My Uncle Richard
It’s 11:55 pm, June 28th. My nephew walks by my door frame to wish me a good night. He and his sister are spending the summer with me. It’s Sunday and the kids, and I ( I use “kids” loosely as he’s nearly 13 and she’s 14) have somewhat of a ritual: We go out for ice cream (post-dinner and only after they’ve eaten their veggies), watch an episode of 90 Day Fiance (before you judge me, I’m teaching them an essential lesson on the alarming, yet hilarious, potency of delusional love) and a round of Monopoly (we have yet to finish a game), and then break into our separate rooms. My nephew and I are usually the last two asleep. He’s on his Xbox playing NBA 2K, and I’m writing and intermittently on Instagram judging your “food porn” on styrofoam plates and oh-so-stylish mask selfies. Typically, right before midnight, he stops by my door and briefly tells me, “Goodnight, love you.” I return with a smile, “Love you, too, sweetheart.” However, tonight is different. He finds me curled at my desk, quietly balling. It’s my birthday and in the past nearly 24 hours I’ve mourned the looming end of my thirties or as my ex texted:
It’s your thirty-ninth.
The last year of sex appeal.
Enjoy it, my love.
He’s a dick, but I am a sucker for surprise haikus. But this is not the reason I’m an emotional wreck. Today is also the day my favorite uncle has died.
My Uncle Richard was my Aunt Louise’s husband of nearly 63 years. She was my father’s half-sister, 26 years his senior. My father wasn’t much of a presence in my and sister’s lives, but Aunt Louise was old school about family, and so was my Uncle Richard. We were never his wife’s nieces, but his own, or as he’d affectionately call us “my babies.” He was tall, handsome, and with the kind of eyes that only saw goodness in you. They truly twinkled when I walked in the room, and truthfully, as adorable as I was, I wonder how he was able to do that. I was an obnoxious, dramatic, attention-seeking child with no level of tact (My sister will read this and think “…was?”).
One of my most memorable summers as a child was when my sister and I spent it with my Aunt Louise and Uncle Richard for two months. It was 1990. I was eight years old, seven weeks into my 9th birthday, and my sister was ten. They came all the way down to New Orleans to pick us up and drove back the 1300+ miles north to Chili, New York (a suburb of Rochester).
It was a mostly pleasant ride between my restlessness and incessant: Where are we? I’m hungry! My legs need to breathe. I feel like I ate the sun, and repeatedly chanting “No More Heroes Anymore,” that I got from a WWF TV promo. Uncle Richard would chuckle while shaking his head in amusement. My aunt and sister did not share the same delight.
We took a lot of scenic stops along the way. One night, we stayed at my Aunt Louise’s friend and fellow Jehovah’s Witness in West Virginia. I was young, but I do remember having this distressing awareness of our Blackness among unchartered Southern White spaces. But I had Uncle Richard’s protection, so my discomfort didn’t last long. When we arrived, we were greeted by this kind, older white woman and her husband. She had the Stepford-Wife presence that I typically got from Anglo Jehovah’s Witnesses: a perfectly starched dress (and hair), wide smile, and just a dash of creepiness. I remember this woman vividly because she introduced me to homemade cheesecake drizzled with blueberries. It became my favorite dessert (before my very delayed awareness of my lactose intolerance).
My Aunt Louise was a devout Witness since 1969, but Uncle Richard was not. He didn’t attend Kingdom Hall service (their place of worship) but adhered to her stance in not celebrating holidays, except for their anniversary. I used to ask him, “Don’t you miss having a birthday cake and presents?”. He’d shrug it off. My sister and I had no choice about attending service. She often grumbled, but I loved it, especially going door-to-door with my Watchtower magazine at hand. I’d dress up in my finest and strut around my Uncle Richard until he complimented me. I needed his approval. Sometimes he’d tease and pretend not to notice. But after some nudging from my aunt, and my persistence, he finally relented with a big grin, “Look at my beautiful baby!”.
Every week, he rewarded me a dollar for making my bed. You’d think he had me do the dishes, too, how I hounded him every Saturday morning. I’d wake up at the sound of his lawn tractor, run outside with my hand sticking out, squealing, “Uncle Richard, where’s my money?”. He’d slap me with a high five and then pull out a crisp dollar bill. I’d then join him on the tractor, and he’d let me turn the wheel for a bit.
I was insanely possessive of his love. That same summer, we took a trip to Burlington, North Carolina, to visit his family. His brother hosted a BBQ welcoming us all. As soon as we arrived, a rush of black women of all ages came running towards him, shouting with glee, “My favorite uncle is here!”. There were so many of them; my eight-year-old mind remembers 10,000. I felt like Squeak confronting Harpo: Uncle Richard, who dees women? It was nearly impossible to compete for his attention, so I did what any spoiled, entitled, emotional CANCER child would do. I ignored him, rolled my eyes, and moped around. I was hoping he’d notice, sit me on his lap and show these foolish women that I was his favorite. And it would have worked, if he wasn’t so busy laughing, joking, and eating the banana pudding his niece from Charlotte made for him. My Aunt Louise certainly caught sight of what I was doing and gave me a scolding (she always kept it real).
When my birthday came around, I was disappointed I wouldn’t be able to have a party( I respected/feared my Aunt Louise to ask for one). It was just a Thursday in this household, and I knew the plan: we’d eat dinner, followed by dessert, watch a rerun of the Cosby Show, and cut some coupons (which I dreaded). That day, My Uncle Richard invited my sister and me to go to the store with him. I don’t remember the name, but it had a children’s toy aisle. He could see my eyes perk up as we walked towards it. And then he said, “ I’m not getting you a present, but you two can have one game for us to play tonight.” He let me pick. I looked around and selected Monopoly. Just like that, it finally felt like my birthday. Hours later, we had our balanced dinner of Macaroni and Cheese (my fave!), pork chops, and lima beans (the worst!), a bowl of orange sherbet (when my My Aunt Louise wasn’t looking, I pretended to blow out candles ), and watched a rerun of the Cosby Show. That night, the weekend coupons for Wegman’s took a backseat to the Parker Brothers.
We returned home not long after. That was the last summer we spent in upstate New York. My Aunt Louise and Uncle Richard moved a few years later to Burlington to be near his family, and, finally, to Santa Rosa, California, to be closer to their granddaughter. As they got older, traveling was difficult for them, so my sister and I would visit them. Their last trip to New Orleans was my college graduation. They would often say the times we spent with them in Rochester were the happiest.
My Aunt Louise died a year ago. She was 93 years old. I didn’t think Uncle Richard would last a month. I worried about him. His health was declining, he was alone, and his dementia was progressing. I got a chance to Facetime him through his assisted living facility a couple of weeks before he died. As soon as he saw me, he grinned, “There’s my baby.” It was impossible to hold back my tears.
As my nephew consoles me, I realize he has never seen me cry like this before, very few have. His warm hug immediately gives me peace. I can’t help but wonder if this is the spirit of Uncle Richard working through him.
I bought a new Monopoly board a week ago. I’ve always been obsessed with purchasing the orange property, and I remember why: New York Ave. As a kid, I’d connect it to Rochester. I still do. Perhaps, subconsciously, I’m holding on to the memory of that summer of 1990. I wish I could remember playing the game with Uncle Richard. But I imagine, he probably gave me extra $100 bills, loaned me his “Get Out of Jail Free” card, and never charged me when I landed on Boardwalk.
He died peacefully. I suppose that’s all l could ask for, yet I’m unsettled. I lost my favorite uncle, the first man I loved, and the only man who truly adored me.
