Part I
1
It is summer, any summer in the 1940s. I am with Momma and for two to four weeks we will be here, staying with her mother outside Pine Bluff, Arkansas.
Grandmomma lives with her brother, my great-uncle Rudolph, in a frame house whose unpainted boards have absorbed sun and rain, frost and dew until they are as gray as restless sleep and as weary as the sleeper who awakens to a day for which he has no love.
Grandmommaâs house stands alone, removed from its neighbors and back from the main road like the monarch of an impoverished kingdom. To the east is a large field, âthe orchard,â Momma calls it still, because when she was a girl (and I canât imagine that), rows and rows of peach, apple and cherry trees flowered where now an infinite variety of weeds flourishes like immorality. On the other side of the âorchard,â beside the railroad tracks, is another house, smaller than Grandmommaâs, and even more weary. Grandmommaâs sister, my great-aunt Rena, lives there with her husband, Fate McGowan.
Behind Grandmommaâs house is the chicken yard, henhouse and outhouse. Beyond these are deep woods, somewhere in the midst of which is the family cemetery. In all, there are forty acres of fields and woods enclosed by a sturdy wire fence, whose gate no one ever enters and we seldom go out.
Beyond the fence, on the west, is a dirt road leading to and from the main one on the north. It is wide enough for a mule wagon as far as Grandmommaâs gate; then it narrows to a dusty footpath and winds into the innards of Pine Bluffâs black community. (We were âcoloredâ in those days when Hope was the name some dreamer bestowed on a daughter, when change was what the white man at the store might give you when you bought something, and progress was merely another incomprehensible word on a spelling test.)
I sit on the porch each day and watch children go back and forth to the little store on the main road. I am a child yearning to be with children, but these wear dirty and torn clothes. How am I supposed to play with someone whom dust coats like roach powder? They look furtively at me sitting on the porch in my clean and well- pressed clothes, socks and shoes(!). (Only now, looking back, do I realize that in the fifteen summers at Grandmommaâs, no child ever came to the gate to ask me who I was, where I was from and did I want to play. I realize only now, too, that I never went to the gate so that they could ask.)
I accept such separateness as unquestioningly as I do the air my body breathes. There is something different about usâGrandmomma, Uncle Rudolph, Momma and me. In the evenings we sit on the porch and watch as trucks, filled with fieldhands who work the white manâs cotton, stop on the main road in front of the store. With much laughter and loud talking, they jump or climb off and meander down the side road that leads past Grandmommaâs to their houses scattered over the fields behind like neglected thoughts. Their loud voices soften as they near Grandmommaâs. âYou niggers hush! Donât you see Miz Smith setting on the porch?â (That was Grandmommaâs name when she wasnât Grandmomma.) A quietness as stifling as the heat falls upon them, fifteen, twenty, men, women and children, hoes at forty-five-degree angles across their shoulders, fraying straw hats or red handkerchiefs on their heads, and as they pass the gate, that gate they never enter and through which we seldom go out, someone calls out loudly, âHow yâall this evening?â We call back, âFine, and you?â âTolâable, thank you.â Only after the last one passes do their voices rise again like birds from tall grasses.
We are different. Daddy is a Methodist minister and I was robed in a mantle of holiness even before the first diaper was pinned on my nakedness. I cannot do what other kids doâplay marbles for keeps, go to the movies on Sundays, listen to popular music on the radio, play cards. Momma cannot wear makeup or pants. Only sinful women do that. We represent Daddy and he represents God.
My brother hates all of it. He is nine years older than me. But he does not come to Grandmommaâs and I do not know where he is or what he is doing.
I do not hate holiness. Sometimes I wish I could do what other children do, but Daddy tells me, âGod has special plans for you,â and I wonder what they are. I cannot imagine, but I will never know if I do not nurture separateness as if it were my only child.
We are different, too, because we do not depend on white people for our economic survival. Daddy does not work for white people and we do not have to talk to them or even see them, except when we go to town. We go to town as infrequently as we can.
There is something else different about us, too. Grandmomma and Momma look like white women. Both have thick, wavy long hair and skin like moonlight.
(Summer 1982. Daddy has been dead a year. My oldest son, Malcolm, and I go to Nashville to help Momma sort through the remains of fifty-seven years of married life, sell the house and prepare her to move in with a relative in Washington, D.C. I cannot imagine being eighty-five years old and Life asking me to begin again. I look at her and learn what it is to submit to Lifeâs requirements and create oneself anew as Death takes your hand in his. For Momma, part of beginning again is to go to Pine Bluff and visit the family cemetery for what might be the last time.
(âYour daddy was supposed to bring me down last summer but he died before he got to it,â she says several times.
(We drive in silence. Neither Momma nor Grandmomma ever had much use for words. Grandmomma died at age ninety-one more than twenty years before and she never spoke of herself, to her children or grandchildren. Momma is not very different. So I am surprised when into the silence she says, âIt was hard growing up looking white. I had a hard time in school. The other kids were always beating me up. And when we went to town, the white people acted like they hated us because we looked white but werenât. I grew up being afraid all the time.â
(Silence closes around her again like an enemy. It is a silence I know too well, a silence she has bequeathed me like an antique family ring of dubious value. It is the silence of Grandmommaâs solitary house and of how solitary we were in that house, in that community and with each other. We were different, Grandmomma, Momma and me, holding ourselves back from the world and all in itâreserved, polite, formalâacknowledging salutations with the fingertips of white-gloved hands while longing for an embrace.)
At night we sit on the porch and I listen to the sounds of Mommaâs, Grandmommaâs and Uncle Rudolphâs voices telling of people now dead, and their dead walk through the silences between their words, and I miss people whom I have never known.
Silence acquires the dimension of space at night. There is no electricity in the black community and the lights from coal-oil lamps flickering in the windows of houses in the distance are like matches before the force night is. Night is an absolute, an irrefutable mathematical equation to which one submits with grateful awe. Night and silence are palpable presences I love.
The only time I go outside the fence is to sit by the mailbox and await the mailman. I am not expecting mail but want to decipher the name on Grandmommaâs box. I read almost as well as an adult but cannot pronounce the name painted crudely in black on her box. A-L-T-S-C-H-U-L. Grandmommaâs name is Smith. Sometimes mail is addressed to Rudolph A-L-T-S-C-H-U-L, however. Who is that? Uncle Rudolph is Grandmommaâs brother, which means that he is Rudolph Smith.
I want to ask Momma who A-L-T-S-C-H-U-L is, but she does not like my questions and generally answers them with âNo,â even when they begin with âWhy?â
One afternoon we are sitting in the porch swing next to each other. She is telling me about the orchard and her voice is soft like moonlight on magnolia blossoms and I want to melt into her and, without thinking, my voice soft like the fuzz on a beeâs back, I ask, âMomma? Who is A-L-T-S-C-H-U-L?â
âThatâs your uncle Rudolphâs name,â she answers.
âI thought his name was Smith.â
She chuckles. âThatâs your grandmotherâs married name. She was an Altschul before she married.â
Al ... I try to say it to myself, but canât. I know she hasnât told me who Al . . . whoever is, but if I ask again, she will only say that I ask too many questions.
Time at Grandmommaâs is like the tall pine tree by the main road. It is simply thereâstraight and immovable, unbending and indifferent. Day becomes night and night becomes day and the new day is the old oneâs twin.
One morning every week or so, however, Momma says, âYour daddyâs coming this evening.â I eat breakfast quickly and hurry to the porch. Daddy never comes until the sun is like fire on the edge of the world, but maybe he will come early today. That is what I think each week.
Daddy teaches ministers in summer school at Philander Smith College in Little Rock. I do not know even now what he taught. I know only that I miss him.
Night is squeezing day into evening before I see the blue Plymouth cross the railroad tracks by Aunt Renaâs house. I leap from the porch and race across the yard to unlatch the gate. Before the car turns off the main road, I am standing at the exact place Daddy will park.
There is a big grin on his face when he gets out of the car. âWell, what you saying about yourself?â he chuckles, picking me up in the air, which is fun and scary at the same time.
Anybody can tell that Daddy is a preacher. He always dresses in a suit and tie. They are as natural on him as his black skin. He is a serious and, at times, stern man. Even when he grins and laughs (and he laughs a lot), the seriousness does not change. It is as if his grin and laughter are prayers, too.
Though I am glad to see him, I know that the next morning we will go to town to shop. I donât like to go to town, especially when Momma and I ride the bus. We have to sit in the back, and if Momma talks to me, her voice is small and tight, as if her throat is lined with dust that water cannot wash away. She never talks much on the bus, though. So I sit and read the sign over the bus driverâs head:
WHITE SEAT FROM THE FRONT COLORED SEAT FROM THE REAR
Daddy doesnât like us to ride the bus.
âWhat was I supposed to do, Reverend Lester?â Momma will say. âYou said you were coming Wednesday, and when you didnât, I got up Thursday morning and Julius and I went to town. There were things Momma needed.â
âWasnât nothing so important that you couldnât have waited one more day,â he answers.
âHow was I to know if you were going to be delayed a day or another week?â
âYou didnât. But I donât want you riding on the back of no bus!â
When Daddy takes us to town, Mommaâs thin lips are not pressed together more tightly than the boards of Grandmommaâs house. I still donât want to go, however. It is hotter in town and Daddy wonât let me drink out of the colored water fountains in the stores. He wonât buy me an RC or Dr Pepper, either. There were no soda machines in those days and the only places to buy cold drinks were at the colored windows of cafes or diners. Daddy says only âcommon Negroesâ go to the colored windows, Negroes who donât care about themselves, who donât have any pride and let the white man treat them like dirt, and he will let me die of thirst before I drink a soda bought at a colored window.
On many of those hot summer days, dying of thirst seemed imminent. Yet I do not recall being angry with Daddy or thinking him mean. His anger taught me that though we were powerless to change segregation, we would not freely choose it. His anger was self-respect and we took pride in knowing that Lesters did not use COLORED toilets, drink from COLORED fountains, walk through doorways with signs reading COLORED ENTRANCE, buy anything from a COLORED WINDOW, and at home, in Kansas City, Kansas, I walked to and from downtown rather than ride in the back of the bus.
We are walking along a street in downtown Pine Bluff one hot summer day. I see a large round clock jutting from a store front. Curved over the top are the letters A-L-T-S-C-H-U-L. Curved at the bottom is the word JEWELERS.
âMomma! Thatâs the name on Grandmommaâs mailbox!â
My excitement is met with a long silence. Finally Daddy chuckles softly. âThose are your cousins,â he says.
When we are driving back to Grandmommaâs he says, âYour great-grandfather was a Jew. Altschul. Thatâs a German-Jewish name. He was married to your great-grandmother. She was a slave. Not when they met, of course. His name was Adolph. Your grandmother was one of his daughters and your uncle Rudolph was one of his sons. Thatâs how come they look like white people. You remember your uncle Charlie?â
I recall being taken to a tiny apartment in Chicago one hot Sunday afternoon where a tall, white-looking man was introduced to me as âyour uncle Charlie.â I looked up at his dour face, wondering what he had to do with me.
âHeâs an Altschul, too. Your aunt Rena was an Altschul before she married your uncle Fate. There was another girl, Julia. Sheâs dead now. Your momma was named for her and you were named for your momma. Then there was Ada and Florence. Florence moved away somewhere, passed for white and nobody has seen or heard from her since.
âWell, the way the story goes is that Adolph came over here from Germany at some time or another and him and his brothers somehow made their way down here to Pine Bluff and Adolph became a peddler. He went around through the countryside selling things off a horse and wagon. That mustâve been how he met your great-grandmother. This was not too many years after slavery and him and your great-grandmotherâher name was Maggie. Maggie Carson. A little bitty woman who looked like she was white. Well, somehow she and your great-grandfather met up with one another. His brothers disowned him for marrying her. But I always respected Adolph for that. Back in them times he didnât have to marry her if he didnât want to, but he did the Christian thing, even if he was a Jew. When he died, his brothers came and got his body and buried him in the Jewish cemetery somewhere here in Pine Bluff. I donât see how come they did that. They didnât want to have nothing to do with him when he was alive. I think sometimes about going and digging him up and burying him out there in the family cemetery next to your great-grandmother. Thatâs where he belongs.
âThat store we passed, well, the ones that own it are the descendants of them brothers. Theyâre your blood relatives.â He chuckled. âBut donât you go marching in the store and call them cousin. Theyâd pretend like ...