasn’t sky blue or the color of water it was just a loud variation of the two. I hated it because everyone knew the blue house on the corner. The front screened porch ran the entire width of the house. The house was divided into four evenly square rooms – two bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen. The back screened porch was an even smaller square that was cut from the kitchen. There was one food pantry and one closet so you can just imagine the clutter and chaos with one adult and three children sharing the same small space. It did not help matters that my grandmother also lived there but only on the weekends. She performed domestic duties for a white family in Virginia Beach during the week in exchange for room and board. My grandmother worked for the same family until early 2006. She was eighty-one years old when she finally retired. I have a long and strong legacy of hardworking women and independence runs deep down in my veins.

One bedroom was jammed with two beds, one full-sized and the other twin-sized. Me, my momma and my sister shared the full-size. Me and momma slept up top and my sister slept at the bottom. Every night we’d climb into bed like it was the most normal thing in the world. I’d throw my little leg on my momma’s hip because she slept on her side facing the bedroom door. My sister would sleep in the opposite direction so that I was smashed in the middle of butts and thighs. My brother had it good only because he could stretch his thin, lanky frame all over that twin-sized bed and not worry about where his foot or elbow ended up. He was living the good life and didn’t even know it. The other bedroom belonged to my grandmother. We were not permitted to go in there, let alone sleep in there when she wasn’t there. Five nights a week, while me, my momma and my siblings slept in a cramped bedroom sat a perfectly unused bed fit for a queen. Why didn’t my momma use this room as her own during the week? That’s something I’d never ask my momma about because I already know the answer. Nobody wanted to hear grandmomma’s fussing, so we did whatever it took to appease her. “Who’s been in my room?” she’d holler. Nobody wanted to deal with that so we left well enough alone and continued to sleep like one big happy family in a square room in the square blue house on the corner.

What really limited and suppressed my social skills as a child was the fact that not only did I sleep with my momma and sister every night but I also had to make sure none of my friends ever found out that I didn’t have indoor plumbing. The outhouse sat a few hundred feet behind the house, hidden among wild brush and low hanging trees. God forbid if anybody saw me sneaking to empty the “pot” we used in the house just so we wouldn’t have to go outside every time we had to pee. The pot reminded me of a pot somebody would use to cook a bunch of spaghetti in. It even had a lid. It was just tall enough to slide underneath the bed just so we wouldn’t have to stare at it and be constantly reminded that we did not have a toilet like regular folk. I was always afraid of the outhouse. It wasn’t big as nothing, just wide enough for you to go in and sit down on the high plank with a hole in it. I always wondered what lurked beneath the seat every time I had to go in and dump the pot. Each time somebody did ‘number 2’ in the pot they had to dump it unless it was at night then we would just pour a gallon of bleach in the pot to kill the smell until we were able to take it out the next day. I remember on many occasions gagging as I pulled off the lid to do my business and saw that somebody had already done their business and didn’t dump it. You can imagine that the pot stayed full with three kids and one adult. Somebody was either carrying the pot out, bleaching the pot or using the pot. I absolutely hated it. My grandmother had her own special pot and just like her bedroom, you were chastised if you used it. How would she know if we used her pot during the week? Sometimes I’d sneak and use it just so I wouldn’t have to duck and dodge all the kids who played up and down my street. If they would’ve caught glimpse of me trying to hide and sneak to the outhouse to empty the pot, I would’ve just died....

To be con't....