How Ya Like Me Now!

I snatched it from the mailbox at nearly 8:00 pm on a Wednesday evening and immediately began to read. Six hours later, at 2:09 am, I turned the final page and put it down. The voracity with which I ingested those 310 pages was fueled in part by the negative comment expressed whenever the book was mentioned. Blistering critique of the work and author piqued my curiosity, driving a need to know what had so many people upset. After reading it twice, I am still unable to identify the cause of so much consternation, when all I feel is peace.

How Ya Like Me Now is the autobiographical reflection of Leslie Morris. Though we’re not biologically related, she’s always been counted among my multitude of cousins, partly because she was usually with one of them, but mainly because of our collective family history.. The roots of our familial bond can be traced to the Georgia sharecropping community in which both her mother and my grandmother were born and raised. Each woman joined the Great Migration and, despite different paths, settled in Long Branch, New Jersey, reuniting with previous migrants from their hometown. Following a pattern indicative of the Migration, their community down south disbanded and reassembled, almost identically “up south.”

Bound by shared history and the common desire for a better life, the "Sisterfriends" produced a tribe of children and raised them with the closeness of kin. It was the first generation to be formally educated. With none of the visible barriers that impeded their ancestors, nearly all graduated high school. Many went on, becoming the first in their families to enter college. Most earned undergraduate degrees and some went even further by completing graduate school. Always bright and determined, Leslie raised the bar of achievement for her generation. In addition to an undergraduate degree from Boston’s prestigious Simmons College, she holds two Master’s Degrees; one from Boston College and another from UNC-Chapel Hill.

How Ya Like Me Now! maps the journey undertaken by this daughter of uneducated laborers, reared in public housing. Morris lovingly, but also with brutal honesty, recounts her difficult childhood and troubled adolescence from dual perspectives; the confused, combative youngster she was and the dynamic, celebrated professional she’s become. This duality is important and beneficial because through the eyes of the professional we learn that what may be perceived as hard or callous parenting from a child’s perspective is a simple case of a parent operating within their limits. It’s extremely beneficial because it creates in adult children the capacity to forgive and thereby heal. With recognition of the cycle comes the opportunity to break it.

While chronicling her journey, Leslie remembers her peers, some of whom didn't fare so well. With vivid detail she recounts how physical and emotional abuse, delinquency, teen pregnancy, substance abuse and other issues stifled dreams and claimed young lives. In fact, much of the discord surrounding the book apparently stems from these observations. While no one disputes the events, nearly everyone challenges her right to speak on them, which is ridiculous. Their profound impact on her path is undeniable and aside from the disclosure of a hushed abortion, much of it was already common knowledge. Small towns keep precious few secrets. Long Branch keeps even less.

What a great shame that so many fail to comprehend the importance of this work; will never recognize its potential to change lives or appreciate the author’s courage. For me, the blessings are abundant. For one, it has brought stunning clarity to people, places and events that tottered on the periphery of my memory. My favorite chapter is “Sister Morris and Mother Sue,” a glowing tribute to her grandmothers, two deeply spiritual women who ignited our faith and often stood in the gap for an entire community. Not only did they pray for our salvation, they lived in such a way that let us see God’s grace in action. I remember many quiet afternoons with Mother Sue at her little apartment before her death in 1986. It was impossible to leave her presence without feeling loved and celebrated. She was always so incredibly happy to see people and very expressive of her appreciation that you thought enough of her to visit, even when she wasn’t entirely sure who you were.

The greatest blessing I take from this work is deeper insight of and appreciation for the people who raised me. I understand that the things I saw as mundane and routine were, for them, profound expressions of love. The actual reasons for my attention-seeking antics, rested outside their realm of understanding. All they saw was the bad behavior of an ungrateful child who would probably never amount to anything. Yet I know they continued to pray and hope. I could hang my head and cry when I realize what I must have looked like to them, but drops of tears can ne’er repay this debt of love I owe. I may not be able to express my gratitude to so many that earned it because they have gone on. However, I will honor them by expressing genuine love and compassion to my fellow man. I am standing in the same raggedy building, but I now have a few of the tools needed to make it beautiful. Thank you, Leslie.