GinGin, Her Wig, and the Holy Ghost
Tuesday, September 9th, 2008
By: Charles Clifford Brooks III
I was eight-years-old, growing up in small town Georgia, when I first felt God. Crawford was a languid Southern community with one traffic light and old men telling stories at the barbershop. My home was nestled beside a lake surrounded by thick tracts of forest so a child of my nature could run naked beneath the sun without fear or hesitation. This was a good thing because, as a toddler, it was impossible to keep clothes on me once summer heat took over and made the air shimmer.
In the first years I crawled upon this earth I was watched by Mrs. Mozelle, a soft- spoken, black nanny hired by my parents. Yet, she fell ill with heart complications and another brave soul had to be found who could manage me now that I was able to run. With both of my parents in the workplace, the Brooks family was in need of a jack-of-all-trades. No mere “babysitter” or “housekeeper” would do. I had too much of my dad’s mischief coupled with my mother’s intellect to trust to just anyone.
After an arduous screening process conducted by my mother one of Mrs. Mozelle’s friends was chosen for the task and her name was Virginia Smith; “GinGin” to those fortunate enough to be called “hers”. She too was black, and no one ever gave it a second thought. I was raised with equal numbers of white and black children. My parents didn’t teach me to hate.
Now, Virginia had taken care of half of Oglethorpe County by the time she came to be the supreme power of my household. She regarded all of the children she took care of as her own. My mother told me that the first day arrived she for duty, GinGin placed her massive arms upon her hips and surveyed the living room like territory won in battle. Weighing in at over three hundred pounds and possessing a look stern discipline, she appeared ready to clean house.
When we met, I had just rolled out of bed and stumbled into her as I entered the hallway. I thought she was a mountain someone left in my way. GinGin’s white T-shirt hung loosely over her girth, and faded purple jogging pants ran all the way to her ankles. Beneath her feet flip-flops were worn down to the thickness of notebook paper. As my mother introduced us, GinGin swept me into the air and against her chest for the first of many hugs. I would come to adore those moments like Moon Pies and fireflies. “How’s my baby this mornin’?” GinGin kissed my cheek.
“Good.” I answered.
“This is Virginia, sweetheart. She’s going to keep you while your daddy and I are working.” Mom said.
“You like bacon and biscuits?” GinGin asked.
“Yes ma’am.” The fact was I loved biscuits and bacon!
“Well, let’s you and me go into the kitchen and I’ll cook while we get to know each other.” She carried me into the kitchen, sat me on a counter away from the stove, and opened the refrigerator.
Every day she wore a blue bandanna tied over head that reminded me of the turbans men wore in my book about Aladdin and his lamp. She always smelled like hard work and earth, a thick aroma that stayed with me when she left in the afternoons. Her presence was calming; even now I can remember it exactly.
GinGin would rock me when it was naptime and hum old spirituals. I felt her sincere sound resonate through my body as my head rested on her shoulder. Whole afternoons would fade in a sleepy bliss while I was on her lap.
Yet, as peaceful as those times could be, there were also occasions I would get cocky and think I could misbehave then outmaneuver my GinGin. I would try to steal candy from a dish near the dining room, fail to zig when I should have zagged, and find myself put over her knee and given a spanking called “The Big Mac.” (I must admit that I still can’t go into McDonald’s without shuttering at the burger known by the same name.) Giving a kid “time out” was a laughable idea back then, and maybe kids would be more respectful today if parents followed the balance GinGin lived by: “Love a lot. Tear that butt up if necessary.”
After many naps and spankings, GinGin and I came to know each other very well. Every workday put me in the arms of this woman from seven in the morning until my parents returned at 5:00pm. With school out for summer break we fell into a routine. I agreed to stay quiet while she watched her “stories” and she let me have extra chocolate syrup on my vanilla ice cream when Scooby-Doo came on.
It was one of these days, just after I got home from Vacation Bible School, that GinGin told me how things were done in her church. It sounded like so much fun! The people in my church didn’t raise their hands and dance like she said. No one ever passed out from being happy. All we did in church was pray, try to stay awake, then pray some more.
After a few more minutes of talking about our differences in worshipping the same God, I decided that I was going to church with GinGin. There was nothing that could be done to change my mind and I knew exactly how to go about getting permission. I sat myself in a high-backed chair placed directly in front of the door where my mom would enter after a long day at her office. If I attacked when she was exhausted, mom would agree to anything.
With her first steps inside, I stormed upon my mother’s weary frame with a flurry of begging requests that would only stop when she agreed to my demands. After a surprisingly short period of time, agree she did. I was to gain my moment in the sun alongside GinGin at church! My mom saw it as a form of social education for a young white boy.
It was decided between my two mothers that I was going to church with GinGin on the upcoming Wednesday evening. There was plenty of time to brag to all my friends, and more than enough time for my mother to buy me a hideous blue suit. All of those that I told about my upcoming adventure were jealous, and all the photos taken of me in that suit still haunt me to this day from family albums.
When the day finally came, my mother dressed me in that suit and straightened the bow tie that was easily half the size of my head. There were about a thousand pictures taken before mom finally placed me in the passenger seat and drove me to GinGin’s house. This trip took us into the poorest part of Oglethorpe County known as Wolf Skin. (Why it’s called Wolf Skin is another story entirely.) Yet, in my excitement, all I cared about was that my GinGin was in one of those small houses.
As our car came to a halt in the muddy driveway, I bolted out and ran ecstatically towards the front door. Yet, it stopped me dead in my tracks when GinGin came out to meet me on the front porch with a full head of hair. She still wore her work clothes, but her hair was entirely new. How on earth could she grow so much hair so fast? If it was there all along, how had she fit it all underneath that old, blue bandanna? I questioned my mother, but she answered only with a quick nudge and the look that roared, “Don’t be rude!”
GinGin informed us that the service would start in an hour, and my mom was to pick me up at the church around 8:00pm. I had no clue as to what time it was or if I would ever see my mom again, but those were just details between grown ups. All I knew was that my GinGin had a bunch of hair and I was headed to her church.
I was left in the safety of GinGin’s affection and waved good-bye to my mother. After her car was out of sight, I was taken inside the house where one of GinGin’s daughters, Nicole, combed my hair. Now, when I was young, my mom allowed my hair to grow out in long, brown curls. Women in the grocery store insisted on touching it regardless of how menacingly I scowled. Nicole decided it was her turn to take these same curls and rip them out of my head with a comb possessing only three teeth. This did not make me happy.
Sitting in front of a large circular mirror, Nicole tried to make me believe that she was making me “look better” and not subjecting me to some form of torture. I glanced around the room and only then noticed how dim the interior of the house appeared. The dark scared me more than any invented movie monster, and I could feel that fear creeping into my feet. I immediately looked at other details of the room to trail my mind away from the deepening shadows.
There was only one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and a small lamp by the mirror to cast light around us. I noticed a brown, rust-like discoloring around the edge of the mirror, and the wallpaper behind it wore some sort of faded floral design I couldn’t make out. I saw Nicole behind me still vigorously tugging at me with her comb. GinGin was in her room getting ready for the evening’s main event.
Before I could see any other objects in the room, the pain of Nicole’s combing technique became unbearable. I began to plan just how loudly I would scream when GinGin appeared in her church clothes. I noticed her glow immediately. She stood in one of the few shafts of light peeking through the gray curtains and her smile seemed to chase all the gloom from the room. GinGin was pretty, and I told her so.
She laughed her bigger-than-life laugh and scooped me up into her arms so fast that one of my shoes fell off. Now closer to the mystery hair, I took hold of one of the locks and ran my fingers through it. It felt like silk, and as I pulled a little, the whole head of hair shifted on top of her head! I was mortified that I might have hurt her.
“No, no baby. It took GinGin a long time to fis’ this hair!” She told me while looking into the mirror.
She noticed my wide-eyed expression of shock, put me down, and then said, “You didn’t hurt GinGin honey. This is my church hair.”
I didn’t understand what she was trying to tell me, but I did comprehend that I was not in trouble. While she touched at her make up, I put my shoe back on and tried to stay away from Nicole who wanted to yank at my hair again. Nicole and I played a short game of chase before GinGin told us both to stop making a fuss. I took refuge behind one of her legs. Her daughter retaliated by sticking out her tongue at me.
With Nicole on one side and I on the other we were all out the door and walking down a gravel road towards the church. I began to ask about Gin Gin’s husband, but mom had told me that he had “gone away” and not to ask about him. I bit my lip.
With a very short walk along a dirt road with houses lined on either side, the church soon came into view. The church was a small white building with the wear and tear of years of prayer under its belt and a graveyard positioned behind it. The sight of the graveyard frightened me as the sky closed its evening curtains, and it caused me to make sure my hand was still swallowed completely by GinGin’s.
On the front steps I could already hear the music coming from deep inside the church and felt the rush of excitement only something altogether new can create. I then forgot I was ever afraid and pulled GinGin a little harder to get inside. My second mother introduced me to Mr. Wallace Jackson who shook my hand firmly and told me as if I were a man he was glad to see me in the house of God.
I just smiled and he continued to grin as I waved goodbye and entered the interior of the worship service. As soon as the warmth of the church was around us, I was picked up into Gin Gin’s arms. I began to sweat the very second I was brought into the building. There was no air conditioning, no fans, just a few older ladies waving fans with pictures of Jesus on the back.
I can’t remember being nervous as strangers approached the three of us. Nicole shot away from her mother and towards a group of other girls who appeared to be her age. All the new faces that I had never seen, the faces I cannot remember seeing since, did not strike me as something to pull away from. I tried to shake the hands of the men in their starched black suits and yielded to all the kisses from the women who wore hats I thought were exotic ornaments. It took everything in me not to reach out and touch the feathers they wore that made the whole place seem magical.
After finding a seat in the middle of one of the pews, GinGin pulled off my blue coat and told me that I had to keep on the vest. I had previously planned to ditch the vest due to the heat, but I wasn’t in any mood to argue. I just took my seat and continued to peer around the church. The walls were bare except for a few stained glass windows and Bible verses carved into the wood above them. The choir was getting together and didn’t seem to have hymnals like the performers in my church. How would they remember the words to all the songs?
When I had thought nothing could make this moment any more astounding, I noticed the preacher. Well, I didn’t just “notice” the man; he seemed to exude energy unselfishly into each one of us. This man was bigger than GinGin, and had a voice loud enough to part my hair.
His name was Reverend Brown, and he had a shiny bald head that seemed to glow with a halo with the light above him. He smiled and called out for an “amen” when he would say something joyous and show those exuberant teeth. His enormous frame was covered in a black robe with a purple collar that ran down the center of his bulging stomach. The sleeves hung loose like wings when he held out his arms. I felt as if he was trying to give us all a hug.
“It’s good to be in the house of the Lawd!” Life made Reverend Brown happy!
“Amen!” I yelled as loud as I could after all the others had answered. Some of the people around me laughed, and GinGin hugged me.
The preacher’s deep mahogany skin glistened. Behind him, on a huge wooden cross, was a Jesus the same color as me. It’s funny to me now how innocence prevented me from making such distinct differences at the time. As if the mind knows from birth that such things aren’t important. They are taught.
I can remember how the preacher spoke about being “glad that my arms and legs worked”. “To give thanks that I could hear, see, and sing.”
After each one of these I yelled, “Amen!” with everyone else.
This was better than cartoons and vanilla ice cream!
The choir began to sing and their voices were the gifts of angels. I immediately thought that no one in my church sang that well. Some of the people around me began to stand up, throw their hands in the air, and dance in place to the music. I could only restrain my desire to move for so long before I stood up in the pew and imitated their dance. GinGin didn’t stop me, but rather put her arm around my waist to make sure I didn’t fall.
Reverend Brown then went into his sermon in such a direct, matter-of-fact way that I, even at eight-years-old, truly grasped the importance of not fearing God, but being grateful for His love and abundant day-to-day gifts. He seemed to being telling only me and everyone all at once that everything was “gonna be alright”. Reverend Brown would look upward to the sky and shake his hands like he was reaching to touch the Almighty at that very moment. I looked up fully believing to see a miracle. God was real. God was love. God loved me. No matter what that would never change and it all made perfect sense.
I danced through the entire first hour of the sermon with the others. My hair was matted down on my head where GinGin would brush it up over my head from time to time.
The preacher that stood before the room, held up his huge arms, and hailed, “Hallelujah!”
“Hallelujah!” I screamed and lost my balance on the pew.
As I began to fall, one of my hands became entangled in GinGin’s long black hair. She prevented me from falling, but I still pulled off her wig as my arms flailed in panic. I stared at this hair in my hands as if it were some creature hanging there. I looked at GinGin and saw that the hair I knew from home rested underneath.
“It’s like a hat!” I screamed and put the hair atop my own head. I shook my hips to accompany my moment of genius.
The laughter exploded from around me as the wig was taken back and fixed on GinGin’s head again. I had discovered the secret and began to fear I was in trouble. Yet, GinGin only pulled me into her lap and hugged me so tight I thought I would pop.
She was blushing in that moment so red that it shown through her dark skin. I can still see her smile down on me with that energetic grin and her hair on sideways. I looked over to Nicole who was laughing so hard she had to hold her stomach.
Well, at this point in time my mother had been waiting for about half an hour in the parking lot while GinGin and I were caught up in the procession inside. After another fifteen minutes or so my mom decided that she had waited long enough.
She left her car, a woman on a mission, and entered the church to retrieve her son.
Mom always retells the story that for the first time in her life she had no problem finding me in a crowd. I was the white speck dancing in the middle of one of the front pews. My mom walked quickly, smiling at everyone she passed, to my seat and put her hand on my shoulder. When I looked up into her impatient eyes I realized I had to leave, then promptly began to wail at the top of my lungs. She hurriedly escorted me outside, the whole congregation watching us go. My time in GinGin’s company had come to a close.
I can only imagine how my mom must have felt dragging her son out of the church with all those eyes on her. She didn’t say a word as we drove home. I cried half because I had been taken away from the most fun I had ever had in my life, and half in fear that the spanking would indeed be severe once my father became aware of how I had behaved. When I ran out of tears I pouted quietly in my seat with my arms around my chest.
Once inside my home I was told to go straight to my room. I could hear mom and dad grumble back and forth undoubtedly over my heinous punishment when they both began to laugh. They were laughing! What kind of insanity was this?
Mom came into my room and told me that I was not in trouble. I then went before my father and told him every minute detail of my adventure. I finished the story while eating the chicken and macaroni my mom had reheated for me. I thought I would never be able to sleep that night, but as soon as I was washed and put into bed, I passed out.
I felt God all over me that day. The spiritual anchor of knowing there is something out there greater than fear or pain has resided in me all my life. It is a rejuvenating, yet humbling walk on earth to simply be happy that you can see the sun set and sing praises! It is so very beautiful to imagine that whole evening in my head and envision God looking down upon our small congregation, smiling because His children were happy to be alive. Alive and shouting, “Thank you God! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”
GinGin and I laugh about that evening and several other incidents every time I go to see her in Oglethorpe County. We both laugh at my poor mom who was embarrassed to the bone for pulling her child out of church. I suppose I still feel bad about my mother being forced to endure such a trial, but after living through the aftermath of friends and dates seeing those pictures of me in that blue suit for nineteen years, I call it even.
“Nia’s Jesus is at once serene, devout, driven and passionate.”
Criminal charges have been pressed in Moscow against Yuri Samodurov, the director of the Sakharov Public Center, and Andrei Erofeev, a curator at the State Tretyakov Gallery, in the aftermath of their exhibition “Forbidden Art 2006.” The exhibition presented works which were earlier removed from exhibitions of contemporary art at public institutions. The exhibition raised questions about the role of censorship in the presentation of contemporary art. Among works that had been censored were those by such acknowledge masters of Russian art as I. Kabakov, V. Bakhchinyan, and L. Sokov.
Robot officiates wedding:
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