by Fannie Flagg
December 19, 1974
Dr. Diggers was somewhat surprised when Dena showed up for her second appointment. She strolled in five minutes late and flopped down in a chair.
Dr. Diggers smiled at her. “Back for me to have another crack at you?”
“Yes,” Dena said, with little enthusiasm.
“Then I will proceed with the torture.”
“You might as well. What are we supposed to talk about today?”
“Well, I would like to continue to try and get to know you a little better, find out at least about your background. Where are you from?”
“Where are you from?” Dena asked.
“Chicago. And you?”
“Me? I’m not from any place in particular.”
“Strange. That’s not my experience.”
“What do you mean?”
“It has been my experience that everybody has to be from some place.”
“I was born in San Francisco, but we moved around a lot.”
“What is your heritage?”
“My what?”
“Your heritage. Where do you come from … your roots?”
“My roots? Like the book. You mean my ancestors?”
“Yes, what was their nationality?”
“Oh, I don’t know. My father was Swedish … or Norwegian or something like that.”
“And your mother?”
“Just plain old American, I guess; she never said. Her maiden name was Chapman so I guess she’s what?—English? I don’t know.”
Dr. Diggers was always astonished at how so few people cared about their heritage. “Aren’t you curious to find out more?”
“Not really. I’m an American; that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
“Well, then. How would you describe yourself … other than as an American?”
“What?”
“How would you describe yourself?”
Dena was puzzled. “I’m a person on television.”
“No, you personally. In other words, if your job ended tomorrow, who would you be?”
“I don’t know … I would still be me. I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“OK, let’s play a little game. I want you to give me three answers to this question. Who are you?”
“I’m Dena Nordstrom, I’m blond … and …” She was having a hard time. “And I’m five foot seven. Is this another test?”
“No, it just helps give me a little better idea of your self-image. It gives me an idea about what we have to work on.”
“And did I pass or fail? I’d like to know.”
Dr. Diggers put down her pen. “It’s not a question of that. But think about how you answered. All three answers describe your image.”
“What was I supposed to say? What else is there?”
“You’re not supposed to say anything specifically. Some people say, I’m a wife, I’m a mother, I’m a daughter. In all three answers you did not connect yourself with a personal relationship—and that usually indicates you may have an identity problem. And some of our work here will be to find out why. See what I mean?”
Dena felt alarmed. Identity problem?
“It is just something to think about down the line. Right now let’s talk about your immediate problems. You say you’re not sleeping well.”
“No, I’m not. But let’s go back to the other thing. Again, I don’t want to hurt your feelings but that test or whatever it was is dead wrong. I know exactly who I am. I always knew exactly what I wanted and what I wanted to be. I already told Dr. O’Malley that once.”
“As I said, it’s not a test,” Diggers said. “It’s just a question.”
That night, when Dr. Diggers was going over her notes, she remembered the first time she had been asked, Who are you? Her answers had come immediately and without difficulty. I’m female, I’m black, I’m crippled. She wondered, after all these years if, asked again, her answers would still be the same and in that order. Dr. Diggers turned out the lights in her office and rolled down the long hall to her kitchen, where her dinner was waiting.
That night Dena picked up the phone and called her friend.
“Sookie, it’s Dena.”
“Well, hey! How are you?”
“Are you busy?”
“Nooo. I wasn’t doing a thing except flipping through my Southern Living Cookbook trying to figure out what in the world I can serve two hundred people. I could just put Earle Poole in a paper sack and throw him in the river. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing; why are you mad at Earle?”
“Oh, you don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Every year, around Christmas, I have a little holiday luncheon for all my close girlfriends around here. Just us, nothing big … just fifteen or sixteen of us. So I handed the invitations to Earle and told him to have Melba down at the office Xerox them and send them out and she sent it to everybody on our Christmas card list, including all of Earle’s patients. So Lord knows how many people will be showing up here next week.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Make a lot of cheese grits and hope for the best; what else can I do? It’s in God’s hands now. But enough about me. I hope you’re calling to tell me you’re going to get to come and spend Christmas with us this year.”
“No, it doesn’t look good. I think I’m working the whole time.”
“Oh, that’s what you said last year. Can’t you get off? The girls will be so disappointed. They are dying to meet you. Just think about those poor little things, tears running out their eyes, their little hearts broken.”
“Sookie, stop it. You’re shameless.”
“But it’s true! They watch you every time you’re on television and they even named a pet after you, Dena the hamster.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, your namesake is up there right now, running around in circles on its wheel.”
“Well, tell them I’m flattered … I think. That’s quite an honor.”
“Yes, you are officially in the Hamster Hall of Fame.”
“Listen. The reason I called is that I want to ask you a question.”
“Oh! OK … what?”
“I want you to give me three different answers to the question, all right? That’s all you can say, don’t think about it, just say the first three things that come into your mind.”
“OK.”
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
“What? Oh, don’t be silly. You know who I am.”
“No, that’s the question. Who are you?”
“Who am I?”
“Yes. Three descriptive facts.”
Sookie thought aloud. “Oh, all right … Let’s see, who am I? Who am I?”
“Don’t think about it, just answer off the top of your head.”
“Well, I have to think! I can’t just say anything.”
“Yes, you can, that’s the point. Hurry up.”
“Well, all right. I’m a Simmons on my mother’s side, a Krackenberry on Daddy’s side of the family, a Poole by marriage. I’m a Southerner. I’m a Kappa.”
“OK, stop,” Dena said.
“I’m the mother of three daughters. I’m a wife.”
“Sookie … I just need three.”
“Well, Dena, I’m more than just three things! I’m past president of the Junior Auxiliary, a past Magnolia Trail Maid—”
“It’s over, you answered the question.”
“Well, this is the silliest question I ever heard of. I have a lot more. What is this for, a program?”
“Nothing. It was just a game some people were playing.”
“Who?”
“Oh, just a bunch of people at a party. It’s a party game.”
“Did they ask you who you were?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hope you told them you were a Kappa!”
“That was the first thing I thought of, Sookie.�
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“What else did you say?”
“Oh, let’s see … I remember. I said I was a communist and a child molester.”
Sookie screamed, “You did not!”
“No.”
“You better not have. Those people up there might not know you are kidding.”
The next morning when Earle Poole came down to breakfast, Sookie sat down and stared at him. He looked at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Who are you?”
“What?”
“Who are you? Give me three answers.”
Earle put the paper down. “Look, Sookie, if this is about those invitations, I told you I am sorry.”
“No, it’s not about that, Earle. Just answer my question. Be serious, now.”
Earle sighed. “I’m a dentist … I’m a husband …”
“One more thing.”
He looked at his watch. “And I’m late!”
After Earle left, still caught up in the game, Sookie called her mother. Her mother immediately answered in a loud, booming voice, “I’m Lenore Simmons Krackenberry!”
“I need three answers, Mother.”
Her mother said, “Sookie, that is three answers!”
Neighbor Dorothy’s Christmas Show
Elmwood Springs, Missouri
December 15, 1948
Neighbor Dorothy hurried into the living room and sat down, just as the red “on-air” light went on. “Good morning, everybody, and a happy December the fifteenth to you. It’s another pretty day over here in Elmwood Springs and I hope it is just as pretty where you are. Looking out my window this morning, I can see that the temperature is a chilly thirty-eight but it’s warm and cozy inside my house. Is there anything worse than a cold house? Thank goodness Doc gets up and puts on the fire. I’ll tell you, we all pile in the kitchen like chickens on these cold mornings. It’s hard to keep the biscuits cooked fast enough.… My canary birds are so pretty and yellow they look just like two scoops of banana pudding. Well, I have a news flash. Jeannette and Nelson Eddy are expecting—no, not what you think. It’s another big hit movie, called Blossom Time, and it will be coming to the Elmwood Springs theater soon, so be sure and look for it at a theater near you.… Do you have a winter garden in your window? I tell you, nothing is prettier or cheerier on dark winter days than to see ivy in the window … a little touch of spring all year round. If you don’t have ivy, get yourself a little dirt in a pot and just drop a lemon, an orange, or grapefruit seed in it and you will have a grand little plant. However, if you are intrested in something more substantial, Victor the florist offers this advice: Fuchsias will dangle bells of many shapes and colors. Dieffenbachias’ cream-splashed leaves are good in any window and come in several sizes. Grape ivy is fairly pest resistant … likes sunlight.… English ivy needs acid soil and shade and an African violet is always a delight. So go on down and get yourself a plant today.… Let’s see … what else do I have this morning, Mother Smith?” (Mother Smith played a few strains of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”) “Oh, that’s right … Santa Claus is coming to town, and he’s going to be in the back of Morgan Brothers department store, right next to the toy department, so everybody that wants to get their picture made, or tell him what they want for Christmas, be sure to go on down. Princess Mary Margaret is going right after the show today and have her picture made with Santa, and all the members of the Princess Mary Margaret fan club will be receiving one this year.… Oh, I don’t know about you, but Christmas has just come around so fast this year; I am hardly over Thanksgiving and here it is. Isn’t time just the oddest thing? Some days I don’t know where it goes. I look up and it’s suppertime and I feel like I just finished washing the breakfast dishes.… I’ve got to start thinking about baking my gingerbread men, and gumdrop cookies for our Christmas open house … and also don’t forget we are making a mitten tree this year for all the poor children that don’t have any. I hope all of you out there will get a chance to come to our open house—we always have a big time—we have so many exciting things planned. Dixie Cahill is bringing by some of her girls to dance for us, and the handbell choir from the Methodist Church will be here, and we are so glad that they have finally gotten their E-flat bell—it makes a big difference—so you don’t want to miss that … and food, food, food, and a present for everyone. Oh … and Ernest Koonitz will be joining us with his tuba. He’ll be playing ‘Joy to the World.’ Now that’s December twentieth down at the VFW. Doc informed me that we are going to put up our tree tonight, so after the show I’ve got to climb up in the attic and pull down all the Christmas decorations … and I’m not looking forward to that, so if any of you see Bobby, tell him I said to come straight home after school. I need him to help me.
“Now, let’s see … I had a few facts for you.… Oh, here’s a timely one … a fun fact about the Christmas poinsettia. Poinsettias come to us all the way from Mexico. A man named Joel Robert Poinsette brought them to South Carolina and hence the name … and we are mighty glad he did. But don’t forget, they are poisonous, so don’t eat them or let your pets chew on them.…”
Late that afternoon, Dorothy, Anna Lee, and Bobby met Doc downtown at the Rexall and they all walked over and picked a tree out from the vacant lot where the Civitan Club was selling them. At home Mother Smith was popping corn and all the Christmas decorations had been dug out of the attic, the back closet, and the cedar chest in the hall and were ready to go. By ten o’clock that night, cream-colored cardboard candleholders with blue lights were in every window, and a string of red cut-paper letters that said MERRY CHRISTMAS hung over all the doors. The tree in the corner was covered with satin balls of apple green and shiny ruby red and blue ones with white frosted stripes around them, silver tinsel, strings of popcorn and colored lights, and an angel with wings at the very top. A white sheet wrapped around the bottom was ready and waiting for presents.
As usual, Dorothy was the last one up and as she stood in the dark living room, the glow of the Christmas lights looked so pretty, she didn’t have the heart to turn them off and decided to leave them on all night.
Dena Digs at Diggers
New York City
1975
Dena went back to her doctor, and her ulcer had not gotten much better but it was no worse so she promised to continue seeing Diggers. She hated to keep talking about herself but she would do anything to avoid the dreaded prescription “bed rest.”
In Dr. Diggers’s office, she sat, as usual, kicking her foot. The doctor had been waiting for her to say something and, as usual, it made Dena uncomfortable. Finally, Dena said, “All right, if you’re not going to ask me anything, I’ll analyze you. At least one of us will get something out of this.”
“We are here to talk about you.”
“Let’s don’t. Please, I’m so sick of talking about myself, thinking about myself; please, let’s talk about you for a change. Tell me all about you. You look like an interesting person.”
Diggers looked at the clock. Five more minutes left. She was not going to get anything more out of Dena today. “OK, I’ll humor you. What do you want to know?”
Dena’s eyes lit up. “Ahh, let’s see.” She rubbed her hands together. “OK, what is it like to be black?”
Diggers smiled. White people always thought that was the most important thing about her. She put her pen down. “That’s a question that has as many answers as there are black people. Each person experiences it differently.”
“Well, I don’t know any other black people. What is it like for you?”
“I do believe I’m being interviewed.”
“No, you’re not. I’m just curious. I really would like to know.”
“What do you think it’s like?”
Dena shook her finger at her. “Oh, no, you are not going to trap me, Dr. Elizabeth Diggers, M.D., Ph.D., or whatever you are. All you shrinks are alike; you always answer a question with a question. Would you rather not discuss it, or is it too sensitive an issue?”
&
nbsp; “No, of course not.”
“Have white people done terrible things to you?”
“I’ve earned my stripes. I’ve had my share of prejudice.”
Dena winced. “Oh, God, I’m sorry you had to go through that. Are you angry about it?”
“Angry? No, but I understand anger. I would say hurt more than anything. And when I say prejudice, I mean across the board. Prejudice can do terrible things to all human beings, and black people can be just as intolerant with one another as white people.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes—I’ve had to put up with it from white people and from my own people as well.”
“Really, like what? Give me an example.”
“Well, there are those who call me an Uncle Tom because I have white friends and live in a white neighborhood. Accuse me of trying to be white.” She laughed. “Me, as black as I am, there is no way I’m ever going to be white, right? Now, there are some that think I should give up my career and devote my life to helping the cause of the black man. Light blacks think I’m too black, some blacks think I talk too white; it never ends. No matter which way you turn there is always somebody at you.” She suddenly smiled. “Next I’ll be breaking into a chorus of ‘Ol’ Man River,’ won’t I? But I have a lot more problems than merely being black.”
Dena said, “You mean your—”
“That I’m in a wheelchair? Yes, but besides the fact that my patient is trying to analyze me, the fact that I’m a female in a male profession has been my biggest problem. I’ve experienced a lot more prejudice because I’m a woman than I ever have because I’m black. Don’t forget, black men got the vote in this country long before any women, black or white, and men are men, no matter what color they are. It could drive you crazy if you let it.”
“Is that why you became a psychiatrist?”
Diggers laughed and looked at the clock. “Ah-ha, saved by the bell. You’re time’s up! And good riddance. You never stop interviewing, do you?”
As Dena left, she said loud enough for Diggers’s housekeeper to hear: “You’re responding to treatment extremely well, Doctor. Just keep it up and I’m sure we will be able to get to the root of your problems. Just keep writing those dreams down. See you next week.”