I’ve enjoyed listening to folks speak in recognition of Black History Month, talking about the folks who inspired them. This inspired me to realize it is way past time to recognize the black person whom I know has had more impact on my life than any other. Her name was Bessie.
When I was about seven years old in the early 1960s, she, for a time, was our maid. Our family of six lived in Corinth, Ms (pop. ~5000), at that time and in fairly close proximity to the heart of the Civil Rights Movement. Socially, my parents were very much among those who couldn’t seem to fully grasp what all the Civil Rights fuss was about. Politically, they were Birchers.
The family had its problems–I won’t go into them–and the parent-child relationships were, in the best of times, lukewarm. As I would realize much later, I was, in large part, living on my own–about as much as a seven-year-old can in a family with a regard for traditional Southern proprieties–until Bessie came to help with the house.
She was a round, quiet, not-very-tall lady always in a dress and who was always steadily and efficiently doing the business of the day. She had a marvelous ability to make the house shine without ever seeming busy. Many years later, remembering my mother’s voice when she called out to Bessie, I realized she knew, probably unconsciously, that Bessie was the actual Boss.
Bessie arrived early, sometimes it seemed before the sun was well up into the trees. I think she had family of her own but somehow she was at our house and she helped get us kids out of the house and off to school, which, back then, started promptly at 8am for all grades.
She was the adult that came into the kids’ rooms to make sure we got up and got ready for school. She made sure we took care of all our bathroom business. She made sure we had fresh clothes, and, sitting on the bed, made sure I and my younger brother got our socks, pants, shirts on right. She was the one that checked the tuck of our shirts, made sure the belts were properly tight and then gave our pants that quick little jerk and shake that parents did with young boys of the time that set everything finally straight. I do the same thing to my pants to this day and I know very well there is a small part of me checking that I am doing it like she did.
And she was the one that then pushed us away a little bit and made us turn around so she could say we looked just fine.
I do not recall that she ever smiled but I always went downstairs feeling good.
So, for a time, as you can probably see, it was Bessie who did the “Mom” things for us kids in the mornings.
She stayed with us for some months and, on a particularly tense and loud morning, abruptly walked out of the house and never came back. I never knew her last name.
But, when I think of the time when Dr. King was killed, I do not remember the anger in the black people but, rather, the fear in the whites. From those days to these, I have never judged a person by his or her skin, even before the “I Have a Dream” speech–though, for a time, I was uncomfortable with Goths. When I saw Martin Luther King’s profile on the cover of Time Magazine captioned, “Founding Father”, I smiled, feeling slightly surprised and chastised, and thought, “Of course he is.” Barack Obama is the only president that ever caused me to wish for a third term. I know why black people so often pity white people.
To this day, when I have occasion to talk to a middle-aged to elderly round, quiet, not-very-tall black lady, “Yes, Ma’am” and “No, Ma’am” just come out, and often, just like they did all those years ago. I wouldn’t dream of trying to suppress them.
So, among all the well-known, famous, great Black people, I nominate and honor a more personal great Black person and all others like her. Of course there were others. Of course there are now. One thing I know best is that, for all of our individual uniqueness, none of us are truly the only one.