My Story, My Words
For as long as I can remember, stories have been a part of who I am. Some were lived in classrooms, some around family tables, and some along roads I never expected to travel.
Wonderland…or the Lack Thereof is the story I finally decided it was time to tell.
I have been many things in this life - a daughter, a mother, a grandmother, a teacher, a poet, a crafter, a a caregiver, and a storyteller. But through all of those roles, words have been my constant companions.
For forty-five years, I taught English and encouraged young people to find their voices. Somewhere along the way, I realized it was time to listen to my own.
Wonderland…or the Lack Thereof grew from that voice—a collection of memories about family, teaching, love, loss, laughter, and the unexpected turns that carried me from a small Georgia town to places I never imagined I would go.
Now, in this chapter of my life, I am doing something I spent years asking my students to do:
I am telling my story.
...My Memoir
Wonderland…or the Lack Thereof is a memoir about memory, family, teaching, love, loss, laughter, and the unexpected turns that carried me from a small Georgia town to places I never imagined I would go.
It is a story of the people and places that shaped me—and of the lessons I learned along the way, sometimes the hard way and sometimes the beautiful way.
At its heart, it is a search for home, belonging, and that elusive place we each call our own Wonderland.
The Splinter
One afternoon, when I was still little enough to believe every problem in the world was enormous, I got a splinter stuck in my hand.
Mama reached over and picked up a small knife from the table—just a little knife to help pull out the splinter. But in my eyes, that little knife transformed instantly into the biggest butcher knife ever made.
I took off running. Out the door, across the yard. Past one house. Past another. Straight to Grandmama’s house.
“Help me! Help me, Grandmama! Mama trying to kill me! Help me! Help me!”
The Spitballs
In 1967, I walked into a classroom where I was one of the first Black students to integrate the
school.
I took my seat near the front and tried to concentrate on the lesson. Then the spitballs started.
One landed near me. Then another. And another.
I had come there to learn. Apparently, some of my classmates had other plans.
But they were about to learn something about me too.
The Beauty Shop
Annie Mae worked hard doing hair, and she was good—really good. She could take a hot comb and straighten hair until it shined and swung like something out of a magazine.
Back then, getting your hair “pressed” was serious business. Women sat proudly afterward, careful not to sweat too much or get caught in rain.
Beauty had rules.
Respectability had rules.
Survival had rules.
The Day My Wig Took Flight
While at Paine, I decided to reinvent myself with an Afro wig. I wore that wig with confidence. In fact, confidence might be an understatement. Whenever I put it on, I strutted across campus as though I were walking down a fashion runway. My head was held high, and I was certain I looked fabulous.
One sunny afternoon, I was crossing the courtyard between classes. As usual, I was strutting.
Without paying attention, I walked beneath one of the low-hanging branches. Suddenly, I felt a slight tug.
Thinking nothing of it, I kept right on walking.
Then something felt different.
My head felt cooler.
Much cooler.
The Child I Never Met
College brought freedom I had never known before. Away from home and eager to embrace my independence, I felt ready to experience everything life had to offer.
Then I met Benny Demery from Brunswick, Georgia. He was handsome and charming, and he could make me laugh until my sides hurt. Before long, my attention shifted from textbooks and lectures to thoughts of him. We moved quickly from attraction into an intense relationship without either of us stopping to think about where it might lead. At nineteen, it felt exciting.
Romantic.
Important.
Then I discovered that I was pregnant.
My excitement turned to fear.
The Water Gun
I had one rule in my classroom that everyone knew.
No sleeping.
A tiny water gun stayed tucked away in my desk.
If a student fell asleep, I would quietly walk over and give a gentle squirt of water near an ear.
Usually, that was all it took.
One afternoon, however, my usual routine did not go as planned.
A new student fell asleep.
