Viola Davis - Finding Me: A Memoir

C ocksucker motherfucker was my favorite expression and at eight years old, I used it defiantly. I was a spunky, sassy mess and when I spewed that expression, one hand would be on my hip, my middle finger in vast display, and maybe my tongue would be sticking out. If the situation was especially sticky, as backup I would call upon my big sister Anita. She instilled fear in every boy, girl, woman, man, and dog in Central Falls, Rhode Island. She grew her nails to be a better fighter. She was tough, stylish, talented, and well... angry. Ill get my sister Anita to beat yo ass, Id say with confidence. But her being three years older than me, she wasnt readily available to protect me.

While Anita was the fashionista fighter who was as loved and adored as she was feared, I was none of those things. I was the ride-or-die friend, competitive but shy. When I won spelling contests, I would flaunt my gold star to everyone I saw. It was my way of reminding you of who the hell I was.

In the third grade, I challenged the fastest boy at Hunt Street School, in Central Falls, to a race at recess. It was the dead of winter and everyone showed up. I had my crew, which was mostly girls, and he had his, which was, well, everybody else. My shoes were two sizes too small and my socks were tornthe part that was supposed to cover my toes. So I took them off and gave them to my friend Rosie who said to me, Beat his ass!

I didnt beat him. We tied, which was great for ole underdog me, but humiliating for him. It was bedlam after that. Every kid in the schoolyard started chanting, Rematch! Rematch! Cmon, Chris; you cant let that girl beat you! I peeked at them in a huddle, laughing, staring at me, whispering, You cant let that nigga beat you!

When the teachers heard the commotion and saw my bare feet, I had to stand in the corner. In shame. As if I had done something wrong. Why all the vitriol? I was being bullied constantly. This was one more piece of trauma I was experiencingmy clothes, my hair, my hunger, tooand my home life being the big daddy of them all. The attitude, anger, and competitiveness were my only weapons. My arsenal. And when I tell you I needed every tool of that arsenal every day, Im not exaggerating.

At the end of each school day, we had to get in line at the back door and wait until the final bell rang. The teacher would open the door, and everyone would dash out to go home. Everyone would get excited because it was the end of the day. Everyone, except me. As much as I could, I would push and shove my classmates, almost clawing my way to the front of the line, not caring in the least if they got pissed at me, because when that bell rang, I had to start running. I had to escape.

A boy in my class who was Cape Verdean, from the Cape Verde Isles off the coast of West Africa, was Black and Portuguese and as Black as I was. But he didnt want to be associated with African Americans, a mindset I later learned was very common among Cape Verdeans in Central Falls. More often than not, they self-identified as Portuguese. They would kill you if you called them Black.

So my Portuguese classmate and eight or nine white boys in my class made it their daily, end-of-school ritual to chase me like dogs hunting prey. When that end-of-school bell rang, it was off to the races, running literally to save my life. For the gang of boys, it was sadistic-fun time. Every day it was the same madness. The same trauma. Me, taking off like Wilma Rudolph or Flo-Jo, and them tight on my heels.

While chasing me down, they would pick up anything they could find on the side of the road to throw at me: rocks, bricks, tree branches, batteries, pine cones, and anything else their devious eyes spied. But running me down and throwing projectiles at me wasnt enough for them. Their vitriolic screams were aimed at the target of their hate. They threw, You ugly, Black nigger. Youre so fucking ugly. Fuck you!

Thank God I was fast. I had to run my ass off down Eben Brown Lane, the route I would take because it was a shortcut to get home, an idyllic road that looked like a scene from The Brady Bunch. At times, the boys would hide behind houses on that street and I would have to duck and dodge and crisscross. I was being hunted. By the time I got home, I was a snot-dripping, crying mess... every day.

One day after a snowstorm the snow was piled so high in the streets anyone could hide behind the giant mounds that seemed to be everywhere. My shoes had huge holes on the bottoms, which meant I couldnt run fast in them because they would make my feet hurt worse than they did already. Because of this, during my daily runs for my life, I would usually take my shoes off, hold them in my hands, and run in bare feet. But with mountains of snow everywhere, I couldnt this time.

As a result, they caught me. And when they did, they held my arms back and took me to their leader, the Cape Verdean boy. I dont mention names because, well... their race is way more important in telling this story.

Shes ugly! Black fucking nigger, he said.

My heart was beating so fast. I kept silently praying for someone to come and save me.

And the other voices sounded around me, What should we do with her? Yeah! Youre, youre, youre fucking ugly! Youre ugly! Youre ugly!

I dont know why youre saying that to me, I pleaded to the ringleader, the Portuguese boy. Youre Black, too!

And when I said that, everyone froze and fell deathly silent. For a split second, we were all in a movie, as all the now silent white boys looked at the Portuguese boy, eager to respond to anything he said.

Youre Black, too. I yelled it this time, calling him by name. The gang remained silent. So quiet.

He looked and looked and looked from one white boy to another, frightened and struggling to find a way to hide the truth of what I had just said. The kind of truth thats rooted in a self-hate that we would rather take to our graves. Finally, he screamed in intense anger, Dont you ever call me fucking Black! Im not Black! Im Portuguese!!! And he punched me in the arm, really hard. He looked down, ashamed at being called out. As if I exposed the ugliest, most painful truth.

Get outta my face! Then they threw me in the snow and kicked snow on me. My arm stiffened. It was in pain. I walked home, completely humiliated.

The next day I didnt want to go to school. My mom was doing the laundry in one of those old washing machines where you had to pull the clothes through the wringer.

Whats wrong with you, she asked.

Mama, those boys want to kill me! They chase me every day after school. After keeping it from her for months, I finally told her about my ongoing daily trauma.

Vahlathe southern pronunciation of my namedon you run from those bastards anymore. You hear me? Soon as that bell rings you WALK home! They mess with you, you jug em.

Jug is country for stab. But if you know what a crochet needle looks like, my mom was actually being ethical. They are not sharp at all! She gave me a crochet needle and told me to keep it in my pocket. It was her shiny blue one.

Dont come back here crying bout those boys or Ill wop yo ass. She meant it. This was a woman with six kids. She didnt have time to go to school every day and fight our battles. She absolutely needed me to know how to defend myself. Even if she had to threaten me into doing it.