My twin sisters had my mother's name- anyway, they had the name Jenkins, which was the name of my blood grandfather on my mother's side. My mother went by McKinney, which was the name of her stepfather, Gillis McKinney, a man I grew up knowing as my maternal grandfather. My baby sister had another name- my brother too. We were a mismatched set, and I wanted to know who was who, what was what, who had the same name as me.
One day, my mom took the time to explain it all to me- some of it, at least, and here it helps to know that we never talked about my father. He wasn't a part of our lives, wasn't even a part of our thinking, but there was no way to have this conversation without bringing him up. Come to think of it, this was the first conversation I can remember where we talked about him at all. My mother said,"Baby Ray, I will never say one bad thing about your father. Ever. Never. He's your daddy, after all."
I said,"Okay, but whose name do I have? We don't know no Lewis'. "She said,"I'm about to tell you, if you let me finish." I didn't know much, but I knew to stay out of my mother's way when she got going on a story. She continued, plain talk: "Your father, he's chosen not to be in your life, so you're gonna have to figure that out. There is no one to teach you how to be a man. That one's on you. But when it comes to your name, that's a whole other story."
That whole other story went like this: My mother was a good looking young woman, stunning- hazel eyes, hair down to her freakin' butt, a smile to light up the night sky- just crazy beautiful. I look at pictures from when she was thirteen, fourteen years old, and I'm knocked out. My father was, too. That's why he'd come around in the first place. He was just a couple years older, but he used to babysit my mom when she was little; he knew our family; he took notice as she grew up- kept comin' round, long past the time she needed minding. Let me tell you, it was hard not to notice my mother. Those pictures don't lie. She turned heads. Folks around town, they knew who she was, too. The boys, they lined up just to talk to her, to be near to her. So when she finally got around to telling my father about me the day I was born, the day he turned tail, there was this other young man next in line, and he stepped up and helped my mother with her hospital bills. Wasn't like he was fixing to hang around, wasn't like there was any kind of relationship between them, but the young man had taken a shine to my mother, said it was his privilege to help in this small way. And it was. To him, it was a small kindness; to my mother, it was big beyond big. He was a military man, and here he'd done my mother this great good turn, so she reached out to him a second time. She asked him to sign the hospital paperwork, where it asks for the name of the baby's father- and happily, mercifully, he agreed.
That young man's name was Ray Lewis, so my name became Ray Lewis. Just like that. My mother hardly knew this man, but it was a way to honor him. I was a way to honor him.
I didn't meet him until many years later, when my own name was becoming well known. I'd been having some success on the football field and on the wrestling mat in high school. And this man, Ray Lewis, found a way to reach out to me, tell me who he was. He'd had no contact with my mother once he'd helped her out just after I was born, but he introduced himself- said, "My name is Ray Lewis, son. I used to know your mama."
I made the connection right away. "Thank you for giving me your name, sir. I will make it great."
No comments:
Post a Comment