Babysitter Chronicles

On my commute home from "work", I caught a glimpse of my seat mate's hands and they teleported me back in time...

Growing up, I was a latchkey kid but I did have my fair share of babysitters. Not sure if the high turnover rate was attributed to my dictator father or to the "bad ass" Charles kids. Whatever the reason, we went through babysitters like water.

The first babysitter we had was a relatively young girl, I believe around eighteen. She was sitting in the living room with my father and he was going over the usual rules with her. No guests over, have the kids in bed by nine, no television on a school night, blah blah blah.

Not five minutes after my father left to go to work, this heffa snuck her boyfriend in. The details are hazy but I remember him walking out of the bathroom in his boxers. My sister, brother, and I were on our stomachs on the floor in front of my parents' bedroom. He was on top of her so we had a clear view of his ass. I don't remember how old I was, but I sure as hell did not understand what I was seeing. But I knew enough not to bring it up to my parents. I had this feeling, even at such a young age, that it might be an awkward conversation.

The next series of babysitters were sisters and very religious. They prayed with us before we went to sleep and taught us how to sing hymns. But they soon left us because they decided that they wanted to go to college. Oh well.

The last babysitter we had, occurred when I was too old to actually need one but it worked out because it gave me freedom to attend afterschool progams without having to be home with my siblings. I was a big and bad middle schooler by this time.

She had a big part in helping to shape my young life. She helped me to count fluently in French through the use of games. She taught me to sing hymns that I still sing today. And she made us memorize verses that really came in handy during our tumultous lives. She also ridiculed my cello playing, yelled at us, ate flour out of the bag, and made me crack her fingers and touch her ashy cracked feet. Sigh.

When I was a sophmore in college, I received the call that she was dead and I didn't cry. I guess I was in shock because for as long as I can remember Seour Bertha had been a part of my life, whether for good or bad. At her funeral, my mother wanted us to give a speech and throw flowers on her grave. But my siblings and I sobbed through the entire funeral. It was like our own grandmother had passed away, in fact she was our adopted grandmother. It was the first time that someone connected to us had actually died.

Looking at that woman's hands on the bus next to me, reminded me of her hands. I hadn't thought of her in years.

RIP Seour Bertha. You are always in our hearts.