Anaphora

We are 25.

We rose at the cry of the cock and the shrill barks of our wolf-dogs Thunder and Lightening

We waited impatiently to relieve the morning pressure, taking numbers to mark our spots in the line for the bathroom.

We doubled-up on baths at night to save time and water, luxuries we could scarce afford.

We shared beds in three rooms: Granddaddy and Grandmomma, Mom and I, Felicia and Tee Cheryl, Uncle Freddie and Uncle Darryl, Cousin Toby on the pullout couch

We fought for the right to eat one of the slices of sous meat leftover from last night, the succotash  freshly made from the okra, tomatoes, and corn we grew in an almost-barren patch in the backyard.

We ate sandwiches with not meat- syrup sandwiches, mayonnaise sandwiches, ketchup sandwiches, mustard sandwiches.

We who were older stayed out late on Tasty Tuesdays, Friday and Saturday nights- Tee’s Place, The Armory, The Westside Lounge.

We under 18 were sent to church every week, several times a week- STU, Sunbeam Band, Onward Christian Soldiers meeting, Youth Choir rehearsal, Mass Choir Rehearsal, Sunday school, Monday Prayer Service, and Wednesday Bible Study.

We kept those religious lessons, founding first one church and then another after we were kicked out of 23^rd Street Baptist Church of Ensley. The new church is named True Love.

To this day, we all stay within a one mile radius of each in Forestdale, except for me. I’m in Hoover, the opposite side of town. Always a black sheep.

We have “family birthday” dinners once a month at rotating houses, even though we see each other every Wednesday at Bible Study and every Sunday at church.

We are students (eight).

We are bankers (six).

We are teachers (five).

We are engineers (three).

We are Marines (two).

We are nurses (one).

We are the product of a mulatto from Chicago named Doris and a pool hustler from Orville, Alabama named Freddie.

We are family.