From the advances of a predatory pediatrician to the devastating loss of my father, my teenage years were marked by confusion and chaos
February 2026
Editor’s Note: The Reporters Inc.’s newest contributor, G. Marshall-Brooks, continues chronicling her fascinating life with this next entry from “Life in the Key of G.” G. began writing about her life in hopes the stories would help her family better understand who she really is, and how she became who she is. G. also hopes these honest, heartfelt essays encourage and inspire others to share their own memories and experiences with loved ones.
The birds, the bees, and the pediatrician
I have a thing about doctors, but it’s not a good thing. Generally speaking, having to see a medical professional of any sort sends my anxiety through the roof. That means doctors, nurses, dentists, paramedics, you name it. I have problems dealing with them all.
In trying to get to the bottom of my problem, I sifted through my memories to what I believe is the first doctor I ever met.
Which brings me to Doctor W. He was a pediatrician.
This was in the 1960s, and I can’t remember any of my friends talking about seeing one. Black people around me talked about going to the doctor. However, I’m not sure how my uneducated parents from the depths of Alabama came up with the idea that I should see a pediatrician.
G. Marshall Brooks is the author of “Life in the Key of G.”
I was being affected by racism without knowing it. In my parents’ experience, a White doctor was always right. Even though trusting White people was the opposite of what life had taught them. They tried to not just believe but put Bible lessons into practice. Which meant daily battles between what is and what was. My dad came out of his childhood with an anger problem. My mom came out with extreme anxiety and fear.
The onset of my menstrual cycle was what started this particular journey. My sister is four years older than me. So, when I was nine and she was 13, my mother began having private talks with her. I didn’t know what they were about, nor did I care. As long as I had a book, I was good.
During one of their private talks, I noticed a red stain in my underwear. Now, in my nine-year-old mind, blood meant pain, so I howled like I was dying.
Everybody in the house came running into the bathroom to see why I was yelling. This included my brothers, my sister and my mother.
When my mom saw what the problem was, she hollered at me to shut up. That hurt my feelings because I thought she was mad at me, and as usual, I didn’t know what I’d done wrong.
Now, I realize that while she was trying to figure out how to tell my sister what to expect, her baby girl beat her to the punch. Not to mention that nine years old was way too young for this to happen. My mother was thrown for a loop, and it seemed that I was always the one who sent her through that loop.
My parents always made important decisions together. This time the consensus was for me to begin seeing a doctor. Daddy was supportive, but actually going there was my mom’s task. He would drive us to the doctor’s office and wait in the car. After the first visit there was discussion about trying to medically stop my periods because of my age. My mother wasn’t going for that so it was decided instead that I would have exams two or three times a year.
So, back to Doctor W. I was not impressed by this pediatrician. He was a tall White man, who looked down at me through his glasses as though I was a specimen of some kind. Not the way you would think a children’s doctor would approach a child. There were never any other Black families in the waiting room at his office. I was uncomfortable from the first visit.
My mother would force me to go to these checkups. She would sit in the room with me as this doctor examined my breasts and asked me questions about my periods. Then we would leave after scheduling an appointment for several months later. That uncomfortable feeling never left me whenever I was in that office.
When I turned 13, my mother presented me with a little booklet titled “A Doctor Talks to 12- to 13-Year-Olds.” I assumed this was to take the place of “the talk” mothers and daughters would have at that point. And then…
…my 16-year-old sister got pregnant.
No one appeared to think I might need to understand all the commotion going on. My mom was wringing her hands, and it was the only time I ever saw my dad cry. My older brothers all came home, and there were family meetings that I was excluded from. The result was a quickie wedding.
And my freedom was immediately curtailed. I was carefully watched every day.
I was still expected to go to the checkups with Dr. W. And during the next one he had a surprise for me. He told my mother that, at 13, I was too old to have her in the room with me during the examinations. At the time, I didn’t know why that upset me, but it did. My mother and I argued about it for several days. She trusted that the doctor knew better than we did.
She was wrong.
The first visit without my mother was difficult. She sat outside as I went in to be seen. In those days, doctors didn’t have to have a nurse in the room.
G. Marshall Brooks’ mother, Ruby, in 1968.
So, we’d be alone.
Over time, this doctor formed a habit of examining my breasts at every visit. If I had a hangnail, he would examine my breasts. If I hurt my foot, he would examine my breasts. As you can imagine, by the time I was 13 my breasts had developed quite a bit. The examinations took much longer than the previous ones. I would jerk away from him, and he would fuss at me, but I would continue to try to move away from him.
The doctor complained to my mother that I’d been uncooperative. When she talked to me about it, I told her that I didn’t like the way he touched me. She said I shouldn’t be shy because he was a doctor and it was just part of the examination. I was disappointed that she didn’t take me seriously.
Today, I now know more about my mother’s history and I understand why. She was the product of her mother being raped by the younger son of the White family where she, my grandmother, worked as a maid.
Of the seven children in mom’s family, two of the girls had very light skin and “good hair”—my mother and her younger sister. Every White family and Black family in that little town knew exactly who my mother’s father really was, and how she was born.
Nothing was said or done about the rape.
Then, my mother was subjected to “colorism” by her neighbors and their children. That happens when the level or amount of your skin color causes others to ostracize you.
My mother had a healthy fear of White men with reason. Going against the word of a White doctor would be monumental for her.
At a checkup when I was 14, I asked my best friend to go with me because I was going to the appointment on the way home from school. She already knew the problem because I’d confided in her about my feelings. My friend was more worldly than I was, and she wasn’t about to let that doctor get away with what she called “feeling me up.” When we got inside, she went with me into the examination room.
When the doctor came into the room, he looked at me for a moment and then he told my friend to leave. She didn’t move a muscle. He told me to tell my friend to leave so he could examine me. I said “no.” He said he couldn’t examine me with her in the room. I told him he couldn’t examine me unless she stayed. He turned beet red and left the room. I put my clothes on and we left.
I don’t know where I got the courage to do that. But when the doctor called my mother to complain about my behavior, she and I had a deeper discussion about that doctor. Needless to say, there were no more visits to this pediatrician.
Doctor W. was a pillar of his community. I say “his” because at the time, Black and White families lived in different worlds. I recently looked him up on Google, and he’d been given awards for working with children. He was highly respected as a doctor and a family man. He passed away in 2014, and the city mourned him.
I don’t feel sad at all.
Daddy has left the building
By 1967, my daddy had been the paid pastor at the Cass Street Church of God in Grand Rapids, Michigan for several years. But in those days, there was no such thing as a cost-of-living raise. Because he was the kind of man who would do whatever it took to take care of his family, my father took on additional work—a menial job to augment his income.
He was tired, but he persevered. On weekdays, he’d have breakfast, served by my mom, and then he’d go to work. My dad and I had become closer now that I was the only child at home. Especially since we shared the same birthday, November 19. I would be turning 15 that year. He’d be turning 57.
I think it was late August ’67 when my dad got up from breakfast one morning and immediately vomited. This was a surprise because my dad was literally never ill. I mean, I’d seen him with a cold maybe once in my entire life. But apparently this wasn’t the first time this had happened.
G. Marshall Brooks’ father, the Rev. David Lee Marshall, Sr. “In this photo he was in his 20s,” she says. “He and my mom had just gotten married. He had just been called to the ministry.”
My mother insisted he go back to the doctor. I hadn’t known he’d ever been to see the doctor in the first place.
This is when I found out that my dad had high blood pressure. It didn’t dawn on me when my mom stopped cooking our food with lard, and when we stopped eating pork, there was a serious reason behind it. I did see the pills he took each morning but assumed they were vitamins.
For me, this incident of vomiting was the beginning of the end.
Very quickly my dad saw doctors more often, and he began to show signs of sickness. He hardly ate anything. He was even more tired than usual. Everything slowed down at our house. There was an aura of worry. I felt it, but as usual, no one told me anything.
I don’t remember the exact time frame, but things then got even worse with my dad’s health. Finally, around September, he went into the hospital for tests. Again, nothing was talked about within my earshot. I just knew something was wrong because I could see the strain on my parents’ faces.
A couple weeks later, my father was rushed to the hospital. In my ignorance, I thought they’d fix whatever was wrong and everything would go back to normal. However, he stayed there a week, and then it became two weeks. That’s when I began to think something was seriously wrong. Every day my sister would come by and take my mom to the hospital because my mother had never learned to drive. I was always left at home. Somehow it was a given that I was not to go with them.
When they returned, my mom would tell me my dad sent his love and then shut herself in her room. My sister would leave the house as soon as she brought mom home.
I was scared, but I had no one to talk to. That’s when my four older brothers who lived out of town, and the one who lived in town, all came to visit.
Usually, it was only on holidays that the whole family would be together at the same time. So, red flags were popping up in my mind. Still, no one actually talked to me. A couple days later, one of my brothers told me that I was to accompany them to see my dad in the hospital. This was the first time I’d been allowed to see my dad.
No one in the family said anything to prepare me for what I was about to see. What I expected was for my dad to be sitting up in the hospital, talking as usual. My only reference was the way people in the hospital looked on TV.
Just as we were about to enter the room, one of my brothers whispered to me that I better not cry. I was confused but didn’t get a chance to ask why. Everyone was taller than me, so I didn’t see my dad at first. Then I was pushed to the front, right next to the bed. I was stunned.
This shriveled-up old man who was lying there with tubes in every orifice couldn’t possibly be my dad. He was complaining about his bottom being sore, but his voice was weak and whiny. I couldn’t say a single word. I didn’t know I was crying until he came out of his fog of pain and focused on me. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Baby, why are you crying?” One of my brothers pushed me back away from the bed, so my dad couldn’t see me. I felt punished, but I didn’t know why.
I was shaken, confused, and sad. I didn’t understand what was going on. What happened to my strong, robust father to make him look so weak and sickly? What was going to happen next?
When we got home, before I could ask any questions, I got fussed at by several of my brothers for letting my dad see my tears. No one bothered to explain that my dad was very ill. My mom did finally say this was serious, but I had figured that much out on my own.
After that, I refused to go to the hospital. No one bothered to ask me why. My siblings just assumed that I was an unfeeling and selfish teenager. The truth, if anyone had bothered to ask, was that I knew there was no way I could see my dad like that and not cry. I just didn’t have that kind of control. I also didn’t want to let everyone down again.
I realize now that having a natural reaction to seeing the misery of someone I love should not have been a cause for censure. I can see that my misplaced need for my family’s approval should have been the last on my list of priorities. However, I was very young, naive, and alone in my misery.
Finally, after a couple weeks in the hospital, my dad came home. By now, it was mid-October and I thought he’d be well in time for our shared birthday celebrations.
I was so excited and relieved. He looked much better; he’d gained some weight back and seemed to feel better. But the feeling in the house was weird. He wasn’t able to get up and around without help, and he stayed in his bedroom most of the time.
I’d visit him there every day. He would smile and talk to me, and I could see the love in his eyes. But there was a deep sadness, too.
I had no idea he was saying goodbye.
After maybe three weeks, I was awakened at night by sirens as an ambulance came to take my dad back to the hospital. My mother went with him, and again, I was left at home.
I felt confused and left out. Again.
My mom didn’t tell me what happened before she left or even after she came home. Much later, I overheard one of my siblings telling someone that my dad woke up and couldn’t breathe.
This time, my father didn’t come home at all.
After a couple of days, my sister brought my mom home from the hospital and this time she didn’t leave the house afterwards. I looked hard at both of them because I could feel something odd. I actually had to ask my mom, “What happened?”
She didn’t even look at me as she said, “Dad’s gone.”
I stupidly responded, “Gone where?”
My sister said, “Dad passed away.”
The hardness in her voice was as jarring as what she was saying. I can only assume grief made her voice so sharp, but I couldn’t wrap my mind around what they’d just told me.
I’d just managed to accept that my dad was sick. The fact that he died was just too far beyond my understanding. I was numb.
That was October 30, 1967.
My family, numerous friends and church family gathered around my mom. Nobody really noticed me. There was a lot of talking and praying, but I wasn’t included.
The next night was Halloween. I didn’t dress up, but I left my house as soon as it was dark. I walked all over town, passing all the kids out trick-or-treating with their parents. When I got tired, I’d stop at some friend’s house for a while.
I made sure not to tell any of them what had happened.
I visited old boyfriends and people I hadn’t seen for a long time. They were surprised by my visit, but I never let on that anything was wrong at all.
I walked for hours. Finally, I stopped at the house of some close friends of our family. They knew my parents well, and all five girls in the family were like sisters to me. That was the only time that I actually told the truth.
After I confided in them, I cried for a long time. They gave me the comfort and love I needed. Then their mother asked me why I was out, and did my mom know where I was? I gave some kind of vague answer but didn’t really explain. I didn’t want anyone to know that my grief had been invisible to my own family. To add insult to injury, when I got home no one even noticed that I’d been gone.
The next weeks are difficult to describe. I was always in the background during the making of arrangements. A few friends from school came and stayed with me for a while, still in the background. In the meantime, everyone else gathered around my mother.
I was also in the background at the wake, even as I went to stand by my dad’s body. He looked like he was sleeping, and I actually touched him because I still couldn’t believe he was gone. That he’d really left me.
His hand was cold and it confirmed that he was no longer there. It hurt so terribly, but again my family’s instructions were that I could not cry. So, I didn’t.
You would think that the agony of the wake and the funeral would be the end of it. But nope. I had to go through two funerals. The first was in Grand Rapids because that’s where we were living when daddy passed. But our family had lived in Detroit for 20 years before we moved.
So, I had to go through the agony a second time. No one bothered to ask me if I wanted to go to the second funeral. No one checked how I was managing during all this. No one asked me if I wanted to go to the gravesite either.
G. Marshall Brooks in high school in the 1960s. She writes, “My 16-year old smile wasn’t real. My father had passed the year before and my mother was a basket case.”
I was shoved into a car with some cousins, several cars behind the car my mom was in. When we got to the cemetery, my brothers pushed me up front, so I was next to my mom for the first time. But this was the last place I wanted to be. Watching them throw dirt on the casket. Watching the casket being lowered into the ground.
I started to cry again and all I could see was a wall of tears in front of me. Then I felt someone grab me and actually wrap their arms around me for a bit. Later, my oldest brother told me he had to catch me because I almost fainted.
My father had been my rock. He understood me. He talked to me as though I was a person. He knew that my brain was years ahead of my body. To him, it was okay because that was just who I was. My mom had been sick off and on until I was seven, so I bonded with my dad instead. He protected me from things that were real and things I imagined. He taught me how to not be a follower and to figure things out for myself. He gave me a sense of identity. He believed I could and would do, and be, something good.
And then he was gone.
Over the next few weeks there were people everywhere in my house. My brothers, church members, friends, neighbors. All came by to give condolences to my mom. No one asked about me and no one talked to me. I was just there, again in the background, in my grief and misery. I was left to figure my own way out of the loss of my dad.
After about a month, there was no one but my mother and me. It was like she finally turned around and looked for her little girl, but instead she found a half-grown woman looking back at her.
At first, she was sort of angry with me, but as life began to get back to normal, she found she needed me in a way she hadn’t ever imagined.
To read G. Marshall Brooks’ first “Life in the Key of G” column, click here. G. is busy writing the next chapter so be sure to sign up for our e-newsletter below to be alerted when it’s published. G. can be reached at msgrmb@yahoo.com.
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