Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul Page 19

  Your Voice:

  Your voice identifies you as a black woman and if listened to closely, it can move and give insight to the lowliest of spirits and heart of man. A voice that makes me—and others—feel wanted and needed. When words of wisdom are spoken to the world, people that come to know you look for the opportunity to be in your presence. It is a voice of comfort that makes the weakest of them all feel safe.

  Your Mind:

  You are so valuable to black men that many cannot and will not accept your God-given outlook. But for those of us who have understanding and are able to accept your beautiful mind, we sit on top of the world.With your mind you are a great complement to man, you help us move mountains and stand when we think we can’t. Though we as men often forget, we must remember that God put you here to complete our minds through the power of you, the black woman.

  Your Energy:

  We understand that energy is the make-up of Almighty God, and we exist off that power, that energy. My black woman, you have that energy and took all of life’s vicissitudes and turned into an expression of beauty just as God has intended. And with that energy you have transformed the lives of many.

  My Request:

  Thank you, God, for giving me this gift from above. I only ask that you give me as a black man the understanding, the wisdom and the strength so that I can love and accept all of the beauty that has been stored up just for me in the black woman.

  Leslie Ford

  Where Have All the Old Men Gone?

  We must cherish our old men. We must revere their wisdom, appreciate their insight, love the humanity of their words.

  Alice Walker

  I don’t know how it was in your neighborhood, but in the 1940s in Detroit the black neighborhoods were host to some of the most unique citizens in United States history— The Old Men.

  It should be noted that not every old man was an Old Man. The rules for inclusion in the club were strict and rigidly adhered to. The gentleman had to be at least sixty-five years of age. In truth, this was one club where older was definitely better. He must have lived a fast lifestyle— a lifestyle designed to lead to an early grave and a beautiful corpse. It was also extremely important that he hold the reputation of having played fast and loose with women’s affection all of his born days. Last but not least, it should be common knowledge that only the vicissitudes of old age had caused him to forsake his reprobate ways. I am pleased to report that in 1943, the west side of Detroit had a lively assortment of Old Men within its boundaries.

  Mr. LarryWilson, better known as Gray Cap because he always wore a gray knit cap, was the leader of the group and set the style for the others. John Henry Lewis ran him a close second, and on that rare occasion when Gray Cap was absent from the fray, Lewis took command. All summer long Gray Cap and his cohorts would stake out a corner or storefront and open up shop for the day. Both residents and shop owners welcomed them, for they served as entertainment for the residents and security officers for the stores. Who would think of robbing a store where a gaggle of old men sat at rusty card tables and played checkers for hours on end blocking entry to all but the most determined customers?

  When fall came, and the north wind began to nip at their heels, they would move their table and chairs inside one of the localmarkets, setting up business near the front door— the better to thwart the escape of any would-be robber.

  Gray Cap was a stellar example of all that an Old Man should be. At last count, he had fathered at least twenty-seven children, only seven of them by legal wives. The mothers of the balance were an eclectic mix of old maids, young girls, love-struck matrons, ladies of the evening, and the confused wife of the pastor of the Gleaning Light Baptist Church.

  While John Henry Lewis could in no way match Gray Cap’s statistics, he did have one unique credential of his own. He was the only man in the group who had fathered children by two sisters who delivered their babies on the same day. All of the area pastors preached hellfire and damnation sermons on the subject, vowing that the church would live to see John Henry destroyed in a hailstorm of God’s rage.

  The men of the neighborhood, both single and married, held a grudging admiration for The Old Men. Although most of them had sowed their wild oats as youths, the pressure of marriage and parenting had caused them to mend their ways. While they publicly censored The Old Men for their nefarious ways, in their hearts they had to respect men who did everything the church preached against and still lived to tell the tale.

  As for the ladies of the neighborhood, the very mention of The Old Men would bring snorts of derision from every female on the west side. From grade school girls to the matriarchs of the neighborhood, the reaction was the same. To quote our neighbor Mrs. Eubanks, “There will be a special place in hell for each and every one of them.”

  As a fifteen-year-old female observer of the vagaries of life, I held a different viewpoint. If all the ladies in the area loathed and despised The Old Men, why didn’t their actions support their positions? Curious to a fault, I set out to resolve the puzzle for myself.

  It wasMrs. Eubanks who first noticed the change in my daily pattern. Instead of joining my friends on the corner for a daily dose of camaraderie, I took to following The Old Men wherever they set up shop. Quiet as a mouse, I watched and studied the actions, and interactions, between The Old Men and the neighborhood ladies they encountered. It was a revelation.

  When my mother, prompted by Mrs. Eubanks, asked why I was following The Old Men around, I answered, “Because they’re so funny; they make me laugh.”

  My mother smiled and replied, “Those old coots are funny, but don’t spend all your time following them around. I don’t want your head filled with their nonsense.”

  Having removed the major roadblock to my investigation, I forged ahead. My big break came when I heard an exchange between Mrs. Morton and Gray Cap. One Saturday afternoon, as Mrs. Morton threaded her way through The Old Men into Ryan’s Food & Vegetable Market, Gray Cap mumbled out loud, “My, my, I don’t think my heart can stand it.”

  I held my breath as I waited for Mrs. Morton to lower the boom on Gray Cap. It is true that she gave a derisive snort, while simultaneously struggling to hold back a giggle. Suddenly I knew the answer to the puzzle—she liked it! Somewhere in her subconscious it registered as the compliment it was intended to be. It pleased her feminine side. It demonstrated that she still had it!

  In only a day of concentrated study, I proved the truth of my hypothesis. I witnessed women crossing streets, going out of their way to pass by The Old Men to receive their racy, but comforting, comments as they passed their way.

  Women who had not received a flirtatious word from their husbands since their courtship days could return again, if only for a fewminutes, to a younger, sweeter time. Although I was only fifteen years old, I knew in the core of my being that nomatterwhat the church said, These were holywords.

  There are things that you believe because they are true, and there are things that you believe because you want them to be true. I hold fast to the belief that I received the last compliment paid by the last of The Old Men, Stanley Clay.

  One day in August 1955, no longer a teenager, I walked past Mr. Clay leaning against a railing in front of Cole’s Funeral Home. Over the years, one by one, The Old Men had left this vale of tears until only Mr. Clay was left. All day, he wandered from store to store. While a gaggle of Old Men was welcomed, a solitary Old Man soon became a nuisance. His children and grandchildren housed him only to receive his pension check. As I passed Mr. Clay, he looked up and gave me a weak grin. Then with great effort, he pulled himself up and said, “Hey, Miss Looking Good, if there’s anything dead in there, it’ll sure wake up when you walk in.”

  Instinctively, I straightened my shoulders and sucked in my stomach. My walk took on the slightly seductive sway it had held in younger days. Chin up, and legs set at a slight angle, I walked—nay strutted—into Cole’s Funeral Home.

  Less than three months late
r, I again entered Cole’s Funeral Home. This time it was to pay final respects to Mr. Stanley Clay. As I looked down on his body, I wanted to believe that the words he spoke only three months before would come true; that somehow he would wake up and give me that devilish grin and sly wink that was his claim to fame.

  Now that I am a grandmother, I sometimes wonder, Where have all The OldMen gone? —The OldMen who served a special purpose in the lives of the men and women in my neighborhood so long ago. Did they realize how important their services were to the people around them? Somehow I think they did. Have they been swallowed up in the pervasive youth culture rampant throughout our country? I don’t know. I do know that I miss them.

  Marvin V. Arnett

  7

  BREAKING

  THROUGH

  MY BARRIERS

  If the first woman God ever made was

  strong enough to turn the world upside

  down all alone, these women together

  ought to be able to turn it back, and get

  it right-side up again!

  Sojourner Truth

  Music in the Rooms

  Blacks and whites were making efforts to change things, and music helped bridge the gaps.

  Mary Wilson

  In the early fifties my grandmother Hattie Taylor-West came up with a plan to bring money into the house by renting rooms out. Fortunately, there was a large theater located around the corner from our house, and it just happened to be a vital part of the “chitlin circuit” in the North. Musicians, singers, comedians and anybody who was somebody found a way to grace the stage at the Fans Theater on their way to New York and the bigger, brighter lights of Broadway.Whenever the shows came to town, they would sell out and our house became the focal point for extraordinary entertainers who needed a place to stay. As a young, impressionable little girl, I often wondered why these larger-than-life people came into my space and then left so quickly. I didn’t quite know or understand exactly what it was, but there was always a heightened sense of excitement in the air when they came. I knew there was something “special” about them, and I loved being in the middle of it all.

  Most of all I loved listening to the music in the rooms. There was just one problem: the guest quarters were supposed to be off-limits to inquisitive little girls.

  “Chile, don’t let me catch you buggin’ the guests!” Granny would say before she launched into reminding me that these were busy people with jobs to do, and they didn’t have time for curious, admiring, wide-eyed little girls. But I simply couldn’t resist. The sounds were too compelling, too inviting, too enchanting for me to avoid.

  Thumpa, thumpa, thump! I heard the beat as I tiptoed down the hallway, half-hidden by the huge gray shadows. I pictured a large, shiny, brand-new shoe tapping against the hardwood floor inside the room, behind one of the closed doors that held the secret to the music in the rooms. The sweet, hypnotizing rhythm made me move down the long hall with quickness in time to the beat. I moved closer and closer, and finally I was able to press my tiny ear to the door. The rhythmic thumps were so loud, my head was bobbing, my feet were tapping out the beats, and then I heard the horn. Tat ta ta ta! Oh boy , I thought to myself, it’s warm-up time, and Mr. Louie is playing my song . Of course, I thought every song was mine; after all, no one else was there to hear them. As the music swelled into a loud crescendo I knew that Mr. Louis Armstrong was definitely in the house!”

  “La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la.” What a sweet, heavenly, melodic sound, and it went higher and higher each time around. Another day and my ear was pressed up against another door. My heart was pounding like it was going to jump right out of my body as I simultaneously kept watch over my shoulder to avoid getting caught. This weekend, Mr. Duke and his lady singers were staying with us. Sometimes the ladies let me come in the room to listen— of course, Granny didn’t know I went. As I made my way down the hall I silently hoped, Maybe today . . . I sure hope so! My insides were quivering like a bowl of jelly. The singers were practicing a voice exercise that they called scales, and they did it every day before they started singing the real songs, just like clockwork.

  I can do that , I told myself as I started to daydream, my lofty thoughts taking me away from reality. I envisioned myself all dressed up in fancy clothes standing in front of an audience. I am going to be just like the beautiful, elegant, dark chocolate, creamy caramel ladies who sing with Mr. Duke Ellington. I’ll be his favorite lead singer . . . do re mi fa so la ti do . . .

  My daydreaming interfered with my ability to keep watch in the hallway.

  “Bunny, what are you doing?” My sister Irene caught me again. “You know you’re not supposed to be down here. I’m going to tell Granny.”

  “I’ll give you some of my chicken and dessert tonight.

  Don’t tell, please ???” I could never understand why she didn’t just join me in the halls, but Granny’s “finger– licking good” food was the key to keeping my sister from telling on me. Crispy, hot fried chicken fresh out of the frying pan, dumplings (rolled out just right and not too thick, of course), collard greens with ham hocks, string beans with a few potatoes thrown in, baked macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes and homemade gravy, melt-in-your-mouth biscuits, pound cake from scratch with cream cheese icing, a bumping banana pudding—no one could pass up extra helpings of my grandma’s delicious food. I’m sure that was part of the reason she was so successful— and I seldom got in trouble.

  The next day was much like the last. I would try to stay in our part of the house playing and helping Granny with chores, but each day new and different sounds would be coming from downstairs. I will be quiet as a church mouse and just tiptoe past the room , but I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from snooping. I was being drawn by the sounds on the first floor. From a brightly decorated room with a large bay window, I could hear Mr. Bill playing the old piano Granny always kept tuned up and polished. I inched closer to see if I could look through the curtains. My heart leapt when I recognized the tune, and I started humming the sweet melody of “April in Paris” floating through the air. I could not have been happier.

  I absolutely loved the days when Mr. Bill would stay with us. He was a bandleader and always brought a lot of funny, crazy musicians with him. During his stay there was music in every room , and I was in heaven running from door to door. Everyone else called him Count Basie, but we called him Mr. Bill. I loved the room with all the windowpanes where Mr. Bill created, played, rehearsed and then ebbed and flowed with his music. The incredible sounds coming from this room were upbeat, and I got lots of exercise dancing to the tunes of Mr. Bill. I will always remember the time he walked out in the hall while I was dancing to the sounds coming from all those closed doors. He simply smiled at me like he understood—I was a music lover in the making. I think the musicians kind of liked knowing they had an admiring audience on the other side of the door.

  Sometimes I long for those good old days, but when I find myself missing my Granny and those special days in her house, I simply sit in my big comfortable chair, put on some music, close my eyes and move door to door in my mind, pressing my ears close. I dance with those poignant, vibrant and lastingmemories of the elegant yet kind entertainers, the fabulously talented musicians and the “sure nuff could sang” singers who took time out to encourage the little girl who was drawn to the music in the rooms.

  What happened to that curious little girl who danced outside those doors? My whole life has been full of the most beautiful music—from gospel to blues, from big band to R&B, from jazz to hip-hop, and to this day, I love it all.

  And now I’m the one making music “inside the room” as a professional gospel singer.When I lead praise and worship or when I am in the studio doing background vocals, I am ever mindful of who may be listening in the church or at the studio door—because it may just be another little girl loving the music and dreaming big dreams.

  Carolyn West

  Turning My Mess into My Message
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br />   I was an ambitious and talkative teen who loved to “be in the spotlight.” When I was fifteen I remember writing in my journal, I can’t wait to get away from here . It’s so boring. I want to live in New York where the action is .

  In 1991, I entered Norfolk State University as a mass communications major. I’d always enjoyed school, but for me college was simply a necessary detour along the way. From the moment I walked on campus my goal was to graduate as quickly as possible so I could move to New York and live my dream of becoming a journalist.

  I took my course request form to my advisor, who having seen her share of overzealous freshmen, sweetly said to me, “Baby, most students are lucky to graduate in five years. You’ll make your mama proud to finish in four.”

  I pretended to listen, but honestly I wasn’t concerned about what anyone else thought. All I wanted was to make my dream come true as fast as possible.

  Seeing that I wouldn’t be dissuaded, my advisor reluctantly agreed and signed the form. And so began my race for the finish line—New York was almost within my grasp.

  If moving to New York was the engine, then it was fueled by my desire to have a lifestyle that I’d only imagined. My dream inspired me to press forward through a full course load, endless term papers, and seemingly more chapters than anyone could ever read in a lifetime, let alone a semester.

  But despite my determination and book smarts, I was naive about the way the world worked. My sophomore year, I got my first credit card, which was to be strictly for emergencies.

  The first “emergency” turned out to be the sale at Nine West. And what started as a fashion emergency became an obsession. It was intoxicating, and I felt invincible.