My Life as a Furry Red Monster - Kevin Clash [7]
I heard some commotion out on the steps and poked my head around the corner of the bedroom door. Mary Ann burst into the living room propping up Georgie.
My father thanked her for delivering the goods in fine order. Then he steered my brother to the couch and waited for him to come out of his stupor.
“So, you like to drink?” Dad asked.
My father went into the kitchen for a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, which he set on the coffee table.
“Have another drink, son.”
Georgie waved his hand in surrender. “Can I go to bed, Dad? I don’t feel too good.”
“Not till you’ve had a nightcap. I insist!”
George Jr. never had another episode like that one again. My dad had made his point—that drinking to excess was a nasty habit; that it wasn’t romantic and it didn’t make you into a grown-up. Dad knew that George was strong-willed and he could take this kind of approach with him, but it would never have worked with Ne-Ne.
Ne-Ne lived for praise. As overachieving in the classroom as George was in the gym, Ne-Ne was strong-willed and held a high opinion of herself and her abilities. We still talk about the time she told the teacher who gave her a C in a Black History unit that the grade couldn’t have been right because she knew more about the subject than he did. She employed her sharp tongue on the rest of us and was a master of verbal manipulation. Many times Pam and I felt the wrath of Ne-Ne. (She once tossed all my puppets out the window and into the snow; I got back at her by pitching all her cosmetics out after them.) Funny thing was, though, she demonstrated the territoriality and maternal instincts of a big cat. If anyone else insulted or teased us, she verbally pounced on the offender, making her usual wrath look like a love note.
Pam and I shared an artistic bent and a sensitive nature. As the baby, Pam endured a lot of teasing. Ne-Ne seemed to take particular delight in telling her that she was a little wet chicken we’d seen along the side of road and felt sorry for and took in. Out of earshot of Ne-Ne, I’d tell Pam not to mind what her big sister said. Like me, Pam loved to make things. As soon as she learned how, she’d make elaborate clothes for her huge collection of Barbie dolls. Eventually Pam tapped in to her creativity and love of clothing and playing dress-up to go into fashion design.
Whether they were cheering Georgie on from the bleachers as he raced down a basketball court, or sitting in an auditorium for one of Ne-Ne’s modern dance performances or award ceremonies, or keeping Pam and me fully stocked with art supplies, fabric, and odds and ends to feed our creativity, my parents always found a way to support and love each one of us. Society was still sending a loud message that black children like us didn’t have much to aspire to, but that negative talk was drowned out by our parents, who taught us that our dreams were worthy simply because they were ours.
Mom and Dad also knew that with big dreams comes the potential for big hurts. When you love someone you want to protect that person, particularly if it’s a child, but like all parents, they couldn’t protect their children from every hurt and they knew it. I’ve seen the devastating effects of peer pressure, and now that I’m a parent myself, I’m able to see this issue from a different perspective. I’ve also come to admire how my parents performed a delicate balancing act of protecting but not isolating us.
In my neighborhood, boys my age did one of two things: They either played drums or did sports. Of course the kids used to make fun of me and my growing interest. “Look at him, he’s playing with dolls. He sews. He sleeps with