That was my nickname for Ruby as well as calling her “Little Mommy.” She was 5’3 and on the chunky side; not so little; however, with growing older, she lost inches in height and weight. Nevertheless, “Itty-Bitty” was formidable.

We lived in South Central Los Angeles near the stroll in the 1970s. The stroll or Figueroa in our city is that place where one can find a hooker. Directly across the street from us was the church my family attended. Everyone that is, except “Itty-Bitty.” She was a born-again Christian through and through, but seldom left the house.

Every Sunday, my grandmother and I crossed the street to attend church. First, I went to Sunday school and later I would go home to retrieve my grandmother for church. She could walk just enough to cross our little street.

It began to slowly dawn on me that my mother rarely left the house. She did the family laundry in the machine and hung our clothes to dry on the side of the house. She read her bible every day and prayed but never ventured beyond the yard.

“Why” I would ask, “don’t Mamma go to church with us?” My grandmother responded, “She’s not feeling well…” and that’s where the questioning ended.

As I grew to become more aware, I realized that she never felt well enough to go to church or anywhere that was not absolutely paramount to our well-being but even that could be argued.

As soon as I was old enough to cross Figueroa by myself, I would take myself to the doctor’s office whenever I got sick. When I contracted chicken pox in the second grade, “Itty-Bitty” took me to the doctor as well as going to school when I received the health clearance to return. After second grade, I was on my own at the doctor’s unless it was an absolute emergency or procedure.

Our family doctor and his nurses knew my family well and knew that we lived across the street. I would go to the doctor, sign myself in, give them my medical card and wait until the nurse called me in. I would write down his diagnosis and instructions. The pharmacy was downstairs and the nurse would call in the prescription. And yes, I wasn’t even ten years old yet.

The next time she attended a doctor’s appointment with me was in my teens when my wisdom teeth were extracted. Because this procedure required anesthesia,  parental consent, and a ride home with my cousin, she had to be there.