Chicken Soup for the African American Soul

by Jack Canfield

  “I’m gonna teach you my secret fried chicken recipe,” she whispered. “Now pay attention.”

  I couldn’t believe as I watched Mrs. Spark mix eggs with Carnation milk, sprinkle her secret seasoning, beat the mixture, precisely dip each piece and drop it in a bag— filled with flour.

  “There ain’t nothing to soothe the soul like fried chicken and collard greens,” she chuckled. “You try.”

  With each piece I felt a weight lift from my hands, to my arms and all the way through my body. As I finished, I looked at my brothers howling about game scores, and my sisters laughing like schoolgirls with strangers around a table.

  I suddenly realized the truth in Mrs. Spark’s words, and my heart felt lighter.

  Our souls were healing from our loss. The balm was simple and well-loved: fried chicken and collard greens.

  Thyonne Gordon

  Rusty Feet

  That best portion of a good man’s life: his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.

  William Wordsworth

  Kneeling here on my forty-one-year-old knees holding a crusty, dry, rusty unkempt foot in my towel-draped lap. Slowly and gently rubbing off the foot scrapings and thinking how gross all this is. Trying not to get any of the stuff I’m scraping off on my new sweater. Feet turning colors from lack of circulation and swollen because his kidneys aren’t properly functioning. I look up at the teakwood face covered with wiry silver hair, and he grimaces at me.

  “A little more gently, okay, but that feels good.”

  “Can you lift up your foot a little?” I watch him strain fruitlessly, until I finally just shift and pull his foot higher and try not to hurt him any more than he must be hurting.

  A little moan. He cuts off.

  “Your feet look awful,” I whine, but keep scraping because somewhere under the crud I see the strong, supple toes and arches that leapt and lumbered on the cement in the backyard, schooling me in how to play basketball, and running up the hill to shoot me down the toboggan run just one more time on frigid, snow-covered slopes.

  These are the feet that trudged through woods for the ultimate camping experience (in spite of his snake phobia) and through countless museums for the ultimate cultural experience. The feet that jumped the fence to catch the stupid dog that kept leaping it and running away. The feet that chased the mouse out of the house so I could get down off the counter. The feet that chased the ice cream man for a block to stop—so I could get that Strawberry Shortcake bar—and then took me to the supermarket to get a whole pack of Strawberry Shortcakes where they were cheaper.

  I see the feet connected to the legs connected to the hips, chest and shoulders that carried me to my first Jackson Five concert. And let me sit there and jump up and down and scream onto the connected head that holds the ears that listened to all of my deepest fears and hopes and prayers and tried to make the most important ones come true.

  The feet that walked into my room when I started my period and stamped impatiently for me to get up out of bed and get on with life because every other woman has a period, too. The feet that taught me how to bop, foxtrot, waltz and square dance, and then learned all the latest dances so they wouldn’t shame me at the dance I forced him to attend with me. The feet that stampeded in panic into the hospital and skidded to the gurney in relief when I stopped a Cadillac with my body.

  I put the foot on my lap into the waiting soapy hot water, to soak off the most recalcitrant gunk, and take out the other foot. I massage each toe individually as he pants with discomfort.

  “Don’t rub there. It hurts,” he breathes when I get to his instep.

  “There?” I touch the spot.

  “There,” he grits, and rolls his eyes at me. I keep scrubbing away.

  “You have to take better care of yourself, you know.”

  He gives me a long look and sighs, “Yeah, you’re right. I talked to the Lord and told him that I will do right from now on.”

  My eyes mist over and I lower them to the foot in my lap because that mouth has never said anything about talking to the Lord before in my hearing. He must be feeling worse than I know. I quash the thought. No negative thinking, I tell myself sternly and rub a spot on his sole with a little more vigor.

  “You need to see a podiatrist. What happened to this toe?” I point to the blackened big toe with my pumice stone. He opens his mouth to tell me but I don’t pause, “This is nasty. You have to take better care of your feet. You have to walk on them for the rest of your life, you know.”

  I’m fussing and I know I’m nagging, but I keep scraping and wiping and rubbing.

  “Got that playing basketball,” he smiles, reminiscing. “Some kid stepped on it when she came down from a rebound.”

  I finish the second foot and take the first one out of the water.

  “I’m tired now.” Weariness is on his face, so I dry off both feet and coat them in Vaseline because they are so dry from medication and neglect.

  “They feel much better,” he smiles. “Thanks.”

  I rise from the floor, knees creaking. He’s cold so I wrestle him into a fleece sweater because he is too weak to do it himself. I help him lay on the bed and pick up his swollen feet and elevate them on some pillows.

  I cover him up and he says, “It’s interesting.”

  “What?”

  “How the circle continues.” He eyes me wistfully. “I used to take care of you, and now you’re taking care of me. It was kind of fun, you know?”

  I look down at the foot tub brimming with cloudy water, filled with the layers of our life together. I look back at his face.

  “Yes, Dad,” I smile for the first time. “It was.” I lean down and kiss his face as his eyes drift closed for a nap.

  Landis Mayers Lain

  Walking to Wisdom

  Grammy woke me with unfortunate news. Her speedometer was broken, and she needed to take the car to a nearby repair shop—understandable. She wanted me to accompany her—unforgivable. It meant the ruin of a precious carefree summer day. As I hurried to get ready I thought, No fourteen-year-old should be subjected to such cruel and unsuspecting punishment. I knew that resistance was futile, and my only hope was for a speedy on-site repair so I could resume my sleep.

  While Grammy inched along New Orleans’ streets, she played her favorite oldies on the AM radio dial. Sweat beaded my body in the sauna of the car. No one spoke. At the shop, Grammy spoke to a mechanic while I slouched at the entrance, attempting to neutralize my irritation.

  Everything about this place was filthy, most notably the stench of toxic liquids and a handful of greasy mechanics. The atmosphere was more akin to demolition than repair. More good news: the car would not be ready until tomorrow so we would have to rely on public transportation to return home. My day was deteriorating by the minute.

  We made our way to the nearest bus stop. The area was void of shade. Once a mosquito entourage flew our way it was impossible to remain still. My intuition told me that the longer we wait for a bus to arrive, the longer it will take for a bus to arrive. Minutes later, Grammy announced, “Let’s walk home.”

  It was roughly a three-mile journey, up a one-way road, back home. En route were a handful of bus stops at various intervals, meaning that if a bus appeared and we were, by chance, near a bus stop, we could hop onboard. I didn’t have much hope.

  In typical teenage fashion, all of my upsetting thoughts were directed inward. How could Grammy sucker me into this? Why had she decided to go so early? As slow as she drives, surely she didn’t need a functioning speedometer in the first place. She could have arranged for someone to give us a ride home. Why is it so hot, why is Grammy walking so slow?

  I was drenched in sweat after five minutes of walking. I’d made a conscious effort to slow the pace of my stride to walk side-by-side with Grammy. A few cars passed, and I noticed some passengers stared. What a pathetic scene, I thought, a young black male in the prime of his teenage years slow-trotting with his Grandmo
ther along a road to nowhere. Embarrassed, I looked down and examined each step I took. The heat, the sweat and my irritation grew. There was complete silence between the two of us.

  As we continued, a brief conversation started. She asked what I was doing later that day. I asked what she was cooking for dinner. I told her a funny story about a friend and we both laughed. Other insignificant conversations came about and soon I became engrossed in the simple uniqueness of the moment. Each summer I’d stay at Grammy’s house, and each year I’d spend less time with her and more time eating, sleeping and playing with my friends, but now we were together again, enduring the same circumstances.

  Frequently I would turn my head, take a close look at Grammy and detail her entire profile. I gulped. Despite my private concern for her, she held steadfast through the heat and journey. The sun shined bright on her, illuminating the course of her life. I saw the lady born in New Orleans, 1931, in the heart of poverty and the height of Jim Crow laws. Undoubtedly the effects of the Great Depression reverberated in the city through her childhood. There were times she reminisced about the advent of television, the civil rights movement, the assassination of international and national leaders, wars, hurricanes, man’s first step on the moon, and the changing phases of music and dress style. At home she endured to keep the family and house in one piece, and had lived long enough to tell many tales of birth, coming of age and death.

  I remembered the times I’d seen her laugh and smile and the times I’d seen her break down and cry. Every step of the way, I could remember Grammy being there, and now, walking with her, each step she took reminded me of an important moment she had shared. Through all the events and circumstances that formed her life, she retained her unmistakable vitality and brightness and a rich inner beauty that was priceless.

  By the time we neared home, I had completely lost touch of the heat, my irritation and selfish shame. The moment had been wholly transformed into something of unequaled profoundness. The struggle against the adverse conditions was now a promenade down memory lane and back home, and Grammy appeared no more exhausted than I. Our chitchat continued as I walked with great pride and joy with Grammy by my side.

  Miiky Cola

  Not Gone Yet

  Life is short, and it’s up to you to make it sweet.

  Sadie Delaney

  Good grandmothers are the commodities of great childhoods. My Grandma Versie, mother of seventeen children and grandmother to more than fifty, was the center of our universe.

  During my visits “home,” I would keep Grandma Versie company as she made breakfast for the twenty folks sleeping there. I pulled up a stool and watched as she rolled out dough for biscuits, stoked the fireplace for cooking and traipsed to the well for water for our coffee. She took her coffee black with a hint of milk. I took my milk with a hint of coffee. She moved carefully around the kitchen, dropping pearls of wisdom that fell on my preoccupied five-year-old ears. Instead, I wanted so badly to tell her everything I knew, to teach her as much as she was teaching me.

  As we both grew older, our together time switched to early afternoon. We slept in later and she was forced out of the kitchen to “rest.” We sat by the fireplace in the living room of her new, less spacious, ranch-style home. With my head cradled in her lap, the same hands that kneaded dough now kneaded through my worries. She listened as I tried to explain to her what no grown-up could ever understand: what it is like to be thirteen.

  During college, my trips to Grandma were more infrequent. We sat together in her garden. More discerning and considerate, I talked less and listened more. I asked her questions about her life, searching for a window into mine. Taking her hand, I examined her fire-red polish, while she asked me about the boys in college. I told her how beautiful and flavorful they were.

  Grandma said, “You know I was only thirteen when I married your grandfather. He was so handsome.” After an hour or two of her funny stories, I hit the clubs to hang out with my cousins.

  Once I began my career, trips back to Mississippi were event motivated. Most of the time, they coincided with the loss of aunts, uncles and cousins. Before the family left for my Aunt Grace’s funeral, I made my way to Grandma. Her polish needed touching up, so I searched out some red and I painted her nails.

  “Baby girl, you know it’s not right for a mother to bury her child.”

  Until that moment it had never occurred to me to think of what Grandma was feeling. She didn’t have anything else to say about the topic so we went on to something else. I told her about my job and the places it sent me. She shared with me how she ran away to the big city once before she got married.

  “I wanted to be a professional and work in the factories in Memphis,” Grandma said.

  Before she could get settled, her brother came for her and a little while later she married my grandfather. Her professional life consisted of helping him run his 800-acre farm. In her eyes, I could see that somehow she was living her dreams through me, through all of us, and she was proud.

  When my father called and told me not to wait too long to go home and visit Grandma, I almost shrugged it off. In my mind, Grandma was immortal. After all, she was in her nineties and looked as beautiful as she did in my childhood memories of her. Weeks led into months, and it wasn’t until she was bedridden that I felt the urgency to go see her. My cousin Demetria, who loved Grandma as much as I did, accompanied me. Upon my arrival, my youngest aunt tried to prepare me for how she looked physically: Her once 95-pound frame had dwindled to 70. Her strong facial features emerged skeletal under her thinning skin. Her voice was failing. Her eyes slowly opened after every blink.

  My grandmother was dying. Without seeing her, I ran outside wailing tears of pain, loss, regret and sorrow. All I thought was, It’s over.

  All of our talks, our private conversations, are over. Never again will I hear her comments on life. My procrastination cost me life lessons that only she could provide. Her absence will leave a void at reunions and during the holidays.

  Demetria followed me. “She’s not dead yet.” I listened intently as she continued, “Michelle, you are mourning her before she is gone. Don’t waste this time mourning her as if death has already come.”

  Her softly spoken truth resonated with me. With regained composure, I went into my grandmother’s room. I sat beside her.

  “I am going to get married, Grandma,” I chatted, trying to assure her—and me. “And I am going to have seventeen children, too.”

  She frowned with disapproval and held up three fingers and whispered, “Three is a good number. You don’t have any land for all those kids to work.”

  I was there for a few hours before my aunt brought me a can of Ensure and a baby spoon for me to feed my grandmother. I fought back tears, recalling all the times that she had made me breakfast.

  She is still here, I kept saying to myself. She is still here.

  As I put the spoon to her mouth, she beckoned me closer. I leaned toward her. “Where’s the beef?” she murmured.

  “What, Grandma?” I asked.

  “Where is the beef? I want some meat!” she said definitively.

  I fell back in my chair laughing and watched her chest bounce in silent laughter, too. Demetria was right. Grandma was still here!

  My aunt ran in the room at the noise, and I repeated the phrase Wendy’s Restaurant had made famous. My aunt looked puzzled, but when I looked at Grandma, I knew she was serious.

  “Y’all better get my grandma some beef!”

  I fed her crumbled hamburger meat and afterwards polished her nails. There was no longer anything to mourn, only a life to celebrate.

  Michelle Gipson

  3

  TRIUMPH AND

  RESILIENCE

  It doesn’t matter how many times you fall down.

  What matters is how many times you get up.

  Marian Wright Edelman

  Winners Never Quit

  It’s not a question of can you succeed; a better question is
will you succeed.

  George Johnson

  I had been swimming competitively for about five years and was ready to quit, not because I had satisfied my desire to swim, but because I felt I was horrible at it. I was often the only African American at a swim competition, and our team could not afford anything close to the great uniforms the other teams were wearing. Worst of all though, and my number-one reason for wanting to quit, was that I kept receiving “Honorable Mentions” at each competition, which simply means, “Thank you for coming. You did not even rank first, second or third, but we don’t want you to go home with nothing, so here is something to hide later.” Any athlete knows that you don’t want to have a bookshelf or a photo album full of “Honorable Mentions.” They call that the “show-up ribbon”; you get one just because you showed up.

  One hot summer day, the very day before a big swim meet, I decided to break the news to my grandma that I was quitting the swim team. On the one hand I thought it was a big deal because I was the only athlete in the family, but on the other hand, because no one ever came to see me compete, I didn’t think it would be a major issue. You have to know my grandma—she stood on tiptoe to five-feet-two-inches and weighed a maximum ninety-five pounds, but could run the entire operation of her house without ever leaving her sofa or raising her voice. As I sat next to my grandma, I assumed my usual position of laying my big head on her tiny little lap so that she could rub it.

  When I told her of my desire to quit swimming, she abruptly pushed my head off of her lap, sat me straight up facing her and said, “Baby, remember these words: ‘A quitter never wins and a winner never quits.’ Your grandmother didn’t raise no losers or quitters. You go to that swim meet tomorrow, and you swim like you are a grandchild of mine, you hear?”