Aunt Minnie Jophiel

How do I explain this?

Women have always been a mystery to me, and yet, I have always been a mystery to my self as well.  Maybe, the part of me I have so much trouble understanding is more female than male. I do not know: perhaps I'm so close to the subject, by all rights, there is no escaping the fact that I am destined to be the last one to know for sure.

I drive a cab here in Ann Arbor and have done so going on fourteen years now. Although my desire is to teach Speech, English Language and Literature, both in terms of reading and performance, cab driving is definitely something I really do enjoy most of the time. I'll talk more about that in a later post. The reason I mention cab driving, or simply driving in general, is because, it is the only activity I have where my  mind, at least these days, is the most clear and lucid: even though, secretly I must confess, the coffee I love to drink while driving probably has a lot to with clarity of thought.

At any rate, this past Saturday was one of those cab driving days where I had plenty of time between orders to just sit and think. I knew there other drivers going to the airport, making more money than me, but days like this day happen to all cab drivers and have done so since the beginning: way back in Chicago right after World War II when a man named Avis practically invented the idea of a "Yellow Cab" or so I have been told.

Sitting there it suddenly occurred to me that I had missed the deadline for submission to Women's Day event I signed into some time ago on the Blogger's Unite website. Blogger's Unite is like part clearinghouse and part celebration for writers, artists, videographers: communicators of all shapes, sizes and flavors to submit works  based on particular events thy sign up for beforehand. It's a way to help draw attention of the rest of the internet community to those issues that challenge the notion of popular culture. It's also a great way to participate in and celebrate the work of other like minded writers and artists: an exchange of perspectives if you will.

So, there I was, in my cab sitting thinking about Women: not really about the coeds I always pick up at their boy or girlfriend's dorm or frat to take them home so they can say they at least tried to do their homework, but thinking about Women in general. The question that always stumps me is: what do  have to offer other than a safe ride to where ever it is they may need to?

Of course, maybe because of the cultural programming I share with all of you, I have also hypothesized that I may be Gay and therefore it would only be natural, at least in my sense of logic, that instead of musing over the often barely dressed young Women, I should, instead focus my attentions on what I could offer the barely dressed young men.

But this is never very useful for me.  I can never get past my own gut feelings of, well,  I don't know: a sense that the guy I'm trying to oogle the way I would drool over the mere perfume of  a young woman half my age  could be devoted either me or "him" whomever he may be. I'm not sure if this makes me "not Gay" anymore than I'm certain that giving up all I have come to know and expect from the world I have guessed exists in the larger sense, to the gentle sway of one or several clever, patient and inventive females, would make me more of a man.

So as I sat there in my cab, contemplating what I usually contemplate, what many of you may consider as important as navel lint, I was suddenly struck by the memory of little old woman, whom although I only saw twice, left a deep and lasting impression on me. As I sat there in my cab, I remembered the soft lilting voice of that little old woman somewhere in either my heart or my head: "The women of this family have always been and will always be its abiding strength."

We are going to go back in time here to a point right after my parents final divorce. It was the summer of 1979. My Mother, Sister and Me had taken Greyhound to Tulsa to visit her relatives: her sisters, our Aunts Connie and Alice as well as the rest of Mom's immediate family. As we pulled into the terminal at Tulsa I had the window seat and looked out at the late morning, sun dappled, hub bub.

It was a troubling time for my sister and myself as well as Mom. The divorce had left definite signs of wear and tear on all of us. Combine the stress with the usual teen-aged rebellion and angst my sister and I both wallowed in back then, and you begin to get the picture of one  tired Middle Class African-American family, looking for the solace and comfort family roots can often bring. As we pulled in, I noticed outside my window, little old lady: lightskinned, slender in a light colored flower print dress and reddish scarf who looked up at me briefly and looked away into the Southwestern sun rising overhead. What happened next, at the time I believed was purely my imagination. As I sat there I couldn't take my eyes off her and then, almost like a tickling brook, words flowed from the back of my mind to the front.

"My name is Minnie," I thought I heard, "Don't say anything to your Mother, just listen."
I looked around at my sister and Mom to see if they heard what I did. They made no gesture, then I looked back at the little old light skinned black lady in the flower dress. There she stood, outside my window, not moving and still looking into the bright Tulsa sky.

"I'm actually your Mother's older sister." I know relented that somehow, it might be possible that this little old lady was speaking to me, although her lips were not moving and a couple inches of Greyhound glass and aluminum separated us. Then I thought to myself: "How could you be my Mother's older sister?"

"Many of the the Blacks and Indians around here a long time ago were family. Your Mother's father, your Grandfather, had me from his first marriage..." This was really strange I thought and just then my Mom touched my shoulder.

"Thomas, get your things together, its time for us to go." I acknowledged her with a shrug and got up to get my things. As we got off the bus another curious thing happened. The woman who I thought had been talking with me briefly caught my Mom's attention And as the two women looked at one another and said nothing,I knew that this could be another secret Mom thought best to keep to herself.


I had always known that I had a father who raised me as well as a biological father whom my Mom had known before she met the man I call and respect as such. But, for her own reasons, the identity of my biological father was something she felt the need to keep to herself. Although over the years she would eventually tell me that Leo Paul Barre was my biological father, it was and remains to this day one of those subjects that if she chose not to discuss, she didn't and there wasn't a thing any one could do to change her mind.

So when the two women on that platform that day looked at each other and said nothing, neither did I.
I did ask, as we were walking away to hail a cab who that woman was.
"I don't know what you mean." my Mom said in that way that I understood to mean: don't ask me again.
And so, I didn't.

The time we spent in Tulsa with my Mom's family was fun for the most part and I didn't think any more about that little old light skinned black woman  in the simple dress and the red scarf. I would have forgotten all about her were it not for what happened the afternoon we were scheduled to leave for Michigan.

As my Mom, my Sister an Me waited in the station to board our bus I surprised to see suddenly sitting next to me, albeit a few seats down, the same little old light skinned black lady I had seen two weeks earlier. I looked over at my Mom who gritted her teeth and kept her eyes on the porters making our bus ready for departure.

"Don't worry about your Mother, you have to think for yourself little one," I thought I heard that same lilting voice from before. "Our family was split up," she said. "Back before the Wall Street killings, Negroes and Indian was too much for most White folk to bear. And since I looked mostly Indian, I went with the Indian side of the family and your Mother and Connie went with Daddy who found himself a black woman to marry.."

I felt a sharp knock on my thigh. It was my Mom, quickly rising to her feet. "C'mon," she said, "It's time for us to go." The woman who I think, called herself Aunt Minnie, had also quickly risen to her feet and just as quick, scooted ahead of us and out onto the platform.

I was still pretty intrigued by all of this and really hadn't decided if these wordless conversations I thought I was having were real or not. But I did my best to get a window seat with the hopes of perhaps seeing this unusual woman just one more time. And as I sat there looking out my window, I kind of laughed to myself as she scooted into view, right outside my window, looking into the east just like the day we first arrived. The only difference being that at this time of the afternoon the sun was setting behind us.

"You have quite a future ahead of you little one," she said. "I am your Aunt Minnie Jophiel and like the rest of your kin, I will always be with you and your little sister and older brother.

And as the bus backed up and pulled away, Aunt Minnie, looked directly at me and smiled."The women in this family have always been and always will be its abiding strength. Don't be afraid to be like a woman when you need inner strength and courage, but don't forget how to be a man when its time to defend your honor.."

And as we pulled further and further away, Aunt Minne did a strange thing. While still looking at me, she waved ever so slightly. That was the first and last time I ever saw her.

Then again, that's not all together true. I still dream about her, but not in the way I think you think I mean.
Its Aunt Minnie that figured out that I chose my last two girlfriends Kate and Julia, because I thought they were safe. My relationship with both women entailed me getting by without letting go of that connection with my Mother I am so insecure about. In fact, relationship insecurity is one of the things I inherited from my Mom.

I haven't yet put all the pieces together but there remains one thing of which I have no doubt whatsoever. Women are very much a part of my spirit: they are among those from whom I have come and they continue to be a crucial part of where I am going and that fact is definitely not a figment of my imagination.