Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul Page 5

  Hands tell tales. Hers tell of sewing countless beautiful dresses with sashes that tied into big bows for her two little girls, bell-bottom pants and prom dresses for her teenagers—until her daughters got too highfalutin to wear “homemade” clothes.

  The last dress Mama made for me was a wedding dress.

  It was not the dress—or the wedding—she had dreamed of for her first daughter. But, I was in luv . In the ’60s, “living together” was the clarion call of the new women’s liberation. It was actually men’s liberation, but that’s a story for another day. To Mama, it was “shacking up,” and no daughter of hers was going to live in sin. She would disown me first. I would become a twenty-one-year-old orphan. So while my beloved and I agreed that we didn’t need a piece of paper or a fancy wedding to validate our love, Mama disagreed. She expressed it by refusing to speak to me.

  Nowto say that Mama and I had had our differences during my adolescent years would be an understatement of gargantuan proportion.Our disagreements were numerous and loud . Louder on her part because those were times when “Don’t you use that tone of voice with me” meant something—as in something bad was about to happen to one who was heedless. So I made sure to keep my voice several decibels below hers. But our disagreements had never, ever been silent. Hers was a silence I could not bear.

  In those days of burning draft cards and burning bras, compromise was a dirty word. But compromise I tried. My beloved and I were married by a justice of the peace. Did this satisfy Mama? Oh, but no. Not even the official marriage license that I brandished would convince her. “Humph” was the closest thing to a word that escaped her lips. Mama was going to have a wedding—or I was going to have no mama. And I was definitely not going to sleep with that man under her roof.

  Why couldn’t she understand about luv? She and Daddy had been married for over twenty years. Didn’t she even remember what it was like to be young and in love? Apparently not. The deafening silence continued.

  In the face of her legendary capacity for persistence, I relented. A date was set—three weeks away. Arrangements were made. Invitations were sent. Flowers were ordered.

  Then we went shopping for “the dress.” Now a wedding with three weeks’ prep time does not exactly scream for a cathedral-length train. That was as much as we could agree on. Mama wanted traditional white, floor length, of course, scaled down somewhat from her original vision. I wanted something African to signify and acknowledge my connection to the Motherland—a place I had never been and still haven’t, thirty years later.

  After hours of trudging through stores, trying on wedding dresses—always starting with the sales rack—we had not found even one dress that could bridge the gap between us. Tired and exasperated, I said, “Why don’t you just make the dress?” The scowl that had adorned her face all day—and that matched the one on my own face—didn’t turn into a smile, exactly, but it did soften considerably. Off we went to the fabric stores, she fingering the bright white satins and tulle, me searching for something African.

  Then I saw it: translucent white voile with thin metallic stripes of gold and silver painted on it, horizontal stripes.

  (In those days, I was skinny as a rail and could wear horizontal stripes.) It was the most beautiful fabric I’d ever seen. For a hot minute, Mama held out for real white, but she saw that I loved that fabric. I can still see her brown hands caressing the cloth, fingering it, draping it over a bolt of white lining. In the end, it was white enough to satisfy her, and even though I wasn’t sure about silver, I was pretty sure I’d heard that there were gold mines in Africa.

  We had found our compromise.

  Then I saw the price printed on the end of the bolt, and my heart sank. The fabric was “beyond-our-means” expensive. Mama could squeeze a dollar so hard that ol’ George would holler for help. But for once, Mama didn’t bat an eye at the cost. I stood by, trying to look stoic and unexcited, as the clerk measured off yards and yards of the fabric. Even before the clerk had rung up our purchase,

  Mama had figured the total to the penny—including tax. Like many women of her generation, she claims to not be any good at math, but this is a woman who can multiply a fraction times a decimal in her head (9 5/8 yards at $7.95 per yard) with stunning accuracy.

  After loading the bags of fabric and notions into the trunk of her car, we headed home. Night and day the sounds of scissors cutting and snipping and the determined whirring of Mama’s sewing machine filled our house. Two nights later, Mama had created a dress so beautiful that it took my breath away. When I sheepishly asked her if I should try it on, she answered, “If you think you need to.” Then, with a satisfied and confident look on her face, she turned off the light on her machine and went to bed.

  You know I couldn’t resist trying on that dress—very quietly, of course. And I don’t have to tell you that it fit me to a tee. As I twirled around and took a deep curtsy in front of the hallway mirror, the dress billowed and settled around me like a cloud. I could almost hear the Motherland calling me home. But at that moment, I also heard another mother—a closer mother—whispering, “I put aside my dream, to give you your own.”

  Thirty-some years later, I have a daughter the age I was then. I still have a mama—and I still have the dress. Not long ago, I ran across it while cleaning a closet in the guest bedroom, making space for relics from my more recent past. I pulled it out of its heavy plastic bag and laid it across the bed—there not being a hope that it would fit my now “marvelously mature” body. It is still the most beautiful dress I’ve ever owned. The silver and gold stripes are just as shiny, the lining just as white. I looked down at my brown hands, caressing the beautiful fabric—and saw Mama’s hands.

  Evelyn Palfrey

  The Outfit

  Though a person doesn’t grow up with a silver spoon in her mouth, she can still taste the good things in life.

  Carole Gist

  I did not look forward to making the trip back home to my birthplace, San Saba, Texas. I would not be making this trip at all if it were not for my mother’s desire to be buried beside my father. And I wanted to make sure her last request was fulfilled. My father, Jabo, was struck by lightning and killed as he was attempting to repair the roof of our modest bungalow. My mother’s job as a full-time maid provided our family of one boy and four girls with the bare necessities.

  As I drove down the long, winding, lonely highway I was glad I had chosen the top-of-the-line, light blue, four-door, customized El Dorado to make my grand return. It symbolized the changes I had made since living the life of a household domestic cotton picker—and whatever else I could do to make a living back in the late thirties and early forties. Cruising out on the highway, my mind reverted back to the early years in San Saba. For some reason I was drawn to the memory of the first brand-spanking-new outfit that I ever had and never got to wear! I swore out loud as I pushed the pedal farther to the floor.

  “Can you keep a secret?” I had asked my little sister. “Sure,” she said. “What is it?” “You have to swear you won’t tell.” “I hope to fall down dead in my tracks and rot,” my young sister said. “Okay, Mama said I could get me a whole new outfit, from the dry goods store.”

  “Brand new things?” she said in wide-eyed amazement.

  “Brand spanking new,” I declared. “And tomorrow we are going to pick them out. Of course, I’ll have to pay it off at the store each Sunday from my fifty-cent earnings, but the main thing I want to do is show Miss Prissy that she’s not the only one who can wear new things.” I was referring to a snooty classmate I nicknamed Miss Prissy who wore cute little dresses with matching shoes and socks that her adoring grandmother bought for her.

  The following Monday after school I met Mama at the dry goods store. After polite exchanges with the store owners, we began searching through racks of clothes. Then, I saw it—a black taffeta skirt with lots of little rubber polka dots, and a shirtmaker blouse. I was thrilled, I could not resist the fashionable snap-brim, black
felt fedora hat with a red feather and a pair of two-inch, black patent leather slippers with satin bows.

  The shopkeeper showed us the various ways to wear the hat. “To look like Dietrich, you snap it up one side. To look like Garbo, both sides down, and if you wanna look like Gracie, up all around, okay?” she said.

  I went to the back of the store to the dressing area. I looked in disbelief at my scrawny frame in the rustling polka dot taffeta skirt. It clung to my waist and ballooned out. The white shimmering satin blouse seemed to radiate near my throat, revealing my long, slim neck.

  When my mother saw me she could not hold back the tears. She exclaimed, “Oh, don’t Mama’s girl look pretty!”

  “Thank you, Mama,” I squealed as I almost danced back to the dressing room, “Thank you!”

  We took the merchandise over to the counter, where the shop owner punched the register keys as he simultaneously announced, “Skirt $4.98, blouse $2.98, hat $1.98, shoes $6.41, stockings no charge, all right?”

  The merchandise was to be kept in layaway until half of the $16.35 total was paid.

  We left the store with the payment book. According to the book, I would be able to bring my new outfit home the second week in August. Just in time for the jitterbug dance.

  That summer was one of the hottest, driest ever. By August, the temperature was soaring near the mid-nineties; myriads of heat waves could actually be seen crisscrossing before the naked eye and into the air.

  The school, a one-room, one-story rock building, was located about four blocks from the center of the small community. The student body of San Saba Colored Elementary School fluctuated between forty and fifty students.

  The school had no inside plumbing. At recess, students could quench their thirst with a drink of water from the water hydrant near the oak tree in the center of the schoolyard.

  One morning shortly after the class sessions began, one of the students was emerging from the boys’ outhouse when he noticed puffs of spiraling smoke followed by crimson yellow flames rising from the direction of our neighborhood. He ran swiftly to the classroom yelling, “Fire! Fire!”

  “Berthene, I think your house is burning!”

  The usual silent classroom erupted in chaos! Desks were overturned, paper, pencils and bookswent flying across the room, and the students were sprinting toward the door. I reached the door first and could see the blazing inferno belching crimson and golden flames from the direction of my house.

  Only two weeks before I had brought my new outfit home—my first and only new outfit—and I modeled it for the whole family. Then I folded it very neatly and put it in a makeshift suitcase, a hollowed-out portable phonograph case, and placed my treasure beneath my mother’s bed for safekeeping.

  These were the only thoughts that raced through my mind as I stumbled on the rough, rocky road leading up to my house. I bruised my knee as I fell on a big rock. All I could think about was getting home to save my new outfit. “God,” I prayed “please don’t let it be my house. But if it is, please save my outfit!”

  After an eon, it seemed, I arrived at the burning site. The towering inferno had swooped over and lapped at the dried brush surrounding our house. The house itself was engulfed in flames. Someone cried out, “Berthene, don’t go near there! Berthene, Berthene!” I tried to enter the house, but the smoke and the flames were too fierce. There was no way that the volunteer fire department could have reached the burning site in time. There was no running water to supply a fire hose. I stood hopelessly by as the raging inferno tore out every semblance of the former home. The flames were licking more and more at the dried underbrush. Neighbors were emerging with wet rough grass sacks or pieces of dripping wet blankets to fight the spreading flame. Anything that could hold water was used to prevent the fire from spreading.

  My mother arrived with terror on her face, screaming, “My children, my children! Where are my children?” It was then that I realized that I had not looked for my brother or sisters! My only thought had been the loss of my precious outfit. Hearing my mother’s voice snapped me back to reality and seeing the terror on her face made me realize there was something more important than a new outfit—the safety of my family. Suddenly I felt the same terror she did and began frantically looking for my siblings, trying to account for everyone.

  Just then a neighbor arrived with the two younger children. Another sister was sobbing uncontrollably in old Mrs. Ortha May’s arms. Bobbie June was crying and running toward our mother. The five of us stood together, hugging, sobbing and staring without speaking. Finally my mother spoke in a low, hoarse whisper, “Children, we may be down, but we are not out.”

  I heard a fireman say, “Thank God the children were in school.” I then realized how truly blessed we were.

  Neighbors came one by one to offer their condolences, some offered their services.

  The Eagles Foot Lodge sponsored a house-raising fund. A dilapidated store house was renovated into a three-bedroom house,with a kitchen with a sink and running water! Several families sent food, bedding, clothing, books and toys. The storekeeper came to the house with bundles of clothing.

  New clothes! Although I was extremely thankful for them, they weren’t what seemed to matter anymore. Thanks to caring neighbors our family’s circumstances were better than before. I was transformed. Even now, before retiring at night I bow on my knees and pray, “Lord, thank you for helping me to realize what is really important.”

  I snapped back to reality as I pulled into the town I had left behind what seemed a lifetime ago. My mother’s body had been shipped from Compton, California, to San Saba, Texas. I fulfilled my mother Hallie Mae’s desire to be laid to rest by her beloved Jabo, our dad, in the Greenwood Cemetery.

  As for me, now that I can buy the things I want, what I treasure most are those precious memories that remind me of the greatest things on Earth. Not things but the love of family.

  Berthena Kemp

  Birthdays and Blessings

  If everyone had a mom like mine, the world would be a better place. I don’t know how I got so lucky, but I’m sure glad I did. Some mothers and children slowly drift apart with time, but Mama and I have grown closer over the years. I was the baby in the family, but she was also crazy about my three older sisters and my big brother, Kenny, her only son. Mama’s love just seemed to multiply with every child she had. As tired as she must have been, she patiently tolerated my “terrible twos,” those “trying teens” and every age in between. Sure, we kids got harsh scoldings when we needed them, but I can’t remember when she wasn’t there with an endless supply of support, sage advice, encouragement and hugs.

  One day, a neighborhood carpool driver picked me up after kindergarten. When he dropped me off in front of my house, there—as always—was Mama, waiting in the open doorway. As we waved to one another, the driver took off, unaware that my coat had gotten caught in the car door. In a split second, I was thrown to the ground and dragged down the coarse cement street until the driver realized what had happened. I can still hear Mama’s helpless, blood-curdling wail— “Anesia! Noooooo!” She raced out the door and down the block after us. She scooped me into her arms, cradled me and softly cooed, “It’s gonna be okay, baby. Mama’s here.” For weeks she nursed me back to health. She tirelessly changed my bandages, spoon-fed me homemade chicken soup, helped me walk again as my broken leg healed, and sat up half the night with me when I felt scared.

  As a kid, I was sure I wanted to live with Mama forever.

  It would have been so comforting and safe, but not the “right” thing for me to do. When I was ready to venture into the world on my own, she loved me enough to let me go—even though that meant leaving her and Daddy with a very unwanted “empty nest.” Mama never had the opportunity to get a college degree, and she couldn’t have been more proud of me for following my dreams. It’s not surprising that her gentle, nurturing spirit and compassion for others helped inspire me to pursue a career in nursing. While sitting by the bedsid
e of a frightened or lonely patient, I sometimes hear Mama’s soothing words coming out of my mouth. Her ever-present influence on me always makes me smile.

  There are lots of mother-in-law jokes, but my husband felt blessed the moment he met my mom. The two quickly formed a mutual admiration society that warmed my heart. Like the rest of the family, my husband was devastated when Mama was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

  With my medical knowledge, I was keenly aware of the seriousness of her condition. Fortunately, though, Mama was still relatively young and in pretty good health otherwise. Plus, she had always been a resilient person, physically and emotionally, so we had no doubts that she would beat this challenge, too. Stoic as ever, Mama never asked, “Why me?” But that was just her character. She rarely talked about the difficulties she endured growing up as an African American female before Dr. King and others began the civil rights movement, but I knew that her very birth and early life had been far from easy. Mama didn’t dwell on the past or complain about the torment she was going through in the present. She took care of business, did what the doctors told her to do, made the best of every day, and eventually returned to work. Through it all, we never stopped praying. After that horrible scare had passed, life was finally good again.

  Shortly thereafter I received some fabulous news that I couldn’t wait to share. “Mama!” I gushed excitedly the second I saw her, “We’re going to have a baby!” Well, that announcement was better medicine than any radiation or chemotherapy in the world. Even though she already had several other grandchildren by then, Mama’s love always multiplied with each new birth. What lucky little kids to have her as a grandmother , I thought. I thanked God for creating this amazing woman because I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to experience the miracle of new life without her around. I couldn’t even imagine what motherhood would be like without her close by as my role model, my inspiration, my guide. All during my pregnancy, I told my baby how much he would love her and how much she would love him in return.