Shares

“She just got scared and wouldn’t let him bring her back and by the time the white surfers were trying to get back to her, she went under and was lost,” said Booker Morris, who was 18 years old at the time. “That was one of the most devastating days I can remember, and my friend Lane was never the same again.”

Neither was her family. Well actually, MY family.

For many years, I struggled to understand why my beloved grandmother, “Mam-maw” was “different,” often standoffish to most, and my Uncle Michael was “always going to jail.”

I later came to realize that it was because they both had a broken heart.

They never recovered from the death of their dearest Sandra Yvette, affectionately known as “Donut,” because of her sweet disposition and deep chocolate skin.

On June 18, 1972, Donut left her home in the Riceville community in southwest Houston and headed to Surfside Beach on Galveston Island for a school class field trip. She and two other girls were enjoying the ocean when they accidentally drifted off farther than expected.

Morris explained there was a storm approaching and the water was choppy that day.

“The tide comes in and the undertow comes in and sucks you back out, and you wind up deeper than where you originally were,” he explained.

Morris, Lane (last name withheld) and several others were able to get the two other girls to safety, but sadly, Donut drowned.

According to the accident report, Lane was overcome by a current and also had to be rescued. He barely made it to the shore alive and was transported to the hospital to be treated for shock.

The Freeport and Galveston Coast Guard stations were contacted, and a helicopter was sent out, but they eventually had to abandon the search and her body was never recovered.

The accident report described the victim as a 15-year-old “colored” female, wearing cut off blue jean shorts and a backless red halter top. When she left home wearing that, it was the last time her mother and brother ever saw her. As stated in the report, one of the other students called Houston to tell the victim’s mother about the tragedy.

My devastated family had to hold Donut’s funeral at the beach and throw flowers into the water.

The eldest sibling, my mother, was 8 months pregnant with my big sister at the time. She still mourns to this day.

My Uncle Michael, while loving, became a fierce protector of his family, and his quick temper eventually led to him being incarcerated for nearly 30 of his 64 years on this Earth, being sentenced to his first stint in prison when he was only 17.

And in a twist of ironic six degrees of separation, Morris, the young man who was among those desperately trying to save our Donut, is now the Deputy District Director for the 18th District of Texas – Congresswoman Sheila Jackson Lee’s Office. (While writing this article and reading the report, I noticed his name was familiar and I actually had his contact information. I reached out immediately and after confirming it was him, he shared his haunting memories of that day.)

My beloved Mam-maw mourned her daughter’s death until she passed away 15 years ago.

After her death, I found other carefully preserved documents that she had stored. Along with the accident report, my grandmother saved all of her kids’ report cards, girl scout and boy scout photos, and other precious mementos,

But nothing was more powerful than coming across the dozens of photos of Mam-maw and Uncle Michael taken over the decades while he was incarcerated. There they were, organized and stacked in perfect time lapse; he in his “prison whites” and her holding the standard single rose the inmates could present to their loved ones.

She visited him often, but it was clear to see that their “special day,” was Mother’s Day. In those photos, I could see their hearts and souls. I could see their true love.

The photos start off when Uncle Michael went to prison as a teen in the 1970’s, you see my Mam-maw in her bell bottom jeans and her funky vests, smooth skin and puffy hair.

And as the photos continue on, you see Mam-maw begin to age, right up to the time that she was actually in her 70s, with her cute “old lady” wigs and church dresses.

Her skin was wrinkled, and her age was showing, but another thing transcended through those Polaroid snapshots: her undeniable and unstoppable love and dedication to her child. Sadly, Michael was incarcerated when Mam-maw left this Earth and their annual Mother’s Day visits ended.

Michael was recently released from prison and is working on healing from the tragedy. Counseling has helped him realize that the pain of losing his sister, and watching his mother mourn terribly, led to him “acting out” as a young man. Some people may need to understand their “why” in order to change their lives for the better.

And to all the mothers out there, from those who have lost children to those who are struggling to raise them, to those who are basking in the joy of not ever having any issues, etc. – cherish those memories – and make EVERY day with them your SPECIAL DAY.