by CP Patrick
As Loren walked through Bay Ridge’s main entrance, she was happy to see Amos, the security guard. He was always so friendly. He went out of his way to bring happiness to a place often filled with sadness, grief.
“How you doing today, Miss Loren?” Amos asked as he smiled. He tipped an imaginary hat.
Amos was an older African American man. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a jovial figure that reminded Loren of Santa Claus. It was hard not to return his smile.
“I’m doing great, Mr. Amos. Here to see my MeeMaw.”
“Ah, she’s doing good today. Saw her in the cafeteria this morning, causing trouble as usual.”
Amos gave Loren a wink. It always amused Loren when the elderly said full words that could be effortlessly abbreviated. Like “cafeteria.” It was so much easier to say “cafè.”
“Good to know, Mr. Amos.”
Loren took the elevator to the fourth floor and stepped out onto her grandmother’s wing. The walls were painted a pale blue. The air smelled of old people—peppermints, Bengay, and mothballs. The smell used to bother Loren when MeeMaw first moved into the building. Her MeeMaw’s home had always smelled of baked cookies.
When she was sixteen, Loren laughed hysterically when MeeMaw gave a confession. She showed Loren the Yankee Candle she lighted before guests arrived. The candle had a fresh-out-of-the-oven baked sugar cookie fragrance. But now the peppermint-mothball smell was comforting, familiar. Loren walked to room 408 and knocked on the door.
“Come in, Loren,” her MeeMaw’s voice called out.
It was 2:00 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon. MeeMaw knew it was Loren, as always.
“Can you leave the door open, darling? I want air circulating in the room.”
It was possible MeeMaw wanted fresh air, but it was equally possible she was showing off. Her beautiful granddaughter—the tall, blonde college student who played violin—was visiting her today.
Visitors were a sort of bragging right among the elderly. So few received regular visits from family. Having a visitor, especially a child or grandchild, meant you were still loved by somebody.
Loren held open MeeMaw’s door with the brown rubber doorstop. It used to be at MeeMaw’s house, holding open the backdoor while Loren ran in and out during the summer. It was worn and tattered from all of the abuse doorstops seemed to manage over the years.
Loren sighed as she sat down in one of MeeMaw’s blue wing-backed chairs. She sighed a lot whenever she visited MeeMaw.
Loud laughing echoed from the unit across the hall. Loren could see a large number of Black people gathered around an older Black woman. The old woman must be the new resident since Sister Nancy passed.
Loren missed Sister Nancy. She had often come over to have tea with Loren and MeeMaw. She had been a quiet, sweet Christian woman who prayed for Loren during final exams. Loren knew Bay Ridge was a business, but it seemed unfair another resident was already in Sister Nancy’s apartment.
The Black people were loud, much too loud. Didn’t they know they were in a senior community? Older people were trying to enjoy their final moments before they moved into a more depressing assisted living facility. Or even worse, passed away.
And Sunday was a major visiting day. It always amazed Loren how loud and inconsiderate Black people could be.
She noticed it all the time, especially outside the dining hall on campus. Black students congregated in large groups. They laughed loudly and made inappropriate comments, cursing and such. At restaurants, in movie theaters, in parks—Black people always seemed loud.
“I’m going to close the door, MeeMaw. The new family in Sister Nancy’s place is so loud.”
Loren sighed as she got up from the chair and walked toward the door. And then, under her breath, she muttered,
“Niggers.”
Loren wasn’t racist. One of her close sorority sisters, Kim, was African American. They had pledged Lamda Delta Nu their freshman year. Kim had been Loren’s first real inside peek into the lives of Black people.
Kim was one of the few of Loren’s sorority sisters who were Black (there were only two, actually). Her complexion was perfect. She always had the perfect tan (“So unfair,” Loren had lamented). Kim permed her dark brown hair so it was straight. That had been a funny conversation—Kim explaining to Loren when Black people permed their hair it was to make it straight, not curly.
But Kim wasn’t like most of the Black people Loren encountered. She had graduated from a top-rated private high school, where she excelled on the swim team. Kim was a classically-trained violinist, like Loren. Her father was a doctor, and her mother a stay-at-home wife. It was Kim who had explained to Loren the difference between niggers and Black people.
“Listen, this is going to sound strange, Loren, but Black people hate niggers too.
“Being a nigger is a state of mind, not a racial classification. It means you are ignorant, uneducated, and want less for yourself. Niggers are loud and embarrassing. I am not a nigger. And so the word doesn’t bother me, because it does not define me or anyone I know.
“I am Black. And if I must choose a racial classification, African American. Although, that is technically an incorrect classification because I am American. Born and raised in America. But I am definitely not a nigger.”
It had been an enlightening conversation. Loren asked Kim question after question about Black people, niggers, and most importantly, why most Black people didn’t seem to want more for themselves.
Loren spoke to her boyfriend at the time about the conversion. She had been fascinated to learn there was a difference within the racial classification of Black people.
“Whatever,” John had said with a laugh. “They’re all niggers!”
“Did I hear you call somebody a nigger, young lady?” MeeMaw asked.
MeeMaw was liberal and tolerant. Loren was certain MeeMaw hated the N-word. Loren’s cheeks flushed from embarrassment knowing MeeMaw had heard her.
“Yes, MeeMaw,” Loren sighed. “I did. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be racist or anything. It’s just the Black people over there are so loud. I mean, why do they have to be so loud all the time?” Loren exclaimed.
“Do you think you’re better than them, you know, because you’re not loud?” MeeMaw readjusted herself in her chair.
“No. I mean, I know everyone’s created equal in God’s eyes,” Loren began.
Her parents had drilled this into her from a young age. It was the right thing for White people to say. Even if they knew it wasn’t true.
“I’m not talking about God’s eyes,” MeeMaw interrupted.
She was always quick-witted. Old age hadn’t taken that from her.
“I’m talking about your eyes.”
Loren looked at her MeeMaw, uncertain of how to respond.
“It’s a fair question, Loren. Do you, as a White person, think you are better than them, Black people? I mean, most White people do.”
This was why Loren loved MeeMaw. She was candid and fair when passing judgment. She didn’t expect you to be a saint.
“Well, to be honest, yes, sometimes I do,” Loren said. “I know I’m like, technically not better than them. But I do feel that way sometimes.”
White privilege, Kim called it. According to Kim, Loren was lucky to be White. She was given the benefit of the doubt all the time.
“Well, you’re not,” MeeMaw laughed.
It was a mocking laugh, gentle. A way of scolding Loren that MeeMaw had mastered over the years. Her mother had never mastered it.
“I’m going to tell you a story. A story your great-grandmother told me. This is a story from slavery time.”
Loren loved whenever MeeMaw told her stories. There was always a lesson, but she made it fun and interesting. Loren settled in the chair and pulled one of MeeMaw’s knit throws around her shoulders.
“Once upon a time,” MeeMaw said. She looked at Loren and smiled.
“MeeMaw!” Loren laughed. “I’m twenty years old!”
&n
bsp; Whenever MeeMaw began one of her stories, whether truth or fiction, she started with the words “once upon a time.” The fact she still did this made Loren laugh.
When Loren got married one day and had her own children, she wanted to tell stories like MeeMaw. Loren curled into the chair and pulled the knit throw closer around her. She listened as MeeMaw began.
“So, as I was saying, once upon a time, there were two slave girls. They were purchased by the same master at the same auction. That’s how they came to know each other. They became fast friends.
“They were the same age, the same height, and they both knew how to read even though it was forbidden. And they were both beautiful. They had no family, for they were sold apart from them when they were young. And so, the two slave girls came to have each other.
“Despite all of their similarities, there was one major difference between them. One of the slave girls was a Negro, fairer than most slaves, but still clearly a Negro. She had brown skin and long dark hair and the blackest eyes you’ve ever seen.
“The other slave girl could pass for White. She had long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Freckles appeared on her face during the summertime. But she wasn’t White. She was a slave. And both slave girls dreamed of being free.
“One day, the Negro-looking slave told the White-looking slave she had an idea. The White slave looked so White, she should run off and be free. The Negro slave would hate to see her go, but at least one of them would live a life of freedom. And when the White slave grew to become a woman, she could buy her friend and free her from a life of slavery.
“It was a dangerous plan. But the more they talked about it, the more it seemed like a foolproof idea. If the White slave got caught, she could say she was White. That she had never been a slave. So one day, the White slave girl ran off. And she never saw her Negro slave best friend again.
“The White slave made it safely to another state. She began adjusting to pretending to be White. It broke her heart to see how White people treated slaves and the things they said about Negroes. But she had to pretend to be White so her secret would never be discovered. She took up a job as a seamstress and began to live her life being free.
“Little did she know, her master began a search. She was his property. He had purchased her fair and square. He even had his proof of purchase.
“Word came to the town she was in that a master was looking for his slave who looked White. She became afraid. She ran to the authorities and asked for protection. She remembered the plan her Negro slave friend had concocted, and she began to tell her story.
“She told the authorities she was never meant to be a slave. That she had been stolen from her parents who were as White and Christian as everyone else in the town. She cried tears that made the White people have sympathy for her.
“How horrid this poor little White girl had lived a single day in slavery. But her master was insistent. She was not White.
“The matter became so hotly contested, it went before the highest court in the land. The judge called in experts and local citizens. They heard testimony from anyone who wished to be a witness to attest to the slave girl being White.
“‘Look at how blonde her hair is,’ one man stated.
“‘And her hair is so straight, nary a curl,’ another woman testified.
““Her skin is white and pure as snow,’” one witness argued.
“‘The freckles on her face are more plentiful than my own,’” another offered.
“More and more people gave their sworn testimony. The slave girl must be White. You could tell by looking at her. So the slave girl was deemed White. And she was allowed to live a life of freedom. And she never did return to purchase her best friend.”
“That’s awful, MeeMaw,” Loren exclaimed. “Why didn’t she return to get her friend? She wouldn’t have been free if it wasn’t for her friend.”
“That’s true. No one but the White slave knows the real reason why. But they say her Negro best friend was so heartbroken, that every time it storms, those are her tears.”
“So what happened to the White slave?” Loren asked. “You know, once the court ruled that she was White?”
“It is quite interesting,” MeeMaw began.
“Although she hated the idea of it, she married the Whitest man she could find. She bore him several White children. She told only one of her daughters the secret and to keep the matter discreet. Each generation was allowed to tell only one child so the story wouldn’t be forgotten and they could remember their good fortune.
“They looked White. They would pass for White. But there, forever in their ancestry and blood, was the lineage of a Negro slave girl who had lied to earn her freedom.
“I believe the White slave girl’s name was Alexina Morrison. You should look up the case when you get the time. Might find out something about yourself.”
MeeMaw smiled and closed her eyes. Loren didn’t need to do any research. She already knew. If there was one thing her mother was adamant about, it was keeping her maiden name.
“One does not simply give up every part of themselves when they become married,” she would explain at dinner parties, after one too many glasses of wine. “My name means something, and I’ll be damned if I throw it away to become someone’s Missus.”
Her father would cower.
She often reminded Loren, “Your name isn’t Loren Alexina Morrison for nothing. Your grandmother named you. It’s a name to be proud of.”
27
Box of truth
St. John the Baptist Parish, LA (1992)
Hurricane Andrew had not been kind to our neighborhood. Trees littered the ground, branches and leaves strewn about like confetti after a party. Peoples’ lives lay about in wet piles—papers, articles of clothing, and old shoes. Seemed like all the storm entered every house on the street, went inside and tossed everything outside, like a scorned lover discarding of memories. Every house but ours.
“You got my box?” Granny asked. She sat upright in her wheelchair, the female matriarch of our family.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
Of course I had it. It was all we had.
“Put it in my hands. Let me feel it.”
Granny had to feel it because she sure couldn’t see it. Her once brown eyes that watched over me when I was a boy were now blue-grey and blind. It didn’t matter she couldn’t see, though. Granny knew everything that was in the box just by touching it, or holding an article up to her nose so she could smell it. I put the large brown box in her hands, and she smiled.
“Yes, there’s my box.”
The box had been in our family for generations. It was always the matriarch’s job to put items inside that tell the story of our family—newspaper clippings, letters, and such. Dated back for generations, started by a lady named Celestine Lindor.
“What’s the streets looking like?” Granny asked. But she answered herself before any of us could respond. “I already know. Things looking bad. Real bad, ain’t it.” It wasn’t a question.
“Bad” didn’t seem like the right word. Things looked bleak, troublesome, and desolate. Horrible. Hurricane Andrew devastated the parish, torn down our street, and ripped apart the homes and lives of everyone who resided there. Well, everyone but us.
Granny’s house was untouched. Not a scratch or broken window. We had all decided to gather in her home for the storm because one, we couldn’t all get out of town together, and two, if we were going to die, we wanted to die together as a family.
“There go Miss Mary’s dog!” Abby yelled. The mutt walked down the street looking as dazed as everyone else, combing through the items. His owner was nowhere in sight. “I’m fixin’ to get him.” And before anyone could stop her, Abby was out the door.
For such a young girl, Abby seemed unmoved by the damage of the hurricane. She had sat patiently while the winds howled and shook the house, rattling the wooden boards that covered the windows. We could hear articles that hadn’t been
secured flying up against the outside of the house. Sounded like an army of people knocking, begging to come in and out of the storm.
The lights had flickered, and then, we lost power and lit candles. And even in the darkness, Abby had sat with her legs crossed, looking and listening. And now she had run outside, a few hours after the destruction, barefoot and unafraid, chasing after an old mutt. Kids.
The adults—we were affected. Granny’s house had withstood the storm, but judging by the looks of things outside, there wasn’t much likelihood the rest of us would be as lucky. Not that we had much, but what we had was ours. I wondered what was left.
“We one of the few standing, ain’t we,” Granny said.
As usual, she didn’t need her eyes to see. She could hear the destruction, feel the sadness in the air. As more of our neighbors came outside, cries began to fill the eerie quiet that exists after such a storm.
“I know why we was saved. It’s this box here,” Granny said. “They didn’t want nothing to happen to it.” She stroked the wooden box lovingly.
Toni began to grunt, Michael rolled his eyes, and his wife stood by his side looking annoyed. I knew what they were thinking.
Crazy old lady.
I said nothing. I was used to her references and admiration of them. “They” meant the dead. And that usually was the buzz word to leave Granny alone.
Everyone found a reason to conveniently leave the living room. Toni went into the kitchen to grab a bite to eat. And suddenly, Michael had to go to the bathroom, and his wife went to check on the children. In a matter of seconds, it was me and Granny. And the box.
“Never understand your generation. Don’t know nothing ’cause they don’t want to know nothing. That why I’m gon’ leave the box to you when it’s time.”
Seemed like the burden of the box was already mine. She’d been telling me that for years.