My Oprah: Recreating the Legacy: Building a Community

By Helen J. Collier

At four o’clock in the evening telephone ringers are turned off. Do not
disturb signs are hung from the doorknobs of homes all over America.
With remotes in hand to prevent the accidental channel changes by
spouses or TV addicted children, those who love Oprah get ready for a
relaxing evening in front of their television sets.
Mrs. Johnnie Bea is one of those women, but it is what she does with
the other hours of her day that are important. Her story is one of history,
change, legacies, beans, and a better future through community. Using her
Oprah as inspiration she helps those around her to grow and continue the
legacy that her father started. When an unexpected accident hospitalizes
her, Mrs.Johnnie Bea’s legacy is left up to the seven women she took under
her wing. Through her hardship Mrs. Johnnie Bea is reminded that while
God may not always come when you want, he is always on time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798823025935

Helen J. Collier

Helen J. Collier is a member of the African American Writer’s Alliance of Seattle, Washington. It is one of the largest international writer’s groups in the Northwest. She was born and raised in The Midwest along the Mississippi waterways. At the age of ten, she learned to craft in her writings, magical realism from real-life stories shared with her by real people. Science fiction is the genre she is most noted for. Winning the prized 2021 Kwanzaa Award for self-determination in the use of magical realism in her writings despite the discomfort of some. She uses magical realism as a tool, weaving her tales through the lens of the characters she creates. Her stories are stories that are written about human and alien lives from Earth and other worlds. She resides in Auburn Washington and is now working on her ninth book. helencolliermeow.com

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© 2024 Helen J. Collier. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  05/22/2024

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2592-8 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2593-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024908935

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expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Sometimes, our most important deeds enhance the lives of people we

will never meet or even know. Something you say or do at any critical

moment may change the path of another human life forever. Great

minds do not narrow their vision. They broaden theirs and others.

Helen J. Collier

Helencolliermeow.com

This book is a tribute to Oprah Winfrey.

My daughter challenged me to

write a book showing her favorite celebrity in the best possible light.

Which is as she sees her and has been written to honor her as One

Black Female American Pioneer of the 21st Century

I present this book to the American People as

the Holy Spirit has given it to me.

To Mrs. Verna Lynne Reese, thank you for your

devotion to the final edition of this book!

In loving Memory

Of My Family

My sister Pearl Williams and sister-in-Law Mary Frances

Campell Mother Susie Pearl Adams-Green, Twin brother

Eugene Green &

My brothers Eugene and James Green

My Uncle Theodore Adams

&

Friends

Rev El Marie Mosley

Grace Cole

Clara Mae Bennett

Clara Frazier

Beatrice Foots

Associate Professor Jane C. Pennell, Southern

University of Edwardsville, Illinois

Contents

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

G od’s Spirit in us moves us through this life, depending on our willingness to be led. I must acknowledge and be thankful for its presence in me to complete this chall enge.

My mother, Susie Pearl Adams-Green loved my brother and me enough to carry us full term when it seemed as though she would burst at the seams. Thank you, Ma’ Dear for the years you spent single-handedly making sure all your children survived their childhood. We all love you.

Eugene my twin brother pushed me out of the womb first so that he could get an extra fifteen minutes by himself while I slipped into an unforgiving world with no silver spoon in sight. I am now guided by his light and spirit as they guard the path of my journey through this life. Death has not taken him from me but given him to me as a gentle breeze warming my heart.

I remember one high school teacher telling us we would never amount to anything. She would be surprised to learn that we both finished college. Eugene went on to law school and served the city of Seattle as an attorney for fourteen years until his untimely death on December 30, 1998. My brother’s spirit reminds me that when my faith is weak, I can always hit that tree standing ninety feet away if I keep my presence and stay focused. Also, I must never forget the plan. My Uncle Ted realized our potential and made college a reality in our lives, leading to a path of upward mobility.

On May 31, 2000, my mother was honored for thirty years of tireless work for the Children & Family Services department working with Children at risk, as you can see, the acorn does not fall too far from the tree. I have worked with children now for some Thirty plus years and with the Seattle King County Juvenile Detention Department over twenty-six of those years. It has been my pleasure to have helped change the path of many young people who felt the tree was too far away and the rock too small for them to throw such a long distance.

A very special thanks go out to my two co-workers, Tyrell Stewart, a creative writing teacher who guided the writing of this book, and Tanya Washington, who is responsible for the cover of my book. Richard W. Mohan critically read the manuscript for me.

To my dear friend Stephanie Owings Hatcher, a creative writing teacher, I salute you for your tireless efforts in keeping me focused while writing this book. You taught me how the spirit wanted this book written, again I thank you.

To the staff at Fed EX Kinko’s in Fairview Heights, Ill, to staff Keri at Fed EX Kinko’s in Federal, Washington, and to the East St. Louis Library thank you for your patience and help getting the copying I needed done for this book.

Staci Conley-Williams we traveled a long distance from the Arch dividing East St. Louis and St. Louis but we proved we could go the distance.

Margaret Campbell Duggins, Earnestine Blue, Rev Yvonne Gallaher, Bishop Marie Gallaher, Teresa Rhodes, Beatrice Foots, and Diane King thanks for your input and sense of direction.

Thanks to Beatrice Clark and her belief in my writings I have soared with the eagles. Thanks to the Renton Writer’s Critic Group for many years of writing with fellow writers in Washington State. Thank you, Deborah, Brown you taught me how to create characters who are not afraid to speak, take a stand, and not give up.

Thanks to Professor Georgia McDade and the African American Alliance Association our public speaking was great fun.

To Deborah Jordan and Dale Golden thank you for seeing in me what I did not or could not see in myself. I have cared enough to dream and have taken the risk expecting nothing but God’s grace in return. Thank you for your unwavering belief in me. And for introducing me to editor Susan Seykato-Smith...

Thanks, Lee Davis the editor of the Regional Magazine who published many of my writings.

To Mrs. Ethel Mitchell, Lucille Perkins, and Mrs. Alexandria Ruth thank the three of you for your encouragement through the critical times in my life.

Thank you, Mr. Joe Greene, Mr. Hullet Gates, and all my co-workers at the Department of the Juvenile Detention Center for proving great things can be accomplished through prayer and the courage to take a stand.

Dr. Leslie Tregillus for your spirit of love and kindness you made a part of your medical treatment. Dr. David White thank you for your advice to look every day out of the window and see the sun shining even when it’s raining.

Charlene Younge, it has been over twenty years now. Thank you for the care you have given my hair down through the years.

It was you Barbara Harrington my occupational Therapist who taught me how to hit the tree from one hundred feet away. You created that hundred-pound dummy for me to carry so I could return to work when some said it would be impossible.

To my sisters, Elsie Mister and Lavonda Dorsey thank you for always being around when I needed your support.

From you Attorney Judith Lonnquist I learned what it means to take risks even when the odds are against you.

Anthony Evans, thank you for teaching me the beauty of poetry. Had it not been for the dignity and respect given to me in your Court Room Judge Jim Rodger I would not have taken that task upon myself thank you and Attorney Val Carlsen, Fred Hyde, Guerry Hoddersen, and of course, Attorney Jared Karstetter for the support and help you have always given me. Attorney Andrew Carrington, I thank you for the years you have helped my family since the passing of my brother Attorney Eugene Green here in Seattle Washington.

I want to give special thanks to all my family members, friends, and supporters. Without your encouragement and support, I could not have completed this task, and want to thank each of you from the bottom of my heart.

Especially to my children Susie Brandley, Shenee Poe Johnnie Weslynn Duff, Cliffert Mylo Collier, and husband John W. Collier for supporting my writing.

Helen J. Collier

Introduction

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A t four o’clock in the evening, telephone ringers are turned off. Do not disturb signs are hung from the doorknobs of homes all over America. With remotes in hand to prevent accidental channel changes by spouses or TV-addicted children, those who love Oprah get ready for a relaxing evening in front of their television sets. It’s time to visit with Oprah. Whether Oprah personifies every woman is a matter of opinion. That Oprah has changed the lives of thousands of both women and men is a fact. Her idea of giving and sharing has won her a special place in the hearts of many men, women, and even children all over the w orld.

Her visions are as broad as her arms are wide. Not everyone is a fan of Oprah but those who are not her fans must respect her determination and will to take care of her business. Through the years I have followed Oprah Winfrey’s life from a distance, unlike my daughter Weslynn who loves her enough to keep up with her every chance she gets challenged me to write about her through the eyes of those who love her. When it comes to my passion for writing I am always open to a challenge I must admit, however, even my life, has been touched by this black woman who touched the lives of many people. It is not to speak of her perfections and not her flaws. We all have them. It is a human trait.

I often listen to my American friends, both men and women discuss Oprah’s rise to fame and fortune. Many reasons are given for her success. Some are realistic, while others are from people who believe if they are not the ones receiving her gifts it gives them reason to invalidate the good, they don’t see coming their way. As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. understood no one is perfect but if the heart is right, it will define one’s character. Not, withstanding while it is a fact that this is a male-dominated planet, the United States of America is one of the few countries on this planet where women have a voice that brings about change.

Too many of us women; however, have narrowed our visions to coincide with our present circumstances and have not bothered to realize how far we have come and how far we have to go. What you do to change the lives of others enhances or diminishes your own. To impact the lives of others may mean, changing how you feel about your life. What you give returns back to you whether it is negative or positive. It has to do, I believe, with your Karma returning to you.

Dear reader, the main character in my novel is a woman who believes in the ideals of Oprah Winfrey. Those ideals helped forge changes in the lives of not only the seven young ladies she is helping but also many others as well, even people she may never meet. She uses what she feels are Oprah’s ideals to make others reach into their hearts, grab hold of their pain head-on, and not let that pain stop them from making their dreams a reality. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was a dreamer. His dreams I believe were of the same fabric as those of Oprah and the woman in this story, Mrs. Johnnie Bea. She carries the torch her father left in her care by giving her life to help enhance the lives of others. The legacy of those dreams, she hopes, will live long after she is gone.

Chapter One

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M rs. Johnnie Bea surveyed her front lawn when she pulled up in front of her home on Sixty-First Macklin Street in her old sky-blue 1993 Ford station wagon, the one her husband had bought brand new for her. She reached up and touched the edges of her gold-rimmed glasses as she sat looking at the depressing sight before her. The blackberry bushes her husband always cut and pruned when he was alive were now growing all over her yard. What had once been a beautiful lawn now lay overgrown with weeds. Her house needed a paint job. Her husband would have been on top of that quickly and in a hurry. She thought to her self.

Though she had not gone out back for quite some time she knew the beautiful garden they both adored lay as a field in ruins. Mrs. Johnnie Bea had promised herself every year since her husband’s death she was going to have work done on the house and her lawn. Fifteen years later she just had not gotten around to it. On June 14th, she will have looked out on the earth for eighty years.

Seated there in her car tears filled her eyes as she thought about how good God had been to her. It seemed like only yesterday she buried Mr. Taylor, yet the time had gone by as fast as his untimely death. A heart attack took his life without warning at least there was none to her knowledge. Of course, there were her great step-grand-nephews Dwayne and Mylo she and Mr. Taylor had raised. Five and three when their parents, her husband’s grand-nephew and his wife had been killed in an automobile accident. Under the care of her husband and her, they had flourished into fine young men she was proud of.

The fuss her great-grand nephews made over her she complained about but loved. Both had offered to have professional landscapers come in and take care of her overgrown lawn and course, the repairs she needed to be done to her house; a house they had grown up in. That had not happened because she always insisted, she had to be present to make sure the repairs were done the way she wanted them. And of course, she had never had the time, always working at ‘The Safe Place’ she started ten years before so that school children in her community could get fed before and after school. On the weekends she had to go down to the Village and set up the food stands to make sure the homeless people were fed, after all, she thought to herself, "the meals they got during the week were not available on Saturday and Sunday. Everyone knows a body needs at least one hot meal a day.

It had been a hard day at ‘The Safe Place,’ she thought to herself remembering how the number of children coming had increased in the ten years since they first opened their doors. Too many children required help. She thought to herself.

What had become of mothers and fathers? Where were they and why did young children seem so much like miniature adults instead of children so soon?

The funding she had hoped for had been stalled. What business could she take care of if there was no money to buy food or clothing when the young ones came in ill-dressed and needed socks and shoes to put on their feet? It didn’t matter that ‘old man arthritis’ was paining her joints from time to time or that she worried about dying and not having anyone to take her place. What would happen to the children needing the help of ‘The Safe Place’ if she died before she could bring together her young friends to teach them about carrying on her legacy?

Who would feed the homeless? Where would they find another woman foolish enough to spend long hours many days at a time out begging those with more than they would ever need to give where need was so critical?

A sudden sigh escaped Mrs. Johnnie Bea’s lips as she hit herself on the back of the hand saying out loud:

"My Oprah, Mrs. Johnnie Bea, where is your faith? Hasn’t God always been there when nothing looked like it was going to work out? And had she forgotten her song? ‘He May Not Come When You Wanted Him but He Was Right On, Time.’ Always he had been on time making a way out of no way; making some miracle out of what seemed to be a hardship. Yes, she knew as sure as she knew her Oprah was going to continue her legacy of making things better for others, a way would be made for her, she did not doubt that she reminded herself smiling.

Like she believed, Oprah had started with nothing but a dream, a prayer, a hope, and a lot of love in her heart. These were all they both had ever needed. Her smile widened across the wrinkles in her red pepper face as she thought about those times. Her long braids bound high on her head like ropes looked like a grey horn turned upside down. Her faith in God had sustained her when she and her mother were forced to move away from the only world she had known. As tragic as it was, for many years of her life she missed the long white cotton fields of Mississippi. Her hands moved down to finger the pearl earrings that adored her pierced earlobes. They were a gift from her father on her sixteenth birthday. So many memories were connected to them. She squeezed her earlobe as she thought of those long walks to school. They never hurt her. Her father had taught her that the mountain she was climbing had a blessing at the top, a blessing the white children riding the bus would never receive because their bus was filled with hate, and blessings never came from hate.

Mrs. Johnnie Bea’s mind went back a few months before her father’s tragic death. For too many years Mississippi and its Jim Crow laws had torn her people’s lives asunder. Though many would die, the time had come for them to fight back against Jim Crow. Her father had talked to her about it. It is the only way, he said, America would awaken and release God’s children from the bondage of Jim Crow’s cruel claws. The world, her father said, beyond America has begun to see our people’s suffering."

Talking to her about the struggle that he believed would change the South forever he told her he must join the fight for the right to vote. ‘Not for himself,’ he said ‘but for the memory of his father and other black men generations before who had faced the sting of slavery. His fight for their civil rights was for his mother’s memory and the memory of her mother and her mother’s mother.’

Most of all he must join for her to have a better life he said holding her fingertips up to his light cheeks. I want you to learn to fight for what you believe in knowing that even when it seems that all is lost the stand you take is what counts. He told her.

Mrs. Johnnie Bea remembered looking at her father with mixed emotions. After all, he did not have to go sit with friends and listen to them debate over what should be done as far as voting was concerned. Some wanted no part of anything to do with voter registration. They feared more for their safety and that of their families. Others wanted to get their weapons and start an all-out war. Many were after all college students who wanted to participate because they saw themselves never being able to vote because of Jim Crow laws. While Mrs. Johnnie Bea listened to her college friends, it was her father who in the end made the difference in her thinking.

When she returned home from one such gathering, she found her father seated in his den reading the evening paper he had published. Kissing him on his cheek she took a seat next to him. His long legs stretched out from his desk. He was a tall thick man not fat but muscular in a six foot two athletic frame. She and her mother who was but five feet three, were always looking up at him. Balding in the front his wavy straight black hair peppered with grey strains hugged his skull. Mrs. Johnnie Bea liked the way her father talked with those expressive hands of his. He had an infectious smile and a way of explaining things that drew people to him. She understood clearly what her friends meant when they said it was her father’s genes they saw in her. Somewhat like a college professor lecturing, he pointed out facts to her. She sat glued to his every word. Her facial expressions showed as her father’s words conveyed her emotions. She could tell he noticed her emotions surfacing as she began telling him of her concerns and that she did not want him risking his life for a cause that might get him killed. Slowly folding the paper in his lap her father turned to her taking her hands into his. I must’ he said join the fight for the right to vote, not for myself but, he said tightening his grip on the hands in his for you and the other younger people out there looking to me for guidance. This fight is the legacy of our people that must not die.

The next evening, they stood in their living room, she, her mother, and her father. He was still dressed in a gray suit having just gotten off work from the newspaper business he ran. Her mother, a small chocolate-skinned woman with large beautiful marble eyes stood staring with a fearful look at her husband, her arms folded, she sobbed silently Mrs. Johnnie Bea’s father paced the floor, trying to make them understand the importance of his decision to go forward and register. She, at the time, had thrown up her hands telling him,

Papa, I don’t care about those others, and I most certainly don’t care about a legacy that might cost you your life. He had looked at her and shook his head.

I might have to die, he said, walking over to her and taking her hands into his. So that you can live a better life. Haven’t I always taught you to fight for what you believe in, he said as he looked down into her eyes with endearment. Those you stand against, he said, may hate you but they have to respect your courage to fight the wrongs they forge against you.

Mrs. Johnnie Bea remembered pulling her hand away from his turning to her mother for support in not wanting him to risk his life for something she felt was as dangerous as fighting for the right to vote. Tears rolled down her mother’s cheeks as she turned her back shaking her head as if to say there was nothing, she could do to stop him.

Papa those white people will kill you! Along with her outburst, her tears flowed with a gust.

It is important to me as a man to become somebody instead of something to be stepped on and shamed into an ‘IT’ instead of a human being! Mrs. Johnnie Bea remembered quivering at the sound of his raised voice. I must be able to walk down the street with my head up looking any other man in the eyes, not shamed into moving out of the way, not being able to look at a white woman or child without the sting of a rope in waiting. His words stung like a bullet entering her heart.

Look at the many hats you and your mother must wear to survive. How long can this last? he asked shaking as tears rolled down his cheeks. Mrs. Johnnie Bea’s eyes grew as she watched her father clutch a lamp in his hand and hurl it into their living room wall. She grabbed his tall thick body in her arms saying to him.

I know Papa. I know.

It was not long after their heated discussion at home her family was called to meet with members of the community when one of the families in their neighborhood found their seven-year-old son missing and a few days later another family said their ten-year-old daughter had been missing for two days.

After the meeting that night she found her father seated on their back porch swing fanning with a part of the Sunday newspaper. The night was still. Nothing but the crickets could be heard rubbing their legs against each other. It sounded like they were sending messages in a code she could not decipher. Kissing her father on top of his head, she sat next to him.

They both knew the tension between the Negroes and the white Southerners in Karo, Mississippi, had intensified since the young Northern white people had come to help them get registered to vote. No one knew who the Klan would come for next. Now, it seemed even little children were not exempt. At a meeting about the whereabouts of the missing children, questions were asked if voting was worth the lives of so many dead already.

Mrs. Johnnie Bea had sighed knowing how heavy her father’s heart was.

Thinking back it was hard to believe she could have easily worn a size six dress. Her parents always talked about how the genes of her mother’s Indian grandfather had come out in her, giving her a reddish overtone accounting for the length of her thick black hair that reached way down her back when it was straightened. She and her mother had wrestled when it came time to comb it. Everyone thought that all that tight hair was so pretty once it was straightened. It would have been cut off had she had her way and not her father.

Mrs. Johnnie Bea sat there looking at her father knowing after the children came up missing it was not about what she wanted any longer. Taking his hand in hers she asked almost in whispers.

Papa, how can Negroes not hate white people when they can so easily kill little children? At the time she shook her head and looked up at what seemed to be a million stars shining down to light up the dark porch where they sat. Nothing makes sense anymore Papa. She said moving his and her hand up to cover her heart. Her dream of going away to study aviation would be stalled. With so much happening, there was no way she could leave her parents alone. Her world had suddenly turned upside down.

The silence of the night seemed endless. Fireflies and mosquitoes pressed against tiny holes on the screen, keeping them out; Mrs. Johnnie Bea had sensed how desperate they were to get inside so they could suck fresh blood from their flesh.

What good does it do us to hate? her father had answered shaking his head. Our sorrows have been with us always.

Papa, what else can we do but hate?

Hate, he said as he continued to fan away at the hot night air with no breeze in sight would cause us to lose not only our lives but our souls and the Glory of God.

Papa, it makes no sense to me Mrs. Johnnie Bea responded then stood up and walked to where the screen separated them from the screams of the mosquitoes needing to get to feast on their flesh the same as the Klan sought to feast on their lives.

The swish of the paper fanning her father could no longer be heard. His voice sounded strange in the darkness.

My grandmother’s mother was born a slave. Five of her children were sold as slaves before they were ten my grandmother told me. He gave out a long sigh and crossed his legs saying to Mrs. Johnnie Bea, Just imagine in your mind you have given birth to a fine young handsome baby boy. Your breasts are swollen with milk. Nursing him fills your heart with joy. Three months to the day he is born in comes the master with a buyer. Paying no mind to the fact that you are nursing he pulls the baby from your breast telling the buyer he should give him fifty years of hard labor while ignoring your pleas not to sell the infant. He shows the baby off as though he is an animal he is about to sell. No one thinks of the man who fathered him but has no rights to him. The master states how strong and healthy the baby looks. He then tells the buyer his wife has grown tired of nursing, and since both your baby and his wife’s baby were born relatively close, he will be using your milk for the baby born to his wife. Tell me daughter where would your love go once your baby is gone and you begin nursing the master’s baby? Mrs. Johnnie Bea’s eyes grew large as she listened to her father’s words.

"It most certainly will not go with a child. I know I will never see again on the face of this earth, Papa. I would grow to