Betty Before X

by Ilyasah Shabazz

  Mrs. Peck says, “We’re so glad you girls have joined the junior league. Mrs. Malloy and I see a lot of potential in you. You young folks are being prepared to take the baton from us old folks and be the leaders of tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Malloy says, “Today, we are going to show you what leadership looks like. When you see something happening that you think is wrong, you do something good about it to make it right. That’s what we’re doing today. Do you understand, ladies?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Suesetta and I say together. We laugh and do a pinkie swear because we answered at the same time.

  We’ve been walking all morning in Paradise Valley, where most of the black-owned businesses, restaurants, and nightclubs are. We go house to house, talking to the woman of the home. Mrs. Malloy and Mrs. Peck are good at what they do. They take turns leading the conversation. Soon it will be our turn. I study them—how they introduce themselves, how they make eye contact. I notice how they don’t go on talking about the League right away. First they ask the woman how she is, find out some of the things she enjoys doing. They do a whole lot of listening before they talk. And once they begin talking, they fill in each other’s sentences. While one is handing out a coupon, the other is getting the membership form ready.

  Already, seven women have signed up today. Only one person closed the door in our faces. And there was one house, the one we just left, that wouldn’t answer the door even though we could see someone peeking around the curtain.

  I watch Mrs. Malloy and Mrs. Peck and take it all in, wondering if Suesetta and I will be like the two of them when we get older.

  We leave the blocks where all the houses are and walk along Saint Antoine Street, where the businesses are. The whole street is stacked with buildings that have signs advertising famous singers and jazz bands like Sarah Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald, Cab Calloway, and Duke Ellington.

  We pass a nightclub with a sign that says BILLY ECKSTINE, THIS SATURDAY AT 7 P.M. Oh, how I wish I could go. Wish I could hear his voice in real life instead of just on spinning vinyl. But I know that will never happen. At least not till I’m older and can get into a place like that on my own.

  We walk over to Black Bottom, where people are going about their day. As we make our way to the next block that we’ll be canvassing, people wave, or nod and say hello. Mrs. Malloy says, “It’s a shame all of these people are crowded into these blocks. The rent is too high and the space is too small.”

  “Indeed it is,” Mrs. Peck says. “A lady contacted me just yesterday asking that I reach out to the Department of Public Works because they aren’t coming here to shovel the snow off the streets as often as they do other parts of town.”

  And when she says other I know she means the white part of town. But Mrs. Peck and Mrs. Malloy talk in code, as if Suesetta and I don’t know who they’re talking about. I hear them sometimes, talking in the kitchen, when I am in my room. They wait until I close the door and they think I can’t hear them. But I know how they talk and pray and sometimes cry about the way some white folks mistreat us. How even though this is the North and it’s not supposed to be like the South, it still has its hate, its prejudice, its inequality. Mrs. Malloy says Negro people came here to escape lynching and inhumane treatment. They came looking for better-paying jobs and peace of mind.

  I think about this as we walk down the street on our way to the next block. How so many people came to Detroit to start their lives over, like me. They came searching, like me. And they found Adams Avenue and Saint Antoine Street. They found Negro teachers, doctors, dentists, and business owners. They found the smell of new paint for a grand opening, dinner specials being simmered, sautéed, baked, or fried. Found the glamour of a press and curl, a slender skirt, and crisp white gloves. Found the sound of soulful music echoing from churches, parlors, or someone’s living room window.

  But that’s not all they found. I hear Mrs. Malloy say, “Negroes might not be hanging from trees here, but there is still sorrow and injustice.”

  Mrs. Peck nods like she does at church.

  Mrs. Malloy keeps talking. “But despite it all, we must find the good and praise it.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Peck says.

  They make it seem so easy, but for me, finding the good is sometimes hard and I worry that no matter how much good we find, there will always be more bad. I try not to have any negative thoughts about white people or fear how much worse it could get for Negroes. I try to focus on good things, I do. But I can’t help but worry sometimes, and there’s no telling Worry what to do. Worry is stubborn—she won’t leave me alone.

  We turn off the busy street onto a block where people live. The clouds shift and the sky fades to light gray. Mrs. Malloy pulls her shawl closer to her chest.

  It’s our turn to do the talking now. Suesetta goes first. We step onto the porch of the next house, ring the doorbell. A young woman comes to the door.

  “Hello, ma’am, my name is Suesetta. I’m here today to gain your support and help make a difference in our community.” Suesetta takes a breath and says, “We ask that you not buy where you can’t be hired.”

  I can hear children in the background, one crying and the other screaming. The woman turns away from us, yells, “Edward—give him back his choo choo train!” And then the crying stops. “I apologize,” she says.

  “Um, that’s okay,” Suesetta says. She looks at Mrs. Peck and Mrs. Malloy, who are standing behind us, close enough to help out if we need it but far enough to let us feel like we’re doing this on our own.

  We were taught to first ask the woman if we can come in, but before Suesetta says this part, Mrs. Malloy whispers, “It’s okay, Suesetta. She’s busy right now.”

  The woman asks us to come in anyway. “Oh, no, I’m a big supporter of the work you all are doing. Come on in, please,” she says.

  We step into her house and sit on the sofa. She tells her children to go to their room, and once they close the bedroom door, the house gets quieter.

  “Thank you for stopping by. I was just telling my mother-in-law that I would like to become a member of the Housewives’ League, and here you are.”

  “Who’s your mother-in-law?” Mrs. Peck asks.

  “Marietta Haines,” the woman says. “Oh, and I’m Ruth.” She shakes our hands.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ruth,” Mrs. Malloy says. “I think I know Mrs. Haines. She joined us around a month ago. Lives about three blocks from here and goes to Mount Sinai Church, yes?”

  “Yes, ma’am, she does,” Mrs. Ruth says.

  They talk a bit about Mrs. Haines and I’m sitting here thinking, Who doesn’t Mrs. Malloy know? Mrs. Malloy gives Suesetta the look that says, Go on with the pitch, so Suesetta clears her throat and says, “Mrs. Ruth, we’d like to share some good news with you.”

  “Well, isn’t this sweet,” she says. “Go right ahead, please, you have my undivided attention.” Mrs. Ruth smiles at Mrs. Malloy and sits down in a chair across from the sofa.

  “Well,” Suesetta says, “the Detroit Housewives’ League has helped to create seventy thousand jobs for Negro men and women.”

  “Yes, and I am proud to say, young ladies, that my husband is one of the men hired after you all shut that meatpacking industry down.”

  Neither Suesetta nor I has any idea what she’s talking about and I think she realizes this, so she tells us the story. “In 1935, Negro housewives got together and boycotted the meatpacking industry because they refused to hire Negroes. The goal of the Housewives’ League was to force the general stores in the city to hire colored folk. If the store owners thought our money was good enough to take for purchasing their products, then certainly our people were good enough to hire. Am I right?”

  Suesetta and I both say, “Yes, ma’am.”

  She says, “It is the work of the Housewives’ League that helped to get my husband hired. And it was a blessing to our family.”

  All day long we have been collecting stories from strangers telling us how
much they appreciate Mrs. Peck, Mrs. Malloy, and the work of all the women in the Housewives’ League. Suesetta says, “Ma’am, here is a membership form for you to complete.” After Mrs. Ruth is finished filling out her form, we say our goodbyes. Her sons run out of their room chasing each other, the same one crying again because his brother won’t share the choo choo train.

  “We’ll let you get back to your family,” Mrs. Malloy says with a smile, glancing at the young boys as they whiz by.

  When we step outside, Suesetta hands me the bundle of membership forms and coupons. “You’re next,” she says.

  I’d known my turn was coming sooner or later, but going next makes me think twice about doing this. When we get to the next house, I ring the doorbell but no one answers, so we just leave a coupon and keep going. At the next home, a dog starts barking so loud when we approach the gate that all of us freeze. He runs back and forth, growling at us.

  Mrs. Peck says, “Let’s go to the next block, ladies.”

  And I’m relieved because Phyllis lives on the next block, right on the corner. She might not think the Housewives’ League is any fun, but she’s not going to shut the door in my face.

  I knock and it takes a while, but finally the door opens. “Hi, Phyllis!”

  “Hi, Betty.” Phyllis looks at me, then looks past me and sees I’m not alone. She says hello to everyone.

  “Is your momma home?” I ask.

  “Um, well, she might be busy,” Phyllis says.

  “We won’t be long. Just want to give her a coupon.”

  Phyllis lets us in and disappears for a moment, then comes back. “She’s coming,” she tells us. We sit in her living room and wait for her mother to join us. There is one small sofa against the windowsill. On both sides of the sofa, there are armchairs draped in throw blankets and a worn coffee table is in the middle. I can smell dinner cooking and realize we’ve been out canvassing all day and I’m getting hungry.

  “Are we getting together after church tomorrow?” Phyllis asks, looking at Suesetta.

  “Only if you bring your Billy Eckstine record again,” Suesetta says. “And we can listen to the new one my momma bought me—Duke Ellington.”

  Just then, Mrs. Boyd walks in. She takes one look at Mrs. Malloy, then looks at Phyllis with her hand on her hip. “I’ve told you about letting people in without getting my permission, child.”

  “But it’s Mrs. Malloy and Mrs. Peck.”

  “Hi, Helen. Hello, Fannie,” Mrs. Boyd says. “With all due respect, I’ve told you on several occasions that I am not interested in your highfalutin boycott or whatever fancy pamphlet you’re pushing this time.”

  “Now, Mrs. Boyd, let the girls have their say,” Mrs. Peck says with a smile but irritation in her voice.

  Mrs. Boyd looks at me. “Yes, dear, I know. You don’t want me to buy where folk that look like me can’t work, right? Well, guess what—Sears has a sale going on right now. So unless you all are prepared to buy my daughter a warm coat she can wear for the rest of winter, Fannie, Helen, I suggest you leave. Boycotting big department stores is not going to change anything.”

  Mrs. Malloy and Mrs. Peck don’t move, so Suesetta and I sit still, too. Mrs. Malloy clears her throat. “Mrs. Boyd, now listen—”

  “No, Helen, you listen. I give you two all the respect when we’re in the Lord’s house, but this is my house. It might not be as fancy as yours, but it’s what the Lord done give me, and I am not interested in none of your foolishness. I have dinner to make for my family right now.” She stands at the door and opens it.

  Mrs. Malloy stands, takes a coupon gently out of my hands, and leaves it on the coffee table. “In case you change your mind,” she says, and motions us along.

  We leave.

  I look back at the house before we walk away. Phyllis is standing at the window, looking at me with a rainstorm in her eyes. I get the feeling she won’t be bringing her records over after church tomorrow.

  Fourteen

  Spring blessings:

  My brown skin and the warmth it feels when the sun kisses it.

  My eyes for seeing the blooming purple flowers coming back to say hello after being gone all winter long.

  My ears for taking in the soul of Paradise Valley, the high heels clicking against pavement, pianos being tuned, kind, courteous voices mingling, “Hello, little lady.”

  My hands that can hold needle and thread and create something beautiful. My hand that knows how to shake another hand, firm and confident.

  My voice that knows how to say my name with pride when looking directly into someone’s eyes.

  My head held high, my shoulders back, my feet that glide block after block, on a mission, with a purpose.

  Fifteen

  April showers haven’t come yet. It’s warmer than usual and Mr. Malloy says this means it’s going to be a hot summer. Suesetta, Phyllis, and I are walking home from school—they’re going to their homes, but I’m going to work a few hours at the shoe repair store. I only have one more block to walk with them before I have to turn and go a different way. Before we split up I say, “My birthday is next month, May twenty-eighth. Mrs. Malloy said I could have a sleepover. Want to come?” I was never able to have friends spend the night when I lived with Ollie Mae. The house was for family, she always said. And besides, I never knew when she was going to lose her temper, and I didn’t want Suesetta or Phyllis to ever witness that.

  Suesetta is the first to say yes. “We can bake a cake instead of cookies and I’ll borrow Kay’s new red nail polish and we can do our nails and have our own Rose-Meta House of Beauty!”

  Phyllis doesn’t say anything.

  Suesetta gives her a look, says, “You’re coming, right?”

  Phyllis shrugs. “I might be busy.”

  “Well, we don’t have to do it on my actual birthday—”

  “I just don’t know, Betty. You know my mom doesn’t really like me spending the night at other people’s houses.”

  “Well, maybe she’ll let you just this once since it’s my birthday,” I say.

  “Maybe,” Phyllis says.

  “Well, ask her,” I say. “It wouldn’t be the same without you. You have to be there.”

  We reach the end of the block. I hug Suesetta and Phyllis like I always do when we say goodbye, but Phyllis doesn’t hold on as tight as she normally does. I walk the rest of the way to the store wondering if Phyllis is mad at me, if I did something wrong. When I arrive, Mr. Malloy is just finishing up with a customer.

  “Good afternoon, Betty. How was school?”

  “It was good,” I say. I don’t tell him that Phyllis was acting strange, that things have been different ever since Suesetta and I went over to her house with Mrs. Malloy and Mrs. Peck.

  I read my chore list and get right to work. Most days I work at the store, I sweep, dust, and wipe off the mirrors and counters. I was hoping to work the register, but Mr. Malloy says that’s a big responsibility, that when I’m ready for it he’ll teach me.

  Seems like no matter how much I clean the floor, there is always dust to get rid of. When I’m not sweeping, I am arranging the shelves and restocking them with shoe polish, shoelaces, and shoe cushions. There are all kinds of dyes, polishes, and swatches of leather Mr. Malloy uses to restore the customers’ shoes, handbags, wallets, and belts. He makes everything look brand-new. I line the bottles up real neat to make sure customers see them.

  It’s a slow, quiet afternoon until Phyllis’s dad walks in carrying a pair of brown lace-up dress shoes. I’m hoping Phyllis is trailing behind him, that she came to apologize or explain herself, but then the door closes and I know that he came alone. “Hi, Lorenzo. Can you widen these for me?” Deacon Boyd asks.

  Mr. Malloy looks the shoes over, then looks at Deacon Boyd’s feet. “When do you need them back?”

  “Three days. Can you get ’em back to me in three days?”

  “That I can do,” Mr. Malloy says. He begins to fill out an order form.


  “Are you attending the prayer meeting tonight?” Deacon Boyd asks. “Heard Thurgood Marshall is going to be at Bethel.”

  “Yes, I heard. I don’t know if I want to hear the rhetoric tonight,” Mr. Malloy says. “I know he’s trying to convince us that ‘separate but equal’ isn’t enough but—”

  “You think it is?”

  “Well, I’m not too sure that desegregating schools is going to fix the Negro’s problem.”

  “Now, come on here, Lorenzo Malloy—”

  Mr. Malloy waves his hands. “Let me finish, let me finish.” He signs the order form and hands it to Deacon Boyd. “Now, if Thurgood Marshall or anyone else is talking about instituting policies where we Negro men can really exercise our full rights as men and participate in the policing, educating, and housing of our own families and neighborhoods equal to any, I’d be front row for that.” Mr. Malloy looks at me and points to a box sitting in the corner. “Betty, those items need to be stocked,” he tells me, and I know this is his way of getting me out of the front room and into the back storage area.

  As soon as I am in the other room, he keeps talking.

  “I’m not sure what desegregated schools are going to do for the Negro man. Let’s think about this—what will happen to Negro teachers? What will happen to our children who will be sitting next to white children for the first time with no one preparing them? Why isn’t anyone talking about white children integrating into Negro schools? It’s imposing the notion that we are inferior, and by having our children travel across town, it’s imposing the notion that white schools are superior,” Mr. Malloy says.