More Than a Tour

I went through a tour of historical homes in which the new owners have renovated in order to preserve their architectural heritage. The homes were beautiful and marvelously preserved. The people I found very nostalgic of the Dayton they once knew and maybe the one in which they once before were on the outside looking in.

I recall when I was young my aunts would come down to Arkansas to visit us from Dayton. They came in their big fancy cars and fine clothes. They made Dayton seem like the place to be for blacks (this was before we were African-Americans) and we were always envious of their lives. They, like many other blacks, left the clay hills of Mississippi and migrated to Dayton, Chicago or Detroit.

As I talked to various homeowners, especially the black homeowners, who were Dayton natives, it reminded me of the social groups I have avoided my entire life. Those who are members of the biggest black Baptist church and hold positions and titles, the fair skinned (for obvious reasons), those whose families were charter members at the oldest black Baptist church, and the educated and you better recognize it. Or I love this one, my daddy was so and so. All too familiar and all I have witnessed since I was old enough to remember.

When I finished my tour and made it home I laughed and shook my head in disbelief. We have come so far and still are standing around the corner. I refuse to conform. I never have and if God be my help (something my mother always says) I never will.

There is undoubtedly a sense of pride in our heritage. I love myself and apart of who I am is black. I love God and all that I am is because of Him. But authentic is all I have ever been able to be. I've never been able to pretend to be humble before the white folks and I've never been able to pretend to care about someones "china" which has been passed down from generation to generation. Now a quilt, that's another story. Or even more seriously my name. The first freed slave on my father's side was William Reed. He kept the name of the slave owner who was the kindest to him. He bought the land which we still own in Mississippi in times when that must have been a difficult thing to do.

I won't conform, but I can say I can understand it. I recall the tea parties I would help my grandmother give for the snooty women from her Methodist church. They all were fair skinned and had soft skin that smelled of roses and powder. They all wore broaches and carried handkerchiefs. They were either school teachers or the wives of the black physicians and dentist in town. Even though my grandmother was poor her skin made her acceptable to fit among these women. I remember when we moved on up and moved in a house down the street from some old senile white woman who my mother had once cleaned house. Even though this woman was old, broke and senile (her house now ram shackled by borders) my mother still found it necessary to visit her and inform her she was moving in down the street. She told us how mean the woman was to her and how she had to shine the stairs, etc.., I love my mother--back then you did what you had to do. And I thank God I have never had to clean up behind some bitchy white woman. I've been secretary for a few, but I didn't leave without having demanded their respect. And I received it. When they were getting sued--my prayers they requested. And when budget cuts were to be made they would have fired the entire secretarial staff to keep me. My mother didn't have this pleasure until the last 1980's. And she still didn't tell another old white lady, in who's factory she worked tirelessly, to go to hell--she simply quit. But when the woman was on her death bed she called for my mother to come and pray for her. And she still runs into her from time to time--you know at Wal-Mart and stuff. So, maybe it was a good thing she didn't do so.

I wonder today will there ever be change? I love our President. I followed him around Ohio during his campaign. I stood in the COLD to witness his inauguration. He could care less about these issues. He can see himself beyond his skin and title. But most of all he can see others also.

The Man on the Poster

Michael Jackson is dead! I recall just last week I saw his face on one of those tabloids in the drugstore and said, "Michael doesn't have long." So, when the news came across the screen needless to say I stopped moving.

I remember (and it doesn't seem like that long ago to me) when I hung his poster on my bedroom wall. It was the one from his Thriller album. I collected photo after photo and read every article I could scrap up change to buy--this was before the internet. I would walk down town and buy the teen mags. Now my youngest daughter buys them. Time.

Yes, Michael changed on the outside--that was quite apparent. Thinking about him over the last few days, I have come to realize unless you lived the way he did you couldn't understand. Yes, we all have demons chasing us--some have bigger demons than others. I can't say I know how it is to grow up with the world watching you; but I do know how it is to live with everyone having certain expectations of you. When everything you do is for the benefit of or the example for others. My glass house may not be on top of the hill, but sometimes I still would like to close the blinds.

Me & My Shadow

It's something to be said for becoming the person you can admire when you see their shadow on the wall. When your name appears in print and makes the neighbors wish they had come over for dinner when first invited. You have to change the image in the family photographs to match the person at the breakfast table. The eggs taste the same but the conversation has changed. The words wash down with the morning coffee but the new point of view takes time to digest. The freedom to formulate your own opinions. I can't necessarily recall that freedom. My mother and grandmother told you what to think. When I was ten my grandmother decided for me I was too old to want a doll for Christmas. I remember looking for Barbie and when I had opened the last box I asked for her. My mother said my grandmother told her I was to old for a doll. Who asked her? But you dare not say anything. You just accepted what they said and tucked whatever opinion you had in the box in the bottom of your closet. Lately I've determined to do what I want. It feels weird. I feel as if someone is going to come around the corner and see my shadow enjoying herself and go and get a switch.

L'il Blue Eyed Boy

Phillip was gorgeous. His eyes were so blue you couldn't help but stare. He was kind. He was free. He was different. He was an artist. We were friends senior year. I was pregnant. Yes, pregnant. He would carry my books and walk me to class. He would rub my shoulders and feed me snacks. He called me when I had my baby. My mother was shocked. "There's a white boy on the phone for you", she announced through the house. Months passed and we remained friends. One day he leaned against my locker and asked me out. I had never seen this look in his eyes before. Well, not directed at me. My response, "on a date Phil!" This reaction told me then I was afraid. My girl friends had told me he liked me. But he was white! Twenty-one years ago we did not do that. But he was cute! So, I said, "yes, sure Phil, call me." He never did. He probably was just as afraid as I was. We did live in Arkansas. It snowed one day and classes were dismissed early. He offered me a ride home instead of waiting in the cold for the bus. I accepted. We drove down Franklin Street. The distance seemed greater than ever before. For once I was ashamed and acutely aware of where I lived. He pulled on Sawyer to the front of my house. It looked older and more ragged than I remembered. He leaned in and tried to kiss me. Fear, intimidation and uncertainty came down like the snow. I had always been confident when it came to boys, but that day I wasn't. I thought to myself, my lips are too big for his. I pulled away. I justified my fear by saying I didn't want to be his experiment. I think about Phillip from time to time. I think about the honest blue in his eyes.

Grits

The morning was full of old and new. Thoughts of my grandmother dominated the conversation. The fruit of her womb still paying homage to her. I see her in the mirror. I feel her when I put on my red shoes. I smell her in my morning bath. I understand her when I want to keep on walking.

My baby sister doesn't remember our grandmother as vividly as I do. I told her stories of how she would take us shopping. And of course about the switches! I wanted her to know the stock she came from. I myself needed to be reminded.

She reminded me of how I teased her and called her names. I did hate her. This morning hopefully we settled it over coffee and grits.