 For the whole of our lives, my mother and I had a troubled relationship. My presence set her off, often with dire consequences for me, but the one place where we sort of got along was the kitchen. I liked to cook and bake. She was a talented cook and baker and allowed me to be her sous chef. I cut and diced and chopped and sliced and poured and pounded and wrapped and cleaned, enjoying myself despite her criticism. She loved to make elaborate meals for dinner party guests, with fancy desserts that often took days to make. When I was able to persuade her to go to the movies or see friends for dinner when my father worked, I made dinner for my sister. Often, at her request, I’d make cookies, cakes, even pies. The first time I baked cookies, when I was about seven, I learned the hard way the difference between the use of baking powder and baking soda. Too much baking soda and whatever you bake tastes awful. It was a powerful lesson. Three years later I had reason to remember what I’d learned.
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 In 1947 my mother and I attended a concert in Peekskill, NY where Paul Robeson sang in an outdoor setting. We were seated in the back on grass and I couldn’t see so I stood up. Suddenly there was a deep voice saying, “Folks, there’s a little girl with blonde pigtails standing up in the back. Would you mind if she came up front so she can see better?” The next thing I knew, waves of people were lifting me up and over until I was in the front, face to face with Paul Robeson, a tall handsome Black singer with a broad chest sitting on a high stool. He beckoned me to come up, sat me on his lap, and asked what song I’d like him to sing. The audience yelled, “Old Man River.” He asked if I’d like to hear that song. I was too dumbstruck to do more than nod. He sang as I rested against his huge chest, lulled by the power of his voice and the safety of his presence.
 A rock heart picked up on a hike It started with a sniffle. Since my husband was working 20 miles north in Providence, and had the car, I walked to the office of a doctor who agreed to see my 18-month-old son. “It’s nothing,” he said, dismissing my concerns, “Just a little cold. Give him lots to drink, keep him warm, and he’ll be fine tomorrow.” I wheeled the carriage home feeling embarrassed for making a fuss, for worrying about nothing.
 Nancy, age 5, on roller skates I was almost six when my father came from the hospital to let me know I had a baby sister. I told him, “Poor daddy, three against one. I’ll be your boy.”
My mother wanted me to be a girly girl. What she got was a tomboy, which only added to the list of things she hated about me.  I finally persuaded my husband to leave our house in January 1967 after almost a year of his disapproving silence, his refusal to see a therapist, his unwillingness to talk about the many issues separating us.
Our son was six and a half. I was working part-time teaching dance and pre-school movement classes. Although I had a bit of savings secreted away, I had barely enough to live on and pay the bills. It didn’t help that when my husband left he refused to pay child support. Despite this, I managed to save enough money to take a course in children’s theatre—something I’d been doing for years—writing and directing with a bit of performing. Although I was credentialed to teach physical education and science, the thought of doing so made me nauseous. I decided to get an MA in theatre offered by the University of Delaware. |
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Nancy King is a widely published author and a professor emerita at the University of Delaware, where she has taught theater, drama, playwriting, creative writing, and multidisciplinary studies with an emphasis on world literature. She has published seven previous works of nonfiction and five novels. Her new memoir, Breaking the Silence, explores the power of stories in healing from trauma and abuse. Her career has emphasized the use of her own experience in being silenced to encourage students to find their voices and to express their thoughts, feelings, and experiences with authenticity, as a way to add meaning to their lives.
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