by Fauna Hodel
“But Momma, I ain’t never heard of them Indians stealing nothing.”
“Never mind, you just stay away from them filthy animals. All they do is get drunk and steal. Everybody knows that. And they dirty, too. They never take a bath or even wash, so you just stay away from them. Why you think I bleach this place anyway? You think it’s fun? Ha! It ain’t no fun at all.”
Jimmie Lee, as baffling as she was while intoxicated, was just as generous and righteous when it came to helping others who were less fortunate. Although she refused to let anyone clean the inside of her house, or so much as pick up a dirty cup or glass, the yard was something else. Often she would let the hoboes and vagrants rake and clean the area. For their efforts she would give them a sandwich, a beer, and always a silver dollar—legal tender that was abundant in Reno and Sparks.
Most of the hoboes who drifted from town to town were white men. During the latter part of the 1950s, however, their numbers were dwindling. Jimmie’s favorite was a colored man named Daddy-O. She did more for him then the others. Homer was less enthusiastic about Jimmie’s friends, particularly since he discovered his favorite shirt missing. When he questioned Jimmie about its mysterious disappearance, she was philosophical.
“If the white folks I works for can afford to give old clothes to us, then there’s no reason why I can’t give your shirts to someone that needs it.” She stated emphatically.
“Shit, woman! That was my favorite shirt,” Homer complained. “And then you give him a silver dollar to go with it!”
“Don’t let it worry you. God will give us another.”
As seasons changed, Homer lost more and more of his wardrobe, and Daddy-O was looking better. One day Jimmie thought it was time for him to complete his restoration and decided that she should cut his hair.
“Miss Jimmie, I don’t need to have my hair cut,” Daddy-O begged. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“Hey guy, you got such a fine face under there. No need to cover it up with all this rag mop. It’s just a place for the bugs to nest.”
“But I don’t wanna see me with no hair!”
“Have another beer, while I figure out what to do with this mess!”
While sipping her gin, she walked around Daddy-O, each time taking a closer look. For an hour, their irrational argument bounced back and forth, allowing each of them time to get high. Liquor made Jimmie determined, but less agile, especially with a pair of scissors in her hand. Her stamina won out and she butchered the poor defenseless hobo, leaving some portions of his scalp exposed while other sections went untouched. But Jimmie, bleary eyed and barely in control of her own body, was pleased with her handiwork.
When Daddy-O was finally allowed to see the results of this invasion, he was first unmoved, then stupefied, and then he cried. Jimmie couldn’t understand why he was so upset. She never saw Daddy-O again.
Jimmie’s sense of right and wrong varied depending upon the time of day, how much she had to drink, where she was, and who she was dealing with. It was wrong to chop off Daddy-O’s hair when she was drunk and against his strong objections. If it had been Pat’s hair, Jimmie would not have thought about doing it cause she felt responsible for Pat. It wasn’t the same with the hobo.
Across the street from Pat’s house lived Bertha Wilfong, a pleasant, elderly woman from the South who kept mostly to herself and rarely troubled anyone. Illiterate and unsophisticated, she scratched out a living by working as a maid, something she had done since the age of eight. She received letters from her sons and daughters who lived in another state, and often ask Pat to read them for her. Pat loved to read and readily agreed. They became friendly, and because Pat knew how to read, Bertha considered her very bright. At first, she asked Pat to write a letter for her to bring her family up to date on her health and welfare. Within a short time, she found other uses for Pat’s talents such as paying bills, reading, or writing letters she sent to her friends. Pat received either a five or ten-dollar bill depending upon the amount of secretarial work required.
Each night, Pat told Jimmie what a wonderful person Mrs. Wilfong was, for which Jimmie had a sarcastic retort. Finally, Jimmie was fed up with superlatives about Mrs. Wilfong and decided to end Pat’s career. She forbade Pat to perform any further clerical chores, even though she was being paid for her services. When Mrs. Wilfong objected and assured Jimmie that there was no reason to be upset, Jimmie went into a jealous rage, pulled a knife from the kitchen, and went after the old woman. “If you don’t like me, then you don’t like my goddamn daughter, either!”
Miss Bertha called the police. Pat defended Jimmie and persuaded the police not to interfere. “She had a bad day, that’s all. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her,” Pat said.
The police left, and Pat continued to be a secretary for Miss Bertha—without Jimmie’s knowledge.
CHAPTER 12
Reverend Mayfield was well respected in the community. He was sociable, forever promoting, and continually carrying his Bible. His preaching was emotional. He believed that everyone was a sinner, and the only way to be saved was to find redemption at his Baptist church, and a great many did. So many, in fact, that each service was filled to capacity with sinners, sometimes overflowing into the aisles. There was excitement and enthusiasm in his sermons, but more salesmanship than spiritual revelation. Reverend Mayfield had a reputation for being somewhat of a ladies’ man. And this power was seductive. He took full advantage of it and knew how to get the most out of everyone. He was regularly coming up with new schemes for his fund drives, from bazaars and cake sales to raffles and Bingo. His chicken dinners were the core of his fund-raising program. Everything else supplemented them. He bought chickens wholesale, and then had them plucked, cleaned, and cooked by the sisters. The brothers did all of the manual labor. The children sold tickets—far more tickets than there were chickens to eat. Usually, only his loyal devotees showed up to partake in the festivities. Sister Betsy supervised the entire operation and Reverend Mayfield counted the money, and then reported the overwhelming success the following week. Each dinner brought him one step closer to his new church. Jimmie allowed Pat to participate.
Occasionally when Pat came home from school, Reverend Mayfield would be at the house visiting with Jimmie. Seldom did she find them discussing theology. More often than not, they would be quarrelling about the secular events of the day, whether it be people from the neighborhood, the noise from the trains, or who had the busiest casino. Being with Jimmie was a diversion for the minister. She cared little about his church or his fund-raising, but her sharp tongue, irreverence for institutions and a special knack for stripping away any pretense put on by the minister that may have fooled others, made Mayfield try even harder to gain her admiration.
Once, when Pat entered the house unexpectedly, Mayfield jumped up on his feet, quickly standing tall while tugging at his blue gabardine jacket. It was obvious that he did not want Pat to know what he and Jimmie were talking about. “How’s my star pupil today?”
“OK,” she answered, smiled, and then went to put her books away in her room. She returned momentarily noticing him push aside an empty glass from his place at the table.
Jimmie’s wooden expression remained the same as she swallowed another sip of gin. She was in her quiet period, a preliminary stage of semi-sobriety in which she could still function normally. Reverend Mayfield broke the silence with a question directed at Pat. “I understand you have a birthday coming up soon?”
“Yeah, I’m gonna be ten, and Momma said we’re gonna have a party . . . so she can invite all her friends.”
“Great! Am I invited?”
“Sure, you can come . . . but only after the kids have the party,” Pat answered while glancing up at Jimmie in the expectation that it was OK to invite her friends in the neighborhood.
Jimmie took another sip of her drink, “You’re gonna be ten. And soon you’ll be old enough to find your real momma, and then you’ll leave me won’t you?”
&nb
sp; “Oh no, Momma, I ain’t never gonna leave you, not ever!”
Homer wasn’t a heavy gambler, but he did like the casino. It was a way to get a little extra money—money that he needed to give to Jimmie just to keep her from getting crazy. Sometimes he’d win 50, 60, sometimes 100 dollars or more. But more often than not he’d lose. Jimmie didn’t mind where he was or what he was doing just as long as he came home with money.
Six months earlier, Homer had won big at the casino. He gave Jimmie most of the cash. That is, after he had bought a much-needed car—an old Packard with big heavy chrome bumpers, torn seats, and bald tires in the front. It was a dull green, bleached from its long life in the desert sun. Homer was very proud of his old car, the first one he had in a very long time. He kept it in good running condition and drove it all over town. The first time Homer dropped Pat off at school, three white kids questioned her.
“How could he be your daddy? He’s colored and you’re white,” the eldest white girl said.
“Cause he’s not my real daddy, he’s my momma’s husband,” Pat answered.
“Your momma married a colored?” another white girl asked.
“Of course, why wouldn’t she? But she’s not my real momma. My real momma is white like you, even whiter, and beautiful, too! But my real daddy is a Negro. It says so on my birth certificate.”
“You ain’t colored. You’re just saying that to be different.” Said the second girl again.
“I am, too.”
“You are not, you got white skin,” said another white girl.
“I am, too! I’m just light-skinned, that’s all? Why don’t you believe me?” Pat pleaded.
“If you’re colored then prove it.”
Pat was frustrated. A few other white girls joined in, putting Pat in the center.
“Yeah, prove it!”
“I already told you what my birth certificate says. And birth certificates don’t lie.”
“We don’t believe you, cause it ain’t true. If you was colored, you’d look colored.” The girl’s voice got louder. “You got blue eyes and blond hair. No coloreds have blue eyes.” She shoved Pat.
“I’m half-colored,” Pat said calmly. “Half of my blood is white and half is colored.”
Her poise infuriated the girls. One of them began to shout. “If you’re blood is half and half, than what color is it when you bleed? Green?”
Pat gaped. They stared back with fury in their eyes. Suddenly she was pushed to the ground. Three girls piled on to hold her down while two others began scratching at her skin. “Let’s see what color your blood is when you bleed. That’ll prove it.”
“Let’s see if she’s colored underneath. See if the white scratches off!” the shorter one yelled.
“No! Stop it,” yelled Rhonda, a friend of Pat’s. “Leave her alone!”
Pat began to scream as she struggled to free herself from their grip. Suddenly, all was quiet. The girls let her go and quickly ran off. Alone, her arm stung from the scratches, but there was no blood. She spotted one of the teachers heading her way. She quickly brushed herself off and followed the other girls into the building. Nothing more was said of the incident. She thought she knew these white girls, but when she saw the hate in their eyes, she knew they were harboring a prejudice that was rooted deeply within their spirit. Instinctively, she tried to prevent it from contaminating her own psyche. It was the second attack from girls who wanted impossible proof of her bloodline. Pat then knew she needed to be more diplomatic when confronted. She went about her business as if nothing happened without ever again mentioning it to anyone.
Pat did have her birthday party that year, but it turned out to be a disaster. At first, Jimmie Lee was quite pleasant, but then the alcohol took it’s toll and she became feisty. She chased the children out first and eventually got into a scrap with anyone in view. The noise brought the police but no one pressed the issue. Pat was unnerved at the disaster and avoided her friends. Her embarrassment and humiliation only intensified. She prayed more than ever that Jimmie would stop drinking.
Dear God, it’s me again. I know we have this talk every so often, and I know You read the notes that I leave. But please make everything right. Let me find my real white family, the ones with all the money so that I can get them to help make everything all right for momma. She tries hard, and she means well, but she just don’t know how to stop drinking. I’ll leave the details up to You. Thank You dear God.
Jimmie kept everything a secret. Whenever Pat asked her Momma about her real mother, she always reacted the same way, “Keep that vision of your white momma in your thoughts, right in front. Cause someday, you’ll find a way to get in touch with her.”
“I don’t even know what she looks like, how am I gonna find her?” Pat asked.
“I don’t know what she looks like either, but when the time comes, you’ll know. It’s just not the time.” Underneath her comforting words, Jimmie remained apprehensive about the thought of Pat leaving her.
Life was usually more peaceful for Pat in Los Angeles whenever she visited her relatives. But, over the last few years, she had noticed a distinct change in the atmosphere, particularly among her cousins’ friends. Race was becoming more of an issue with everyone, and the hostility toward Pat was more evident. She was proud of her black heritage. She did whatever she could to let everyone know that she was of the same race. She spent most of her time in the sun hoping to darken her skin.
“You better not be out in that hot sun again,” Dolly stated critically, “you gonna fry your skin and look like a piece of bacon, all wrinkly and stuff.”
“No I’m ok, I use the baby oil to make it darker,” Pat said.
“And what’s going on with your hair, it’s looking like a cross between a raw beet and a sweet potato?”
“Nothin’s going on with my hair, I’m just getting older and it’s getting darker.”
“Darker! You mean dark red,” Dolly said as she shook her head.
Pat dyed her light-colored hair a deep reddish-auburn and began to wear trendy sunglasses to cover her blue eyes. Neither helped very much, which forced her to reveal her birth certificate with the line that read: Father: Negro. She prized that worn-out document, with its fingerprints, smudge marks and darkened creases along the folds. She was proud to be black and gratified to prove it.
As civil rights became more of an issue during the sixties, and “Black Power” its battle cry, her commitment was to that which she knew to be right: that everyone has a right to live his or her own life without interference. It was now Pat’s turn to prove to herself and the rest of her world that she, as a black, was not going to be shackled to the oars of a galley like her ancestors.
Many people she knew in Los Angeles from early childhood became suspicious of her efforts to assimilate into a political movement that was becoming less amorphous and more defined along racial lines. Some of her cousins stood up for her and defended her status. However, Deedee wasn’t one of them. While they were all playing near Dolly’s house, a few of the older black kids from the neighborhood goaded Deedee into going after the white girl. At first reluctant, she then confronted Pat. “Who do you think you are, you white bitch?” she yelled, “Trying to make yourself black. I’m gonna cut your throat!”
“What?” Pat jumped back, “What’s the matter with you? I ain’t no white bitch, don’t call me one. I’m half-black and you know it, too.”
“I don’t know no such thing. You been parading yourself off as some sister, talkin’ the talk, and walkin’ the walk, but you’re like a piece of cheap glass, we all see right through you. Why are you in my family, anyway?”
Deedee’s encounter was both dramatic and unexpected and Pat didn’t know what had set her off. Things were never quite the same between them. Most others in the community who knew Pat supported her efforts to be black. She managed to reciprocate by causing as little commotion as possible. She was afraid others wouldn’t understand or believe her.
In Spa
rks, the situations were always different, but the state of affairs was the same. Sometimes when her black girlfriends at school spotted her talking to two or three of her white classmates, they’d say, “Hey Patty, what’s going’ on?” or, “Patty, what’s you up to?” Hearing the way they called her “Patty” irritated her the most. She knew what they were trying to say. While she was with her friends and they would see a “brother” with a white girl, she would smirk right along with them and say, “Look at that—what’s he doing with a patty?” Yet she couldn’t get the “high sign” from a black brother or sister when they met as strangers on the street.
It was just as bad with her white friends. Pat loathed how they scorned the black folks and treated them like the cockroaches of society. She knew she was despised for being with them. No one accepted her for who she was, or who she wanted to be.
The early teenage years were confusing for her. She buried herself in reading books and writing in her diary.
White, White!
I ain’t White . . .
See THIS
Printed for all to know
The proof
Of my birth
It says—Father: Negro
Pat was never comfortable with the terms “Negro” or “colored”; it was unbefitting. She was relieved when “black” became popular. Among the whites, however, “nigger” was used almost exclusively, particularly within her crowd.
Rosalie, one of the four white girls from school that was part of Pat’s white clique, nudged the dark-haired Clara as she pointed toward the pretty blond girl walking toward them. “You’re the new girl,” she asked as the girl was within hearing, “from Florida, right?”
“Yes, how did you know?” She asked in a friendly manner.
“Everybody knows. There’s no secrets around here,” said Rosalie. She then introduced herself along with the other girls in the group.