Don't Let The Lipstick Fool You:. Lisa Leslie
was very messy. I would fold my clothes, organize my socks, sweep my wooden floors, and mop them, too. I was like a soldier’s daughter. I would move my bed, rearrange my room, and clean out my closet. Then I would call, “Mom, come and look at my room!” As far back as I can remember, I always wanted things to be clean and organized. I loved having my own room, and I was thrilled that Mom had painted it my favorite color, yellow, to match my curtains and my canopy bed. When the sun would shine in, my room would turn bright, and that would make me happy. It was my private, special place.
When Mom would come to check out my room, Dionne would stand across the hall, with her hands on her hips. She would roll her eyes to show her annoyance. I never realized she worried that Mom would want to inspect her room next. I just wanted to show off my clean room to my mother and have her appreciate the work I had done. But in the process, it was very obvious that little sister was really getting on big sister’s nerves.
It went both ways, though. Dionne had a big problem telling the truth, and if she got in trouble, she pulled me down with her. If Dionne got into Mom’s make-up and Mom found out, we would eventually hear, “Lisa! Dionne! Come in here! Who’s been in my make-up?”
I had not played a lick of basketball yet, but I already knew how to put up a good defense when I was in a jam. I would begin to protest immediately. “Make-up? I don’t even wear make-up. I’m not even old enough to wear make-up.”
Dionne would pipe in, lying through her teeth. “Make-up? No, Mom. I have not been in your make-up.”
Mom would give us that look that only mothers can give. “There are only three of us in this house. I know I didn’t do it. Now, who was in my make-up?”
I would walk up to her, pleading my case. “Mom, look at me. I was not in your make-up. I promise! I swear to God!” I would invoke God’s name to try to convince her that I was the innocent daughter.
Dionne always got in the last word, though. “I don’t care what anybody says. It was not me!”
This would get Mom really upset. “Go to your rooms. If nobody will tell me the truth, then both of you are getting whuppin’s!”
This would send me into a panic. I was a pretty obedient kid and did everything I could to avoid getting hit by my mother. My mind-set was always, I am not going to do anything to give this lady a reason to whup me. But on those rare occasions when it did happen, it might as well have been a previously choreographed dance.
Mom would walk into my room and close the door behind her. I was quick and would dive under my bed. Mom would move the bed. I would jump in my closet. She would pull me out. Then she would pick up my sixty-five-pound body, lay me across the bed, and lean on my head so she could spank my bottom. This happened every time I ever got a whuppin’. Running away probably made things worse than they had to be, but I could not fathom sitting still to get a whuppin’, especially when I was innocent (not that I always was).
Somewhere in between raising two daughters and working for the post office, Mom found time to date a chef named Max Sanoguet. He was Puerto Rican and had grown up in New York City. Max drove a little yellow Dodge Colt, and he wore his hair in a ponytail. I thought he was really nice. One night I sat on his lap and said, “You’re cute. Are you going to stay over?”
He said, “I hope so.”
Mom looked at both of us and raised her eyebrows. “I don’t THINK so!”
Max was really the first man that I remember being around our house, ever. He eventually moved in with us, and on February 7, 1980, my sister Tiffany was born. I was almost eight years old, and I thought she was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen. We had a real baby in the house! I remember going to school and then rushing home every day to see my new sister. She slept in Dionne’s room, across the hall from me. I would spend most of my free time standing by her crib, staring and rubbing her back. I changed her diapers and volunteered to take a lot of responsibility in caring for her. For some reason, this made Max jealous. “Tell her to get out of there!” he would say to my mother. “She is always around the baby, always around that crib.”
I really liked Max, but he and Mom did not always see eye to eye, especially when it came to me; they definitely had their differences. Not long after, in 1981, Tiffany was a year and a half, Max was out of the house, and Mom was ready to stop delivering mail and start a new career.
Mom is an amazingly optimistic person. To this day, she is always filling my head with positive affirmations. When I was growing up, she would always tell me things like:
“Treat people the way you want to be treated.”
“You cannot receive anything with a closed fist.”
“It is important to be giving.”
“Whatever you say in the universe will come back, so speak positively.”
And my favorite, the 7 P’s: Proper, Prior, Preparation, Prevents, Piss, Poor, Performance.
Her positive outlook always seems to come out strongest when my family goes through difficult times or when one of us needs an emotional or spiritual lift. Mom has always wanted the best for her kids, and that included sending us to college. She realized that her post office salary was not enough to send all three of her girls to universities. So she started considering other job possibilities. She wanted to do something she would enjoy, that would pay well, and that would allow her to build a better life for our family.
So when a friend introduced Mom to a truck-driving acquaintance, her new career path started to take shape. She knew that she liked to talk and loved to travel. And she was willing to try something different. Call her spontaneous, adventurous, or a risk taker, but my mother wound up riding with this truck driver on his trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco, and she helped him unload furniture when they got there. It was hard, hot, and dirty work, but Mom liked it. She saw that driving a truck might be her ticket to see the country and provide the finances necessary to put Dionne, Tiffany, and me through college. The fact that she had never driven a truck, of any kind, did not seem to bother her.
Mom did some research and found out that North American Van Lines was holding a free seminar in Long Beach, not far from where we lived. Their deal was that if you wanted a new career as a truck driver, you could buy a truck from them, and they would teach you how to drive it and teach you how to run your own business. After that, you could venture out on your own. Mom liked the idea, so she signed up for the training classes. Let me tell you what a giant leap of faith this was. My mom did not even know how to drive a stick shift. She had no clue. On top of that, North American Van Lines was headquartered in Fort Wayne, Indiana. That was also where the driving classes were held, and that meant Mom was going to have to leave us for a little while.
In order to save money, she took a bus from Los Angeles to Fort Wayne. North American provided her with a truck for the training sessions. The classes lasted two weeks, and by the end of that time, my mother was driving a big tractor-trailer just like a pro. She was going to be a truck driver, and she was not going to do it halfway. Mom took out a loan on our home and paid fifty-four thousand dollars to buy her own big rig. It was an eighteen-wheeler, an International Harvester 9670 that had twenty-seven miles on its odometer.
Mom was extremely excited, but on the same day that she found out about getting her truck, she also got some news about my big sister. Dionne was eight months pregnant and would have to take a break from high school. On April 18, 1983, my fifteen-year-old sister gave birth to my nephew, Marquis.
It was a crazy time for all of us. There was so much drama and concern. When Dionne brought Marquis home, we had two babies in our house, and I became solely responsible for Tiffany. Mom was in way too deep to even think about giving up her new trucking career. Besides, she was determined to improve our family’s quality of life, no matter what. Her plan was still a good one, and she was going to do everything she could to make it successful.
Then came the next bombshell: Mom was going to be headquartered in Indiana. We would have to stay behind in California. To this day, Mom says that it broke her heart to leave us and head off to her new career. Trust me, it broke