I Ain't Me No More Read Free Page B

and exited. Looking at Helen at that moment was like looking into a mirror. Deborah could not stand or face the pain.
    Mother Doreen cleared her throat while wiping beads of sweat from her forehead, a trait of hers that revealed itself whenever there was tension that needed to be sliced through like a week-old pound cake. She then lifted her head and with confidence replied, “As a matter of fact, Sister Helen, we would. Us women would like to hear your story.” She looked at the other women, silently beseeching them to have her back. Several nodded to show their support. “I mean, we’re not trying to get into your business or pull anything out of you that you don’t want to share. We just need to know what to pray about concerning you. Because whether you believe it or not, we love you, Sister, and we want to help you. We want to meet you right where you are in life.”
    Helen stared into Mother Doreen’s eyes momentarily before letting out a chuckle. “Okay, old lady,” Helen spat as she sashayed over toward the podium.
    Mother Doreen backed away, not really knowing what to expect of Helen. She’d watched enough reality shows to know that a grown woman could snap and get physical in a minute.
    â€œY’all want to know my story? Well, I’m about to give it to you, all of it. Believe me when I say I’m leaving no stone unturned.” Helen stared down the women in the room one by one as she prepared to tell them her story, but not before saying, “But trust me when I say that after hearing about my life, it’s gon’ take more than y’all’s prayers to meet me where I’m at.”

Stone Number Two
    â€œWhy you so black? Where you from? Africa?” some fifth grade boy said as he walked by. I was playing four square outside on the school playground with three of my fourth grade classmates.
    I could tell he was just trying to get a laugh from his friends tagging along with him, which he did. But why did it have to be at my expense? I was just minding my own business, having a good ole time at recess, and then here he came along.
    â€œDid you hear what that boy said? He must be talking to you, Helen,” said one of my classmates who was occupying one of the squares. “Because we ain’t that black—not as black as you.”
    Suddenly no one was focusing on the ball anymore. Instead, all the other kids in the squares were laughing.
    If I had wanted to, I was sure I could have searched for one of the instigator’s flaws to point out and make fun of. My nana, my mother’s mother, had once told me that it took at least two people to argue and fight. I didn’t want to argue and fight, though. This kid was a fifth grader, and he was a boy. I knew how to pick my battles.
    â€œY’all so stupid,” I said, waving my hand as if I was brushing all the laughter off. “I am black, though.” I laughed. They laughed harder. Ever heard of the saying “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em?” Well, over the years of being teased and taunted about how dark I was, that was what I learned to do. I learned to join in with the laughter, even though I was crying inside . . . even though I was dying inside.
    There were plenty of days I’d go home from school, go to my room, and cry my eyes out.
    â€œHelen, what’s wrong?” my sister, Lynn, who was almost three years my senior, asked one day.
    â€œI’m ugly, That’s what’s wrong.”
    â€œGirl, you being stupid.”
    â€œI’m not being stupid. I’m being serious,” I cried. “You don’t understand, because you’re all pretty and yellow,” I told Lynn, who was several shades lighter than I was. Both my parents had the complexion of a vanilla wafer. Heck, everybody on both sides of the family had pretty much the same complexion. I was the Hershey’s Kiss in the center of the peanut butter