“She is a lady without legs—but with love that can’t be taken away,” said Karin, my daughter, who liked to “sit at her feet” and listen to her talk.
“It wasn’t what she said, Mom, it was how she said it,” my son, Norm, added.
“Yes, I know,” I said quietly. She called Norm “her boy.”
He brought her gifts and she served him lunch. Together they chatted like family.
In time the call came—Viola had passed away. It seemed as if the entire city turned out for her funeral service.
As they carried her casket past, I remembered the day she lay on the floor, from her operation only four-feet tall, but through her strength and conviction she was a giant in spirit. If this fine woman accustomed to preaching from a lofty pulpit could maintain her self-respect from a fallen, demeaning position, then surely so could I.
Imagine, I was hired to help assist and strengthen her when it was my soul that needed help, and my strength that was weak. As I sat with the seemingly thousands of lucky people who got to be in Viola’s presence, I realized, that in her passing she gifted me with her faith, conviction and independence. She had opened the door of my caged soul and set me free.
I dried my tears and left the church ready to start again—it was in that moment that I noticed that I had already begun to stand up and stand out again, especially because I had the only white face in the congregation, and I felt right at home.
Margaret Lang
Merry Christmas, Emma
It’s so clear that you have to cherish everyone. I think that’s what I get from these older black women, that every soul is to be cherished, that every flower is to bloom.
Alice Walker
Emma was a seventy-year-old patient who received home care from our nursing agency. She lived alone in a three room, unpainted and uninsulated house that sat in the middle of a pasture just west of Shreveport, Louisiana. Six of the biggest, ugliest, hungriest mongrels in west Louisiana stood guard around her. Inside the pasture there were several cows and a bull, which all ran to the gate whenever we approached to make our weekly visits. The roads leading to the gate were unpaved, and the gate was made of logs and barbed wire. Opening the gate, driving through and closing the gate without letting the bovines loose was as great a challenge as finding the house in the first place! For this reason, we usually went in pairs.
Emma, who had no telephone, always tried to come out onto the porch when she heard us approaching. She warned us not to get out of the car until she got the dogs settled down. Emma would say, “That one there, that Jake, he’ll eat you right up if you get out of that car before I tell you to!” We never tested the truth of that statement.
Once the dogs calmed down we could begin whatever work we intended to do. We visited every week or two to draw blood samples for lab work and to evaluate the status of her condition, multiple myeloma.
One of Emma’s three rooms was a huge kitchen, housing a massive wooden table and nothing else. All her cooking was done on a potbellied stove in the living room. This little black, cast–iron heater was fueled by coal or with logs from nearby woods. Every time we visited her, whether in the scorching heat of August or in the chilly damp of December, she had a pan of cornbread cooking on top of that little stove. “That is for the dogs,” she always said. Her bed had no sheets and only one rough blanket with U.S. Army stamped on it. She was tall and thin, as brown as chocolate and as imperious as a queen. Visits to her were the highlights of our weeks, and we watched helplessly as her health and strength waned.
When Thanksgiving came she was admitted to the hospital for blood transfusions. We visited her every day, as our office was on the ground floor of the hospital. Her Thanksgiving dinner was almost untouched, but she ate what she could.
After the transfusions she went home again, and our first December visit found her rolled up in that one blanket in that cold and drafty little house. The little stove would never be enough to keep her warm, especially with the blood condition she had.
We nurses chose her as our Christmas Angel that year, the one whom, out of our many patients, we most wanted to recognize. We all chipped in and bought her a set of flannel sheets and another blanket and pillow, planning to take them out on the next visit. However, the following week she called us from the doctor’s office and told us not to come as he was drawing blood for the lab work for that week. She wept as she told us that she had paid someone half of her monthly check to take her to the grocery store and to the doctor, and that somewhere between the two places she had lost her purse and what was left of her money.We decided then to make a special trip right before Christmas to take the gifts.
The week before Christmas we wrapped the things we already had and added a flannel gown, a woolly robe, some fuzzy slippers, a nightcap, a pair of gloves and a pretty book. The day before our planned visit her doctor called and said he had received her lab report and was going to readmit her to the hospital and try to keep her through Christmas.
On Christmas Eve we decided to take her gifts upstairs to her hospital room rather than wait till Christmas Day, as most of us would be off duty then. We filed into her room singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and laid the gifts on her bed.
As she opened the first one she said, “Y’all don’t know this, but this is the first wrapped-up present I ever got.” She lingered over each pretty package and caressed each item as she unwrapped it, trying on the ones she could. She kept the nightcap on.
Before we left one of the nurses asked about the care of the dogs. Emma said her landlord was throwing food over the fence for them, she guessed. The nurse who lived nearest to Emma said, “I’ll send my husband out with some food for the dogs if you think they won’t eat him up!”
Emma grinned and lowered her eyes. “Aw, them dogs wouldn’t hurt nobody. I just tell folks that. Keeps the bad peoples away.” As we left she said, “Merry Christmas, y’all.”
When we came back to work the day after Christmas we were glad we had given Emma her gifts when we did, for we learned that during the night on Christmas Eve, she had gone home—to her final home.
Emma lived her life standing tall on her feet in the face of adversity, and she died with great dignity, without a whimper. Never once during our service to her did she utter a word of complaint about her feelings, her living conditions or her station in life. Her gracious acceptance of her first wrapped-up presents and her last words to us, “Merry Christmas, y’all,” were gifts far more precious than anything we could have bought for her in her last days with us.
Mary Saxon Wilburn
Elegant Ladies . . . Again
The kind of beauty I want most is the hard-to-get kind that comes from within—strength, courage, dignity.
Ruby Dee
When we were young, my sisters and I used to leaf through magazines choosing outfits for ourselves and each other.We loved pretty clothes. I have a hazy memory of taking an oath over cherry Kool-Aid and brownies to become elegant ladies when we grew up.
Now, years later, I was returning home, a divorce statistic at thirty-four. I had a résumé patched with a fragmented college education and dead-end jobs. I also had two little girls to support and two suitcases between us. Dreams of elegance had been long forgotten.
Except for the occasional phone call and one brief get-together, my younger sisters and I were well-intentioned strangers who’d led separate lives for almost thirteen years. They didn’t know that I still cried at sappy movies. I didn’t know if one still had a childlike delight in wishing upon stars or if the other still loved to lounge in a hot tub like an undiscovered pearl. My sisters had stepped forward with their hearts open and arms outstretched when I called home.
They bought our eastbound train tickets and promised to be waiting. As my daughters and I traveled through golden California, I tried to remember what my sisters and I used to talk about. As the scenery gradually passed from arid to the wildflower-dotted fields of Pennsylvania, I wondered what we used
to laugh about. I couldn’t even remember how to laugh.
They had told me to send my clothes ahead, but I couldn’t bear for my sisters to unpack my meager wardrobe. My secondhand jeans and T-shirts represented how I felt about myself: too tired to care, struggling to hold my girls and myself together by mere threads.
As we stepped off the train, Jan and Sue were there.
Glowing. Beautiful. Perfect.
“Kar! Look at howmuch those little girls have grown!Give me some love!”Well, some things hadn’t changed. Asmy sisters swooped on my little family, tears and laughter intermingled as easily as clouds drifting across a summer sky.
“Wow! Do you two dress like this all the time?” Their carefully accessorized outfits awakened a twinge of pure feminine longing. My confidence waned a little bit more.
No husband. No money. No style. Jan and Sue didn’t seem to notice. They hustled the girls and me to the car and into our new lives. During this difficult transition period, they helped me cobble together a suitable wardrobe for job interviews. I, who was accustomed to drying children’s tears and holding their hands, needed my hand held and my tears dried as I stumbled into a new womanhood. And, gradually, I remembered how to laugh.
One Saturday night, their heads popped into the bedroom.
“We’re going out. Secret mission. We’re not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”
The kids were fine with a babysitter, so I reluctantly accompanied them. I loved my sisters, but I felt awkward compared to their casual chic. They took me to a mall, straight to a trendy women’s boutique, the kind I’d avoided for years. Who had money for the latest fashion when invariably a child needed money for a class trip or a classmate’s birthday gift? I dutifully followed in their wake, sighing at the prices. They stopped in front of a sweater rack.
Jan held out a pink sweater. Sue draped a blue one over my shoulders. I frowned at the beautiful garments and batted them away.
“Stop it! Buy something so we can go.” If I’d wanted to be embarrassed, I could’ve stayed home and studied my checkbook. They barricaded my exit, one on either side. Jan took my hands.
“Listen, Kar, if you don’t start loving yourself enough to buy something new occasionally, how are you going to teach those daughters of yours to love themselves?”
Well, damn! Knock me over with a steamroller, why don’t you? Even as I opened my mouth to say something really nasty, I realized she was right. Sue nodded in agreement. As tears welled in my eyes, I realized that my sisters loved me enough to do this.
I bought a midnight-purple sweater swirled with different colors—one that made me feel elegant and beautiful. Even more surprising, I felt a twinge of worthiness creeping over me.
I hugged them both, gratefully, for a feeling that had long eluded me.
Jan whispered, “Elegance is an inside job; the outside stuff is how you celebrate your elegance.” I nodded a silent understanding.
When we got back into the car, they had one more surprise for me. They reached into a bag in the back seat and emerged with Cherry Cokes and fudge brownies.
“It is clear we need to renew our vows!” Giggling just like we did as kids, they led me through the same oath we had taken more than twenty years earlier.
Sue smiled and said, “Now, about those girls of yours. It is time to get them some magazines, so we can initiate them into the club.”
Karla Brown
Friday Afternoon at the Beauty Shop
Each moment is magical, precious and complete and will never exist again.
Susan Taylor
The sound of women’s voices could faintly be heard over the hum of the hair dryers. As clients waited for their turn to be pampered, they watched one court show after another on the small television set at the front of the shop.
Occasional laughter erupted from various conversations around the room.
It was an array of washing, drying, cutting, styling, weaving and braiding—your typical Friday afternoon at the beauty shop.
At least it started out that way.
Asmy stylist was braidingmy hair, a few women behind me near the wash bowls began conversing about the music playing on the shop’s portable boom box.
The song “In the Sanctuary” by Kurt Carr and The Kurt Carr Singers was brought in by one of the clients, unconsciously welcomed by all. Without much notice, the gospel CD replaced the old-school music that had played most of the morning.
The music had a contagious rhythm to it. Its lyrics drew you in, and before you realized it, you were humming along, tapping your foot, snapping your fingers.
Before long, a few of the patrons began harmonizing, as the others listened with interest. Toward the front of the shop, clients stopped their gossiping long enough to take note of the sweet sounds emanating from the back of the salon.
I quietly watched and listened to the transformation taking place. A peaceful calm settled over the room. It was as if someone new had entered the shop; a presence who didn’t need a door to make an entrance.
For the next two hours, the song played nonstop. Giving little thought to their actions, the clients would take turns pressing “play” whenever the song ended. Occasionally other songs from the CD would play, but someone would always return it to the first track.
I continued to observe the diverse group of women with interest. Gossip turned to stories of spiritual discovery and enlightenment. Conversation about trivial matters was replaced with tales of hope and dreams. The presence even took my thoughts of responsibilities waiting for me outside the shop’s doors and replaced them with wonder and praise for this day, for this moment.
Before long, one of the stylists recruited several patrons to join the others in song. Some could sing, some could not, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was joining together to give thanks.
The afternoon reached a climax when the same stylist, using a comb as a conductor’s stick, gathered the women and led them through a final playing of the song. Resembling a church choir, clapping hands and stepping from side to side, eight to ten patrons stood facing their director to sing one last time. It didn’t matter that people walking by the storefront could see them draped in towels and capes, hair in rollers, weaves half-finished. The only important thing was that they sing this song.
For a journalist, watching the celebration was similar to “getting the story.” What I was witnessing was unique.We were experiencing a moment that would never be repeated in this manner again.
The song ended, everyone clapped and hugged one another. The CD’s owner took her music and left. And as quickly as the transformation began a couple hours earlier, the activity in the shop reverted back to what one would expect on your typical Friday afternoon at the beauty shop.
Women’s voices could faintly be heard over the hum of the hair dryers. Clients waited for their turn to be pampered. Occasional laughter erupted from various conversations around the room. The washing, drying, cutting, styling, weaving and braiding resumed as if it had never stopped.
On the outside, it was as if nothing had ever happened.
But on the inside, we all knew it had.
Michelle Fitzhugh-Craig
Sisters’ Song
It is singing with soul that counts.
Sarah Vaughan
The Oklahoma City bombing had devastated our community; but just six weeks later the largest high school in Oklahoma City was having the baccalaureate service as usual in a neighborhood church. There was still a heartfelt obligation to affirm this end-of-year ceremony for our students. At our “Little United Nations,” as I liked to call it, we were a strong community of faith, and our young Vietnamese Catholics would worship beside our African American Baptists, in this, their next to the-last ceremony before they danced off into the world of college and jobs.
Court rulings involving separation of church and state meant the students and parents were totally in charge of this event. The students had to meet on their own for the rehearsal and to set the
tone of the program. Even though it was difficult to “let go” of a service of this nature, as the principal I had done just that. From past history I knew that this release of responsibility had normally worked out fine, but this year was a difficult time for everyone.
Several students had loved ones injured and killed in the bombing.
As the principal, my role was minimal, but I was able to participate in helping students pin collars on their robes in the waiting area, help quiet the nervous jitters and supervise as they lined up for thismost important event—which many viewed as a dress rehearsal for commencement.
Finally, all was in readiness, and I slid silently into a back pew as the students began to proudly march down the center of the sanctuary. Many a parent’s eyes dripped tears as a son or daughter quietly walked in line with their classmates to the front rows of the church, which had been reserved for the graduating class of 1995.
The program began normally with a routine of introductions and speeches. Finally, it was time for one of the most coveted parts of the ceremony—the senior solo.
Several students each year would try out for this honor, but only one was chosen.
One of our beautiful young ladies walked proudly to the lectern and prepared to sing. Her song was an old hymn and one that seemed especially appropriate after this recent tragedy—“His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” However, as she began to sing, something appeared to be wrong. She began to stumble through the first verse of the song, and tears started running down her face. Suddenly from the back of the church, the song echoed from another voice.
Her older sister had seen her distress and had come to her aid. She calmly walked down the center aisle of the church, keeping her eyes steadfastly on her sister, as she continued to sing along. She took her place next to her sister and placed her arm around her shoulder. They sang triumphantly, the original singer buoyed by the love and courage of her family member, until the song was finished.