Read Online A Father First: How My Life Became Bigger Than Basketball by Dwyane Wade - Free Book Online Page A

to reinforce in both of us. Just as I was later told to follow my sister and report back on her, Mom laid down the law as soon as I was born that all my sisters were to watch and care for me. Tragil wouldn’t let the other two come near. She would insist, “He’s my baby,” holding me, cradling me in her arms, spoiling me as much as our mother did. In hindsight, Tragil admitted, “I went into nurturing way before my time.”
    In the past, Mom had partied mostly to escape loneliness and disappointment, to forget her shame and numb the pain of loss. But now drugs were like self-punishment—and never strong enough to wipe out the part of Jolinda that was in that place called failure, wearing the big F. That was when she graduated to snorting and smoking crack, eventually moving toward heroin. Part of it may have been the attempt to make some money to support us and then dipping into the stash. There was an unwritten law against sampling your own wares that even little kids knew you had to obey. The slippery slope.
    This was that time period when we lived with friends of our mom’s and other relatives who took us in. Tragil had a third-grade teacher who helped. And then there was Grandma. She would tell my sister, “Now, you take care of Little Dwyane. Momma’s gonna get on her feet. Don’t you worry. But I don’t want you to be no kinda trouble to other people.”
    Tragil listened and taught me, young as I was, not to be no kinda trouble.
    Being the proud woman Willie Mae Morris was, she also insisted that we learn to hold our heads high, not to be ashamed of our situation, and especially not to tell on Mom. On her own, Grandma probably fussed at our mother to no end. But with Tragil and me the message was that the instability was temporary. Even if it was difficult or uncomfortable, the rule was “Don’t embarrass your mother.”
    Tragil once asked if I remembered us living with our uncle Eddie, not far from Fifty-Ninth and Prairie. I didn’t. Apparently he had nothing, just a lower bunk bed where we could sleep. She said that he didn’t even have a toilet, only a hole in the floor and a hose. But he knew we needed shelter and was able to provide it.
    Grandma would coach my sister on how to keep herself and me bathed, how to use an old-fashioned scrub board, and how to patch my jeans, which I kept ripping because of my numerous falls. Meanwhile, we had enough clothing to wear. Grandma had a close friend who happened to work at the local Laundromat and would call Grandma to come pick out the nicer children’s clothes whenever people left laundry unclaimed. By example, Willie Mae was teaching Tragil how to be resourceful, how to keep the two of us from looking raggedy and untended, how to carry ourselves with self-respect.
    No matter where we stayed, my sister could remember Grandma showing up at some point with a bag of food, just checking in. That was true even when we moved into her building with Mom. Grandma would always check on us. Her first question would be “You children hungry?”
    Seemed to me like our grandmother was so much better off than us. But Willie Mae just had the knack for stretching the little that she did have into just enough. When she wasn’t doing a paid job, she’d volunteer at various church food drives, and come away with groceries for us.
    At those moments when she became desperate over the fact that no one could locate our mother, Grandma would tell Tragil to put out the word that I was sick. However the grapevine worked, very quickly the news would reach Mom and she would rush to find us to make sure nothing was seriously wrong. Those occasions were often followed by stretches when we’d be back with Mom—staying with other people—and she’d be fighting to get herself back on track, to be able to support her children under one roof. Dad wanted that, obviously, and would have been willing to help. But Mom had her own issues with pride that kept her from admitting how badly she