After the energizing service, where I was touched by the choir and his delivery of the sermon, I asked Rev. Calvin if she was a mother of the church. He said, “Yes, but she’s not the one I had in mind. You asked for the oldest.”
“Yes, I know, but there’s something about Mrs. Turney. I’m going to ask if she will let me schedule an interview. Is that okay?” I asked.
“Of course. I’m sure she’ll agree.”
I introduced myself and explained my project to Mrs. Turney while dinner was being served in a dining hall. The food smelled good! They served baked chicken, macaroni and cheese, and green beans along with other vegetables and a variety of cakes and pies. A host of ushers helped Bobby make my plate. Mrs. Turney agreed to the interview, but I knew I had to do it on the spot. Dinner would have to wait. Bobby was seated at the head table talking with Rev. Calvin as Mrs. Turney and I connected.
“I know how this works,” she said. “I’ve been interviewed by several television stations. This year I was voted ‘Ms. Hot Tamale’ [an honorary title in the pageant held annually in Greenville]. You won’t need much time to talk to me.”
I wanted to tell her that, unlike TV interviewers, I prefer to take my time with an interview, but when she said she could give me about ten minutes, I didn’t mention I’d like more time. She planned to leave immediately following service. I was unprepared to interview in the sanctuary, but I grabbed my audio recorder and camera.
She started to talk and controlled the conversation, giving me an overview of her life. I appreciated the good background information, but when she let me talk, I told her I was looking for specific stories and asked specific questions: How old was she when she fell in love? Did she marry her first love?
She gave me 12 minutes. I took only a dozen photos, the least for any Jewel, but she was delightful!
Oh, I had a happy childhood. I’m the only child, the only girl grandchild for 12 years. I got all the attention from all the uncles, aunts, cousins. I didn’t know my grandfather, but my grandmother was a great force in my life. My mother was a teacher here, and then, when my father and she divorced, she married a blacksmith. I stayed with my grandmother, who always said, “Your word is your bond.” When I give you my word, that’s what I follow.
As far as my youth, I had all the attention, all the love. Happy childhood, happy adulthood, happy married life. I had Sunday clothes, play clothes, school clothes, church schools.
I was kept away from negative things. I couldn’t even listen to the blues at that time. Now they say that’s our legacy, and I go the blues festival here every year, but I was brought up not listening to the blues. I was brought up listening to classical music, hymns, church music, and when I played the piano, I practiced classical music. I could play the piano all day, but as soon as I started on “Saint Louis Blues,” I’d have to get up from the piano to put some coal in the oven or take some ashes out of the fireplace, anything, any chore that would take me away from the piano. They didn’t want me to be a part of the blues because blues represented people who were having hard times, it meant that somebody had stolen the woman or the man, you know, they were strugglin’ for some reason. I was not exposed to that.
We [my husband and I] met in school, at Sacred Heart. He was twelfth grade and I was tenth grade. He waited seven years for me. I had to finish eleventh grade, I had to finish twelfth grade, I had to have four years of college, and then after I finished college, my mother said, “Well, I think you need one year work experience.” So I had to work a year. He waited seven years. Oh yes, I knew he was the one. I guess I just had a feeling, you know. In college I was courting the dean’s son and, of course, that’s the one my mother wanted me to marry—because the one I did marry was driving a truck—but that wasn’t the one for me. His [the dean’s son’s] family wanted me to marry him, too, but my husband waited for me for seven years and we were married for 58 years, 58 happy years. He was just a kind person, very, very smart, handsome, and oh, he loved me dearly. He respected me in every way. My husband was very, very fair. He could have been considered another race. Whenever we went any place, he always had his hand around me so that everybody would know that he was with me, that I was not the maid, you know? That he was with me.
“ ‘Your word is your bond.’ When I give you my word, that’s what I follow.”
GRAM, ME, AND RICK JAMES
Mrs. Turney, raised by her grandparents, wasn’t allowed to play the blues when she played the piano growing up. They said it was music that wasn’t uplifting and symbolized hard times.
As a young girl, I had a major crush on Rick James, the king of funk. He was wild with long braids, tight jumpsuits, and always sang about drugs and wild sex. I had no idea what he was singing about, I just liked his voice and the way he looked. I was in love. When I was old enough to buy records, I saved my money to buy his album. The first album I snuck into the house was Rick James’s Street Songs. It was released in 1981. I was 11 or 12 years old. I loved the very grown-up song “Make Love to Me.” The album also included the songs “Super Freak” and “Give It to Me Baby.” You can gather what they were about just from the titles.
My grandmother heard the lyrics and took the album from me. I was crushed when she took it away. I thought she was so mean. “You never let me have any fun,” was a sentence I used a lot.
Rick had a concert in Harrisburg around that time. My older cousin Bunny went. I idolized how grown up she was. I fought with Gram for hours, trying to talk my way into going to the concert with Bunny. Gram stopped listening to me. “The answer is no. That’s the end of this.”
I’m sure I’m stomped upstairs to my third-floor bedroom. I did that often. I didn’t talk to her for days. She didn’t care.
When Gram would punish me, she would whoop me on my rear end, usually with her hand or a belt. One time she whooped me, I cried, “You’re like the evil step-grandmother of Cinderella.” She whooped me longer. I called Mom sobbing.
“What did you do?” Mom said. When I told her about the evil step-grandmother comment, Mom said, “You can’t talk to her like that.”
“Why can’t I come live with you? Why do I have to stay here? Don’t you want me?”
“Lisa, yes, I want you. I love you, but your grandparents are raising you. Be good and stop getting spanked.”
I periodically asked Mom why I wasn’t living with her, but as I reflected on these memories brought back to life because Mrs. Turney’s grandparents did not allow her to play the blues, I realized it was always when I was in trouble that I would call and beg to live with Mom.
Cousin Bunny told me Rick James threw out marijuana joints at the concert. I was doing documentary work in Kenya in 2004 when I heard he died. And yes, I cried, because when I was out of the house, old enough to buy—and keep—my own music, I had bought every Rick James song I wanted.
MS. RENA BUTLER, 72
CLARKSDALE
BORN FEBRUARY 1943
SINGLE
1 DAUGHTER
Ms. Butler sounds cheerful, enthusiastic, youthful on the phone. I am relieved. Some church mothers I’ve talked to by phone are hesitant to talk to me, and rightly so. When I tell Mrs. Overton, another mother in the book, that I’ve added Ms. Butler, she joyfully says, “She’ll be a good interview. She’s a dear friend of mine.”
Ms. Butler agrees to meet me during her lunch hour. She is a bailiff at Coahoma County Circuit Court in Clarksdale. She retired as an educator after 42 years, but a judge asked her to become a bailiff. “Do you have a college degree in law enforcement?” I ask, confused.
“No, I got my bachelor’s degree in business from University of Kansas and my master’s in elementary education from Mississippi State University. I know a judge, who told me I would make a good bailiff. So when I retired, I started this career.”
Our plan was for Ms. Butler to come home during her lunch hour to meet me, and I worried I wouldn’t be able to get specific stories in under an hour. My experience was th
at it takes longer; I have to explain the project and show the Jewels photos of other mothers. They like to compare one another’s clothes and hats.
Ms. Butler greets me at the front door with a big smile and she’s eager to share stories. She isn’t guarded, which thrills me. Running around her feet is her beloved dog, Max. She caters to this spoiled little white dog. I can tell they are buddies. As she talks to me, Max is pawing at her legs. She picks him up and holds him as she answers my questions. Then she does something unexpected. She corrects me when I keep calling her Mrs. Butler. “Ms. Butler. I’ve never been married,” she says, sharing with me that she never planned to get pregnant in high school, but she did.
When I graduated from high school, I became pregnant with my daughter, Sharon. I was totally hurt when I got pregnant. I said, “How am I going to finish my education?” I wanted to get an education because my desire was to become a teacher. At that point I didn’t want to have any children. I was torn with the idea of being pregnant. I wanted to commit suicide. I wanted to jump into Desoto Lake.
A mother of a high school friend, Mrs. Christine Colburn, would take me fishing to relax my mind. I told her I wanted to commit suicide: “You know, I don’t want to have this baby, it’s gonna cause me to not get an education and everything.” As we would talk about fishing, she would talk about how dangerous the water was. She said, “You cannot kill yourself because you’re pregnant.” I said, “Okay.” I thought about it and I thought about it. I came home and prayed about it.
I ended up going to Coahoma County Community College. Once they found out I was pregnant, the dean told me that I had to go home. So I went home. I had Sharon. Then I had to take a job. My family, we were poor. I went to work when my daughter was just about 3 or 4 months old. I took a job at a manufacturing company; I was on the night shift. There were three young ladies; we all had babies. We made heaters to be shipped overseas. We would walk home every night after 11 p.m.
One of the most hurting things, what really got me on that job—and I needed the job—is that the old man who owned the company called me into the office one night and said, “Oh, you a pretty, young black woman. I heard you had a baby that’s just been born.” I said, “Yes, I do have a baby.” He said, “Well, one thing I wanna know is where is that nigger that got you pregnant?” I said, “Well, I don’t know where that nigger is, but I need this job. I need to work to help my mother with expenses and help take care of my daughter.” I was so hurt. Tears formed in my eyes but I had to fight it back ’cause I didn’t want him to know he hurt my feelings, because he was racist. He was very much racist. I didn’t want him to know I was very hurt by what he said.
When they first integrated the schools, it was a horrible experience for me. I was attending the classes and I worked very hard in the classes and did everything the teacher would ask me to do, but I couldn’t make anything but a D or an F. I stayed at Delta State for one year. And I will never forget that one year. It snowed, and as we walked across the campus, the white children would call us little black specks in the snow. I said, “I’m getting out of this place!” I decided to ask my father if he would help me with my education. My daughter and I moved to Kansas City, Kansas, and I received my degree from the University of Kansas. Once I got there, I had to stay at the university for almost a whole year on probation before they let me in. I didn’t have anything but D’s and F’s on my transcript for that year I was at Delta State. I was very excited when they told me I was going to be entering as a regular student, because I worked very hard so I could get that probation stuff off my record. I finished at the University of Kansas with a degree in business and a minor in business administration.
MRS. IVEY B. ANDERSON, 73
MOUND BAYOU
BORN JANUARY 1942
MARRIED, 21 YEARS, TO DAVID ANDERSON
3 BIRTH CHILDREN, 3 STEPCHILDREN
15 GRANDCHILDREN
10 GREAT-GRANDS
When I was growing up on the plantation, we had to pick cotton and chop cotton. And there was one occasion there when we had been in the field all day long, one extremely hot summer day. It was one of those days that they say you can see the little monkeys in the air. It was so hot. There were times when the heat gets so hot out there that there are little figures that you can see in the air when you lookin’ in the heat. And we called them heat monkeys. It comes from the heat from above, meeting the heat below, and it just makes a little design in the air.
There was a great big ole shade tree we had in our yard. I had been workin’ that day and I looked up and one of our dogs was layin’ under that tree. And that dog had just sprawled out, bottom uppers, enjoyin’ that shade. I looked over there and I stopped what I was doin’—I was choppin’ cotton—I stopped and I stood up the end of my hoe and just looked up under there in that shade tree.
My mother said, “What is wrong?”
I said, “I wish I was that dog.”
She said, “What?!”
I said, “I wish I was that dog.”
She said, “Why?”
I said, “So I wouldn’t have to be here choppin’ this cotton. It’s too hot to be out here.”
My kids [when I tell them that story] ask me, “Momma, why did you want to be a dog?” I said, “Well, that dog didn’t have to work as hard as I was workin’ in that hot sun.” My mother said, “Well, you won’t have to do all of this if you get an education. Just do your best and get an education and then you can write your own ticket.”
When I fell in love initially, it was with my high school sweetheart. He was handsome. He was an outgoing person, fun loving. I lived on one end of the highway to Alcorn College and he lived on the other end. Occasionally he would ride a horse and come down to the house. He would take me riding on the horse, and that was always so much fun. He was the type of person who was considerate. He was popular, and he chose me over the rest of them, which was a plus in my book. I didn’t say I chose him because when I was growing up, I kinda felt a little less than other people. I felt like I was ugly and that nobody cared a lot about me except my parents. My sister was older than I am and was much prettier than me, and it seemed like she always got all of the attention from other people. Now, my parents didn’t make a difference, but I had an uncle who would always talk about how ugly I was. That kinda affected my self-esteem as a child so I kinda become a loner. A little withdrawn. My first love kinda saw through that and reached out to me. He made a difference in my life.
GRAM MARRIED AT 17
Gram’s old-fashioned ways about dating cramped my style. She frustrated me. Everything I wanted to do was a battle. At age 15, I started bugging her to let me date. Ms. Butler’s struggles and pain as an unwed teen mother, although she was ultimately triumphant, would have been common in the world as Gram knew it.
I tried to impress her by being more responsible. I did my chores without having to be asked, dusted the furniture and tables, took out the trash. I even stopped talking back. She wasn’t impressed. We continued to argue about boys for two more years. I yelled, sighed, rolled my eyes, and stomped away. I liked to stomp up the stairs when I didn’t get my way. I wanted to wear blush, blue eyeliner, shadow, mascara, and red lip gloss. I was not allowed to wear any of it.
My best friends had boyfriends, were wearing makeup and kitten heels with skirts. I was still wearing holey jeans, argyle socks, and pink Dexter boat shoes.
Then I find out she was married by the time she was 17. I am mad! “You were married at 17. I just want to go out on a date!” I tried to manipulate her, by coaxing her into remembering the good old days when she was young and in love.
She cocked her eyebrows and looked at me sideways. “We aren’t talking about me, we’re talking about you. Times are different.” My grandparents were not going to let me date before my eighteenth birthday.
I was livid. Gram didn’t care that I was livid. All I wanted was a boy to come knock on the door and ask for me. I’d snuck and had my first kiss at 15 with t
he cutest white boy in school. He walked me home from school one day, put his arms around me, and put his tongue in my mouth. It scared me, but I had my kiss. I wanted a full-fledged date. I didn’t have a boyfriend, but I wanted romance. I’m sure Gram was worried I wouldn’t go to college and make something with my life. She liked that photography kept me busy after school, she was fine with it as an after-school hobby, but she did not approve of it as a career choice—even when I got a scholarship to study photography. My idea of making it was becoming a war photographer, having a boyfriend, and owning a German shepherd as a pet. No one really talked to me about dating. Gram was firm—leave boys alone. Which I didn’t.
“Lisa, your body is going to be changing,” Mom said, “and we have to discuss it.” It was awkward for both of us.
I liked a boy once and told Gram, “He’s so quiet. He’s a good guy. You’d like him.”
“It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for,” was her response.
One day Gram sat me down. ”Yes, I was married at 17, but I’d finished high school in South Carolina and was done with school,” she said. “I was grown. I was getting married. Lisa, focus on school. Get an education. Boys will always be there.”
Uninterested in where the conversation was going, I did not listen to her. But later that school year, I try again from a different angle. “How did you meet Pop-Pop?”
She told me she was from Spartanburg, South Carolina, and Pop was from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. “Gram Marie moved up North to find a better job, a better life. Aunt Tiny and I stayed down South to finish school.” Gram Marie is her mother, my great-grandmother, Marie Aiken. I called her Gram Ree. She worked as a maid for a white family in Pennsylvania after she moved from South Carolina. Gram and Aunt Tiny would ride the train to Pennsylvania to see their mother. Gram said they would pack chicken and cornbread, or if they didn’t have cornbread, they would take cake. Gram used to eat chicken and cake together all the time, out of habit. During the summer months she would visit Pennsylvania, and she met my grandfather. She “caught his eye,” he said.
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