Betty Before X

by Ilyasah Shabazz

  —Booker T. Washington

  Twenty-Two

  A new year has come and Mother says it’s time to reflect on all God has done. While making New Year’s resolutions, we also count our blessings and retell stories about the past year and the lessons we have learned and what we can do to be better this year. Summer blessings were trips to Belle Isle, running outside to the ice cream truck, and late nights sitting on the porch with Mother. Summer blessings were saving money to buy fabric and practice, practice, practice with the patterns that Mrs. Collins gave me to work on till fall.

  And in the fall, blessings came in the soft and comforting breeze, walks through crisp leaves that crunched and crackled under my boots, hot apple cider, and a feast for Thanksgiving after volunteering to feed people without food and family.

  Winter blessings were heavy and thick like Mother’s pot of homemade stew, like the knitted hat and scarf she makes me wear when it snows, when the cold pierces my skin, freezes my bones.

  Blessings, blessings, so many blessings: This past year, Father had more customers than ever before. And we’ve signed up more women for the Housewives’ League. I became better at memorizing scriptures, talking into a microphone, and standing before the congregation to lead prayer.

  Blessings, blessings, so many blessings: How Shirley and Jimmie and Juanita are getting bigger and smarter, how they are my little chocolate drops—each one of them. How Suesetta is still my best friend, my best everything.

  Blessings, blessings. So many I lose count.

  Twenty-Three

  Phyllis has a new best friend, Loretta. This means that we walk separate ways now when going home and that we don’t swap candy at lunch or pass notes in class or help each other with our homework. I miss Phyllis. Miss her strut and the way she shakes, shakes, shakes next to me when we dance, sweating out her hair and complaining that her press and curl is ruined. I miss her laugh, the way it starts like a pianist’s solo, soft and low and then crescendoing and filling the room.

  Without Phyllis’s records, Suesetta and I have run out of new music to dance to. Suesetta’s mom doesn’t have any records that we like, and Mother and Father mostly only listen to Mahalia Jackson. So today Suesetta and I are going to Joe’s Record Shop on Hastings.

  Hastings Street is the spine of Paradise Valley. Walking down Hastings makes me think about what my life will be like when I’m grown and old enough to come here without telling Mother or Father where I’m going or what time I’m coming home. Makes me think about when I’ll be in college wearing lipstick and high heels, and driving my own car. I’ll meet up with friends at one of these restaurants, have supper, then go across the street to dance at one of the ballrooms and listen to Sarah Vaughan or Cab Calloway.

  Joe’s Records is packed with customers. The walls are covered with posters of all the greats. “Okay, how many do we want to buy?” I ask Suesetta.

  “We can’t buy anything, Betty. I don’t have any money. I thought we were just looking.”

  “Just looking? We’re buying at least one Billy Eckstine record,” I say. “I have money. I have my savings. I brought fifty cents for our records and candy. Here, take half.”

  There is joy and sadness in Suesetta’s eyes when I say this. “I’ll pay you back,” she says.

  “You can’t pay people back for a gift,” I tell her. I pick up a record. “What about this one?”

  “It’s Billie Holiday,” she tells me, like I don’t already see that.

  “I know. I like her, too, and it’s on sale.”

  Suesetta holds on to it as we walk through the store, searching for a Billy Eckstine record. I’m looking through the third section of the vinyl records on sale when Suesetta yells, “Found one!” She holds up the record and passes it to me. “Not on sale, though,” she says.

  “It’s okay. I think I have enough.” I check my coin purse to make sure before going up to the counter. We won’t be able to get candy for a few days, but that’s okay.

  On the way home, all Suesetta can talk about is the boycott we will be having next month at one of the local grocery stores that still refuses to hire coloreds. Suesetta and I helped design the flyers that we will hand out to people who are entering the store. “I’m nervous, aren’t you?” Suesetta asks me.

  “Not at all. What are you nervous about?”

  “Well, this is different from going door-to-door telling people what stores they shouldn’t support. This time we’ll actually be at the store we’re boycotting, asking people not to buy there—as they are attempting to enter the store. I don’t know, that just makes me nervous.”

  “When you feel nervous, remember what Mrs. Peck says: it’s okay to be afraid if you know you’re doing the right thing—just push right through your fears.”

  “Right,” Suesetta says. “Just push through.”

  “I’m excited,” I tell her. “We actually get to change people’s minds right on the spot as they’re walking in. Can you imagine how confused the owner will be when all his Negro customers see us standing there, take one of our coupons, and walk the other way? Leaving to shop with their hard-earned money across the street, where they are respected?”

  The thought puts a smile on Suesetta’s face.

  “Hurt them in their pocket,” I say. Mother always says that phrase. She also says that sometimes change comes reluctantly and out of dire necessity, not from true goodwill or pure values. “Some people have to feel the pain in order to believe in the medicine. And that’s just fine. They are going to hurt in their pockets when they have more merchandise coming in than they have going out. And that’s when they’ll realize they should start listening to their Negro customers,” I say, like Mother taught me.

  As we walk, snowflakes twirl like ballerinas and land on the ground, creating a soft pillow to walk on. We turn onto our block and see an ambulance in front of Suesetta’s house. I start walking faster, Suesetta runs. Kay is on the front porch with her brother, who is crying. Bernice is standing next to them. Mother is consoling Aunt Nina, saying over and over, “He’s going to be all right. Just trust the Lord, dearheart. Trust the Lord.”

  Once I am closer to the ambulance, I see Uncle Clyde on a stretcher. Suesetta goes up to her mom. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. He had a fever all day. Thought it was the flu, but then he started coughing uncontrollably, and he just—he just collapsed in the living room.”

  The ambulance drives off. Mother tells Aunt Nina and Suesetta’s mother to get in her car so she can take them to the hospital. They leave us standing under the snow-filled sky. “I can stay with you tonight,” I say to Suesetta and Kay. Neither of them answers.

  Suesetta is a statue, stuck in fear or shock. I take her hand, walk her into her house. Kay follows us, closes the door, and locks it. The house is quiet. Kay puts Allen and Bernice to bed. Once the kids are asleep, the three of us sit in Suesetta’s room, me on the floor, Kay across from me, Suesetta on her bed. I can’t take the silence. I think maybe some music will help lift our spirits. I go to put on Billy Eckstine, but decide to play Billie Holiday instead. Let her sing our blues.

  Twenty-Four

  Over the next three weeks, I hardly spend any time with Suesetta. Uncle Clyde has TB—tuberculosis—and has been quarantined at the hospital. Suesetta has been quiet at school, and on the weekends she doesn’t do much. But today, I’m grateful she’s decided to come to the boycott of Jerry’s Market.

  Before we leave, I ask her how Uncle Clyde is doing.

  “Not so good,” she says. “My mom is heartbroken. He’s her only brother.” Suesetta stops talking. Like she knows the more she talks about it, the more likely she is to cry.

  Mother comes out of her bedroom and down the stairs ready to drive us to the market. When we get there, Mrs. Ruth and Mrs. Peck are already putting flyers in people’s hands. Mrs. Ruth is talking to a customer who’s entering the store. “Did you know that this grocer refuses to hire Negro workers? Don’t sp
end money where your people aren’t respected and can’t earn a living,” she says. She holds out a flyer. The woman takes it, looks it over, and walks back to her car.

  The next person walks right past Mrs. Ruth, not making eye contact and not letting her get one word out, but Mrs. Ruth just keeps right at it. “Excuse me, sir,” she says to the next person. And she repeats her pitch.

  We greet one another and join right in. We’ve been here for only five minutes when the manager of the store comes out and says, “You Negroes stop harassing my customers.” He is a short, round man, and if he hadn’t said my customers, I would have thought he was a customer himself, not the owner.

  Mother says, “Sir, we are not harassing anyone. We are passing out flyers.”

  “If you don’t get off my property, I’m calling the police to haul you out of here.” He steps toward Mother. Yells at her so full of fury that spit flies out of his mouth as he enunciates every single word. This isn’t a friendly Sorry, ma’am, you can’t pass those out type of warning. This feels hostile, sounds like he’s upset about so much more than just these flyers.

  I’ve never seen anyone filled with so much hate. I’ve never seen anyone disrespect Mother. She turns to me and Suesetta, says, “Go wait in the car. And when you get in, look straight ahead, don’t look out the windows. You understand?”

  I don’t want to leave her, but I know this is an order, not a suggestion, so I say, “Yes, ma’am.” I don’t look back as we walk and I don’t look out the windows once we’re in the car, but Suesetta can’t help herself. We sit there waiting and waiting. “What’s happening?” I ask.

  “Mrs. Malloy is still talking to the owner … People are crowding around … Mrs. Ruth looks like she’s yelling … Mrs. Peck is trying to calm her down,” she tells me. Then, “They’re coming, they’re coming!” She turns around and looks straight forward.

  When Mother gets in the car, she doesn’t say a word about what just happened. She simply drives off, waving to Mrs. Ruth and Mrs. Peck as they continue walking to Mrs. Peck’s car. I can’t take the silence. I ask, “Did you leave because he was going to call the police?”

  “Betty, everything is fine.”

  “Is the Housewives’ League in trouble?”

  “Betty, everything is fine.”

  Suesetta says, “But what are we—”

  “Girls, everything is fine.”

  We drive two blocks without talking. Then Mother says, “The good thing is, there were people who left and went to another store. We raised awareness today.”

  I think this is Mother’s way of finding the good and praising it. But to me, having anyone standing so close to you that his breath slaps your face is not a blessing to count.

  * * *

  When we get home, Suesetta asks if she can come over. We go to the kitchen and eat sliced apples and peanut butter for an afternoon snack. I am so hungry, I finish my apples first. Suesetta eats so slow, I think that by the time she finishes, the sun will be setting and it’ll be time for her to go home. While I wait for her to take her last bite, I look through the latest issue of Ebony. Mother gets the magazine every month and we look through it together. I start reading the article on Duke Ellington, how he performed at Carnegie Hall, how all of New York is in love with him. Makes me want to go to New York and boogaloo on a dance floor. I know Mother would never allow that, but I dream about it, still.

  I flip through the magazine and stop at an advertisement for Nadinola Bleaching Cream. The caption reads, “The Nicest Things Happen to Girls with Light, Bright Complexions!” There’s a woman with tan skin smiling and talking on the phone. Her hair is full of waves and pulled in an updo and she is wearing a strapless gown. Suesetta looks at the magazine ad and asks me, “Betty, you ever think about bleaching your skin?”

  “What are you trying to say?” I ask.

  Nothing but crunch, crunch, swallow from Suesetta.

  “You think I need—”

  “I’m just asking if you’ve ever thought about it,” Suesetta says.

  Suesetta licks a dollop of peanut butter and waits for my answer.

  “Well … no,” I say.

  “Never?”

  I think about it. “No, I—I like my complexion,” I tell her.

  She looks at me with surprise in her eyes. Like she can’t believe I like my skin just the way it is. I throw her a look. “So what are you trying to say?” I ask.

  “No, no,” Suesetta says. “Not saying anything bad. I’m just surprised because it seems like everyone wants to change something about their looks,” she tells me. “You know? Brunettes want to be blondes. People with curly hair want it to be straight. People with brown skin want—”

  “Not me,” I say. And right then, all the times my Aunt Fannie Mae told me I was her little chocolate drop come to mind and I think about Mother and how she always asks me if I know how beautiful I am. I tell Suesetta, “I think God made us the way He wanted us to be. I think maybe we make Him sad when we don’t like how He made us, like we’re telling Him that what He created was wrong.”

  Twenty-Five

  Twice a month we go back to Jerry’s Market to pass out flyers. Every time we go, the owner forbids us to return. And even though some people take our flyers and coupons, many people walk right on in past us. We’ve been at it for four months and the store still refuses to hire Negroes.

  Today was no different.

  I am hoping the owner changes his mind by the end of summer. It’s June, so we’ve got four more tries.

  I’m sitting on my porch with Kay, trying not to think about Jerry’s Market, or the fact that Uncle Clyde is still sick, or that Phyllis still isn’t friends with Suesetta and me anymore. The ice cream truck just passed and we both bought an ice cream cone. Suesetta said she didn’t want any even after I offered to buy it for her. She’s in the house with Bernice.

  I lick my butter pecan scoops and say to Kay, “Remember when I asked you if you thought being adopted was a big deal?”

  “Yeah,” Kay says.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about something else that’s a big deal that adults don’t talk about.”

  “What?”

  “Stuff like what happened today—nothing seems to be changing and no one is talking about it.”

  “What do you want people to say?”

  “I don’t know, but colored people should say something,” I tell her. I’m not sure what I want people to say, but I know I don’t want to keep acting like I’m not upset. “When all those famous people come to our church talking about how we need to take a stand, how we need to fight, they never talk about what to do when we lose the fight. We lost today. We’ve been losing. My mother just says to find the good and praise it, but that doesn’t fix anything.”

  “Maybe there is no fixing it,” Kay says. “Maybe it’s like Pastor Dames says—we have to keep sowing love and goodness in the world even when the world hates us. Remember? We reap what we sow.”

  “Yeah, but why do they hate us? How long are we supposed to wait for our harvest?”

  Kay has no answer for this.

  Maybe no one does.

  * * *

  After Kay leaves, I go inside and get right to sewing. I begin working on the skirt Mrs. Collins taught us how to make. Besides listening to music and dancing, sewing is the thing that relaxes me. My mind empties and my thoughts settle. Out of all the things I have to do in life—chores, church, work, volunteering, school—sewing is where I make the decisions. I enjoy building new creations. And even when I mess up, I just pull out the thread and start all over again until I get it right.

  I don’t notice how long I’ve been working until Mother says, “You’re still at it, huh? I think you need to take a break.”

  When she says this, I realize that I am hungry, and so I stop and we eat together. “I have a few errands to run before the sun goes down. Would you like to come with me?” Mother asks.

  “Sure,” I say.

  We drive to
all the places Mother needs to go—the cleaners, the post office. At every stop, I pay close attention to the women wearing skirts. I watch how different skirts flow, the way they hang depending on a woman’s height, her shape, the design of the dress. I study the ease of the fabric, how some skirts swing like a bell and some lie stiff and barely move at all.

  On our way back home, I tell Mother how I think Suesetta really wanted ice cream but couldn’t afford it. I tell her, “I pray for Suesetta’s family every night.”

  “That’s good, Betty.”

  “But you always say faith without works is dead, so I would like to do something nice for them.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Mother asks.

  I think about it. At first I think we could get them ice cream, but then I think that maybe they need more than a treat. “What about a basket of groceries?” I ask. I’ve helped Mother deliver her special baskets before. She has a closet full of wicker baskets of all sizes that she fills up with groceries for people in need. Mother has a heart as big as the sky.

  She turns down a street that takes us to the grocer she likes to go to. We buy some of the things I know Suesetta and her family love and when we get home, we arrange everything in the basket. We make it look like more than just fruits and vegetables, breads and cheeses—we make it look special. We take the basket to Suesetta’s house. The whole family becomes a chorus of thank-yous.

  Later, when I get in bed and say my prayers, I think about Jerry’s Market and how hard it is for the Housewives’ League to change his mind. I think how there really are just some things that have nothing good, nothing worthy of praise. But still, there are other blessings.

  I fall asleep counting them:

  My hands that make it possible to carry a basket of groceries to a family in need.

  The front porch to sit on and talk with a friend.

  Records that spin and spin, filling up my room with joy again.

  Twenty-Six

  Church doesn’t feel the same today.