Little Leslie's Fingers

She was the tiniest, the cutest and the youngest.  But her fingers and door jambs were like magnets to steel. Her little fingers were always getting crushed. 

“Crack!” 

“Owww!”

“What happened, now?”  mom said walking steadily towards the action.  She wasn’t running, and she wasn’t going slowly, just a steady pace that evoked the normalcy of the situation, or to help de escalate the wail of a cry that was sure to follow. You see my little sister's fingers seem to find their way wedged in between cabinet doors, car doors, hallway doors, front doors, back doors, garage doors, refrigerator doors . . . . doors of any kind.  It’s a wonder she still has fingers.  So this little fictional tale is dedicated to my little sister Leslie and her little fingers. It started with a crack and then  . . . 

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Little Leslie’s Fingers

“Mommy!  Leslie smashed her finger!” Lyssa was quick to report.  Lyssa made it her family duty to make sure the adult units were aware of the activities going on in the house. As the eldest of Irish triplets, Lyssa didn’t feel much like the oldest, though. Her middle brother Larry was adventuresome and always seemed to find new ways to have fun.  Leslie was nimble, always jumping, climbing, running and getting her fingers smashed. Daddy was Mr. Catchem-in-the-act, because it didn't matter what part of town you were in he would always catch you in the act of doing something you weren't suppose to be doing. In the early days, though when the family first moved to Carson, it was all hands on deck to prevent the next smashing of Little Leslie’s fingers. Sometimes they weren’t fast enough and sometimes they were.

One day 4-year old Little Leslie climbed up on the kitchen cabinet to get a bowl for her Corn Flakes.  She loved when mommy would cut up bananas, plop them in the bowl and load it with sugar and milk.  Little Leslie could just about taste the crunchy goodness. 

Meanwhile, in the girl’s room, Lyssa woke up and saw her little sister was not in the bed and suddenly she got a tingle, a Spidey tingle about a finger smashing.  Lyssa trotted to the hallway and walked north towards the bathroom.  No Leslie there.  Then out of the hallway and into the family room. She headed northeast of the bathroom making an "L" shaped path across the family room and peering through the space between the counter and cabinet, Lyssa could see Leslie kneeling on the opposite counter.  Lyssa could also see Leslie’s back as she was perched on the formica with her fluffy pink jammies. Lyssa smiled at the sight, that was until she saw Leslie’s fingers were inside the cabinet door, in the jamb, while the other hand was grabbing for the cereal bowl. 

“Leslie,” Lyssa sang out, trying to mimic mommy's cool demeanor. “Watch your fingers.”

“I am,” Leslie’s 4-year-old muffled voice shot back. “I getting a bowl.”

“I see, but wait,”  Lyssa tried to distract Leslie from the impending doom of the cabinet door and her little sister's fingers. 

“It just a bowl,” Leslie replied with innocent wonder and agitation.

Lyssa walked a little faster and got there just in time.  Leslie was about to close the cabinet and the chartreuse wood was already starting to tighten on the plump meat of Leslie’s fingers.  Lyssa’s heart skipped a beat as she sprang into action grabbing the door.

“Hey!” Leslie squealed.  “I can do it!”

“Fine!” Lyssa shot back while she held the cabinet door.  Lyssa was about two inches taller and just barely able to grab the cabinet door. Leslie jumped down, bowl clasped to her chest and none the wiser to the appendage eating cabinet that just missed having Leslie’s little fingers for breakfast.

But, Lyssa was too proud of herself that morning and didn’t notice how close the open box of Corn Flakes on the counter was in relation to her outstretched arms. So, as she swung her arms in pride, happy about her good deed, the kitchen was raining golden brown flakes as the box twirled and tumbled through the air and onto the ground.  Of course, that was the exact time mommy and daddy (aka Mr. Catchem-in-the-Act) were walking into the kitchen.

“Lyssa!” mom yelled.

“What the  . . .!” daddy scowled.

“Haha!” Larry pointed and giggled from out of nowhere, just happy it wasn't him this time.

“Get a broom. You are going to clean up every last flake,” mommy directed.

“But . . .” Lyssa tried to explain.

Leslie looked back with a sly smirk on her face, or so it appeared, then turned to mommy, “Can I have some cereal?”

“Yes, if Lyssa didn’t spill them all.”

Lyssa walked toward the broom closet shaking her head and thinking, because she could never get away with saying it out loud,  “So this is my reward for saving another finger from smashing. Oh-boy.”

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According to the American Academy of Pediatrics website HealthyChildren.org, a child’s fingertip is

smashed more often than not when a door is being closed. “The child is either unable to recognize the potential danger, or she fails to remove her hand quickly enough before the door is shut. Fingers also sometimes get crushed when youngsters play with a hammer or other heavy object, or when they’re around a car door.” I think my little Leslie was a victim of all of these, not so sure about the hammer.  So families, be on the lookout for little fingers in doors, etc.  But know that this happens frequently, some little fingers are more prone to the smashing than others. My 18-month old nephew suffered a smashed finger a few weeks ago at the behest of a bicycle spoke which was worse than any door Leslie ever faced and now he’s in a cast.  His little accident just made me think of my little sister and how often she hurt her fingers. So, Carlee and Michael, be kind to yourselves and just know little kids smash their fingers a lot and it can happen so very quickly. Give baby Carson a hug from us let him know we love him.

San Quentin Families Suffering from COVID-19 Outbreak, Mishandled by CDCR

San Quentin was coronavirus free on March 19 when the state of California began Safer at Home orders.  Then in late May, 122 inmates were transferred from the California Institution for Men in Chino. Inmates at San Quentin knew then what it took California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR) officials weeks to figure out;  an outbreak was imminent.

The family of San Quentin correctional officers and inmates went from 0 cases of COVID-19 to today over 1,500 confirmed cases. According to the podcast Uncuffed which brings stories from San Quentin and Solano prisons to the outside world, in April, San Quentin inmates were given two masks, a six ounce bottle of hand sanitizer and instructed to sleep head to foot in their cells. This was their COVID-19 prevention measures. Incarcerated individuals still have those same two masks and received no more hand sanitizer.

Snap Judgment podcast, in collaboration with Uncuffed delivers stories in the voice of those men who survived the overcrowded conditions of San Quentin, but at least one of them reporting did not escape contracting the disease. Over 1,200 correctional officers have also tested positive for coronavirus. And, yes, there have been deaths.

I am so glad that my cousin retired from San Quentin CDCR years ago, but I have a loved one who still works as a correctional officer in Chino. And, I have a loved one still incarcerated in Northern California. 

So many families are affected directly and indirectly as prisons that were once COVID-19 free become infected. Now, the state of California wants to reduce overcrowding by sending inmates back into the community. 

There are so many non-violent offenders that should not have been criminalized which are now suffering mental and physical dolor. For more evidence, see the stories about Meek Mill, Kalief Browder, or watch "When They See Us" to understand the criminal injustice system and why it needs to be reimagined.

It must feel like such a betrayal when a family member receives prison time for a non-violent offense instead of a quality education,  job training, affordable housing or treatment. Then there’s decades of languishing in a jail cell for your loved one and then after contracting COVID-19 they are released into the loving care of their supportive family and friends which is sure to increase the rate of transmission in the community. Sounds like more fuel for conspiracy theorists.

The embedded links and videos do an excellent job of capturing the first hand voices of those souls who are suffering unjustly and I would suggest listening to SNAP JUDGMENT, UNCUFFED, and NBC DATELINE.  God bless them and their families.

Willia Easter loved to dance

Willia Easter Haywood

First of all, she had the brightest smile and looks just like my mother. Mom said that her personality was similar to Auntie Amina's. I really wish I could have known my maternal grandmother.  Mom said Willia Easter loved to dance and have company over to the house. She was friends with recording artist Lloyd Glenn and his family, who were also from San Antonio and would come by the house on 127th and Central. He, his wife and kids would come over. Lloyd played the Haywood piano for Willia and neighbors would come by to sing and dance. Oh, and she hated California. Mom said it was because all of Willia's family was in San Antonio, Texas. I wonder now if Willia Easter had a premonition about her bleak future in California. Did she ever think she was going to “pass away” at 29 years old, just two weeks shy of her 30th birthday and leave her husband and two daughters behind? Is that why she hated California?

My mom described her mother’s death as passing away. However, in 2003 her distinctive sweet smelling cedar chest, which is the scent of home to me; it's mom opening up joys and wounds from her past. It's where she keeps the handmade dress that I was christened in. Mom's prom dress from high school, our school drawing and Christmas cards. A time capsule of her life neatly folded between photo albums, dance cards and press floral corsages. It's where I found the funeral book and newspaper clipping from the LA Sentinel, June 1948, "Two women held to answer for murder charges." Now, I am confused because I thought there was one woman that hurt my grandmother. Turns out the title was about two different women, but my grandfather only clipped the story about his wife. Now, I want to, I need to know more. That was 2003 and we (Constance Joyce Haywood Shepherd Thorns and I) are finally having that conversation in 2020, when Mom has travelled 82 times around the sun.

Mom started talking more about what happened to Willia Easter when I was an adult. My grandmother was named after her Aunt Easter (yes, Easter like the resurrection of Christ -- but not Willie or "Willie-uh," more like Will-ah Easter).

The story about the death of Willia Easter was commingled with the arrest of two women for two different murder charges. As jarring as this article is to read, I really wondered now what it was like mentally for the children Willia left behind.

There was no therapy for Black families back then that suffered trauma. If your family was ever enslaved your entire life was traumatic and the warped views of corporal punishment were passed to each generation. In 1942, European immigrants who served in the US armed forced were offered an opportunity to become US citizens and given a chance to acquire land and loans. However, African American citizens did not find these types of prospects very easily because of the Black Code and Jim Crow laws. Hence, therapy was not a top priority for many people at that time of any ethnicity trying to stay off the streets.

You could have been 10 years old, worrying about how to multiply in Ms. Gorman’s 4th grade class at Willowbrook Elementary School.  However in the middle of the day, Mr. Driver, your dad’s best friend, could have come to pick you up from school, in the middle of the day to take you home and no one tell you why.  

You could have been 10 years old and anxious to get home because your knees were not scuffed and your dress wasn't torn and your hair was still neat, just like mommy likes it. Especially since the day before you and your mother had a "discussion" about your tomboy ways; your scuffed up knees, again. Your hair all over your head, again. And, your dress was probably torn at the waist, again, from playing pop the whip. The night prior for mom and Willia was contentious.

  

On the ride home with Mr. Driver, who isn’t saying anything, you could have been thinking,  “Did I clean the bathroom good this morning before I left the house?”  It was a daily routine to get up in the morning and do chores before leaving the Haywood house.  Your 10 year old mind could not have imagined that someone was going to tell you, you are not going to see your mother anymore. 

There was no therapeutic protocol for what to do with a little 10 year old Black girl and her 4 year old sister who just witnessed her mother being stabbed in the jugular vein in the front yard of the house, a place where they would play hide-and-seek. 

There was no therapy for a Black man who worked two, sometimes three jobs, because he wanted to make sure his wife could be home for the children and not have to work. There was a certain honor in that for Robert Lee Haywood, my gramps. There was, however, the normal protocol of let’s not talk about it because Dad has to get back to his jobs before someone else who also has a family to feed takes his place.

There was the typical protocol of we'll just whip the little four year old girl and eventually she’ll pull it together.  It should be expected that after decades of not talking about it that the little girl grows up to be a woman who blames herself for not doing more to save her mommy and that the little girl would grow up to change her name from Frances to Amina and might try to kill herself at least two times. "They weren't quite sure what to do with her," my mom said.  

Apparently, my Aunt May was pretty good at trying to help Frances.  Aunt May was independent and smart.  “She was the only woman I knew that owned her own hair salon," my mom Connie explained. "Not just the business, but the land and the building in San Pedro. She also owned the apartment building along with the business and the house behind it.”  Aunt May saved her money back then and when the opportunity availed itself, she had the cash.  No need to go to the bank for a loan, who would surely deny her access to wealth, anyway.

Therapy back then was an "insane asylum" or let’s just get back to normal as soon as possible. 

But Willia Easter loved to dance.  She loved having company over to the house.  She doted over her children, her house and her husband.

“We didn’t really talk to dad much before mom passed away,” Constance "Connie" Joyce Haywood Shepherd Thorns, my mother told me. “He was always working so hard.  He would play with us a little when he got home, cuddle with mom, eat dinner and go to bed to start work all over again. [After her death] He was not the same man that you knew."

Gramps, that’s what we grandkids called Robert Lee Haywood, held many jobs. When I knew him, he was a man of leisure. A landlord of multiple properties and an avid golfer.  On the golf course, and among so many other family and friends, he was Uncle Bob.  My mom said her dad was much different from the Gramps I knew. Back in 1948, 30-year-old Robert Lee took the death of 29-year-old Willia Easter the hardest. But the support system came to his aid. Aunt May stayed with the family for three to five days, until Sarah "Mama Sadie" Haywood arrived from San Antonio to be with her grieving son and her traumatized grand daughters. Her stay lasted for six years. That was a form of therapy for the family.

Robert Lee worked very hard to take care of the family and now his world was turned upside down. Willia Easter was the one who took care of the household, used his money to pay the bills and she was the one that raised the girls and saw about their schooling.

Willia Easter was feisty, too.  Mom said that when they first moved to San Pedro from San Antonio Texas in 1944, Willia was arguing with the school about why her daughter had to be held back a grade.  “She already learned that stuff in Texas, why does she have to take it again in California?”  

My mom, Connie, was six years old when Gramps sent for the family to join him in California. Auntie Amina (aka Frances) was just born, it was 1944. Connie was the first grandchild on either side of the family. “I felt like a princess in Texas, and now, in California I had to learn how to fight.”  

One day, Connie came home singing a song she heard in school several times, “Eeny, meeny, miney, moe, catch a nickel by the toe.” She was one of maybe two Black children at the school.

“Have you ever heard of a nickel having a toe?” Willia Easter asked her six-year-old daughter.

“No”

“Well, what do you think that means?”

“I don’t know. I heard them singing it at school.”

“Uh-huh.  It's not nice and someone is being mean.”

Well the next day, Willia Easter marched up to that school in San Pedro sometime between 1944-1945 and gave that school a piece of her mind.  “I don’t know what she said,” Connie recalled,” but no one ever sang that song around me again. That was the first time I had anyone ever call me the N-word.  No one ever called me that in Texas, my family never said it and I really did think they were saying ‘nickel.’”

That was one of the many times Willia Easter went up to the school to protect her daughter. Another time was when Willia asked her daughter how was school today and Connie answered, “I couldn’t see what the teacher was talking about because I kept getting pushed to the back.” 

Well, after Willia Easter went up to the school that time Connie was no longer pushed to the back. Mom said that Willia Easter was always laughing and dancing, but that she was also sad.  Willia told mom that she had to learn how to fight because if Connie didn’t she was going to get a whoopin’ when she got home. 

So when the family moved around 1946 from San Pedro to 127th and Central Avenue, Connie quickly made friends and when a boy slapped a sandwich out of her hands, she would fight him, because Willia Easter words rang in her ears, ". . . or you'll have to fight me."  If they pulled her hair, she would fight those boys.  Not at first of course this happened over time. Mom went from being the little princess to the little tom boy.  

She’s still friends with many of the kids that were in her fourth grade class with Ms. Gorman at Willowbrook Elementary School.  They culminated together to Willowbrook Junior High and then graduated from Centennial High School, class of 1956.  In 2006, they celebrated their 50th Class reunion.

Their last family picture together (Willia Easter, Connie, Robert Lee and Frances [aka Amina])

There was no therapy for Connie’s little friends, either, who knew that something bad had happened to Connie’s mom. One of mom's friends said they felt so bad when Connie had to leave school because, "you didn’t know why you were leaving early [that day], but the teacher told us and we were so sad for you.” 

So, after a traumatic experience and the collective community says let’s get back to normal, because we have to survive, grieving is a luxury. I think of what that must mean when your normal is interrupted? Willia Easter wasn't coming back anymore, there would be no more normal as Connie and Frances knew.  There would be a lifetime of suppressing the pain, putting on smiley faces and figuring it out for themselves so they can survive.  There was also the strength of moving forward, not dwelling in the sadness. Today that has manifested in my mom having a real problem with knives being displayed on the kitchen counter.  I did not not realize until in 2003, when I found that article written in 1948 from the LA Sentinel about how Willia Easter passed away, that mom's phobia about knives may be rooted in that incident.

Families. My siblings and I had the best childhood ever. Our parents made us believe that true happiness starts with being happy with who you are. And that grounding, my dad said, comes from knowing who you are and from whence you came. They taught us to put God first, stick up for ourselves and for justice. My mom and dad also taught us to learn about other people, all kinds of people, before passing judgement. And, did we have a good time with our cousins? Yes, we still do. I know that's because mom and dad each have wonderful memories of time with their own cousins.

I am so grateful for Grandmother Lurena Haywood who married Gramps many years later and was by his side for decades until his death in 1992.  Lurena taught us so much about the Haywood family because she was always mentioning people she said we should know.  Lurena, who passed away in her 90's in 2016, was the grandmother God gave me and I love her dearly.

But every time I heard about Willia Easter I would wonder, what was she like? When I look at the few pictures I can find of her, I see glimpses of Connie and Amina. I wonder what it could have been like to be at one of her parties to watch Willia Easter dance and entertain. That’s what my mother said she remembers most about her own mom. Willia Easter loved to dance and had a good time before she left this earth.

VIDEO

Here's a 46-minute video of my mom talking about her mom, Willia Easter Haywood. I learned so much about how my grandmother lived and how the way she died affected my mom, my auntie and my grandfather. The music in the video is from my grandmother's hometown friend Lloyd Glenn. She would have been dancing to a song like this.

References

Anacker, Karen B. “Death of a Suburban Dream: Race and Schools in Compton, California.” Journal of the American Planning Association, by Emily Straus, vol. 81, no. 1, 2015, p. 78., doi:10.1080/01944363.2015.1030935.

Glenn, Lloyd Colquit. “Chica-Boo.” Discogs, Aladdin Records, 1956, www.discogs.com/Lloyd-Glenn-Chica-Boo/master/1056029.   Real name - Lloyd Colquit Glenn - American jazz and blues pianist. He worked with : T-Bone Walker, B.B. King, Kid Ory, Big Joe Turner, Lowell Fulson (& others) and with his own groups.

Google Maps: 1118 E. 127th Street, Compton, Google, Apr. 2017, www.google.com/maps/@33.9177765,-118.2551317,3a,75y,239.18h,92.62t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sv0DDgze2CJsm4C7xyn4yqg!2e0!7i13312!8i6656.

History.com Editors. “The Great Migration.” History.com, A&E Television Networks, 4 Mar. 2010, www.history.com/topics/black-history/great-migration.

“L&L Kilns Easy-Fire EFL 2026 Front Loading Kiln: Sheffield Pottery Kilns.” Sheffield Pottery Inc., 2020, www.sheffield-pottery.com/L-L-Kilns-Easy-Fire-eFL2026-Front-Loading-Kiln-p/lkefl2026.htm.

Mawdsley, Dean L. Steel Ships and Iron Pipe: Western Pipe and Steel Company of California. Associates of the National Maritime Museum Library, 2002.

“Military Naturalization During WWII.” USCIS, U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, 23 Sept. 2013, www.uscis.gov/history-and-genealogy/our-history/overview-ins-history/military-naturalization-during-wwii.   Last reviewed 12/09/2019

Moigne, Yohann Le. “Emily E. Straus 2014: Death of a Suburban Dream: Race and Schools in Compton, California. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.” Wiley Online Library, John Wiley & Sons, Ltd, 21 July 2016, onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/abs/10.1111/1468-2427.12326.

“Princess Crown 1 Vinyl Decal Sticker.” IRockDecals, 2020, irockdecals.com/princess-crown-1-vinyl-decal-sticker/.

Srivastava, Jyoti. “Navy Pier: [Crack the Whip - by J.Seward Johnson Jr.].” Chicago Outdoor Public Art - Crack the Whip by J. Seward Johnson Jr., 15 Sept. 2010, chicago-outdoor-sculptures.blogspot.com/2007/11/eight-kids-navy-pier.html.  Used with written permission (via email) on July 13, 2020

“Two Women Held to Answer for Murder Charges.” Los Angeles Sentinel Newspaper, June 1948.

“Victory Garden.” Wikipedia: Victory Garden, Wikimedia Foundation, 7 July 2020, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victory_garden#/media/File:Victory-garden.jpg.

“Water and Power Associates Informing the Public about Critical Water and Energy Issues Facing Los Angeles and California.” Water and Power Associates, Water and Power Associates, 1952, waterandpower.org/museum/Early_Views_of_the_San_Fernando_Valley_Page_4.html.  A Los Angeles-bound Pacific Electric Railway car on Sherman Way. The line ran from North Hollywood through Universal City to the Subway Terminal Building in downtown Los Angeles.*

Dancing Bunnies for Father's Day

I really needed a smile the day I made this JibJab eCard. It features my smiling dad, dancing with the rest of us in bunny suits. He made his transition on December 8, 2019, and for Easter, I wanted to remember him dancing and having fun. I’m glad Leslie and Larry got a chuckle from the card, too. 

It's Father's Day this weekend and this will be the first one without him.  I thought I'd bring back the eCard so I could see him dancing and smiling, again.  I will never forget you, daddy. We had a wonderful childhood because of you and so did a bunch of other kids on Sherman Drive.  Click the image above and it will open into a new window.

Click here to view Howard Shepherd's memorial page and leave us a message.