Can I just say “damn”? I am totally stealing that phrase from my friend Donna. She usually asks me that when we are having difficulty matching our schedules so we can get together. Anyway, again this morning I awakened thinking about something I heard on television.
Last night Allan, having asked me about my preference of what we might watch and, receiving an “I don’t care; I’m too tired” whiney response, chose a program he enjoys. I intended to go lie down and read but was honestly just too fatigued to get up right then. So, I stayed, not realizing that just a few minutes would be costly in terms of needed rest.
Evidently a political figure had suggested that people would have been happy to have had a referendum vote during the civil rights movement, as opposed to people dying in the streets. The reaction from various Black leaders, political and otherwise, was predictable, and to my way of thinking, totally justified and appropriate. In response to the outcry the Caucasian political figure said that there had been a “misrepresentation” of what he had “implied”. I prefer straightforward, so even in my exhausted state, I wondered what he had expected. If he did not want any misunderstanding, why hadn’t he just made it clear what he was saying, rather than using implication? And furthermore, did he really believe that a referendum vote would have resulted in a Civil Rights Act? Had he not studied the Jim Crow laws? How could he not be aware that the very people about whom that referendum vote would have been called could NOT have voted? At that point I left the room. I decided gathering the physical strength to do so was far easier than trying to mentally cope with such illogical and mean-spirited talk.
My mother cleaned house until she was 77 years old. I am very proud of her for that. When I was older I would once and a while go with her and help her. I guess that, along with what I just told you about, and the fact that I wanted to read last night, explains the way I awakened this morning. I awoke wondering what it would be like if I had lived in a time when laws actually begrudged me the opportunity to learn to read. I LOVE to read. I still have my first two reading books, Tags and Twinkle and Good Times On Our Street. What follows is my imagination at work, at 5:30 AM. I imagine I am my current age, but I am not White; I am African-American…
I live in North Carolina, the place of my birth. Being only in my early sixties, I have not yet reached the age at which they say one’s long-term memory is particularly strong while the short-term memory weakens. Even if the reverse were true and our long-term memories were lost as we age, I would find it impossible to believe that would be the case for us Blacks who were growing up during racially turbulent times. How could we EVER have anything but the most vivid of memories of how we and our families were treated?
Before my family moved to Detroit where there were jobs for Blacks in the auto factories, my Mama was a maid to several White families. When school was out for the summer or for any other school vacations, she would take me with her and I would help her do the cleaning. Only one of the families treated us like we were even there. The others seemed not to know we existed. That is, unless Mama was so much as five minutes late in having lunch ready. Or there was found a speck of dust on a window sill she had dusted the day before. (It was never considered that the window had been opened during the night to make it more comfortable for the family to sleep. They must have thought the breeze entered with only refreshing, cooler air without once thinking that breeze also brought dust and dirt from the outside in.)
The family I disliked most had a daughter just about my age. I hated it when she was home on Mama’s day to work for her family. She would boss me around just like I had been hired to wait on her. I would be doing something Mama had asked me to do and she would want me to pick up the toys and books in her room before her mama got home from some luncheon. When I would look to Mama for direction she would nod ever so slightly, indicating I should go do as asked. Part of me was thrilled because she had SO many books. I was sure they were about all kinds of interesting things I would have liked to learn.
One year, just a few days after school had been let out for the summer I was at her house with Mama. I was down on my hands and knees dusting the baseboard molding when Carole, “Not the regular, plain old Carol, but Carole with an ‘e’”, told me I should come to her room with her and sort through her “dumb old” school books and all the papers that she had brought home from her desk. The papers took a long time since she wanted to save all the ones which had a grade of B, written in large, bold pen strokes. I remember thinking that she really didn’t want to keep the papers as much as she wanted me to see how smart she was. She must have thought I never received a grade that high. She probably thought I couldn't, even with hard work. I actually got straight A's. I did NOT tell her. I knew better. But I didn’t care about that anyway. What I cared about was when she instructed me to take the books out to the garbage can. Simply writing that brings back the exact feelings I had that day. Oh, how shocked and distressed I was! Besides her regular “study” books there were some story type books she had been allowed to read. Not only allowed, but encouraged, she said, by the reading teacher. Wow! We didn’t have a lot of books at my school at all. We had to hand them down each year so the next class could use them. And we would get ours from the class above us. Certainly we had no story type books. And we sure didn’t have any teacher who specialized in reading!!!
A thought occurred to me. Why couldn’t I have the books since they were going into the garbage? I knew not to ask out right. So I asked if I could possibly have the books if I earned them. I would come with Mama every day I could. And since I was the baby of the family that would make it easier on the others and maybe they could get more work. I knew Mama would let me do what this girl wanted instead of helping her, just so I could have those books. Mama wanted us kids to get an education. She said we needed to be reading and thinking about what we were reading.
I might live long enough to get dementia or Alzheimer’s. I might forget my name and my family. I might forget how to swallow. But I am convinced I will never forget that White girl’s response. She responded that, of course, I could not have those books. Wasn’t I aware of the law? Didn’t I know anything? And then she summarized a law I had not yet learned about. Had I told Mama my plan to ask for the books ahead of time, she would have told me I could not ask. But the thought of having those books for my very own was way too exciting. I forgot to check with Mama first.
Carole, “with an ‘e’”, explained that it was illegal; “against the law”; in case I didn’t know that word, for her to allow me to have those books, for any reason! I have since memorized that state law. It was similar to those of many other states. “Books shall not be interchangeable between the white and colored schools, but shall continue to be used by the race first using them.” I am sure had I known that law and pointed out that neither she nor I were actual schools, she would have said that didn’t matter; that the later part of the law made it clear that because of my race I could not have those school books. She stood at her window and watched me carry those books and toss them into that garbage pail. I am sure the thought that I might not do as told never occurred to her. I think she enjoyed putting me in my place. I am sure it was fun for her to observe my hesitancy in throwing those books in that pail! She seemed to like watching me have to do what I did not want to do. In those moments I was mad! I was mad at her. I was mad at men who made such laws. And I was mad at God for not making me White!
When I returned to her room, Carole “with an ‘e’” told me to go to the library and read books if I wanted to read so badly. Evidently I did not know, she said, that the law allowed “separate but equal” treatment for us. What use was there to tell stupid, mean, Miss Carole “with an ‘e’”, that I had no way to get to the library? Neither Mama nor Daddy could take me. They had to work. And even if they allowed my older brothers and sisters to take me, that would mean bus fare that we did not have. I now know that law also. “The state librarian is directed to fit up and maintain a separate place for the use of the colored people who may come to the library for the purpose of reading books or periodicals.” I do not know if the state librarian was expected, much less directed, to follow up with all libraries within the state to ensure that such a place was, in fact, provided us “colored”. And I have always wondered about the phrasing “for the purpose of reading books or periodicals”. The law mentions nothing about being able to check books or periodicals out of the library.
I have chosen not to investigate/study further on any part of either of these laws. I do not want to experience that same frustration and anger and hatred that I did when I had to throw those books away. I have worked hard at being guided by better motivations; motivations more positive and beneficial both to myself and to our world. In fact, I try to care about what happened to “Carole with an ‘e’” and her family. I’m still working on that. The problem is that every time I think about her, I once more become that little girl throwing away the books and asking myself why I couldn’t have been born White. Why couldn’t I have been able to go to a school that had so many books they didn’t have to be passed down from one class to the next? Why couldn’t I and my school mates at least have been allowed books that were to be thrown away? Why couldn’t I have the same exact privileges at public libraries as the White girls? All those unanswered childhood questions haunt me and aggravate me. And at this age, when I am supposed to have gained such wisdom, I still ask, “Why not me”?
Wow! Another amazing post.
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