Uncles

Re-post from 2005

We’re not rich.  I mean, we don’t have an overabundance of money. Over-abundance? Hmm? Let’s say we can take a drive to Florida and perhaps stay at a nice hotel for the weekend; that is, of course, if we’re able to get in on a special discount package that a major hotel is offering to drum up business during the off season, but we can’t just decide to jet over to the Bahamas on a whim. We are middle-class.  Middle-middle class.  I guess that doesn’t mean that much in 2005. We did make right at ninety thousand a year until I lost my job, now we make fifty thou, and my husband is working damned hard for that. I introduce this information to help put into perspective the economy of our lives and the things we treasure.

On any given day, I sit down and highlight my heart with the things that make me feel rich in spite of my monetary bottom line. At the moment, my bottom line is so very bottomed out. Not to worry though, we have a way of coming back up—this family of ours.  Curtis’s, Waller’s, Faulkner’s, Bias’s, …and a select few honorary members. I suppose if you were to take us all together, we would add up to a good dollar figure of worth, but the emotional, spiritual value, boy…it would have to be way up there.

Right now, I’m just thinking about my Uncles and the memories of them that warm me.  They have supplied my life with rich memories. What made me go here? I just finished talking to my brother on the phone.

“Uncle CoCo” is his moniker now since my sister Liz had her first and only child.  When my oldest sister’s children were born, Charlie was too young to be called uncle. He only arrived a month after Renita, my eldest niece.  But by the time Laney came along, he was old enough to hold the title. Now he’s firmly established as Uncle CoCo, and my children and all the rest of the children of our family think that he is “the juice.” It tickles me to no end how my “little” brother has fooled them all into thinking he’s the coolest thing since Shaft. They call him for advice…and money. They well up with excitement when he comes to town. They threaten to tell him things about me…go figure. Don’t they know that I used to beat him up?

He just finished telling me that he’s talked to my oldest son, who called to inform him that he’s getting married.  Uncle Coco has advised me to “chill.” Michael is strong; he tells me. He’s determined and committed, and everything is going to be all right.

“Okay,” I answer. Yes, and it does make me feel good that Uncle CoCo reports this.  Michael told him that he wants him to talk to his future wife. I suppose he wants Uncle Coco to tell him that she is the right woman. Michael has already run her by Uncle Aaron and Uncle Nathaniel. Nathaniel is not an uncle by birth. He’s my children’s first cousin; however, by virtue of his age, successful life, and spiritual power, he has been elevated to uncle status. He is another one able to speak into my children’s lives.  Good. Very good. Nathaniel is my oldest sister’s boy.

Uncle Aaron is my husband, Norman’s older brother. Uncle Aaron is an amusing novelty to my children. They think that he is funny and cool. They admire the way he gets things done. They have the impression, false though it may be, that he is rich. That’s due to the home and cars he owns, which are always top-notch. Uncle Aaron is adamant about handling his business and keeping the handling of that business close to the cuff. Uncle Aaron has no love for “stupid niggas,” (his words) and he makes no excuse about it.  Anyone who puts himself into a position of subservience through criminal activity, lack of common sense, or plain old stupidity is not worth the salt to sustain them, as per Uncle Aaron. And that, to my children, is Uncle Aaron’s most noteworthy attribute, …and they love the way he laughs.

Uncle Renaldo’s “down,” so my son describes him. That means that he is “regular,” a term which indicates that he is a genuine-type person.  He loves family. Though they once thought he was kind of corny, they have, now that they are grown, come to think of him as cool too. The last time Uncle Renaldo was in town, he and Uncle Aaron let my oldest son hang out with them. There’s no telling what those three got into together, but it served to elevate Uncle Renaldo from corny to cool. Uncle Renaldo is my husband’s younger brother.

The one running theme throughout the descriptions of uncles in my children’s estimation is that the men in our family are good men. They are men who handle their responsibilities at all cost; family men who “father” their children and are present in their lives. The Uncles in our family raise their children and are faithful – as far as we know – to their wives. They don’t live shabby lives. That is a beautiful thing. My sons feel as though they have a legacy to continue. My daughter and the other girls in our family have strong, worthy examples of how women should be treated. They see in their uncles, men who are proud and intelligent, and who work. No one ever tells them or models to them that it’s all right to do the wrong thing.  They’ve witnessed or heard talk of both struggles and triumphs. There are no scrubs in our family.

Uncle Vince is our only “honorary” uncle. He’s our children’s only “play uncle.” Uncle Vince is my husband’s best friend, and indeed, they are more brothers than friends.  They feel that Uncle Vince can be counted on in a fight, which seems to be an essential prerequisite for an acceptable standard in our family. We don’t fight, but if we did, everyone could be counted on to “throw down” adequately.

Uncle Vince is the one who called me and put a “whoa Nelly” on my intention to go up to Atlanta and kick some butt about my son’s choice of a future mate. Thank you, Uncle Vince — for the voice of reason in due season. Uncle Vince is present with crazy praise when any of our children do something well. He seems to relish their successes as much as we do, and that is so sweet. He is an awesome encourager. That is probably because he has a keen, first-hand understanding and experience of God’s mercy. We love Uncle Vince.

My uncles are no less a treasure of rare jewels. My uncles must have been rich because not one of them passed us without a hug, a kiss, and a fistful of dollars. When I was young, there was nothing like coming around the corner and seeing one of our uncle’s cars parked somewhere on our long, narrow block, because it meant there was going to be some cash collected. We might have to stand beside their chair and be hugged for a few minutes while they talked to my mom and Dad, but that was our pleasure. In those days, when children didn’t enter into grown folks conversations, that was our chance to hear about all the exciting stuff going on. Until, of course, the “go play” command was given.

Uncle Buddy, my mom’s middle brother, is the most handsome man. I thought that Uncle Buddy looked like a young Johnny Mathis. All my mother’s three brothers were extra sharp. My sisters and I felt like they were the Mafia. Why did we think they were powerful? I don’t know, but I know that we thought they were. Although the occasion never presented itself, we just knew that if anything ever did “jump-off,” our uncles would be the key to ending it.

Uncle Ajay (short for Andrew James) was a tall, drink of water. Yep. If you ever needed to know what that term meant, you could look at him and find out. He was smooth as silk and never ruffled. Since he was the oldest of my mother’s siblings, he represented the supreme authority to us. I just remember that he was so gentle and kind. Handsome, handsome, handsome. Just ask Aunt Ardella, his wife. The sun rose and shone in him– let her tell it. She was ready to scratch out the eyes of any woman who just acted like they might say something to her Ajay. And every woman wanted him; she let you know.  Uncle Ajay had four sons, which was further evidence of his prowess. What did we know?

Uncle Frank. Now he was the Godfather. He is my mom’s youngest brother. I don’t know if it’s true– but we thought that he ran all of Scranton, PA. He was high up there in the Prince Hall Masonry, and his house was, too us, a repository of everything you could need or want. We never left his home without loads of stuff — clothes, food, and money — to a ten-year-old little girl that represented power. Uncle Frank had a funny way of talking, and he was easy to mimic. Not just his Pennsylvania accent, but his abrupt, quick sentences and his authoritative voice.  If he weren’t so sweet, I would have to describe him as grumpy. However, all his kisses and hugs dispelled the tone of his voice.

Once, when my family drove up to Scranton to visit Uncle Frank, it just so happened that I was on a mission to discard a pair of the ugliest shoes on the planet. My mother had come home with a pair of saddle oxfords for me.  Only they were purple and black.  What was she thinking? I already had big feet and skinny legs, and now she wanted me to accent that sorry state of affairs with a pair of purple and black oxfords. When I found out that we were going to Uncle Franks, I thought I could solve that problem.

I decided that when it was time for us to leave to return home, I’d just stick those ugly shoes somewhere in my Uncle’s house and pretend I’d left them by mistake. I’d be back home in Baltimore, and my mother’s insane attempt to embarrass me for life would remain in Pennsylvania.  Eureka! Problem solved, case closed.

My Uncle Frank sent those shoes back to me in the mail, and then he called me on the phone and fussed at me for not taking better care of those shoes after my mother had spent her hard-earned money on them. That damned Uncle Frank is crazy, I thought.

Uncle Baron was a photographer. Well, over the years, he was in a lot of different businesses – a die-hard entrepreneur. Uncle Baron was married to my father’s sister, Aunt Margie. When he and Aunt Margie divorced, he never defaulted on his uncle status, even after he remarried. First, he brought his new wife-to-be around the family to “get checked in” I think. Uncle Baron would show up on Sundays. Many times he would come get me to hang out with my cousin Robin, his daughter. He used to take us places and show us the best time. I remember once; Uncle Baron grabbed a young man by the throat when the boy let the door slam on Robin and me as we were leaving the bowling alley instead of holding it for us as a gentleman should. It wasn’t that he just let it slam on us; it was his insolent response when Uncle Baron corrected him. Manners and etiquette were essential to Uncle Baron. He talked to Robin and me about how young ladies should act and expect to be treated. Even when I was seventeen, and I took a boyfriend to Uncle Baron’s house for a cookout, he gave me a disapproving glance when I let my arm rest in the young man’s lap as we sat together. I removed it. I thought it best not to get embarrassed.

Uncle Ed was a school principal. He was married to my father’s sister, Aunt Joy. It was the funniest thing to see them together because my Uncle Ed is the most quick-witted person. He always reminded me of Phil Silvers, the actor/comedian, and Aunt Joy was forever putting the “Oh shut up Ed,” on him, trying with futility to stop his one-liner comebacks. He and my aunt and my Mom and Dad were always either dressing up to go out somewhere or sitting in our house just hoopin’ and hollering with laughter. They listened to jazz music and drank the best liquor, and laughed and laughed.  It was happy.  The thought of my uncles always makes me happy.

My uncles.  I guess we are rich.

 

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