I was born and raised in Washington, DC and the first birthday party I remember, was when I turned eleven years old. It was 1967, I was a shy, thin little boy and scared my friends may not have shown up.
I had never met my father and my mother who was fifteen, when she got pregnant with me, had left shortly after I turned 5. I was raised by a great-grandmother and her son, who had to drop out of school in sixth grade to go to work to help support the family. He worked hard and when he grew old enough, served in the Navy engineering and construction forces, known as the Seabees. My great-uncle was strong, dependable, protective of his family, stern and withdrawn.
My birthday was a week before the first day of Spring. I delivered birthday invitations to all my friends including my first kiss, lil’ Nancy, who lived next door. My Mom’s sister decorated the dining room, she hung a happy birthday banner across the door opening that led from the family room and my uncle was in charge of the cake, ice cream and presents. I did not understand what being a poor, black child meant, but when I look back, money was tight. My Uncle provided for both me and my sister, he stressed school, responsibility and fairness. My Granny was responsible for my compassion.
The party was Sunday evening at 3, following church service. My Granny allowed the, no secular music being played on Sunday, rule to be violated. The first song I ever learned all the words to, was Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Tears of a Clown. I wore a white collared shirt, a clip on tie and black cotton pants, with shiny pennies in my loafers. My friends all showed up, including lil’ Nancy who gave me my second kiss when we stepped away from the crowd. We all danced, played games and laughed, after eating hotdogs and potato salad, it was time to hear my friends sing happy birthday and cut the cake. My aunt brought in the cake from the kitchen with what seemed like so many candles, if she were not careful she would set the house ablaze. Of course there were only nine candles but everything was wonderfully exaggerated that evening. The cake was decorated with plastic horses, cowboys and cacti.
As the cake was placed on the table, I was feeling the warmth of good friends, and the sugar-rush of cherry flavored Kool-Aid. I was horrified when I looked down at the colorfully adorned cake. My friends were tittering with laughter some looked away and others had the same stunned look I had. In the middle of the cowboys and horses were the words, in what was the equivalent of 20-point type, Happy Birthday Nadine. Oh my God, my name is Mitchell, the panic and embarrassment seemed overwhelming and as much as I wanted to cry I could not. My first birthday party, that had gone so perfectly, had a girl’s name written on my cake. I felt humiliated. Perspective was not something I was aware of at the time. The reason the cake had the name Nadine written on it, was because it had been a cancellation from another party. It was a bigger cake than the one that was ordered for me, would feed more of my guest and my uncle could get it cheaper. I was so angry with this hard working family protector, it was years before I could forgive him. When my great-uncle died I stood over his casket to say good bye, re-arranged the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit and quietly told him, “I understood” and forgave him. He had done nothing to be forgiven for, it was my own selfishness I was forgiving. For you who remember a special moment in your life that may not have been perfect, keep in mind, those who love you, probably did the best they could. Nadine, I often think, never got her cake at all. Happy Birthday Nadine, wherever you are.