Theresa's Story Part One I wasn’t always in a wheelchair. I never


knew my real mother. She gave me up at birth. If I did look into her eyes I was too small to remember her face. When I was taken in as a foster child and


arrived in the village of Tantobie in the north of England, I was the talk of the town. Let me take you back to my arrival when my foster mother took me out in the stroller the gossiping began. So, if you can imagine, the village was


wondering: “when did Mrs Hanna have a baby,” as they peeked into my stroller. And I stared right back at them--a brown eyed, black baby. The look on their faces must have been priceless, a Kodak moment. I think they thought my foster mum had lost


her rocker, thinking she had a little black doll, pushing me around. They couldn’t understand that I was real until my eyes blinked back at them. I was special because I was chosen by someone who wanted me. My foster mother used to say that when she


came to the orphanage I was sitting on a little potty and I suppose at that moment she fell in love with me. When she brought me home, my foster father looked at me and clearly was shocked!


“What are you doing!” But through


time I think he came to love me. But he did say to my mother, “That one's going to be much trouble.” Maybe in some ways he was right. Growing


up as the only black child in the village, I saw the white folks were a different colour from me. Children, as we know, can be very cruel. I


got called names. Instead of the N--- word, they used to call me “Little Blackie,” or “Gollywog.” That was a little black doll that the white kids used to play with. As I survived in the village, mischief seemed to follow me.


PHF Magazine October 2016 I remember a group of kids and I were


hanging around our neighbour's houses and we decided it would be a great idea to throw stones up in the air and see if we could catch them. We thought it was funny at the time. Until Agnes, one of my best friends, started to throw the stones lopsided and they landed near my neighbour’s garden, very close to the door. And all of a sudden we heard the breaking of


glass. That was when I realised I could run real fast. Agnes was still standing, looking like a statue. I eventually arrived home. Mum was waiting for me. I didn’t say anything. My mother looked at me sternly, “Theresa


Ann…” The first word that came out of my mouth were, “I had nothing to do with it.” And before I could get any more words out, my mother sat me down and gave me one of those many long talks. “I know you were there,” she said. “Mrs Hill saw you running down the street.” My gig was up. My foster mother used to tell me that I was a


littler darker than some of the white kids because I’d stayed out in the sun too long.


If


there was ever trouble in the village, I would be noticed first. I was always got blamed even if I had not done anything. I remember another Sunday and Mom dressed me up in my Sunday best. I just look like the cutest little doll. I think that was the biggest event of the week: “What is Mrs Hanna going to dress little Theresa in?” And she never disappointed them. I sat through the church service, wondering when this is all going to be over, scratching at my legs, rubbing my back against the bench, my legs swinging with my little black shoes and white socks, my mum constantly given me a slap, “Don’t embarrass me.”


7


Page 1  |  Page 2  |  Page 3  |  Page 4  |  Page 5  |  Page 6  |  Page 7  |  Page 8  |  Page 9  |  Page 10  |  Page 11  |  Page 12  |  Page 13