By Andrea Hermitt
She is gone now. She died the same year my daughter was born. She left a bit of her spirit behind though, in me and in my daughter. This is her story.
My name is Laura Jackson. I was born Laura Victoria Roberts in 1945 and grew up on a tobacco farm in North Carolina. I had three sisters but they had grown and had left home before I turned 10. I was raised with my brothers who were just a few years older than me, Henry Jr. and Carl. Needless to say, I was a tomboy.
My life was rough. As a little child I worked long hours on the farm, hanging tobacco to dry. My mother had tried to teach me to work with the animals, but after she forced me to kill a chicken, I became incapacitated whenever I went near that part of the farm. Against my struggling, fighting and tears, Momma made me cut that chickens head of with an axe. The sight of the headless chicken flopping around the yard ruined me for life. It was years before I could eat chicken without getting sick. Hunger eventually forced me to get over my aversion.
When I played, it was with my brothers. I loved fishing at the river, but I hated the worms. One day my brother Henry dropped one down my dress, and in my frantic effort to get it out, I cut my entire arm open on a tin can. I nearly lost my arm just as my father had years before by falling down drunk onto a saw, but the doctors were able to repair it. I ended up with stitches from my wrist to my elbow.
This accident did have positive results. I lived with my sister and her husband in the city for a whole year so I could get physical therapy and regain use of my hand. That was probably the best year of my childhood. I wore shoes, and decent clothes, and did not have to wait until my father’s sister and her kids had eaten before I could have dinner, which usually consisted of the chicken’s neck or feet, and a biscuit if there were any left. My sister and her husband had no children and treated me like I was their own child. Eventually, I was called back to the farm, and back to work.
As I got older, my father became abusive. He would smack me whenever he was angry or drunk, so I would stay away from home more and more. Then he would yell at me and smack me for staying out too late. At the age of 18, I found myself pregnant, ran away to New York, and had the child in secret. You would think that getting pregnant would have ruined my life, but it actually saved it. I was a star basketball player in high school and accomplished musician, but my spirit was dying living at home dealing with Daddy’s drunkenness and abuse.
After my son was born, I became very ill. My sister found out where I was by an aunt who also lived in New York, came, and took the child who was released from the hospital before me. She took the baby back home to my parents and when I got well enough to travel, I went back to North Carolina to retrieve him. My family did not intend to let him go and my father became even more abusive, so I packed my bags, and left alone. I sent letters and money to my child as often as I could, but I found out years later that he had never received any of it.
I returned to the north and traveled for a few years while working. I spent time living in Canada where I learned to speak French. I then settled in New Jersey where I went to nursing school and eventually became a nurse. A few years later, I met a man and fell in love. It did not take long for me to become pregnant again, and soon after that, I realized that the father of my child was a replica of my own father. However, I was done with abuse. I began to fight back.
I remember being six months pregnant with my child and I came home late from shopping with a girl friend. I had made a special trip to the fish market to cook my boyfriend a fish dinner. When my friend and I walked into the apartment, before I could speak, he punched me right in the face. I was in complete shock. I cleaned myself up and sent my girlfriend home assuring her that I would be OK. When she was gone I tried to explain to him why I had been so long, but all he said was “Cook my dinner” and sat down at the table with his back to me. As I pulled the cast iron frying pan out of the cupboard, something shiny caught the corner of my eye. It was the bald spot in his head. Before I knew it, he was laying on the floor. The blow did not kill him, but it sent him to the hospital. He lied and told them that he had fallen on the ice. I figure his ego would not allow him to tell the truth.
My daughter was born three months later, and I became ill again, but this time when my family came to get her, I fought back. I traveled to North Carolina to get my baby back and came upon the same opposition. My mother wanted another baby to raise and my older sister was still childless and wanted her as well. They tried to convince me to leave this baby at least until I had married, but I took my baby in the night, kissed my little boy who was 8 years old goodbye and left. I was going to do right by this child. I was going to raise her myself.
When I returned to New Jersey, my daughter’s father and his family took me to court to fight for my child. They called me an unfit parent and well as crazy, but in the end I won and moved to New York where I raised my child. Being a single parent in the 1960’s was very difficult, but my sister moved in and we purchased a house together. She was a single parent as well so I worked nights and we worked days and raised our children together for a while.
I did fall in love eventually. He had beautiful brown skin with big brown eyes to match, and a smile that would melt your heart in seconds. He was four years old, six months younger than my daughter was at the time. His father was a widower who had five children and I married him. I did not love him and did not fool myself about it, but I did grow to love him in time. I married him to keep his family together and brought my daughter along for the ride.
His daughters were not happy at all about there being another woman in the family. They were teenagers and used to being in charge. We fought often and I cried a lot. I eventually became pregnant again and this third child was a real blessing to our family. The oldest daughter and I bonded instantly when my second son was born because she fell in love with this child. I happily gave him over to her to take care of and to love. She needed something to be in charge of and I needed to show her that I trusted and loved her as well. Likewise, the second oldest sister took over care of my third son when he was born a year later.
When my mother died, I sent for my son who was 14 years old. I found myself raising a family of nine kids. I thought I had already fought a lot in my life, but with a big household like ours, the fighting had just begun. I fought everything from my husband’s alcohol addition to my children’s battles. On fight in particular happened when my daughter was 15. There was a young man down the street who groped her behind or harassed her whenever she walked down the street. She tried to fight him and had to run away. All five of her brothers fought him and got beat up. Finally, she came home one day in tears and informed me that she would not be going to the store anymore. She could not take the harassment. I put on my shoes and told her yes, she was going back to the store, but I was going with her.
I guess I should stop here and describe myself. At the time, I was nearly six feet tall, and a solid two hundred and fifty pounds. Much of which was muscle. I told her to point him out and when she did, I walked up to him and put my index finger on his forehead. I began to question him. He denied bothering my child and I became violent and started pushing him. I pushed him all the way into his house where I slapped and threatened him until my stepson’s friends came and pulled me off his chest where I had been sitting. After that, none of my kids had any problems with bullies or the like. In fact, if anyone bothered my children they could go to this young man and he would take care of their problem. He referred to my daughter as “Miss” after that as well.
Momma lived to be 55 years old. In the end, she was loved and respected by all who knew her. In her first career as a nurse, and later in life when she became a Special Ed teacher, she touched many people. Her funeral was standing room only. She may have lost her fight to cancer, but she won in the battle called life.
I am the daughter that she mentions in her story I was in her belly when she fought my father, and stood dumbfounded when she fought the neighborhood bully for me. When she was alive, she fought every battle for us kids that we would allow. She even fought some we would have preferred she let us handle. By watching her, we learned how to fight our own battles after she was gone. Although Momma thought of herself as a fighter, we all knew something different. She loved just as passionately as she fought. She loved us, and we are all better people for it.
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