It’s not enough to paint over a deteriorating home because underneath that lacquer is a home rotting at the base. The infrastructure needs repairing, but the fresh paint gives the illusion from the outside that the home is a fresh start, to a new and less complicated life.

Berkeley is five miles from Oakland; but in that distance lies an exceptional difference in life. Oakland is best known for its high crime rates, impoverished neighborhoods, and drug abuse while Berkeley was the opposite. Berkeley was like a breath of fresh air with its well-kept and brightly presented communities. There was an abundance of trimmed trees, beautiful California poppy flowers and thorn rose bushes that accented the neighboring houses. Berkeley was my idealistic bliss; an escape from the constant gunshots that were heard throughout Oakland communities. I loved how at peace I felt in Berkeley, but that serenity might have stemmed from the proper structure that came with living with my grandmother, Audrey.

Mornings at my grandmother Audrey’s started with raisin bran cereal, while Smuckers peanut butter and jelly sandwiches belonged to the lunch hours. Granny prepared three-course dinners; and they always included a green vegetable. She’d say, “you’re supposed to have something green with every dinner meal”. While Mother rarely cooked. When she did, she prepared the same meals: her famous lasagna and tacos, spaghetti and salad or cheeseburgers and fries. There wasn’t much variety to her cooking. My grandmother was different. She’s always been conscious of her health; preparing three balanced meals and exercising daily. She’d fill the fridge with Chocolate Slim Fast dietary shakes to supplement her diet and workout to Billy Blanks Tae-Bo VHS tapes (she had every tape he made). Grandmother Audrey took pride in her physical presentation, which was clear by how good she looked.

My grandmother held the appearance of a woman half her age. She had beautiful, taffy-colored skin that glowed in the sunlight. Her face was round, with tiny freckles, commonly referred to as “beauty marks” around her chunky cheeks and gigantic eyes that were enclosed with prescription glasses. Unlike Mother, granny was short and medium built. She was a young grandmother; in her late forties, so she was still very energetic. My grandmother considered herself to be a marathon walker; never learning to drive, she walked everywhere, including to and from work. Granny worked full time on a commission based salary, selling men suits at Montgomery Ward, five days a week. She never relied on a man to meet her needs; she was independent and rightfully so. At this point in her life, she was content being single, having five grown adult children who’ve produced children themselves. My grandmother had male friends, but that’s all they were to her; she’d say, “that’s just my shopping buddy”. While Mother clung to men, my grandmother seemed to treat them like disposable waste; it was odd, they were opposites.

As Mother moved us from one section 8 apartment to the next; my grandmother planted roots in Berkeley, living in her home for the past six years. It wasn’t because she lived in a house; it was because she built her home using a solid foundation with leveled footings and structured walls. It was that proper care that made this house a loving home; giving us all (family) a chance to flourish in a healthy environment. She ensured that her house was a safe haven for her grandchildren.

Grandmother Audrey converted her garage into a playroom for me and my cousins, Rita and Nina, mother’s younger sister’s children. Rita was a couple years older than me but still younger than sister and Nina was two years old, the baby of the family. My cousins and I would play there for hours; sometimes granny would join us, we’d love for her to play barbie dolls with us. We filled the garage with various toys, like an easy bake oven, doll house, skates, Operation, Monopoly, Mancala and other games. She placed an old tan couch and purple rug in the garage for our comforting pleasure. It was like having Chuck E. Cheese in the confines of my grandmother’s garage.

Recently, I asked my grandmother why she built this playroom in her garage for us. She replied, “I didn’t want y’all running through the streets.” Continuing, “Nah, nah, it was best for y’all to get to know one another first and play in that garage!” It meant more to me than a playroom. It was one of the few memorable places from my childhood that I look back on and feel glee. I can still hear us singing the cleanup song. When grandmother Audrey called us in; “clean up, clean up, everybody clean up!” I can smile at the visualization of us singing and dancing while we picked up our pogo sticks, bikes, Leggo blocks and green slime. But, I still cry about my biological father, Andrew, living so close to my grandmother yet treating me like a pen pal.

Andrew resided a couple blocks from my grandmother’s house. The proximity prompted Mother to try and establish a father-daughter bond between us. I always asked Mother questions like, “how come sister has a daddy but I don’t?” I’d ask Mother if Sister’s dad could be my dad too? Finally, fed up with my continuous questioning, Mother would phone Andrew or have me call him. He’d always promise to pick me up the following weekend. When that weekend arrived, I’d call him, but to no avail. I’d sit on my granny’s front stoop, all dolled up, wanting to look my best, and he’d never show up, like he promised. I have flashbacks now of me in my bright, neon windbreaker pants set, pony-tailed hair, glistened skin with a smile plastered on my face. I’d continue to sit there as I watched children play, thinking, any minute now, he’ll be coming around the corner. The wind was blowing as the day grew colder, and there I’d sit, looking left to right. He’d never show. On these days, I cried myself to sleep; like a baby, but I wasn’t even a toddler. The pain would always be more difficult to bear the next time I would see him. He was frequently on the scene; shooting dice out on the streets, playing basketball at the nearby courts or at the corner store (less than a block from granny’s).

Granny only allowed us to play in the garage, or in front of her house, within her peripheral vision. She’d sit at her wooden dining table, directly in front of the window, completing crossword puzzles, gazing out as we played. One sunny spring afternoon, granny allowed us to play in the front. Sister had just come back from Sacramento to live with us days prior; so my cousins were there to relish in her company. We were having a competition on who could jump the highest and longest on our pogo sticks.

Granny was playing a song by The Temptations, “Just My Imagination”, which could be heard down the driveway, when Andrew came strolling up. I continued to bounce up and down on my pogo stick, completely ignoring him. Hurt and confused, I acted like I didn’t notice him. When he uttered the words, “come here, girl, I’m your daddy!” I felt a chilling sense of disapproval flow through me; with contempt, I replied, “you ain’t my daddy, Ubel is my daddy!” For a moment, he stood there, perplexed and then astonished that I would talk to him with such malice. He began walking down the street he came from, his head low, shoulders slumped. Sister and my cousin immediately said, “That was mean, Tete!” I thought it suited the disposable way he treated me, so I said nothing, but it was an incident I’d never forget. Sister made sure of this, by continuously mocking me with, “remember Ubel is your daddy,’ as she laughed horrendously. Ubel was the paint that I used to gloss over the feelings I held towards Andrew. But there wasn’t enough paint in the world to hide the damage to this foundation.