she WAS old

She was old

Today I touched soil and I remembered these things.

Two memories wrap around each other when I think of South Carolina and a visit(s) there as a little girl. Whether they took place on one trip or several is not important because in my mind they all echo around the taste and feel of the south.

Bertha Weeks, or Great Grandmom as I knew her, stood in her kitchen in white cotton briefs and a white industrial strength bra. She stood over the sink washing a pot. She might have been singing. I’d like to think she was. Her skinny legs looked ancient and spotted and her underwear were riding high, almost touching her bra strap. My Grandmother, Wynona’s shrill voice entered, “for God’s sake put some clothes on.” I imagine Bertha replying in her southern way with wit and feisty words, but I can’t hear them, they’re lost. Itwashot, scorching, and as far as I can remember there wasn’t an air conditioner. White cotton briefs and an industrial bra were probably just about right, considering.

Later that day or that year or maybe even a year later, I remember following Great Grandmom Bertha out to the garden. She carried an old aluminum pot with a handle. It was filled with rice she had just cooked. She didn’t eat any of it. It was for the worms. I followed her through what seemed like a disorganized mess of plants, paths, empty cans and various containers of all types. She told me all about the worms and how they kept her plants strong and in returned she cooked them nice big pots of rice to enjoy. She bent over in her house coat, small spade in one hand, and dug a hole in the earth and scooped in rice, mixing it in and covering it again. I remember staring in wonder and thinking that Grandmom Wynona would not like this and that maybe this was strange. Something seemed uncomfortable about it….feeding worms.

Only later would I realize the wisdom she had shared. Years later after she died and after the slap of tasting southern racism up close and personal.

In the south, I learned, what is meant to not be “prejudiced” was that you took good care of your help. Took pity on them. Maybe even buried them in your own family plot.

Bertha went north because she had to.

Bertha was on the couch with one leg.

Bertha was ancient now and I was afraid of her.

I came to visit Grandmom Wynona, a regular thing. It was expected that I hug Great Grandmom. She was fragile, small, sour. I felt ashamed but, I wanted to get it over with and go outside or something, but Grandmom thought it would be nice if I sat in the room with her. They set up a T.V., so she could watch from the couch in the formal living room. I knew about her leg. I overheard them all talking. I knew there was a stump under the blanket. I was maybe 14 now. I was sure about things, as sure as a teenager could be about things. I had already battled it out with Grandmom, earlier that year, blurting out that I spent the night at my best friend’s house often.

Whose Mom happened to be my mom’s best friend.

Who happened to be a boy.

Who happened to be gay

Who happened to be black

(Well half black. Stephan loved to tell people he got a white ass and black hair and he was angry as hell at the race gods.)

Grandmom was crying and I was righteous and powerful. I wasn’t crying, I was sobbing

I was right.

I was right.

I was right.

Damn it.

And I was. But, it was worse.

I sat in the chair looking over at great grandmom Bertha thinking about the stump under the blanket. Thinking of the recurring nightmare I had of losing my arm. Repulsed yet curious. When suddenly she screamed, bellowed really,

“YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THEY HAVE NIGGERS TELLING THE NEWS UP HERE?”

I felt my blood rise. I felt my anger rise. I felt every episode of Sesame Street I ever watched, every taunt at school that I loved a gay boy, every stare, every talk Stephan’s mother gave us on racism and equality rise in my constricting throat. I wanted to scream.

I heard about this. I learned about it, but here?

I wanted to rant as I watched her sitting there shaking her head. Mom came rushing in… I ran to the room I stayed in. Crying and shocked, I started to ramble. How? Why? It is so wrong. Soothingly, I was told that I was right and it was awful, but she was old.

“So what?”

“Hunny, she is so old. Older than 90. I knew that. I didn’t care. This is ingrained and it won’t change. She is about to leave us and it will never change. She is too old. It was her way of life and really she was a good person her entire life. She is tired, she isn’t herself and she is old. We just need to give her love and make her comfortable. It doesn’t mean we believe it"

I was left to stew in it.

I thought about it and decided that she was old and as I watched her mumbling to herself as she watched TV later that night, still angry, I knew mom was right. She was at her end¸ but

I was just at my start.