2014 Brooklyn Non-Fiction Prize Winner
A Broken Promise In Brooklyn
By
Jeanine DeHoney
“If you name her after me Eddie Lee, I promise she won’t ever
have to worry for nothin’.”
My Great Aunt Corrine circa 1931.
My Great Aunt Corrine circa 1931.
Long before I came into this world, before I took my first
lungful of air outside my mother’s
womb at Kings County Hospital, before there was that familiar parental debate over who I
favored, my Mother or Father, there was a promise made in Jersey City. For years that promise
would remain unfulfilled and cause a ripple of sadness across the bridge in Brooklyn for my
mother’s baby sister, whom because she had the voice of a songbird, we called Sing instead of
her given name Corrine.
womb at Kings County Hospital, before there was that familiar parental debate over who I
favored, my Mother or Father, there was a promise made in Jersey City. For years that promise
would remain unfulfilled and cause a ripple of sadness across the bridge in Brooklyn for my
mother’s baby sister, whom because she had the voice of a songbird, we called Sing instead of
her given name Corrine.
As a child, I never associated Brooklyn with broken promises.
Back then, the promises made to
me were simple enough to be kept. The promise of a hand full of jiggling coins on a humid
summer day to buy ice-cream from the musical truck that stopped on the corner of Blake Avenue
in Brownsville. The promise of a new pair of shoes from a shoe store on Pitkin Avenue when
my heels were run over. The promise that if I’d get swooped up into my father’s strong arms and
my knee dabbed with a bit of spit on his handkerchief if I fell while playing outside and scraped
my knee.
me were simple enough to be kept. The promise of a hand full of jiggling coins on a humid
summer day to buy ice-cream from the musical truck that stopped on the corner of Blake Avenue
in Brownsville. The promise of a new pair of shoes from a shoe store on Pitkin Avenue when
my heels were run over. The promise that if I’d get swooped up into my father’s strong arms and
my knee dabbed with a bit of spit on his handkerchief if I fell while playing outside and scraped
my knee.
As all children were at my age, I was naïve about adults and
how complex they could be. I
thought that when they professed their love, when they said that they would show up for a child
they would. But too often their promises were like writings in the sky. They vanished like a
billow of white smoke, as if they had never been etched into the heavens much less a precious
child’s heart.
thought that when they professed their love, when they said that they would show up for a child
they would. But too often their promises were like writings in the sky. They vanished like a
billow of white smoke, as if they had never been etched into the heavens much less a precious
child’s heart.
“If you name her after me Eddie Lee, I promise she won’t ever
have to worry for nothin’.”
Those words from my Great Aunt Corrine would haunt me even
though I heard them
secondhand. Maybe that was why I always kept my distance from her when we piled into my
father’s blue station wagon and went to visit her. Maybe that was why as I sat on her plastic
covered sofa, in her poorly lit room that smelled of mothballs and were full with expensive
antiquated things, I bit my nails to the skin and refused her food and tapped my feet on her
creaky wooden floors waiting to escape. Maybe even then I sensed that she had committed an act
of betrayal on someone I so deeply loved.
secondhand. Maybe that was why I always kept my distance from her when we piled into my
father’s blue station wagon and went to visit her. Maybe that was why as I sat on her plastic
covered sofa, in her poorly lit room that smelled of mothballs and were full with expensive
antiquated things, I bit my nails to the skin and refused her food and tapped my feet on her
creaky wooden floors waiting to escape. Maybe even then I sensed that she had committed an act
of betrayal on someone I so deeply loved.
Great Aunt Corrine was my maternal grandmother, whose name
was Eddie Lee, sister. She had
never married or had children of her own but lived a financially comfortable if not lonely life.
When she realized it would be this way until she went to her grave, when my grandmother
declared this was her last child, she asked if she could have the honor of having a namesake.
never married or had children of her own but lived a financially comfortable if not lonely life.
When she realized it would be this way until she went to her grave, when my grandmother
declared this was her last child, she asked if she could have the honor of having a namesake.
My grandmother was living in a tenement on Sumpter Street in
Bedford Stuyvesant then. She
was struggling while my grandfather was away in the Army. Other kin had promised to help her
and hadn’t come through. That promise by my Great Aunt Corrine made my grandmother
pungent with the expectation that some of the burden of being the mother of five would be eased
off of her, so indebted she agreed.
was struggling while my grandfather was away in the Army. Other kin had promised to help her
and hadn’t come through. That promise by my Great Aunt Corrine made my grandmother
pungent with the expectation that some of the burden of being the mother of five would be eased
off of her, so indebted she agreed.
Great Aunt Corrine’s promise though was as good as a piece of
lint one plucked off of one’s
clothes and let fall where it may. Sing would have a suitcase bursting at the seams with worries
nearly all of her life. She was just seventeen months old when she lost her father, my
grandfather, who died at the Fort Hamilton Veterans Hospital after a lengthy illness. I once
thought about how my life would be without the imprint of my father and my heart skipped an
abysmal beat. I imagined hers did too, when she ached for the father she had never gotten a
chance to know.
clothes and let fall where it may. Sing would have a suitcase bursting at the seams with worries
nearly all of her life. She was just seventeen months old when she lost her father, my
grandfather, who died at the Fort Hamilton Veterans Hospital after a lengthy illness. I once
thought about how my life would be without the imprint of my father and my heart skipped an
abysmal beat. I imagined hers did too, when she ached for the father she had never gotten a
chance to know.
After graduating from high school she went to work at a soda
factory in Harlem. When she got
off work, she would head back to Brooklyn but stop over at a local bar with her co-workers. The
bars that lined the streets of Fulton Street and Nostrand Avenue with their jukeboxes playing
music that swept her mind away from her troubles was addictive.
off work, she would head back to Brooklyn but stop over at a local bar with her co-workers. The
bars that lined the streets of Fulton Street and Nostrand Avenue with their jukeboxes playing
music that swept her mind away from her troubles was addictive.
Before long she met a
handsome man there who was in the Army. After a short courtship she
married him and left Brooklyn to go to Hawaii where he was stationed. Her marriage ended not
long after she got there. You’d think that in such a place with such breadth and beauty, new love
would bloom effortlessly as a rushing waterfall but it didn’t.
married him and left Brooklyn to go to Hawaii where he was stationed. Her marriage ended not
long after she got there. You’d think that in such a place with such breadth and beauty, new love
would bloom effortlessly as a rushing waterfall but it didn’t.
Sing came back to Brooklyn, to my grandmother’s apartment on
Sumpter Street heartbroken
and pregnant. A baby boy was born prematurely months later and only lived a few days. She was
too distraught to attend the memorial service for him and a mix-up caused him to be buried in
Potter’s Field.
and pregnant. A baby boy was born prematurely months later and only lived a few days. She was
too distraught to attend the memorial service for him and a mix-up caused him to be buried in
Potter’s Field.
Pain settled deep in her
sinews and the only way she could get rid of it was by drinking. It was
as if she had written her own obituary, pulled out her funeral dress and was ready to be buried.
as if she had written her own obituary, pulled out her funeral dress and was ready to be buried.
“So sad,” my aunt Louise would say as I sat in her kitchen on
Pulaski Street many years later
after Sing had passed away. Grief was etched all over her face. Even then.
after Sing had passed away. Grief was etched all over her face. Even then.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Vignettes of Sing’s life
flashed in front of me like an old
movie camera. Like it does now when I think of her. We were like two peas in the pod, the both
of us. Sometimes she was as giggly as a schoolgirl.
movie camera. Like it does now when I think of her. We were like two peas in the pod, the both
of us. Sometimes she was as giggly as a schoolgirl.
Although I
shouldn’t have been, I became her confident. As we sat in my grandmother’s
living
room, she sitting in Mama’s old beat-up flowered armchair smoking a Camel cigarette, Tina
Turner legs crossed at the ankle, I’d sit at her knee on the cold linoleum floor hanging onto her
every word.
room, she sitting in Mama’s old beat-up flowered armchair smoking a Camel cigarette, Tina
Turner legs crossed at the ankle, I’d sit at her knee on the cold linoleum floor hanging onto her
every word.
Sometimes on the weekend when I saw her getting dressed, I’d
almost do backflips to keep her
home knowing that she was headed to the local bar. One time I stood by the door and tried to
block her but she left as soon as I moved away to pick up my cat, the stray one we found on the
street that we acting like co-conspirators, convinced my grandmother to keep. My cat loved her
just as much as she loved me. And Sing took good care of her too.
home knowing that she was headed to the local bar. One time I stood by the door and tried to
block her but she left as soon as I moved away to pick up my cat, the stray one we found on the
street that we acting like co-conspirators, convinced my grandmother to keep. My cat loved her
just as much as she loved me. And Sing took good care of her too.
My grandmother’s apartment had a fire escape. If I stood just
so and stuck my head over its
railing I could see all the way down the block. The fire escape was timeworn and corroded from
the weather. It would dangerously teeter if you put too much weight on it and I was constantly
being told to come back inside by my mother. In the summer I would sit on the safest part of it
to wait until the wee hours of the morning for Sing’s return. Sometimes it would seem as if time
stood still. Other times I’d get distracted by the young men shooting craps or singing Doo-Wop
underneath me and the time would go by faster. In the winter I’d sit by the window, lifting it to
just a crack so I could hear Sing’s high heels clicking down the empty dark street.
railing I could see all the way down the block. The fire escape was timeworn and corroded from
the weather. It would dangerously teeter if you put too much weight on it and I was constantly
being told to come back inside by my mother. In the summer I would sit on the safest part of it
to wait until the wee hours of the morning for Sing’s return. Sometimes it would seem as if time
stood still. Other times I’d get distracted by the young men shooting craps or singing Doo-Wop
underneath me and the time would go by faster. In the winter I’d sit by the window, lifting it to
just a crack so I could hear Sing’s high heels clicking down the empty dark street.
Once I heard her walk up the stairs I would unlock my
grandmother’s double bolted door.
Everyone else would be sleep, and I’d take her hand and lead her to her bed. She always fell
asleep right away. I’d take off her shoes and cover her with one of my grandmother’s quilts. I’d
lay beside her and through the night inch closer to check to make sure she was breathing, not at
all repelled by the putrid smell of alcohol on her breath. My grandmother was very religious
and she taught me to pray about everything, so I prayed “Please God let her stop drinking.”
Everyone else would be sleep, and I’d take her hand and lead her to her bed. She always fell
asleep right away. I’d take off her shoes and cover her with one of my grandmother’s quilts. I’d
lay beside her and through the night inch closer to check to make sure she was breathing, not at
all repelled by the putrid smell of alcohol on her breath. My grandmother was very religious
and she taught me to pray about everything, so I prayed “Please God let her stop drinking.”
There was a despondency that loomed over her even when she
laughed or danced or sang one of
her favorite Aretha Franklin songs. No one or nothing could suppress her blues except for
alcohol. Maybe I often thought, if Great Aunt Corrine had kept her promise, instead of trying to
trick my Grandmother into having a namesake, things would have been different. Maybe if she
had held little baby Corrine tenderly in her arms and cooed to her how beautiful she was and
her favorite Aretha Franklin songs. No one or nothing could suppress her blues except for
alcohol. Maybe I often thought, if Great Aunt Corrine had kept her promise, instead of trying to
trick my Grandmother into having a namesake, things would have been different. Maybe if she
had held little baby Corrine tenderly in her arms and cooed to her how beautiful she was and
whispered the dreams she had for her future close to her ear, I’d have a
different story to tell.
Maybe if during her life when she knew she was at the end of it and she realized how wrong
she’d been and made amends, happiness wouldn’t have been so evasive in Sing and she would
have felt special, chosen, wrapped in love like a patchwork quilt from this female kin who could
have changed her destiny.
Maybe if during her life when she knew she was at the end of it and she realized how wrong
she’d been and made amends, happiness wouldn’t have been so evasive in Sing and she would
have felt special, chosen, wrapped in love like a patchwork quilt from this female kin who could
have changed her destiny.
At times I think, Great Aunt Corrine spoke a curse over not
just Sing but over our whole
family; the curse of broken promises. For it resonated wherever we were, wherever we
relocated, be it another borough or another state or even another country like where my niece
lives with her family in Italy. It caused us, the women to be skeptical when someone said they
would do something for us. Our hearts were only eighty percent open. The other twenty percent
thought they might disappoint us. The other twenty percent expected them to.
family; the curse of broken promises. For it resonated wherever we were, wherever we
relocated, be it another borough or another state or even another country like where my niece
lives with her family in Italy. It caused us, the women to be skeptical when someone said they
would do something for us. Our hearts were only eighty percent open. The other twenty percent
thought they might disappoint us. The other twenty percent expected them to.
By the time I became a teenager Sing had stopped drinking.
She called me often and we talked
about everything. She bragged about her niece being a writer and I’d read her my stories over
the phone. When I got married and started a family of my own she called me at least once a
week. Busy then with my own life, I was always in the midst of something and never talked
long. Sing had moved to an apartment in Downtown Brooklyn. She appeared to be at peace but
to keep from drinking she swallowed a palm full of prescribed pills each day.
about everything. She bragged about her niece being a writer and I’d read her my stories over
the phone. When I got married and started a family of my own she called me at least once a
week. Busy then with my own life, I was always in the midst of something and never talked
long. Sing had moved to an apartment in Downtown Brooklyn. She appeared to be at peace but
to keep from drinking she swallowed a palm full of prescribed pills each day.
One day I answered the phone while visiting my mother. Sing
was dead. She died in her sleep.
It was in May,1985. I heard glass cracking. Jagged edges and small shards. So many fragmented
pieces. She was only fifty-four years old.
It was in May,1985. I heard glass cracking. Jagged edges and small shards. So many fragmented
pieces. She was only fifty-four years old.
There has always been a loose thread that kept unraveling in
my life. Now I know it was
because I hadn’t told Sing’s story. I’ve told my mother and my father’s stories several times
over; in essays, in fiction, to perfect strangers in the doctor’s waiting room. My aunt’s story
though, her struggle with alcohol, had been like a shameful verse in her life and I was fearful of
tainting her image. But how could I talk about her without talking about the totality of who she
was. For that was how I loved her. Even with her faults and fears and pain she was my
backstitch; underpinning and fortifying the stitches my mother embroidered in my tapestry.
There was a gentleness in her touch as she mapped my face with her hands to coax a smile if I
was pouting. And a tenderness in her voice that helped me breathe free of worry even when I
was worried about her.
because I hadn’t told Sing’s story. I’ve told my mother and my father’s stories several times
over; in essays, in fiction, to perfect strangers in the doctor’s waiting room. My aunt’s story
though, her struggle with alcohol, had been like a shameful verse in her life and I was fearful of
tainting her image. But how could I talk about her without talking about the totality of who she
was. For that was how I loved her. Even with her faults and fears and pain she was my
backstitch; underpinning and fortifying the stitches my mother embroidered in my tapestry.
There was a gentleness in her touch as she mapped my face with her hands to coax a smile if I
was pouting. And a tenderness in her voice that helped me breathe free of worry even when I
was worried about her.
Sing had countless perfect moments that I will remember. When
I close my eyes I can see them,
hear her voice sounding eagle strong during her sober moments. I can see her sitting in her robe
tightly pulled around her drinking a cup of Sanka coffee at my grandmother’s dinette on a
Sunday morning. I can see her doing a crossword puzzle with her glasses on the edge of her
nose. And I can hear her voice urging me to live my best life.
hear her voice sounding eagle strong during her sober moments. I can see her sitting in her robe
tightly pulled around her drinking a cup of Sanka coffee at my grandmother’s dinette on a
Sunday morning. I can see her doing a crossword puzzle with her glasses on the edge of her
nose. And I can hear her voice urging me to live my best life.
Addicted souls are fragile souls, their DNA porous, their
emotional skin more like parchment
than corrugated cardboard and they need love, pure and nonjudgmental. I am thankful that I gave
that kind of love to Sing. Maybe that was my promise to her even though I never verbalized it.
Maybe that was a way to untie the cords of the broken one made by my Great Aunt Corrine.
than corrugated cardboard and they need love, pure and nonjudgmental. I am thankful that I gave
that kind of love to Sing. Maybe that was my promise to her even though I never verbalized it.
Maybe that was a way to untie the cords of the broken one made by my Great Aunt Corrine.
Maybe it’s called
redemption…finally in Brooklyn.
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