It’s not my fault. So you can’t
blame me. I didn’t do it and have no idea how it happened. It didn’t take more
than an hour after they pulled her out from between my legs for me to realize
something was wrong. Really wrong. She was so black she scared me. Midnight
black, Sudanese black. I’m light-skinned, with good hair, what we call high
yellow, and so is Lula Ann’s father. Ain’t nobody in my family anywhere near
that color. Tar is the closest I can think of, yet her hair don’t go with the
skin. It’s different—straight but curly, like the hair on those naked tribes in
Australia. You might think she’s a throwback, but a throwback to what? You
should’ve seen my grandmother; she passed for white, married a white man, and
never said another word to any one of her children. Any letter she got from my
mother or my aunts she sent right back, unopened. Finally they got the message
of no message and let her be. Almost all mulatto types and quadroons did that
back in the day—if they had the right kind of hair, that is. Can you imagine
how many white folks have Negro blood hiding in their veins? Guess. Twenty per
cent, I heard. My own mother, Lula Mae, could have passed easy, but she chose
not to. She told me the price she paid for that decision. When she and my
father went to the courthouse to get married, there were two Bibles, and they
had to put their hands on the one reserved for Negroes. The other one was for
white people’s hands. The Bible! Can you beat it? My mother was a housekeeper
for a rich white couple. They ate every meal she cooked and insisted she scrub
their backs while they sat in the tub, and God knows what other intimate things
they made her do, but no touching of the same Bible.
Some of you probably think it’s a
bad thing to group ourselves according to skin color—the lighter the better—in
social clubs, neighborhoods, churches, sororities, even colored schools. But
how else can we hold on to a little dignity? How else can we avoid being spit
on in a drugstore, elbowed at the bus stop, having to walk in the gutter to let
whites have the whole sidewalk, being charged a nickel at the grocer’s for a
paper bag that’s free to white shoppers? Let alone all the name-calling. I
heard about all of that and much, much more. But because of my mother’s skin
color she wasn’t stopped from trying on hats or using the ladies’ room in the
department stores. And my father could try on shoes in the front part of the
shoe store, not in a back room. Neither one of them would let themselves drink
from a “Colored Only” fountain, even if they were dying of thirst.
I hate to say it, but from the
very beginning in the maternity ward the baby, Lula Ann, embarrassed me. Her
birth skin was pale like all babies’, even African ones, but it changed fast. I
thought I was going crazy when she turned blue-black right before my eyes. I
know I went crazy for a minute, because—just for a few seconds—I held a blanket
over her face and pressed. But I couldn’t do that, no matter how much I wished
she hadn’t been born with that terrible color. I even thought of giving her
away to an orphanage someplace. But I was scared to be one of those mothers who
leave their babies on church steps. Recently, I heard about a couple in
Germany, white as snow, who had a dark-skinned baby nobody could explain.
Twins, I believe—one white, one colored. But I don’t know if it’s true. All I
know is that, for me, nursing her was like having a pickaninny sucking my teat.
I went to bottle-feeding soon as I got home.
My husband, Louis, is a porter,
and when he got back off the rails he looked at me like I really was crazy and
looked at the baby like she was from the planet Jupiter. He wasn’t a cussing
man, so when he said, “God damn! What the hell is this?” I knew we were in
trouble. That was what did it—what caused the fights between me and him. It
broke our marriage to pieces. We had three good years together, but when she
was born he blamed me and treated Lula Ann like she was a stranger—more than
that, an enemy. He never touched her.
I never did convince him that I
ain’t never, ever fooled around with another man. He was dead sure I was lying.
We argued and argued till I told him her blackness had to be from his own
family—not mine. That was when it got worse, so bad he just up and left and I
had to look for another, cheaper place to live. I did the best I could. I knew
enough not to take her with me when I applied to landlords, so I left her with
a teen-age cousin to babysit. I didn’t take her outside much, anyway, because,
when I pushed her in the baby carriage, people would lean down and peek in to
say something nice and then give a start or jump back before frowning. That
hurt. I could have been the babysitter if our skin colors were reversed. It was
hard enough just being a colored woman—even a high-yellow one—trying to rent in
a decent part of the city. Back in the nineties, when Lula Ann was born, the
law was against discriminating in who you could rent to, but not many landlords
paid attention to it. They made up reasons to keep you out. But I got lucky
with Mr. Leigh, though I know he upped the rent seven dollars from what he’d
advertised, and he had a fit if you were a minute late with the money.
I told her to call me “Sweetness”
instead of “Mother” or “Mama.” It was safer. Her being that black and having
what I think are too thick lips and calling me “Mama” would’ve confused people.
Besides, she has funny-colored eyes, crow black with a blue tint—something
witchy about them, too.
So it was just us two for a long
while, and I don’t have to tell you how hard it is being an abandoned wife. I
guess Louis felt a little bit bad after leaving us like that, because a few
months later on he found out where I’d moved to and started sending me money
once a month, though I never asked him to and didn’t go to court to get it. His
fifty-dollar money orders and my night job at the hospital got me and Lula Ann
off welfare. Which was a good thing. I wish they would stop calling it welfare
and go back to the word they used when my mother was a girl. Then it was called
“relief.” Sounds much better, like it’s just a short-term breather while you
get yourself together. Besides, those welfare clerks are mean as spit. When
finally I got work and didn’t need them anymore, I was making more money than they
ever did. I guess meanness filled out their skimpy paychecks, which was why
they treated us like beggars. Especially when they looked at Lula Ann and then
back at me—like I was trying to cheat or something. Things got better but I
still had to be careful. Very careful in how I raised her. I had to be strict,
very strict. Lula Ann needed to learn how to behave, how to keep her head down
and not to make trouble. I don’t care how many times she changes her name. Her
color is a cross she will always carry. But it’s not my fault. It’s not my
fault. It’s not.
Oh, yeah, I feel bad sometimes
about how I treated Lula Ann when she was little. But you have to understand: I
had to protect her. She didn’t know the world. With that skin, there was no
point in being tough or sassy, even when you were right. Not in a world where
you could be sent to a juvenile lockup for talking back or fighting in school,
a world where you’d be the last one hired and the first one fired. She didn’t
know any of that or how her black skin would scare white people or make them
laugh and try to trick her. I once saw a girl nowhere near as dark as Lula Ann
who couldn’t have been more than ten years old tripped by one of a group of
white boys and when she tried to scramble up another one put his foot on her
behind and knocked her flat again. Those boys held their stomachs and bent over
with laughter. Long after she got away, they were still giggling, so proud of
themselves. If I hadn’t been watching through the bus window I would have
helped her, pulled her away from that white trash. See, if I hadn’t trained
Lula Ann properly she wouldn’t have known to always cross the street and avoid
white boys. But the lessons I taught her paid off, and in the end she made me
proud as a peacock.
I wasn’t a bad mother, you have
to know that, but I may have done some hurtful things to my only child because
I had to protect her. Had to. All because of skin privileges. At first I
couldn’t see past all that black to know who she was and just plain love her.
But I do. I really do. I think she understands now. I think so.
Last two times I saw her she was,
well, striking. Kind of bold and confident. Each time she came to see me, I
forgot just how black she really was because she was using it to her advantage
in beautiful white clothes.
Taught me a lesson I should have
known all along. What you do to children matters. And they might never forget.
As soon as she could, she left me all alone in that awful apartment. She got as
far away from me as she could: dolled herself up and got a big-time job in
California. She don’t call or visit anymore. She sends me money and stuff every
now and then, but I ain’t seen her in I don’t know how long.
I prefer this place—Winston
House—to those big, expensive nursing homes outside the city. Mine is small,
homey, cheaper, with twenty-four-hour nurses and a doctor who comes twice a
week. I’m only sixty-three—too young for pasture—but I came down with some
creeping bone disease, so good care is vital. The boredom is worse than the
weakness or the pain, but the nurses are lovely. One just kissed me on the
cheek when I told her I was going to be a grandmother. Her smile and her
compliments were fit for someone about to be crowned. I showed her the note on
blue paper that I got from Lula Ann—well, she signed it “Bride,” but I never
pay that any attention. Her words sounded giddy. “Guess what, S. I am so, so
happy to pass along this news. I am going to have a baby. I’m too, too thrilled
and hope you are, too.” I reckon the thrill is about the baby, not its father,
because she doesn’t mention him at all. I wonder if he is as black as she is.
If so, she needn’t worry like I did. Things have changed a mite from when I was
young. Blue-blacks are all over TV, in fashion magazines, commercials, even
starring in movies.
There is no return address on the
envelope. So I guess I’m still the bad parent being punished forever till the
day I die for the well-intended and, in fact, necessary way I brought her up. I
know she hates me. Our relationship is down to her sending me money. I have to
say I’m grateful for the cash, because I don’t have to beg for extras, like
some of the other patients. If I want my own fresh deck of cards for solitaire,
I can get it and not need to play with the dirty, worn one in the lounge. And I
can buy my special face cream. But I’m not fooled. I know the money she sends
is a way to stay away and quiet down the little bit of conscience she’s got
left.
If I sound irritable, ungrateful,
part of it is because underneath is regret. All the little things I didn’t do
or did wrong. I remember when she had her first period and how I reacted. Or
the times I shouted when she stumbled or dropped something. True. I was really
upset, even repelled by her black skin when she was born and at first I thought
of . . . No. I have to push those memories away—fast. No point. I know I did
the best for her under the circumstances. When my husband ran out on us, Lula
Ann was a burden. A heavy one, but I bore it well.
Yes, I was tough on her. You bet
I was. By the time she turned twelve going on thirteen, I had to be even
tougher. She was talking back, refusing to eat what I cooked, primping her
hair. When I braided it, she’d go to school and unbraid it. I couldn’t let her
go bad. I slammed the lid and warned her about the names she’d be called.
Still, some of my schooling must have rubbed off. See how she turned out? A
rich career girl. Can you beat it?
Now she’s pregnant. Good move,
Lula Ann. If you think mothering is all cooing, booties, and diapers you’re in
for a big shock. Big. You and your nameless boyfriend, husband,
pickup—whoever—imagine, Oooh! A baby! Kitchee kitchee koo!
Listen to me. You are about to
find out what it takes, how the world is, how it works, and how it changes when
you are a parent.
Good luck, and God help the
child. ♦
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