East Texas Daughter

East Texas

Daughter

Helen G.Green

H

elen Harris Green was the first black woman admitted into a Dallas school of professional nursing, the first black to be a nurse-manager at the Harris Methodist Hospital in Euless, the first black department director at Timberlawn Psychiatric Center, the first black president of the Texas Society of Healthcare Educators, the first black to be on the board of directors for the TSHE division of the Texas Hospital Association, and the first black chairperson of the board of directors of TSHE. Raised in poverty in East Texas, Helen Green was blessed with an educated mother who was determined to help her daughter rise beyond the circumstances of her childhood and who emphasized that education was the key. Her father, less well educated, believed in ruling the roost with an iron fist, and her brother ran away from home in rebellion. Willie Raye Harris protected her daughter from the same fate. Green’s vivid description of her childhood in segregated East Texas is riveting, giving a clear picture of the place and the time. Married and a mother at an early age, Green never lost her ambition. She studied, in a segregated class, for her certificate as a Licensed Vocational Nurse. While working as an LVN, she applied for admission to professional nursing schools and was consistently turned down for seven years. Finally, she was accepted into the Methodist Hospital of Dallas School of Nursing, where she was clearly an experiment. Green met encouragement and support from the dean and faculty and most of her classmates, but she also endured curiosity, scorn, and rudeness from some professional healthcare workers, some students, and patients. On graduation, she received the Florence Nightingale Award for academic and clinical excellence. Continued on back flap

Continued from front flap

Over the years, Green’s continuing education—she earned a masters degree in business administration—and her professional success placed great strains on her family. She and her husband, Sed, were periodically at odds and even divorced briefly. Her daughter, Shalimar, distanced herself from the family and developed a drug problem. And her son, Chris, was often saddened by the anger between his parents. Helen Green’s story, told frankly and honestly, reflects the experiences of many black citizens, no matter their profession, during the fifties and sixties and on into the twenty-first century. Her determination and courage are to be admired, her humor and insight to be appreciated, her love and compassion to be shared with the world. This is the story of one East Texas Daughter who learned that sticks and stones might break her bones and even slow her progress, but never end it. Now semi-retired, Helen Green makes her home in Dallas and remains active in the world of nursing. She serves on the board of trustees of Dallas Metrocare Services and conducts seminars for small groups. She is the mother of two children, a grandmother, and a great-grandmother.

Cover photo by Steve Rutherford

TCU Press Fort Worth

East Texas Daughter

East Texas Daughter Helen G. Green

TCU Press Fort Worth, Texas

Copyright © 2003 Helen G. Green

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Green, Helen G., 1937East Texas daughter / Helen G. Green p. com ISBN 0-87565-276-X (alk. Paper) 1. Green, Helen G., 1937- 2. Green, Helen G., 1937—Childhood and youth. 3. African American women—Texas, East—Biography. 4. African Americans—Texas, East—Biography. 5. African American nurses— Texas—Dallas—Biography. 6. Texas, East—Biography. 7. Tyler (Tex.)— Biography. 8. Dallas (Tex.)—Biography. 9. East Texas—Race relations. I. Title. E185.93.T4 G74 2003 610/73’092—dc21

Design by Barbara M. Whitehead

2002151756

To my mother’s memory and her unending encouragement that directly influenced any accomplishments that I’ve made in my life, and to all those family members and friends who stood by me when there seemed to be no hope.

CONTENTS

Preface



        : The Trip



        : Wavering Hope         : On the Move

 

        : Recognizing Discrimination from My Own         : My Brother’s Keeper         : Baby Steps





        : Ten Years Later



        : Fine-Tuning the Cause         : Pain and Deception          : The Beginning





         : Prelude to the Future





         : Advancing, Hoping, and Praying          : On the Way to the Finish Line          : The Price of the Challenge          : Pride and Poverty









         : Tokenism, Racism, Prejudice, and Bias



         : The Inevitability and the Price of Change          : Carrot and Stick



         : Moving On—My Way          : Loss and Grief



         : When in Rome . . .  Epilogue









PREFACE

       scans a period of my life where I was intimately exposed to a culture unfamiliar to me yet one in which I was to spend the remainder of my life. Born in the late 1930s in Cherokee County, Texas, I should have been conditioned to accept the ways of the South—racial discrimination, second-class citizenship, separate-but-equal education, and all the rest. I should have been, but my mother would not let it be so. This book is as much about my mother as it is about my personal accomplishments. The intention of this book is to tell the story, realistically and truthfully, of how the black professional was the object of undue screening, covert discrimination, and of how so many, of lesser hue, claimed to be unaware. It is not the object of this book to cause pain nor embarrassment to my friends and family nor to the health-care community that I love and where I spent more than forty years of my life. My purpose is writing this book is to tell what happened to me, an East Texas-born American woman of African descent, in my quest for a better life for myself and my children. Several of the names of characters in this book have been changed to avoid causing anyone pain or discomfort. My hopes are that my story may give a ray of hope to others who may just be starting the journey. This book represents more than forty years of data collection. The text was compiled through a review of my life, through interviews with the elders of my family, and the actual notes recalled and written to share with you, the readers, an array of interesting, sad, sometimes humorous, sometimes painful events. These events determined the direction of my life.

T



East Texas Daughter

It might be well for me to mention here that I have had a difficult time trying to determine just what adjective I would use to refer to myself, in order to be politically correct. I used to be colored, then Negro, then I was black, and now I’m Afro-American. I want all the readers to know that I am an American woman of African descent. So, in this book you may see all the terms used interchangeably. Don’t worry. I know who I am. Those of you “of color” will most likely see yourselves in some of my life experiences. Those of you whose cultures and ethnic origins protected you from these hardships will learn of events that may surprise you, at the very least, educate you, so that history will never again repeat itself . . . never again!


Special thanks go to my two children, Shalimar and Chris, whose lives stimulated the perseverance and endurance others attributed to my personality, and to all my grandchildren—Kasey, Andrea, and Little Christopher, who loved me just because. And to my late husband, Sederick—thanks for the contributions you made to my life. And to my great-grandson, Joshua—thanks for coming into my life. And, of course, consideration and thanks go to all those people with whom I had personal interaction during this period of my life, without whom there would be no story. Additionally, thanks to the special friends who inspired me to continue my writing— Shirley Green, Agnes Williams, Claire Zivney, and the late Sharon Speaks and Alma Tippens.



East Texas Daughter Who can know the depth of a wound caused by harsh words and unpolished contempt? And who can know the hurt that comes to those, of fewer number, when denial to live and desire to live are strong opposing factors? Who can handle the sticks and stones so carefully hidden in the words of the stranger? And who can find a rose amidst the tons of thistles that block the path of the few ones? Who can polish the stones to glimmer, even when the night is dark and the way unclear? Who can take the sticks and build a foundation, with sufficient strength to endure the weight of sorrow and the hurt? I do, I can, and I will.

CHAPTER ONE

The Trip   five years old, and my brother, Cleophus, was seven when we arrived in Tyler, Texas, that hot scalding July day in 1942. The trip from the sleepy rural community just outside Jacksonville, Texas, where I had been born, was only twenty-seven miles, but it seemed more like 227 miles! We were traveling in Uncle Robert Lee’s old black Ford sedan which could barely accelerate under the great burden it was carrying. There were three adults and two children packed into this small automobile. In the old trunk, which was tied securely on top of the car, was everything we could possibly carry with us from the old house. This was everything we owned in the world. Born and raised in Ruston, Louisiana, Daddy was a short, stout, very strong man weighing about 230 pounds. He had a grip in his hands that could bring Hercules to his knees. He kept his dark wavy hair in place through the use of a pomade for men that came in a little yellow tin. He had a fifth-grade education but was brilliant in mathematics. He often bragged about figuring a problem out in his head before any of the youngsters could find a pencil and paper. He was the oldest of six children, and, according to him, “stood right beside the grown folk at twelve years old, doing a man’s job!” He came from an extremely poor sharecropping family where education was the least of the priorities and was often seen as unnecessary. Now, as we drove along toward our future home, he and his youngest brother, Uncle Robert Lee, with plugs of chewing tobacco in their cheeks, sat in the front seat, discussing the times and the plight of the “colored folk” in the South. “A po’ Negro ain’t got nobody helpin’ him, just ’cause he’s po’ an’

I

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been a slave all his life, even though they say we’s free! All them politicians up there in Washington, ’specially Roosevelt, ain’t doin’ nothin’. Know what, I think they’d all be glad if we all died. That’s what I thank!” This conversation continued for the entire trip, pausing only for one or both of them to spit out of the windows. Being only five years old, I had no idea of what they were talking about and didn’t really care. But the one thing I did know was that Daddy was angry about nobody caring about us. I didn’t know anything about being poor, but I did wonder why Mother had to go up the road to help the white lady do canning in a big ugly shed with some of the shingles missing. I wondered why they didn’t come down to our house where there was more room in the big front yard, at least for her little girl and me to play. And I didn’t like it because I had to be too careful up there and this little girl always wanted to name the games for us to play. She always seemed to know the rules, and I never knew what the rules were and was always fouling or something. Cleophus and I sat in the back seat with Mother. She was a tall, thin, dark skinned, attractive woman, a native of rural East Texas and the firstborn of Will and Annie McEwing. Mother had completed three years of college at Texas College, an all-black college in Tyler. An education major with a minor in foreign languages, she had planned to be a schoolteacher. Mother was the model for the rest of her siblings and was to help with the education of the others when she completed her studies. However, she dropped out of college during her third year to marry Daddy after a short courtship. Her parents, Mama and Papa “Cueing” (our loving reference to our grandparents), were outraged that Mother was giving up her education to marry Daddy who was a poor, uneducated man as well as a young widower with four children! They believed strongly that this was a serious trap for their promising young college daughter who was supposed to marry up instead of down. More than anything else, Mama and Papa Cueing believed that Daddy was not prepared to take care of Mother in the manner they had hoped for her. Papa Cueing went so far as to say that Daddy was just marrying Mother to gain a

The Trip

mother for his children and then he would try to live off the good name of the McEwings. I was told there was chaos in the McEwing household for weeks. Papa first threatened to withhold his blessings; then he went to bribery, promising to get her a new Ford if she gave up this nonsense. Mother would not give up the idea, and they were married, over the protests of the McEwings. Mother’s family was a middle-class black family who was seen in the rural community as being well off. Papa Cueing was a selfmade carpenter who constructed furniture from scratch, including porch and yard swings, lawn furniture, rocking chairs, various tables, chairs, cabinets, windows, and doors. He did similar work for everyone in their community as well as in surrounding communities, both black and white. They lived in a big house with lots of room. Papa had built most of the furniture himself. Papa and Mama Cueing also had vegetable gardens from which they sold produce to the neighbors. They were the proud owners of a small chicken farm, from which they sold eggs and poultry, and a few heads of livestock, which Papa referred to as the children’s stock. He planned to give to each of his children a good start by giving them a pair of these animals whenever they got married. The dissension between Daddy and Papa Cueing escalated when Papa found out that Daddy had sold the cow and bull he had given them as a wedding present. The words between them were so vicious that my daddy would not go to Mama and Papa Cueings’ house anymore, and they would not enter ours. According to “Muddear” (as we called our mother) and my aunts and uncles, Papa was a great planner and had good insight into the future, especially for his children. He saved compulsively and was adamant about his children receiving an education and never having to work as field hands or do domestic work. He was a proud but practical man who followed the news and politics of the times and refused to see himself or his family as second-class citizens, though he could not vote, live, eat, or sleep where he wanted to. Mama and Papa Cueing agreed about the future and welfare of their children, but they had chosen different religious denomina-

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East Texas Daughter



tions: Mama was an AME Methodist, and Papa belonged to the Church of Christ. They agreed to disagree about their own religious preferences, but the kids were all raised Methodists. Both Mama and Papa Cueing could play the piano and had taught each of the girls to play, early in their young lives. They both used correct English and demanded its use from each of their eight children. Manners were enforced in that household, especially at the dinner table. The table was set, and ironed and folded cotton napkins (which Mama made) were beside each plate. After Papa said grace, our plates were passed up to Papa, and he filled them with whatever the main course was. Then the discussions of events began between Mama and Papa and any other adult at the table. Frequently they would stop the discussions and ask what we thought about so-and-so. The only rule was you were not permitted to shrug your shoulders. You could say, “I don’t know,” but shrugging your shoulders was considered “dumb.” My mother, Willie Ray, was named for her father and was the oldest of the children. Then there were my aunts, Georgia, Vera, and Dorothy, and my uncles, Joel, Pearl, Alvin, and Theadric. Uncle Alvin was my personal favorite and the only other one of my mother’s siblings to have children. Even after my grandparents moved from the country to a smaller, five-room house in the town of Jacksonville, I loved going to their house. To this day, I still get nostalgic when I get a whiff of certain foods in the air. Mama was always cooking something special when we came for a visit—sugar or butter cookies or homemade ice cream. Papa would have made Cleo and me something out in his workshop. He would carve me dolls and use string made from unraveled rope for the hair. I remember one visit when Papa had made me my own little rocking chair with my name painted on the back and a crib for my baby doll. Cleophus got a slingshot and a set of stilts with his name painted on each one. Papa Cueing was an avid reader and would read the newspaper from the front to the back, daily. He had books lined upon the bookshelf that he had read many times over, and from time to time he would read to us. Papa was also a great storyteller, and whenever we spotted him sitting in the porch swing we would snuggle up on

The Trip

either side of him. He usually had some peanuts in his pocket, and he would share with us and then begin his storytelling. Sometimes he would look at some clouds in the sky and make up some stories about baby clouds and mama and papa clouds. Most of the time his tales always begin with “Y’ know, a long time ago in a place you will probably see some day, there lived a princess, or a king, or a poor man, or a rich man.” Papa was also very good at telling exciting ghost stories that Mama Cueing did not approve of his telling us. So he would always finish the story with a quiet ending with the ghost being banished or something. The best time of all was when Papa was working in his shop, which was a converted old shed with a tin roof. He’d let us help him saw the wood along a mark he’d drawn to keep the lines straight. He taught us how to hold the hammer in order to drive the nails in straight and to keep from driving our fingers in with it. Papa had severe arthritis in his hips and knees, requiring him to walk with a cane. Papa also suffered a deformed right hand with his index finger permanently contracted over his thumb. The homefolk said the hand problem was the result of a snakebite suffered early in his youth. Papa stuck his hand into a hole in the ground and the snake bit him and held on to the area between the thumb and the index finger. The story is that Papa eventually disengaged the snake and killed it. In spite of these limitations, Papa played the piano with grace and finished his furniture with a professional flair. On days when Mama and Papa went to the garden, they would let us help pick tomatoes or green beans and onions or some other vegetable. Sometimes, while we were having fun picking the veggies, Cleophus would chase me with grasshoppers or other bugs and worms, and I would spill my basket of vegetables or start throwing them at him. “Mama Cueing! Cleophus putting those filthy ole bugs on me!” “Leave her alone, Cleo! Don’t scare your little sister,” Mama would yell. “Now stop it! You’re going to make her hurt herself.” We also got a chance to take eggs from the chicken nests, but not me. I was not going to touch those dirty old eggs that came out of the chicken’s bottoms. I didn’t care how many cookies Mama Cueing promised me—that was one thing I would not do.

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East Texas Daughter

If we wanted to, Mama and Papa would let us crawl into their bed at night and sink down in the soft, fluffy feather mattress. During this time, we were their only grandchildren, and they treated us like royalty. Just as they had taught their children, they instructed us whenever we visited, and especially if they let us sleep in with them. Most of it centered around “being proper,” in our speech and behavior. I can just hear Mama Cueing now: “How do you ever think you’re going to get to be a schoolteacher if you speak like that? Now say “get” instead of “git.” Don’t let me hear you say “git” anymore. Do you understand me?” Cleophus and I could read and write cursive by the time each of us was four years old. Muddear had seen to that. She would drill us from time to time, making a game out of learning. We never understood exactly what she was doing at the time, but we had the sense that these particular games were important. She would stop whatever she was doing if we were cutting up too much or not paying attention: “Helen, it’s not ain’t, but what?” “Isn’t.” “And if we’re talking about more than one, it’s what? “It’s aren’t, Muddear. I know!” “Well, if you know what’s correct, then speak correctly, young lady.” “Yes, ma’am.” We got the biggest kick out of seeing the amazement on the faces of the older folk when they would stop by to visit us in the country. We’d read something out of one of Muddear’s books that she kept stored away in the rusty pot-bellied trunk, and the folks would reel back in their chairs with pride and enjoyment. We sort of became the entertainment for that rural community; even more than that, we became the hope for people who had never had the chances that they felt awaited us. “Lordy be! Them chilluns ain’t goin’ ever to have to pick no cotton for a livin’. They got sense just like white folks. They goin’ to be in some office or something. I tell ya that right now! They may even be schoolteachers. . . . And, Willie Ray, that gal of yours goin’ really 

The Trip

be somethin’ with that spellin’ she can do at her age. Lord, have mercy!” Cleophus had started to school in the first grade while we still lived in the country in Cherokee County. The one-room unpainted schoolhouse sat on top of a little hill and could be seen from our house about two miles away. In the mornings, Muddear would pack Cleo’s lunch in a washed and shined syrup bucket with little holes punched in the lid for ventilation. Lunch, most often, consisted of fried dry-salt bacon or ham and egg sandwiched between flaky homemade biscuits. Often, especially on Mondays, Cleo would have a slice of Mother’s famous caramel cake or teacakes. Mother and I would walk with Cleophus for about half a mile; then we would watch, as his small frame disappeared in the red hills.


Some of Daddy’s family, including his mother and his four children who lived with her, had moved to Tyler a short time before we went there. We were to stay with them until Daddy got work and we could find a place of our own. Mama Harris, Daddy’s mother, was the matriarch of the clan and everybody knew it (Papa Harris had died soon after my birth). Nothing was done unless she approved it. Mama Harris always said that Daddy’s first wife, Bernice, on her deathbed, had asked her to take care of her children and “bring them up proper.” Mama Harris did this, sparing not the rod, or the switches, or the old black club she kept hanging on a big rusty nail near where she always sat. This is how she made them behave and why they feared her. I didn’t know much about Mama Harris and had not spent much time around any of my daddy’s folk. I never understood why, but as I look back on the situation now, the disparity between my mother’s family and daddy’s folk was like a deep unfriendly gulf that continued to flow to the children and to the children’s children. The Harris clan saw the McEwings as uppity, forgetting they were colored, thinking they were more than the Harrises and the 

East Texas Daughter

like. Consequently, anything and anyone that came from the McEwings were certainly suspect, even the children. My daddy’s folk saw Muddear as a sophisticate and an elitist, though they wouldn’t have used those words, because she was educated, because she spoke “proper,” and because her family had been much more fortunate than the Harrises. From time to time, Jerlene and Earnest Lee, the oldest of the Daddy’s kids, would come to spend a few days with us when we lived out in the country. Seldom, if ever, did they want to go back to their home with Mama Harris. Mother was often criticized by Mama Harris when she would ask if they could stay a little longer. She was quickly put her in her place by being reminded that she was not their mother. Daddy never said a word, even though his own children suffered psychological and physical abuse at the hands of his own mother. Mama Harris was always in full control of family situations. When she sensed the kids were misbehaving, she would say to Daddy, “Whup that young’un, Thomas!” Daddy, of course, would pop right up and beat the tar out of whoever she was talking about. If Mama Harris said it, then it was biblical. No further questions were asked. The big difference was that she treated the children of her own girls differently and was much more lenient and permissive with them. This drew contempt and jealousy from the ones receiving the punishment, and it also dug a big trench between these cousins.






The hot monotonous drive to Tyler had made me tired and sleepy, so I had fallen asleep on Muddear’s shoulder. Cleophus woke me up by shouting and shaking me. “Helen, wake up, girl, we’re in Tyler! See the sign? It says, ‘Tyler City Limits!’” Our noses were pressed hard against the window. We had never been to the city before, and it was quite a sight to behold. We saw stores right next to each other and big, brightly painted houses, brick houses, and big, big houses on top of each other, which Muddear informed us were businesses. The street was filled with lots of shiny cars, and

The Trip

some of the streets were made from bricks. Lights that hung from poles on the street corners changed from red to yellow to green. People walked on sidewalks. I had never seen anything like this before in my life! Mother was smiling and seemed to be enjoying watching us nearly bursting open with excitement. She worked with her hair and then took out a cute little lace white handkerchief and wiped the dust and sweat from our faces. “We almost there . . . to the colored folks part of town. After we cross that street up there, we be in the colored folk part,” Daddy said, grinning from ear to ear. “Where’s the sign that says colored folk’s part, Daddy?” I asked, as I read some of the signs on the buildings out loud. “There really aren’t any signs to tell us, honey, but those of us who are colored kind of know where we live, honey,” Mother answered without emotion. “I saw a white man, back there, didn’t you, Cleophus? He was standing on the porch back there. I saw him.” Cleophus had nodded in agreement. Daddy turned around in the front seat and, with a fiercely angry look on his face, he said, “Didn’t you hear yo’ mama? Don’ no white folks live over here! Them white folks you saw, well, they owns them stores.” “Colored folk don’t own any stores? I thought you said . . .” “Hush up, gal! Sure colored folks own stores, gal! But most of ’em po’ just like we is. The Good Book says befo’ the end o’ time, them’s that’s on the bottom goin’ be on top and them’s that’s on the top goin’ be on the bottom. I trus’ the Lord an’ we goin’ be just fine. We sure is gonna be just fine.” I didn’t know or really care what all the commotion was about, mostly because Muddear had always told us, “You are limited only by your own mind.” Pointing her finger at her head, she would say, “If you can think it, you can do it.” She had never let us forget that, in all our young tender years. So whatever this thing was that Daddy called, “po’ colored folks,” I didn’t know. But the one thing I knew was that it had some influence over how we lived our lives. I knew it had some influence over why little Nadine, the white girl

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up the road in the country, could always name the games and the rules and why Muddear always had to go up to her house to help with the canning. We soon turned onto a hard, bumpy, tar-covered street, called “Queen.” In one block I saw numerous small houses painted dead gray and a grocery store on one side of the street. On the other side were two brick homes, where some of the well-off colored folk lived. Between the two brick houses huge piles of wood were stacked. A high chain-link fence enclosed all those woodpiles and the giant saws that were used to cut the wood. I later learned that this place was called the wood yard and was as essential to the community as drinking water, since most of the families used wood stoves for cooking and wood heaters for warmth during the winter months. The smell of the wood was sweet in the air. The car came to a stop in the middle of the block in front of one of the gray houses across the street from the wood yard. “Well, thank the Lord! We done made it here without no trouble,” Daddy said, looking at Uncle Robert Lee and grinning like a Cheshire cat. Muddear had not said a word. She wiped our faces again and breathed a deep sigh, of what I thought was relief from the weariness of the hot, dusty trip. Later I learned that this move had placed a great burden on Muddear’s shoulders, mainly because she knew of the resentment that awaited her from Daddy’s family. Of course, I didn’t know about any of this at the time. Daddy was out of the car now, tugging at his pants, and reshaping his hat, which had ridden on his lap during the trip. Daddy seemed as happy as I had ever seen him. “Y’all git out! This here’s where y’all goin’ be staying. This is where yo’ Mama Harris and yo’ sisters and brother stay. Lord, this where all the folk stay, yo’ aunties and uncles and a lot o’ yo’ cousins, right here is these three houses. Git on out!” In just a few minutes, Mama Harris waddled onto the front porch of the first of these Harris houses. She stood about 5’3 or 5’4,” a light-skinned, very heavy woman with high cheek bones and long, graying, straight hair, pulled back into one long braid that reached beyond her waist. Though she didn’t actually do any work

The Trip

around the house except her quilting, she always wore an apron with a bib that was pinned to her dress just above her huge bosom. Aunt Molly and her boys had made their way out to the car where everybody was gathering. We kids just stood there gazing at each other, not really knowing what to say, while the grown folk stood around exchanging greetings and small talk. Then Mama Harris started walking swiftly toward the house and motioned for the others to follow her. “Y’all c’mon in the house an’ rest yo’selves. Y’all c’mon in. You young’uns git back ’round to the back and play in the shade. Go on, git!” Mama Harris demanded. Cleophus and I joined our cousins, Potsy and Opel, in the backyard. It didn’t take us long to get to know each other and to learn the games the kids played when there were no toys. Every once in a while, one of my half-sisters would peek out the back door and wave to us, but they always darted back in again, without saying a word. Later, they would bring fruit jars full of cold water to the back door for us kids, and we would gulp it down, being exhausted from the heat and the new game, called “Tag.” Cleophus and I introduced a game Muddear had taught us, called “Think.” But it fell flat; nobody wanted to play a game where you had to think of a word that started with an alphabet letter that somebody else named. So we went about playing the high-energy games of Tag and Po’ Sally Walker, in the blazing hot July sun. I didn’t get a chance to see the inside of the house or really to say hello to my half-sisters until we were called in to supper about two hours later. I learned that the kids always ate after the grown folk had finished. Cleophus and I followed the others into the kitchen. Our eyes were dancing from one thing to another in this large rectangular room. The spotless kitchen floor was covered with a shiny though worn black-and-white linoleum rug. The walls were washed clean, and various pots and pans hung on huge nails near the woodstove. A red-and-white checkered plastic-like tablecloth covered the big table, and nice little heavily starched curtains graced each of the four windows in the kitchen. As Cleophus and I took our seats at the table, we eyed Mother sitting in the living room adjoining the kitchen. I started to wave,

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but Cleophus pushed my hand down. I sat on a little red homemade stool. It made me remember the little chair Papa Cueing had made for me and the big round table at home where the whole family always ate together. “Sit down and be quiet,” Cleophus whispered. “Don’t act like a baby . . . and don’t put your elbows on the table. Remember what Muddear said, eat properly and say please and thank you.” “I’m going to, if I ever get anything to say please and thank you for,” I snapped. We were hungry, and the fresh purple-hull peas, fried chicken, and hot cornbread tasted wonderful. Later, there was hot blackberry cobbler and cold buttermilk for dessert, a welcome and delicious treat. During the meal, my half-sisters, Jerlene, Wanda, and Mary, ate with us. They joked with us, and we all giggled in a soft, quiet way, making sure that Mama Harris didn’t hear us. After supper, the little kids were sent back outside again, while my half-sisters, who had prepared the delicious meal, remained in the kitchen to clean up everybody’s mess. Even Mary, who was now only ten years old, worked beside her sisters doing all the chores. She had only been ten months old when her mother died of what they thought was malaria fever. Jerlene, the oldest girl, was about fifteen years old and seemed to be the surrogate mother to the other two girls. She was pretty, short, and somewhat stocky just like Daddy and Mama Harris. Everybody said that she was the spitting image of Daddy and that she was his pick of all the children since she looked so much like him. Wanda, about twelve years old, was much darker-skinned than the other girls. She was tall and skinny with deep dimples in her cheeks and gorgeous white teeth. She seemed very shy and timid. Mary, the youngest, was cute and high-spirited, and whenever she smiled, she would flash the big gap between her two front buckteeth (this we had in common). These were my half-sisters whom I barely knew and who had been left in the hands of Mama Harris for her to raise. I was thankful that Cleo and I still had Muddear. There were two adjoining outhouses, about twenty yards or so from the back porch. My cousins showed us how to throw a rock to

The Trip

hit the outhouse door to make it swing open when somebody went in. Then we’d watch whoever it was jump up with their drawers around their ankles, grab the rope, and pull the door shut again. We’d laugh so hard we’d be covered with dirt and grass from rolling around on the ground. Then someone from the inside would yell, “I’m gonna tell Mama Harris on y’all! She’s gonna whip your butts.” That did it! We’d scatter like roaches when the light comes on. We ran alongside our cousins since we didn’t really know anything about Mama Harris, but we knew she must have been something if her name alone would cause such chaos. There was no denying the tension in the house where we lived with Mama Harris, Uncle John (Mama Harris’ brother referred to as Uncle Toad), Uncle Claude (one of Mama Harris’ sons), and the girls. Muddear didn’t smile much anymore and seldom joked with Cleo and me. Sometimes I would find her sitting in the swing on the front porch, just staring, and humming some Negro spiritual. “What’s the matter, Muddear? Are you sad? Did I do something wrong?” I asked, seeing my mother looking so alone and so sad. She would pull me close to her and hold me tight. She would kiss my forehead, brush back my hair, and speak softly and tenderly. “My dear sweet little baby. Don’t you go worrying about your mother. I’m fine! It’s just grown-up stuff I’m thinking about, nothing you should be worrying about. . . . Now, tell me, are you getting to know your cousins and your sisters?” This was just like Mother, carrying all the burdens by herself, not wanting the kids to know what was going on. In her way she was trying to protect us, but I didn’t want to be protected. I wanted to know what was hurting my mother, and I wanted to help make it okay. I later overheard Mother telling Daddy that Mama Harris and another relative were heard discussing how disgracefully she was raising Cleophus and me. Muddear was being ostracized for being educated and passing that education on to her children. Some of my other relatives thought Muddear was trying to be “white” by frequently correcting our grammar and manners and spending as much time as possible with us. They didn’t think this was what par-

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ents should be doing to prepare kids to live in this time. They felt she should have been teaching us how to work and make a living. This education stuff was just a waste of time, and what were we going to do with it anyway? Mother continued to tutor Cleophus and me in spite of the opposition she faced. Sometimes when Muddear had finished her share of the chores, she would call Cleophus and me out of the sun and onto the shade of the front porch, or sometimes we’d sit underneath the giant chinaberry tree in the front yard. Then she would teach us words and philosophy and the like. On several occasions, she would call to my cousins as well, but often they didn’t want to sit and spell or hear about things that seemed so unlikely. They would usually go home when Muddear started her spelling drills or the special drills that started with, “What do you think about . . .” Sometimes Mother would test us on the spelling words we had learned when we lived in the country. She’d added Queen Street and Tyler, Texas, to our vocabulary. Sometimes she would simply ask us to tell her what we felt about something. Then somehow, in her wisdom, she would guide us to where she wanted us to go with the subject, always listening intently to our answers and never criticizing when we were far off the mark. “You must learn how to spell the street where you live and the town you live in. I know you’re having fun with Opal and Potsy, but I don’t want you to fall behind. Cleophus, spell queen,” Muddear would say, being sure her enunciation was clear. “Aw, Mother. Why can’t I go play? I don’t wanna spell no more!” “Any more!” Muddear corrected. “You can go back and play when you learn how to spell the street where you live, young man, and not before! Now, once again, spell queen!” “Q-U-E-E-N, queen. Now can I go, Mother? Please?” “Well, run along, son, but remember, things are going to be harder in town than they were in the country. You’ve got to keep up with the other kids who’ve lived in town all their lives. They probably already know how to spell their street, so you’ve got to catch up and keep up, son. You’re going to be in the second grade this year, and you must be able to keep up with your classmates. But . . . Go on! Just don’t forget that your lessons come first.”

The Trip

She gave Cleo a slap on the rear, and he was off to the backyard where the others were playing. “Okay, Helen. Do you think you can spell queen?” “Yes’m. Q-U . . .” “Excuse me? Did I hear you say, yes’m? Where did you learn that? You are to say yes, ma’am, and no, ma’am. Do you understand?” “Yes, ma’am, Muddear.” “And, sweetheart, you’re growing up now, and as much as I love to hear you call me Muddear, you’re getting a little big for that, don’t you think? So, how about Mother or maybe Mother Dear?” “All right. I think . . . Mother Dear. I like Mother Dear the best.” “Mother Dear it is then. Well, now that we have that all settled, spell queen for Mother Dear.” Mother was the only one of the grown-ups in the household who had any education beyond grade school. None of the grown folk had ever had the opportunity to go to high school. Times were hard for them and every hand was needed to help fill empty bellies and put a roof over their heads and clothes on their backs. Education was considered a waste of valuable time for “our kind.” During those days, anyone who was lucky enough to finish high school was looked upon as a scholar but was also seen as being much too fragile to be much good for any “real” work. This had put considerable distance between Mother and my aunts and uncles, a sort of reverse discrimination. Added to her failures, was her ability to sing, play the piano, speak French fluently, and “speak proper just like white folks.” Despite the discrimination against my mother and us, her kids, she was always called upon to interpret the mail when letters contained big words or to help interpret some other business stuff. Excuses were always made for why no one else could do it—such as, their eyes were getting bad and they couldn’t see the words any more— but Mother would read the mail and never embarrass anyone. Some evenings after supper, the kids would be around back playing while all the grown folk sat out in the yard under the big chinaberry tree chewing tobacco or dipping snuff while they discussed the news of the world. It was when the grown folk were

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through talking that Daddy would sometimes call me around to the front to entertain the grown-ups. “C’mere, Helen . . . stand up straight and spell for Mama Harris.” I’d crease my dress down and brush my hair back and try to look smart. I’d look at Mother, and she would smile and nod affirmatively. Daddy would proceed to call out the words, looking at Mother when I had finished for validation of the correctness. “Spell goat.” “G-O-A-T, goat.” “Spell hoss.” “H-O-R-S-E, horse.” “Spell hippopotamus. Now y’all watch this!” Daddy grinned with pride. “H-I-P-P-O-P-O-T-A-M-U-S, hippopotamus,” I’d say proudly. They would all laugh, and someone would say, “That young’un’s got a head on them shoulders. She just five and here I is, a grown woman and ain’t never spelt no word with that many letters!” I really enjoyed entertaining the family, mostly because it always seemed to make Mother feel so proud. After all, she was my mentor. I learned that my half-brother, Earnest, had run away from home. He had done this several times before, but this time he had been gone for six months. Nobody was looking for him, but what awaited him when he came home was a big twisted switch, Daddy’s black leather razor strap, dubbed “Black Bootie,” and Mama Harris’ black club that hung on the nail. I don’t know why he ran, but I listened to the folk talking—”He was unmanageable, wouldn’t mind and had a head full o’ trouble.” Translated, that meant that he was tired of being beaten for such things as talking too loud in the house or coming home ten minutes late or something else just as trivial. He was an adolescent who had lost his mother to a tragic illness and his daddy to a new marriage. He was the eldest of the kids at nearly eighteen years old, and no one seemed bothered about what was troubling this young man. They believed he was abandoning a poor family where every hand was needed to provide for the whole. They saw him as a bad boy who was destined to fall into the wrong hands, which would be “his own doing,” of course.

The Trip

“That boy’s nothing but trouble. He been in trouble ever since Bernice died, an’ I’m so glad she didn’t live to see what he turnt out to be! He bad! Real bad! I tried all I could to bring him up right, but he’s bull-headed an’ got the devil in him! I tried to beat it outta him, but it’s too strong! He just bad and that’s the way he’s gonna be. I can’t help him now!” Mama Harris would say, shaking her head in despair. That was usually the response to any questions about Earnest. One of my half-sisters told us that Mama Harris was trying to whip Earnest one day when he took the black club from her, threw it behind the bed, and left running. He had not been seen or heard from since. Earnest knew his plight within the family and was willing to take his chances in the big, cruel East Texas world. He had had enough, and there would be no more beatings for him, especially not from the people who were supposed to love and protect him. The girls saw him as a hero who had escaped the worst of hardships. They kept their fingers crossed in hopes that he would never be found. They seemed to be waiting their turn.

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C H A P T E R T WO

Wavering Hope    living in Mama Harris’ house for about six weeks, and school was about to start. The living situation was the same, and there appeared to be no movement toward a place for us. Cleo and I were anxious to have a home of our own and were feeling the differences in the treatment of the children. Though we were never hit by Mama Harris while living there, it was clear, even to us kids, that the sooner we moved on the better. Mother had gone downtown shopping for Cleophus’ school clothes. She returned with a new pair of tennis shoes, two pairs of pants (khakis and jeans), some underwear, socks, and a pretty blue plaid, long-sleeved shirt. She had also purchased some new socks, underwear, and hair ribbons for each of my half-sisters and for me. As she was removing the items from the J.C. Penney and Woolworth bags, I could tell something was wrong. Mama Harris sat in her rocking chair, not saying a word, just rocking slowly, deliberately, and gazing disapprovingly at the purchases. She had a stern look on her face, angry and ready to lash out at something or someone. Now staring out of the window, Mama Harris spoke . . . somewhat softly, but clearly. “Willie,” Mama Harris was still looking out of the window, “I don’t care much for them gals havin’ ribbons to go in they hair. They already too womanish, and they don’t need no help with that. They just too fast, and I don’ hold with no gals wearing hair ribbons and fingernail polish and lipstick and them sinful things. I done heard ’bout what happens to gals who do them kind o’ things.”

W

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Wavering Hope

One could readily see the disappointment and surprise on Mother’s face and on the faces of the girls. I just could not see what the problem was. What was wrong with them having nice, pretty satin ribbons? “I didn’t think you’d mind the girls having something pretty for their hair for the first day of school, Mrs. Harris. It’s just hair ribbon. What harm could it do?” Mother asked somewhat quickly but still respectful. “I’m the one Bernice give them chillun to, an’ I will decide what they can wear in they hair and what they can’t. I’m the only one she give them gals to. Not nobody else!” “I’m not questioning that,” Mother answered. “I’m not trying to take your place, but I am their stepmother, and I like to see smiles on their faces from time to time. They work so hard, all the time, and they rarely ask for anything. This is simply a gift from their daddy and me to them. Won’t you let them keep the socks and ribbons? What would it hurt, Mrs. Harris?” “Willie, I knows what gals is thinking about when they git the age of these gals, ’specially the two oldest ones. They done already come into womanhood, an’ you know what kin happen to them. So I wants to keep the boys away from ’em till they get grown. I’m just tryin’ to keep my promise to they mother.” “But, Mrs. Harris, what do hair ribbons have to do with that? They’re pretty girls, and I hope you don’t plan to keep them locked up until they are eighteen years old. My goodness, Mrs. Harris! Are you saying this is what their mother wanted to happen to them? I can’t believe any mother would want that for her children, and I don’t believe you think that either. Now, really, Mrs. Harris!” There was dead silence in the room. No one could believe that Mother had actually challenged Mama Harris and lived. No one spoke a word, and I moved closer to Mother with my eyes fixed on Mama Harris, waiting for her answer. After a long silence Mama Harris spoke: “Well, Willie, I guess them gals kin keep the socks and the drawers, but I ain’t sure ’bout them hair ribbons. Them things will bring the boys from ev’rywhere. I just ain’t sure.” “Well, those girls in there are good and moral young ladies. I

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East Texas Daughter

think you ought to trust them a little and let them keep the ribbons. I believe you’ll be so proud when you see the girls looking so neat and pretty.” There she sat, rocking and looking out of the window, not saying a word, apparently thinking about what Mother had just said. We all waited, too scared to speak. After what seemed like an eternity, Mama Harris turned to face Mother. She spoke: “Well, I done thought about it, Willie, and I guess you done somethin’ you thought was right . . . so, they kin go ahead an’ keep the ribbons, this time.” I jumped straight up and applauded. My sisters were grinning as they opened their individual little brown bags. Each had a pair of red and a pair of white cotton socks, with matching ribbons and two pair of panties. It was finally settled. Thank goodness! What was this all about anyway? As Mother was preparing Cleophus’ things for school that Friday afternoon, she called me inside for a while where she was ironing in the kitchen. “Honey, I’ve been thinking about something. I think you’re going to like it,” she said, smiling to a half grin. “What, Mother? What?” I asked in anticipation of something good. “Well . . . how would you like to start school this year, in the first grade?” she asked, tilting her head to receive my response. “Oh, Mother, could I? I’m just five, and I thought you said I would have to be six.” “Well, that’s right. I thought maybe if I talked to the people up at the school, I might be able to convince them to give you a chance . . . that is, if you really want to go. You already know most of the things they teach in the first grade anyway. What do you say? Want to try it?” “Oh, yes, ma’am, Mother Dear! Can I get new shoes like Cleophus? And a new dress?” “We’ll see if there’s enough money, honey. We’ll see. Now calm down!” I was excited the whole weekend. I was especially diligent practicing my reading and writing, and I was just about to drive my 

Wavering Hope

mother crazy. She washed and straightened my hair and took Cleophus to the barbershop for a haircut. My half-sisters were busy straightening each other’s hair and finding suitable dresses for the first day of school. Most of their wardrobe consisted of secondhand clothes handed down by Aunt Nealie, one of Daddy’s sisters. Mama Harris would not consent for them to wear their only Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses, so Mother helped them remake old dresses, adding nice lace, pockets, and cute little sashes and belts. They starched and ironed the dresses, and they looked as good as new when they had finished. I got new shoes, but there was not enough money for a new dress, so Mother also remade one of my two Sunday dresses. Monday finally came, and we started on the walk to T. J Austin Elementary School, about eight or ten blocks away. In 1942 segregation of the schools was in full force. It was a true example of “separate but unequal schools.” This was the elementary school that all the kids went to if they lived in or near North Tyler. There were no white kids in North Tyler. There was another black elementary school located in West Tyler, called W. A. Peet. It was a much smaller school than T. J. Austin but was separate but unequal as well. I was so excited, I just couldn’t be still. I ran down the sidewalk ahead of Cleophus and Mother, skipping and wiping the red dust off my brand new brown oxford shoes. Mother finally had to take my hand and hold it in order to settle me down. “Helen, listen to me. You’re going to be all sweaty and musty before we get to the school. They’re going to think you’ve never had a bath. Now settle down.” We finally reached the elementary school, which was a flatroofed, red-brick building, with about eight or ten classrooms and a nice large auditorium. Sidewalks led to the three main entrances of the school, and sparse ivy grew around the window where the principal’s office was located. There was very little grass on the grounds and only three trees over the entire campus. There was no playground equipment and no lunchroom or cafeteria. There was one restroom with five stalls for girls and the same at the other end 

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of the hall for boys. A small teacher’s lounge was located in the area of the girls’ restroom. I was in awe, for it was probably the biggest building I had ever entered in my entire life. We asked for directions to the principal’s office and were directed to the east end of the hallway. When we entered the office, a secretary promptly asked us to have a seat on one of the two wooden benches located on either side of the entrance. Shortly afterward, the secretary asked Mother to follow her into the principal’s office. Mother instructed Cleo and me to sit quietly, which was really hard for a five-year-old to do, especially on this morning. After about fifteen minutes, the principal came out to the secretary and handed her a manila folder and some other papers. “These are the Harris children. See that the little boy, Cleophus, gets into Mrs. Goodacre’s room for the second grade.” Then this principal lady, who really looked like a white woman, turned to me and said, “You come with me, little lady.” We went into her office where Mother was already seated. I was nervous as I stood by Mother’s chair. After the principal was seated, she picked a book from the bookcase behind her and placed it on her desk; then she spoke. “I’m Mrs. Griffin. I understand your name is Helen. Is that right?” “Yes ma’am. My name is Helen Genice Harris.” “Well, Helen Genice Harris, I hear you’re a real good reader. Would you mind reading something for me?” “No, ma’am. I don’t mind.” She handed me the closed book. “Would you read page three for me?” “Yes, ma’am.” I turned to page three and began to read. I could see Mrs. Griffin’s expression out of the corner of my eye as I went on to pages four and five. She took another book from the shelf and handed it to me. “Now, let’s see what you can do with this one, young lady.” “What page, ma’am?” “Let’s see. . . . Please start on page twenty-one.” After I had proudly read up a blue streak, Mrs. Griffin pulled up a chair and placed it at the end of her desk. She gave me a pencil and paper and asked me to write what she dictated. I did and

Wavering Hope

handed the paper to the principal when I had finished. She was amazed that I had written in cursive instead of printing. She looked at Mother. “She’s quite bright! Her writing skills are excellent, and she was reading from a fifth grade book. A fifth grade book!” she seemed excited and extremely surprised. Mother looked pleased, but she already knew I could do that. I was sent from the room while Mother and the principal discussed my fate. I took a seat back on the bench and waited and waited. The door finally opened, and I heard the principal say to the secretary but really to me, “Little Miss Helen Genice Harris here is going to be in the first grade. Please see to it that she gets into Mrs. Martin’s room.” I was so excited I thought I would wet my brand new pink panties! Mother winked at me and smiled. Then she gave me a brief hug and walked with the secretary and me to my first classroom, where I was introduced to my first teacher. Except for Mother, of course. Mrs. Martin was a kind, mild-mannered teacher. Her wavy, graying hair and her short fat legs gave her a sweet, motherly appearance. She would walk to and fro with one hand on her hip and the other one waving a wooden pointer at some alphabet, picture, number, or something tacked or written on the boards. “Helen Harris, go to the board and spell cat,” she’d say, waiting to see if I was ready for the challenge. Being stunned when I wrote the word in cursive, she proceeded to give me a few extra words, which I wrote right away and then took my seat. Mrs. Martin watched attentively as I wrote, spelled, counted, and interacted with the other kids over the next few weeks. I didn’t quite know what to make of this, but I was getting special attention, sometimes with another teacher looking on. I didn’t know whether to be scared or proud. It was much later that I learned that I was considered a star pupil who many hoped would be one of the few poor black kids who had a chance to make it out of the circle of poverty. Little did I know that at this little school great efforts were being concentrated to help to get me where they thought I was going. This was the way it was in the community.

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About six weeks later, I was skipped on to the second grade, in Mrs. Goodacre’s room. I was excited to be in the same room with my big brother. The morning when I was passed on to his room, I was assigned a seat next to him. We both grinned with delight as the teacher went about introducing me to the other kids. When the family heard about this skipping at home, they seemed excited too, but somewhat cautious as well. One of them was overheard saying, “We just know you goin’ be something one of these days . . . probably be a teacher or a doctor . . . but don’t yo’ git so big that you don’ know yo’ place . . . heah tell folks been killed for bein’ too smart, ‘specially colored folk. They don’ want yo’ to beat them at nothin’, so li’l gal, you best be careful and don’ be too smart, you hear? Leastwise, don’ let them know you that smart.” They would all laugh over acting dumb just to get along. I didn’t have a clue of what they were talking about, but I laughed anyway. Mother could tell I was confused about whatever in the world they were talking about, but she would always ease any concern by reminding me of what awaited me if I worked hard and continued to learn. “You know what, baby girl? The opportunities that your Mother Dear could only dream about when I was your age and your brother’s age are very strong possibilities for each of my children. You will never know how happy this makes Daddy and me. Now, all you have to do is continue to learn, and don’t let anyone, not anyone (I knew who she meant), tell you that your dreams are impossible. If you can think it, you can do it. Oh, baby girl, what a blessing it would be to see an article on the front page of some newspaper talking about something good and respectable one of my children has done. It would be even greater to maybe even see your names printed in the history books right along with Mr. Booker T. Washington’s, or Mr. George Washington Carver’s, or Mr. Paul Lawrence Dunbar’s and all the others!” “Were they colored or white, Mother?” “They were colored, honey. Mr. Booker T. Washington, who was once a slave himself, helped a lot of colored people learn to read and write so they could better themselves. Mr. Washington knew

Wavering Hope

that if the people couldn’t read or write, they would still be in slavery. It’s just like having a new pair of skates but the wheels are locked. He started a college for colored people called Tuskegee Institute in Alabama. It turned out to be one of the most famous black colleges in the United States. This man did all this after he was freed from slavery himself.” “I’m glad I’m not a slave, Mother Dear.” “We’re all glad, honey. Slavery was a horrible thing. The people really suffered during that time, and we’re still suffering today. Things are better now for colored people, but there is still a long, long way to go, sweetheart. I mean, we’re not owned by the white man now, but we’re being kept back, which is a different kind of slavery.” “Kept back? I thought you said slavery time was over.” “What I mean, child, is, suppose you wanted to be an artist and the best school for being an artist was located in downtown, right here in Tyler. Well, as things stand right now, you couldn’t go to that school because you’re colored. That’s being held back, honey. It means that you are not permitted to learn what you want to because of your color. Now that’s not a good thing. The good thing is that things are changing all over the world, and by the time you get ready to go to college, you can go to any college you want to, right here in Tyler, or in Mississippi, New York, California, or even in Alabama! At least, that’s what I’m praying for.” “What about Mr. Carver, Mother? Did he teach people how to read and write too?” “Ah! Mr. Carver was another one of my favorite people. He was a scientist.” “So what did he do, Mother, paint signs? He was famous for painting signs?” “Not signs, honey. He was a sci-en-tist! He worked in a laboratory making a lot of different things from peanuts. You know the peanut butter you like so well? Well Mr. Carver is responsible for that stuff,” she said proudly as she stuck out her chest. “Is that what I’m going to be, Mother Dear, a sci-en-tist?” “I don’t know . . . could be. You’ll have to decide that when you get a bit older.”

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“One thing though, Mother. I don’t think I want to be a peanut sci-en-tist!” “Well, that’s okay. You can be whatever you want to be.” “Well, I think I want to be a fried chicken scientist and make a whole lot of it appear on the dinner table every night.” I thought Mother was going to choke from laughing so hard as she pulled me close and hugged me. “Who knows, when you grow up, we may have fried chicken scientists.” As the weeks passed, I was well aware that I was ahead of most of the kids in my class in academic work. I also came to know what “poor” was and that we were it. I had never known nor had to think about being poor, because there had never been anything to compare with my life and social status. I was too young to be concerned about such things. We’d always had food, some clothing, and a roof over our heads. I had never given any thought to the fact that there were different kinds and qualities and quantities of food and clothing and housing. At school, most but not all of the kids were at the same socioeconomic level. There were a handful of kids who were “privileged” and who wore nicer clothes and who had more than one pair of shoes. These were the kids whose parents drove them to school each morning; the girls had their hair straightened at the beauty shops, and the boys were frequent visitors to the barbershop. These kids had special lunchboxes with their sandwiches wrapped neatly with waxed paper. The rest of us usually had brown paper bags with our sandwiches wrapped in white butcher paper, if they were wrapped at all. These privileged kids had nice shiny yellow raincoats and umbrellas and galoshes to protect their shoes when it rained. These were the kids of the most prominent black people in the community—the preachers, the business owners, and the teachers. These adults were the ones the community revered and lifted up as if they had reached some level of accomplishment after slavery. There were different levels of social status within the black community, some earned by accomplishment and some awarded because of “hue and hair.” The lighter the skin color of the individ-

Wavering Hope

ual, the more likely he was to be accepted and trusted by the whites of the town, as well as the other blacks. The assumption seems to have been the lighter the skin color, the more likely there would be some white blood somewhere in the history and the chances for upward opportunity were greater. The same assumptions were made about the hair texture of the individual, not the length. The straighter or “silkier” the hair, frequently referred to as “good hair,” the less likely the individual was pure Negro. If one were not pure, then one was mixed, and if one were mixed with white, (because of the master-slave encounters), then one’s stock was higher. The stock also rose if one had the additional characteristics of thin lips and a narrow nose along with the paler hue. If one did not possess any of those desirable characteristics and was graced with such pronounced Negroid features as full lips, a large nose with flaring nostrils, dark skin, and kinky short hair, one would not necessarily be ostracized but would be less likely to be among those the community felt might bring success and pride to the neighborhood, unless a kid had an unusually strong talent for music or sports. All available resources were poured into those who met the criteria for potential success. Were these conscious thoughts among the people? I don’t think so. These were deeprooted mindsets that had been passed on generation after generation. A method of survival. Even at birth, onlookers would check the infant out to see the texture of hair after a few days and the color of his ears, which were a good indicator of what color the baby would eventually become. If the baby had unusually fair skin and the ears were also fair and the hair had not begun to change after a few weeks, there was unspoken suspicion that the child’s father was probably not a pure Negro or that someone in the history of the family had strayed at some point. The greatest insult that could be bestowed upon an individual of African descent during those days was to refer to him or her as “a nappy-headed, black nigger.” That phrase or others like it would also get you one of the hardest whippings from your parents or teachers or any other adult in the community. So, you seldom if ever heard those words from the lips of a person of color except in

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quiet, very private settings where the person in question had really done an outrageous thing. Most of the people in the community were like us, the working poor waiting for our chances to come. Early in our lives, Cleo and I realized we had Mother Dear, who had already been to the mountaintop, took a look, and was assured that education would be the key to our progress and survival. Some of the other kids’ mothers boarded the city bus each morning going to do day work in the white folks’ part of town. They were domestic workers, honest, hard-working people who had not had the benefits of a formal education and whose hopes rested solely on the shoulders of their children. Many of the men of our community worked for the city as laborers or in hotels as bellhops, waiters, and busboys. Some worked in the public schools as janitors, in recreational places like the bowling alleys, where they set up pins, and the golf courses, where they were caddies. A great number of the black men worked at the town’s biggest industry, Tyler Pipe and Foundry, which was known for its grueling work but good pay and benefits. Both the men and women worked in the Tyler Rose Garden or nurseries that produced beautiful roses for the city and for the annual Rose Festival Parade. There were a few black-owned businesses in Tyler—Gray’s Cleaners, Lott’s Funeral Home, Young’s Pharmacy, Humphrey’s Photography, Ross’ Grocery Store, Sweatt’s Beauty College, Tyler Barber College, Field’s Wood Yard, several beauty and barbershops, cafes, nightclubs, and automobile repair places. There were two black physicians, Dr. Taliaferro and Dr. Williams, and one black dentist, Dr. Henry. In the heart of East Texas, Tyler was the largest city in the region, and during the time that I was being raised there, in the 1940s through the 1960s, it was as racially separated as any city in these United States. Justice was foreign to the black man unless he was lucky enough to work for a white person of some stature who had strong ties to the community. This was a time when blacks stood or sat behind the actual line drawn on the floor of a city bus. You could move up beyond that line to another seat only if a white indi-

Wavering Hope

vidual was not seated there. However, if a white boarded the bus and wanted the seat you had, you simply got up and gave it to him or her. Black kids’ schoolbooks came from the white schools once they had outlived their usefulness. Blacks could not live in the same hotels as whites, eat at the same restaurants as whites, use the same restrooms, nor drink from the same water fountains. The individual of color could not attend the same theaters as the white patrons nor participate in activities in the same city parks. It was a socially oppressive time in our history where my mother and, I suspect, black parents everywhere, constantly taught children of their worth and value and of the precious time that was coming.

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Thomas Harris “Daddy”

Willie Ray Harris “Muddear”

Helen (age 4)

Helen (age 13) and Cleophas (age 15)

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CHAPTER THREE

On the Move  four months had passed since our move to Tyler, and we were still living in Mama Harris’ house. Many evenings when Daddy came home from work, I could hear him and Mother arguing about the need for us to move into our own place. The hostility was heightening, and the weight of all the isolation and ostracism was heavy on Mother’s heart. “When are we ever going to move from here, Thomas? We’re so crowded, and the children can’t breathe. . . . Jesus Christ, I can’t breathe. I need to get out of here.” “I’ll decide when it’s time for us to move. I bring the money in this heah house, and I’m the one who will decide when we move,” Daddy would respond. “You better decide pretty quick, Mr. Thomas Mama’s Boy Harris! If you take too much longer, you’re going to find yourself being here by yourself . . . with your mama, because my children and I will be gone.” “You just like yo daddy! You thank just ’cause yo daddy got a little something, you better n’ anybody else ‘round heah. Well, you ain’t no better’n my folks.” About two weeks after that argument, in the midst of the fall weather, we started our series of moves. I was glad to be moving into our own place, but I still longed for the house in the country where we had all the room we needed and where Mother was not sad all the time. The first move was into a nice, large brick house with a man whose wife taught school out of the city. His name was Mr. T. D.

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Williams, and he was kind and seemed to enjoy being around Cleo and me. He’d play marbles and jacks with us, and he was pretty good at those games. We had two rooms and the use of the kitchen, dining room, and living room. There was inside plumbing, a real bathtub, and hot and cold running water, not just a hydrant outside like at Mama Harris’. The living room was large and spacious, and sitting just against the east wall was a beautiful shiny upright piano. Mother would have somewhere to play the piano. That would surely make her happy, I thought. There was always confusion whenever Mrs. Williams came home on the weekends. She had very little to say to us, and if we went on the front porch where she was, she would abruptly get up and go inside. I didn’t like living there anymore, and I knew Mrs. Williams didn’t want us there. Finally Mr. Williams told Daddy that we would have to move. I was not surprised, and Mother was ready to go as soon as the message reached her ears. “This was a mistake, Thomas,” Mother said to Daddy. “I’ll start looking tomorrow to see what I can find that will be close to the school so the kids won’t have to walk so far.” “Yeah. It sure was a mistake. Looks like the woman of the house don’ want us heah. She say she don’ have no privacy. Huh. I believe it’s ’cause we pore workin’ folks. She plenty uppity alright, an’ just ’cause she got a lil’ education she thank she better n’ ev’rybody else,” Daddy answered resentfully, making gestures with his hands to say she thought she was higher up than we were. I just thought she was terribly mean. After about three years of moving from this place to that, we rented a large white house with a big front porch that encircled the front and right half of the house. For the first time we had our own coal oil cooking stove, and Cleophus and I had new twin beds. We still did not have hot water, but we had an inside toilet and a tall hydrant just outside the back door where we got our water. This house was located on a corner but actually faced North Palace Street, the main street in North Tyler. Mother had gone to work downtown for a laundry during the weekdays, and she played piano for the church on Sundays. I missed her when I came home from school. I wished she didn’t

On the Move

have to go to work, but her income was certainly needed. She often said if she had a piano at home she could teach piano lessons at home, but there was not enough money for such luxuries. Papa and Mama Cueing were willing to let Mother have their piano, but Daddy wouldn’t hear of “takin’ charity gifts” from Mother’s folks. After being turned away from several jobs for which she felt qualified, Mother went to work at a laundry to help pay the bills. She never once complained. None of mother’s three sisters—Aunt Georgia, Aunt Vera, and Aunt Dorothy—had any children of their own, so Cleo and I became their children also. They sent clothes and money on holidays and birthdays and sometimes for no reason at all. Aunt Georgia, who lived in San Diego, was the main giver. We always thought she was rich because she would send such nice dresses and pants and shoes and everything else, even panties. She sent us scenic pictures of the Pacific Ocean and pictures of her and Uncle Mitchell at one event or another. Sometimes she sent pictures of their house and of their new automobile. She and Uncle Mitch would be leaning against it looking happy and carefree and rich. At any rate, she was my aunt, and I bragged to my friends about her living in California and having a new car and things. We rented one of the bedrooms in that big house to a friend of Mother’s whom she had met at the laundry. Mrs. Reba Mae was a nice, heavyset lady, about thirty-five, with smooth, dark skin with deep dimples and beautiful teeth. She was divorced and, according to the older folk, her husband had nearly beaten her to death before she finally left him. One would never know of the troubles she had suffered, because she never spoke of them, at least not where any of the kids could hear. She was always cheerful and kind and spent a great deal of time with Cleo and me. She seemed to get a kick out of how we talked and the correct English we used. She would often tease us and joke around with us with her amateur magic tricks. “Anybody that talks English that good must be from England or California or something. Now tell me, little girl, is that where you come from?” We would laugh, and I would answer, “No ma’am. I am from Cherokee County, Texas, in the United States of America.”

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East Texas Daughter

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“Oh? So you say. . . . Betcha ’fore you came from the famous Cherokee County, Texas you was settin’ and havin’ tea and little crackers with the Queen. That’s what I think.” “Uh uh! I’ve never even been to England.” Mrs. Reba Mae especially seemed to enjoy teasing me because I was pretty gullible most of the time. That was all right, because I liked her very much. Many times she would bring us surprises whenever she stopped off downtown after work or when she came home from a date on the weekends. In turn, we were always running errands for her to the store or to the cleaners or somewhere. We never minded doing anything for Mrs. Reba Mae. She was our good friend, and we loved her very much. One evening Cleophus and I were running an errand for Mrs. Reba Mae to Mr. Fields’ grocery store about five blocks down the same street we lived on. We were talking and playing, trying to decide what we were going to spend our quarters on, when I darted out behind a city bus to cross to the other side of the street. When I did, I was struck by a car and dragged underneath the car for about twenty yards! Cleophus was screaming and yelling that a car had hit his little sister before anyone knew what had happened. The car finally stopped, and the driver was so scared that he jumped out and started running. A group of spectators chased the man as far as they could, but he outran them all. The group of people that had gathered somehow tilted the heavy automobile, freed me from it, and placed me on my back in the middle of the street. I was unconscious. Cleophus hysterically flagged down Mr. T. D. Williams, who was driving by. I’m told that Mr. Williams picked me up and laid me gently in the back seat of his brand new automobile. He told Cleophus to get in the back seat with me. Cleophus was crying, and so was Mr. Williams. They thought I was dead or dying. “Wake up, Helen! Please wake up! Mr. T. D., is my little sister going to die?” “Just stay with her, son. Just keep talking to her,” Mr. Williams responded with gentleness this man knew my brother needed. Mr. Williams pulled up in front of our house. He instructed Cleophus to stay with me while he went in to inform my parents.

On the Move

In just seconds, Daddy came running out to the car immediately followed by Mother and Mrs. Reba Mae. Daddy flung the car door open and was shocked nearly to death when he saw my bloody little body lying there. Mother started crying and reaching for me, but Daddy pushed her aside and picked me up and carried me in the house. He looked back at Mr. Williams and said, “Please go and call Dr. Williams.” Mr. T. D. whirled in a flash to go to his house to make the phone call. Daddy placed me on the bed in their room, while Mother instructed Cleophus to get her a pan of water and some washrags. I’m told the house had a death-like silence, with the only sounds being made were those of Mother wringing out the washrags. The bleeding continued, and Mother was using every towel in the house to try to control it. Mrs. Reba Mae and others stood around wanting to help but not knowing what to do. Dr. Williams finally arrived and sped right through the front door. Everybody who was standing around the bed stepped back as if on cue. The doctor pulled off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves as Daddy pulled up a chair for him. He began to examine me. Everybody was quiet and if they spoke, they did so in soft whispers. “How long ago did it happen?” the doctor asked, as he looked at his watch. Mother looked at Cleophus, and he answered, “About forty minutes ago, sir.” The doctor went about examining my head with Mother assisting him. There was a lot of bleeding from my scalp, and there were many, many contusions and abrasions over my entire body, which the doctor found as he and Mother turned me from side to side. Finally, the doctor, who could have passed for white, sat down in the chair and spoke to the family and neighbors who stood silently by. “I think she’s going to live, but she’s hurt real bad. Now, the next twenty-four hours are going to be crucial, because the sooner she wakes up, the better her chances. I don’t think she has any broken bones—God knows I don’t know why not—but she’s young and

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East Texas Daughter

healthy, and it looks like she’s quite a fighter. What we need to do while we wait is get her cleaned up and try to stop the bleeding from her scalp. Somebody get me a fresh pan of cold water and some scissors. . . . Yeah, she’s pretty banged up.” I woke up about twenty-five minutes after the doctor arrived and found myself in a state of confusion. I could see, but everything looked different somehow. I looked at all the people standing around the bed and couldn’t imagine what was wrong, and I surely couldn’t imagine what I was doing in Mother and Daddy’s bed. I tried to lift my head, but the pain was too excruciating. I began to cry, “What happened? Muddear, what’s wrong with me?” Mother’s face lit up, and the tears began to flow. Daddy began running toward the bed, grinning. Then I realized the doctor was in the room. “Now, be real still, little sister . . . you’re going to be all right. You gave us quite a scare, you know,” he explained as he tugged at the bandage around my head. “You had a run-in with a car . . . and it seems to me, you got the worse of it. But don’t you worry, you’re going to be all right. Yessir, you’re going to be just fine.” Mother was smoothing out the covers with tears streaming down her face. “Welcome back, baby. . . . Thanks to God! He heard our prayers,” she managed to say through tears and in a very shaky voice. The others held hands while one led the group in prayer. “Thank you, God, that You didn’t choose to bring this child home tonight to be in Glory with you. Yes, Lord! We thank you for sparing this little girl.” All my hair on the right side of my head had been shaved off, and my entire head had been bandaged. There were bandages on my arms and legs. The medicinal smell was stifling, and I knew something awful must have happened to me. “Did I die, Mother? What happened?” Daddy stepped up to the bed and responded. “You heard what the doctor done said. You done been run over by a car, but you all right now. . . . Now, hush up so the doctor kin tell us what to do.” The doctor kept saying that with the injuries I had sustained, I 

On the Move

should be in a hospital. He shook his head as he thought about how moot that possibility was. At any rate, we didn’t have the money and health-care insurance was not a priority in the black community. Some still considered hospitals places one simply went to die. I have been told, that at this time in our town’s history, there were a few beds set aside for coloreds at the Catholic hospital in Tyler. The town’s two black physicians treated most of the people in our community. There were a few white physicians who would take care of blacks in their own homes but seldom in the doctors’ offices, unless the person of color happened to work for one of the prestigious whites or the black person was one of the “privileged few.” In these cases, the waiting rooms were separated but certainly not equal. Nonetheless, most of the black people remained in their homes even when their illnesses were extremely serious, regardless of the color of the treating physician. Street and caution signs indicating an illness in the block were placed near the residence in an effort to reduce the noise that might be uncomfortable for the sick individual. The other black physician in Tyler owned a small hospital called Taliaferro Clinic. There were about eight or ten rooms, and the evening of my injury, they were completely filled. So I had to be taken care of at home with a serious head injury, dislocated left patella, dislocated right shoulder, dislocated mandible, and multiple lacerations and contusions, some of which required stitches. Mother quit her job to stay home to take care of me. Now in addition to being my mentor and teacher, she was also my personal nurse. It took some time before I could even remember the evening of the accident, and to this day I don’t remember it all. I remember being mummified by all the bandages, and I can remember all the effort it took for me to learn to walk again. It was painful, and I just wanted to lie down, but Mother and Cleophus kept pushing me until it finally didn’t hurt so much anymore. They would help me to the front porch to a prepared chair so that I could “get some sun,” which Mother said would help with the healing process. They would then give me all the handmade cards from school and the 

East Texas Daughter

presents from the people in the neighborhood and from the church. “You see, sweetheart, they’re all thinking about you and wishing you a speedy recovery,” Mother would say. “Now, you’ve got to get well so you can get back in school. You don’t want to fall too far behind.” I remember Mama and Papa Cueing coming to see me from Jacksonville. This was the first time they had set foot in our house since the incident of the livestock sale, more than a decade earlier. Papa brought money, which he gave to Daddy with a firm order that the money was to be used “to take care of my grandbaby.” He and Mama Cueing had traveled the twenty-seven miles by a commuter train called a jitney and had taken a taxi to our house. They had carefully packed and brought with them several boxes, which contained fresh vegetables straight from their garden as well as jars of homemade soup, smoked ham, and fruit. Mama Cueing had included fresh baked cookies and dried peaches, and Papa had included peanuts and pecans. A baby doll, made with Papa’s own hands, was included in the package. It turned out that the man who hit me had taken his boss’ car without permission, and that the car had faulty brakes. We never saw or heard from the hit-and-run driver again. Word was that he had left the city. However, the man’s boss and his wife visited a couple of times, bringing gifts to me, including my very first pair of pajamas. About a month later I returned to school. I was in sixth grade and about ten years old when we finally moved into our very own place, a five-room white frame house with a screened-in back porch or breezeway. There was a huge pear tree in the front yard and an old oak whose limbs hung over the roof on the south side of the house. The house sat on the corner of Cochran and Grand Streets. We had an indoor toilet, which rested at the end of a small rectangular room, but still no bathtub or hot water. We still had to heat water in the teakettle and other pots and then drag the old Number Two washtub into the restroom to bathe, but that didn’t matter to us. Just outside the restroom there was a washstand that held a gray washbasin. Just 

On the Move

above the washstand, Mother had hung a mirror for Daddy to use for shaving. The floors were covered with shiny new linoleum rugs in every room, and the rooms were freshly painted or wall papered in soft warm colors or designs. For the first time, we had a living room and a brand new five-piece burgundy velveteen living room set. As I helped to bring in the boxes, I couldn’t help sitting on the beautiful sofa and running my hands over the smooth feel of the fabric. I would hop from the sofa to the big overstuffed lounge chair and then to the side chair. I made faces in the shine of the beautiful coffee table before I went out to get another box to unpack. This was heaven! There would be no more wood heaters and soot-filled pipes, no more going to the store for a gallon of kerosene for the cooking stove, and no more hauling wood from the wood yard. We now had gas space heaters, a brand new sparkling white gas cook stove, and a brand new gleaming white General Electric refrigerator. I watched as Mother grinned as she looked at the big beautiful new stove, and I can remember her taking the hem of her blouse and wiping off the fingerprints the deliverymen had left on the appliance. She smiled widely when she could see her perfect image again, and she seemed so very happy. Cleophus was about twelve or thirteen years old. He was doing quite well in all his classes at school and had easily made friends, though he was quiet and somewhat unassuming. He was an avid baseball fan, and he fantasized about one day becoming a player just like Jackie Robinson. I believed he would do it. He was now employed at the downtown bowling alley, setting up pins for the white bowlers, when otherwise he would not be permitted inside. He consistently worked two or three hours after school and all day on Saturdays. Most of his friends also had after-school jobs, some as busboys, some as service stations attendants, and the like. He earned one dollar an hour and would often earn about thirty-five dollars a week, with tips. Whenever Cleophus got paid, Daddy would make him give him half of the money that he had earned. Cleophus was too afraid to 

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talk back to Daddy about this, but it brought much protest from Mother. As usual, Daddy shouted her down, as he angrily proclaimed his head-of-household status. “If he goin’ live in this house, he goin’ help with the bills. He ain’t goin’ do nothin’ but throw it away anyhow,” Daddy would yell. “I’m teaching him how to save some of his money, and he has not been throwing his money away. You see those jeans he’s wearing? And those shoes? Well, he bought those with his own money. That’s helping out! Just let him keep his money so he can learn some responsibility, Thomas,” Mother would scream back. But it never did any good. Daddy continued to take one-half of Cleophus’ money every Saturday night when he arrived home from the bowling alley. Daddy reminded us all of how he was working right alongside the grown folk in the fields when he was only twelve years old to help the family get by. “But this is a different time, Thomas! Its 1947, for Pete’s sake! Let’s try to teach the boy how to live with the money he’s making, not take it away from him,” Mother would plead. “I did it, an’ he ain’t no better than I is, even if he is got the McEwing blood in him! Ain’t no harm in him helpin’ out.” I can remember Mother once telling Daddy that Cleophus seemed sad most of the time. “Why don’t you ever take the boy fishing or to a ball game over at Lincoln Park or something? He’s at the age now where he needs you to talk to him about things and teach him how to be a man. He’s growing up so fast, and he looks so much older being nearly six feet tall. Help him, Thomas. Don’t push him away. Please.” “I works hard ev’ry day, Mrs. Willie Ray McEwing Harris,” Daddy replied sarcastically. “I ain’t got no time for that foolishness. When I leave that foundry ev’ry day an’ go by to see ’bout Mama, I ain’t got no time for nothin’ ’ceptin’ to eat and go to bed.” All of Mother’s talk and pleading did no good. So it wasn’t long before Cleophus started lying about how much money he made. When Daddy found out about the lies, he nearly beat him to death with a branch from the big pear tree in the front yard. He had made Cleophus strip out of his clothes and bend over a straight back

On the Move

chair while he beat him up and down his back and rear end. Mother had to go in and make Daddy stop, as she had done so many times before. We helped Cleophus to bed and tended his wounds with soap and water and iodine. “Mother,” he whispered quietly between tears, “I’m not going to live here anymore. I’m going to run away and live somewhere else.” “Hush, baby, don’t talk like that. Please don’t run away. You can never make it out there by yourself. This is a cruel world, son, and you’re simply too young to know what it means to be out there by yourself. You’re the wrong color to be roaming the streets. Please don’t do it, baby. The Tyler police will not care what happened here at home. They don’t care about you, or me, or your little sister. They will use you for target practice, son. You won’t have a chance out there. You know what’s been done to other boys who run away. Don’t do it, son, please don’t do it.” There was no answer. The very next Saturday, Cleophus did not come home from the bowling alley at all. Mother walked the floor, peeking out of the windows and humming her favorite Negro spiritual. She was worried about her son, and she had good reason to be worried. Daddy had gone to bed, but not before he had prepared the weapon of tree branches. About midnight, I heard the front door open and close. My body grew tense in anticipation of what was about to happen. Then I heard a tap on my window, and when I looked out, Mother stood there with a shawl around her shoulders. “Mother, what are you doing? Where are you going? Please don’t leave me here.” “Shhhh! Don’t worry, baby. You’ll be all right. I’m going to see if I can find your brother.” “Let me go with you, please. Please, Mother, let me go with you.” “You wait here in case your brother comes home. If you see him, open the back door quietly and let him in, but don’t wake your daddy!” I waited for Mother and Cleophus for nearly two hours. It was nearly one o’clock, and they weren’t back yet. I was really agitated . . . . I couldn’t sleep. Then, I finally saw Mother coming, and she was alone. She was no longer walking briskly as she had done when

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East Texas Daughter

she left. Her arms were folded beneath the wrap, and her countenance had fallen. I opened the back door for her, and she carefully took off her wrap and placed it on top of my schoolbooks on my dresser. She sat on Cleophus’ bed. “Mother, did you see Cleophus?” “I found him, honey.” “Then why didn’t he come back with you? Where is he?” “Honey, your brother said he was never going to come home again . . . and I believe him. He said he was not going to let Daddy hit him again. He meant it, baby. He won’t be coming home. I bought him some food and gave him some money, but I don’t know what’s going to happen to him now. A young boy like that shouldn’t have to live on the street. He’s too innocent, and he’s scared. Too scared to stay out there and too scared to come home.” She sobbed, and I held her close. I didn’t know what else to do. “He’ll come home, Mother. Just you wait and see,” I said with all the hope I could muster. I guess I didn’t really believe he was coming home either, but I was still young enough to believe in miracles, so I waited for my brother’s appearance. I grew to hate Daddy and his meanness, and I found myself consumed with bitterness and resentment for this man who was my father. I imagined all kinds of evil things happening to him, so Cleophus could come home once again. I finally developed a concept that this man was not my father. No father would treat his own children this way. At school, I made every attempt to get my school records changed to Helen Genice McEwing. When the school contacted Mother at work, she was angry with me. “Helen Genice Harris! What in the world did you think you were doing?” “I don’t want to be a Harris anymore, Mother. I don’t want a daddy who’s mean like Daddy is. I hate him! He’s not my father anymore.” “It’s not quite that simple, baby. He is your father, and it’s too late to do anything about that. Now, I know how you feel about what he did to your brother. I don’t like it either, but you can’t go 

On the Move

around hating people because you don’t like what they do. Don’t hate him, honey, hate what he did, not him. Now, tomorrow at school, you go back to the office and tell them you made a mistake.” “Do I have to, Mother?” “Yes, ma’am, you certainly do have to. You simply cannot change who you are, and you can’t run from it. You will just have to rise above all those things that irritate and frustrate you. You’re going to be all right, sweetheart.” Within two weeks, Cleophus had been picked up by the police for stealing and attempting to sell the stolen goods for food money. Mother went to the jail and to the courthouse to see him and to plead with the judge to give him another chance. She told them of the situation at home and promised that she would see to it, personally, that Cleophus didn’t get into trouble again. Mother said they just laughed at her when she told them how smart he was and that she knew he had learned his lesson. “He’s a meek and mild boy, sir, who really doesn’t know a thing about this world and how awful it can be if you’re not prepared. Please, give him another chance. Don’t take my boy away from me,” she had pleaded with tears in her eyes. But they didn’t listen, and Cleo was sentenced to two years at the Gatesville School for Boys. This was a terrible blow to Mother and to us all. It further saddened her to see the relief on her son’s face to be going anywhere else but home. “Don’t worry about me, Mother. I’ll be all right,” he said as the guards took him away in handcuffs. “Just take care of yourself and Helen. Don’t worry about me.” I heard Mother crying in the middle of the night, and I found her on her knees the next morning, asking for help for her son, once again. I now know she was feeling as if she had let Cleophus down, that somehow she was at fault. Her sadness consumed her . . . and me. Daddy had not gone to the jail to see Cleo, and he had not gone to the court to try to plead for him. He seemed to have washed his hands of the whole situation. Mother had taken the whole thing personally and had experienced the traumatic destruc

East Texas Daughter

tion of her hopes and dreams for her children. There were never any smiles anymore, and she was edgy most of the time. She was suffering because she felt she had lost her only son. I suffered too, because I felt I had lost them both.

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CHAPTER FOUR

Recognizing Discrimination from My Own   black community, schoolteachers were looked upon with the greatest of respect and adulation. They represented the hope for the future for black kids. Schoolteachers were the black child’s primary source of professional and social identification, mostly because there were precious few other professions open to the black community. These individuals were set aside and considered the yardstick by which success was measured. My sixth-grade homeroom teacher, Mrs. Robinson, had a daughter in the same class. Barbara rarely associated with the rest of the class who were predominantly the offspring of poor, proud, but uneducated parents. She often sat alone, played alone, and Thursday mornings, during assemblies, she sat with her mother on the teachers’ row of seats in the school auditorium. This, of course, did not endear her to any of the other non-privileged students. We were having a sixth-grade spelling bee one morning, and the final two students remaining to win the gold star of the week were Barbara and I. Mrs. Robinson pronounced the word for Barbara to spell. “Receipt.” “Receipt. R-E-C-I-E-P-T, receipt, “ she responded most confidently. “I’m sorry, Barbara, but that’s incorrect. You may take your seat,” Mrs. Robinson said, in disappointment.

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“But I didn’t hear the word clearly. Could you please give the word again?” Barbara begged. “No, I will not. Please take your seat, Barbara Anne.” Then Mrs. Robinson’s eyes turned to me. She looked me over from head to toe with a definite smirk on her face as if to say, “If my daughter can’t spell this word how in the name of glory do you hope to spell it?” “Well, class, let’s see what Helen can do with this word. It seems to be getting people into trouble today. Spell receipt, Helen.” I thought for a second and remembered what Mother had taught me about such “ie” words: i before e, except after c. I shifted from one foot to the other, licked my lips, and finally replied. “Receipt. R-E-C-E-I-P-T, receipt.” “That’s correct, Helen. Class, let’s all give our winner a big hand of applause. Good girl. Now, would last week’s winner place this gold star by Helen’s name on the chart?” Barbara reluctantly rose from her seat and placed the star by my name on the big chart hanging in front of the classroom. On her way back to her seat, Barbara rolled her eyes at me and stuck out her tongue. “You may be seated, Helen,” Mrs. Robinson instructed. On my way back to my seat, Barbara stuck her foot out in the aisle. I tripped and went toppling to the floor. The whole class went up in a roar of laughter. Barbara giggled uncontrollably, with her hands over her mouth. I raised my body from the floor and tried to laugh it off, but I was too embarrassed and too mad at Barbara for what she had done. I could hear some of the boys say, “I saw her panties! Did you see her panties? They were white.” I wanted to run and hide from the humiliation. But I didn’t, and the laughing soon died out after Mrs. Robinson finally called the class to order. During the lunch break, I saw Barbara sitting alone on the steps eating a sandwich. I walked up to where she was and knocked the sandwich from her hand. “What did you do that for? You ole nappy-head, poor nigger trash,” Barbara screamed. “I did it because you tripped me in class, that’s why. Wanna make something of it?” I asked, snarling and pacing like a lion in a cage with my hands on my skinny little hipbones.

Recognizing Discrimination from My Own

“I could spell that word. I just didn’t hear what my mother said, that’s all.” “You don’t know how to spell anything. You’re dumb and stupid, and you look like a monkey with your baldheaded self, you nappyheaded black nigger!” God, if Mother had heard me say what I did, I would be in trouble . . . big time. Barbara started to cry. The girl did have very fine hair with an apparent genetic receding hairline that resembled the pictures I had seen of the devil. Barbara spoke. “Well, my hair isn’t nappy and kinky like yours, and I don’t have to wear greasy plaits all over my head ‘cause I’m too poor to go to the beauty shop . . . nigger trash.” “That’s because you don’t even have enough hair to put in one braid, baldy!” Well, it seemed those were fighting words, and she threw her apple on the ground and started hitting at me. This was my first fight, but I remembered how the announcer on the radio said Joe Louis was bouncing around in the boxing ring, so I did that little dance around, jabbing Barbara every now and then, especially in the face. She got so mad that she ran into me knocking me down to the ground, and I was kicking and flailing so until I finally had Barbara pinned on her back, sitting astride her. Then came the spitting fight. She began spitting toward my face, hitting me once on the left cheek. I had her down, so I spat right between her nose and top lip. After that, we rolled around on the ground until we were covered with red dirt and gravel. There had been no hitting, just rolling. The next thing I remember was someone pulling us apart. It was Mrs. Robinson. “Stop it! Stop this nonsense right now,” she screamed as she pulled me from her daughter’s back. “Helen Harris, you get to the principal’s office! Barbara, you go to the restroom and wash your face. I guess I’ll have to take you home to take a bath and change your clothes,” she said glaring at me with resentment in her eyes. “But I didn’t start it, Mrs. Robinson. Barbara tripped me in class this morning.” She did. I hadn’t done anything to her. “Didn’t I say get to the principal’s office? Well, get in there,” she screamed as she pointed in the direction of the office.

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East Texas Daughter

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“Yes, ma’am, but . . .” “Then let me see the back of your head, girl. Get in there!” I stopped by the restroom to try to clean myself up before I approached the principal’s office. I was embarrassed that Mother was going to have to find out about the fight, but I was not sorry one bit for what had happened. As a matter of fact, I was pretty proud of what I had done because in my eyes Barbara deserved it. She had tried to humiliate me, and she did, but I didn’t sit back and let her get away with it. But now I was in deep trouble. I was ashamed that I had let Mother down, because she had said that people who fight do so only because they don’t have intelligence enough to communicate or because they feel inferior to the other person. What was Mother going to think about me now? Mrs. Robinson was in the principal’s office when I arrived. Her arms were around Barbara as she brushed at her little pinafore dress and smoothed down her hair. All of us were invited into the principal’s office, and the door closed behind us. Miss Griffin, the principal, scolded Barbara and me. She reminded us that it was this sort of behavior that the white man expected from us and that we were fulfilling the expectation. She told us that since this was a first offense for either of us, she would be more lenient, but she let us know right away that if she heard of any more incidents between us, the punishment would be severe. Then she looked at me and said, “Helen, I am surprised to see you in this office. I can’t believe you were fighting like an animal. I don’t want to see you doing this again. Do you understand that?” “Yes, ma’am,” I answered with my head hanging pretty low. We were dismissed. What stemmed from that incident, which ordinarily would have disappeared in a day or two, was unbelievable harassment from that teacher, Mrs. Robinson. It began with her trying to put me in harm’s way. Since we didn’t have a school cafeteria, lunch money was taken up from the students, and two or three of the boys would take the list and money to a nearby cafe for the food orders to be filled. Girls never did this, but Mrs. Robinson started sending me frequently with the boys. No other girls were sent at any time. Then

Recognizing Discrimination from My Own

she began to have me to stay after school, nearly every day, to wash the blackboards and dust the erasers. Then she began to ignore me in class, never calling on me to answer questions or present a project even if I were the only one in the class with my hand up. I had signed up to be in Miss White’s special chorus; Mrs. Robinson crossed through my name and would not let me participate. It was pure harassment of a student by a teacher. It was cruel and unbelievable, but it happened. I never said anything to Mother about this, because I would have to admit that I had been fighting at school, and I knew Mother wouldn’t like that. I also thought Daddy would beat the whey out of me if he knew I had been causing trouble, and I knew he would not listen to me. So, I kept quiet and suffered a kind of hell from an adult that no eleven-year-old should ever have to suffer from anyone, especially a teacher. Then came the last day of school, when the report cards were issued that spelled out whether you had been promoted to the next grade or not. When I received my card, I opened it only to find that I had failed all subjects and would be retained in the sixth grade for the next year. I ran out of the classroom and all the way home, crying every single step of the way. My friends tried to talk with me, but I was too hurt and too embarrassed for them to know. This was a serious blow to the girl who was used to getting straight As throughout her short school career. I wanted to die. I wanted to run away somewhere, but I didn’t know where to go, so I just lay across my bed and cried. I was still crying when Mother came home from work about an hour later. I gave her my report card. The look on her face made me want to crawl into a hole and die. “What is this? Haven’t you been doing your homework, Helen?” she said as she sat on the side of my bed with her eyes piercing mine. “Yes, ma’am, Mother. I’ve been making a hundred on nearly everything. Look, see my folder. The lowest grade I have is ninetytwo.” Mother took my folder and looked through it, page by page. Looking stunned, she asked, “Just what is this all about, Helen?

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Does it have anything to do with the fight you and Barbara had at school?” “How did you find out about the fight, Mother?” “I have my ways. . . . Now what is the real story here, young lady?” So I told Mother the whole story, the spelling bee, the trip, the fight, and the harassment that had taken place since the incident. Mother was spellbound. “Why in the name of God didn’t you tell me these things were going on?” I just shrugged my shoulders. After all, what could I say that Mother didn’t already know? I was ashamed that I had not trusted her to do the right thing, and I guess I just didn’t want her to know that I wasn’t perfect. It seemed she knew that all along. “Get cleaned up, Helen. We’re going up to the school.” “Yes, ma’am.” I heard Mother dialing the telephone as I brushed my hair and put on my shoes. When we arrived at the school, the secretary greeted us and right away took Mother into Mrs. Griffin’s office, where Mrs. Robinson was already seated. After about ten minutes, Mrs. Griffin appeared at the door and asked the secretary for my school records. The secretary promptly retrieved the records and took them to the principal’s office. As she handed over the manila folder, I could see Mother sitting at one corner of Mrs. Griffin’s desk and Mrs. Robinson at the other. The secretary winked at me when she went back to her desk. I just dropped my head. I was so scared. It was about thirty minutes before the door to the principal’s office opened and the women walked out, Mother first. Then the principal spoke softly, holding Mother’s hand. “I am sincerely sorry and do apologize for what has happened to that little girl. She did not deserve that.” She spoke sharply, as she looked at Mrs. Robinson, “Mrs. Harris, I can assure you, I knew nothing of this!” Then Mother turned around and faced Mrs. Robinson, who was now sniffling into a lacy handkerchief. She dropped her head in shame and covered her eyes with her hankie. 

Recognizing Discrimination from My Own

“I believe you owe an apology to that little girl over there who has suffered too much because of this. May God one day forgive you for what you have done to this child.” Mother reached for my hand, and we were out of the office, not looking back. As we walked home, I anxiously asked, “Am I in the seventh grade, Mother? Did I get promoted?” “Well, I would like to say, I am proud to be sharing this street that we are walking on with a big-time seventh grader.” I squealed and yelled and hugged and kissed Mother for about a minute. “Oh, thank you, Mother, I’m so happy. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” “You deserve the credit, honey. You did the work. I’m so very proud of you. But the next time you have problems, you don’t have to work them out alone. I’m your mother and I’m always, always here, honey. Don’t you ever forget that.” I was glad the school year was over, and, more than anything else, I was glad that I did not have to go back to Mrs. Robinson’s room anymore. I would be going to junior high school next year, and Mrs. Robinson would not be there. Thank God. Nevertheless, I had learned a lesson about the nature of humanity that year. I had learned that adults, even the esteemed teachers, were not as untouchable as they had seemed. Mother said that Mrs. Robinson had a problem that she was going to have to work out with some help and that I should remember all the good teachers I had throughout the years. But this was a hard concept for an elevenyear-old to grasp when all her life she had been told about the elevated status of the schoolteachers in our community. This role model concept had been severely tarnished, but through Mother, some of my self-esteem had been salvaged.

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CHAPTER FIVE

My Brother’s Keeper  remained at Gatesville for about eighteen months. During this time, Mother would write him often and send him underwear and money for cigarettes and other commodities. Mother was often sad after reading his letters, and occasionally I would see tears roll down her cheeks. She saved the letters in her Bible as if they were precious leaves of gold. She sang spirituals and read her Bible faithfully as she counted the days when her only son would come home again. In retrospect, I believe she must have also been worried about what would happen to him once he returned home. Mother’s spirits seemed to rise significantly when she learned that Cleo was up for parole and might soon be released. I was too young to understand her feelings exactly, but I was happy that my brother was soon to be home again. Yet, I had been embarrassed whenever the police had been parked in front of our house waiting for Cleophus. I hoped they wouldn’t do that anymore. One of the conditions of Cleophus’ parole was that he must get back in school, and, of course, stay out of trouble. He was nearly sixteen years old now and stood over six feet tall. He was nearly two years behind all his regular classmates and was taller than his younger, new classmates. We knew that Cleo was smart enough to catch up with his classmates, and that’s what Mother and I hoped and prayed for. Mother immediately got Cleo enrolled in school in the eighth grade. We were soon to learn, however, that getting him enrolled was the easy task. The hard part was trying to keep him there and interested enough to bear the talk of the town for a while. Everyone

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My Brother’s Keeper

in the town knew that Cleo had been in reform school, and, as Mother told him, “You are just going to prove what you’re made of. This is the test.” There was no such thing as an alternative school or a Big Brothers organization in our town to help a troubled young man. The men in the community also did not help, even though they all knew the situation. Cleophus made several attempts at going to school, but the label of “ex-con” was not an easy one to shed. He was shunned by many of his classmates and made an example of by some of the teachers. He had no peace regardless of how hard he tried, and he did indeed try. No one seemed to care that this sixteen-year-old was a real victim, trying to survive in a world that didn’t want him. But the world didn’t know him. They didn’t know that this was a young man who was sensitive to the needs of other people, loved reading and baseball, and wanted to do good but didn’t know how. The pain of the rejection shone vividly on his face and in his behavior. He resembled a whipped dog with his tail tucked between his legs. He couldn’t stay, and he couldn’t go. Cleophus began playing hooky from school and whenever he did, he was too frightened to come home. He would stay out all night long, coming home in the mornings when Daddy had left for work. Then he would eat and rest up for another night out, roaming the streets with nowhere to go. He would sleep wherever he could and eat whatever he could find. He spent a lot of time hanging out around the clubs and places labeled as “bad” by the community. There he sought handouts and odd jobs for a meal. Mother continued to search for him and talk to him, trying her best to encourage him to come home and stay. She knew that the longer he stayed on the streets, the more likely it was that he would be in trouble again and the less likely he would ever come home again. One morning when Cleophus sneaked into the house, he found Daddy waiting for him as he opened the door. I tried to warn him that Daddy was hiding behind the door, but Daddy was too quick. He grabbed Cleo by the wrist and jerked him into the house. He knocked him to the floor and placed his knee on the back of his

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neck as he tried to reach the big branch he had prepared for his return. I ran to the kitchen where Mother was preparing breakfast. “Mother! Mother, come quick! Daddy is trying to kill Cleophus,” I screamed as I grabbed her by the hand pulling her toward the room. Mother passed me on the way. When we got there, Daddy was sitting astride Cleophus, still trying to reach his the tree branch. “Thomas! Thomas Harris! You get up off that boy right now. I mean it!” Mother screamed as she reached down toward the floor to help her son up. Daddy raised up off Cleophus only to pull Cleo up with him. Then he threw Cleo’s 130-pound frame across the bed. Then in one fatal swoop, he grabbed the branch, and began hitting Cleophus anywhere he could. Mother was yelling for him to stop, and I was screaming. Several times Cleophus tried to free himself and run, but Daddy would just knock him back down on the bed again! “You goin’ run away, huh? I’m goin’ give you something to run away from. You a bad boy, and that’s all you ever is goin’ be—bad,” Daddy snarled at Cleophus. Mother grabbed Daddy’s arm as he attempted to bring the branch down one more time over Cleophus’ back. His strength almost took Mother to the floor, but she held on and did not permit Daddy to hit Cleophus again. She pushed Daddy back with a force that I had never seen Mother exhibit. Then she looked at Daddy, who now seemed to be in a state of shock that she had dared to push him, the man of the house and the father of this boy he was beating. Then with one hand on Cleophus’ leg, and the other hand pointing sharply at Daddy, Mother, with tears streaming down her face, spoke to Daddy in a tone I had never heard my mild-mannered mother use before. “If you touch this boy one more time, I will call the police and have you arrested. Don’t you ever hit him again. Hear me, Thomas Harris. I mean what I say.” Mother pointed her finger in Daddy’s face. “I definitely mean it.” Cleophus got up and tried to run from the house, but Mother put her arms around him, led him to his bed, and tended his wounds. Her eyes were filled with tears as she hummed softly. She

My Brother’s Keeper

carefully put a salve on my brother’s wounds; then she held him close to her breast as if he were a baby and spoke softly to her only son. “Oh, my sweet, sweet little boy. You’ve had to endure so much at such a young age. I wish I could protect you, but it seems I can’t whether you’re out in the streets or in your own home. God, in heaven, please give me the strength to help my son. Please, God, tell me what to do now.” All three of us were crying now. All three of us felt helpless. Daddy had gone in late to work at his new job as janitor at Gary Elementary School. I got dressed for school, and Mother got ready for work. Cleophus lay prone on the bed with his shirt off, exposing his bruises and whelps. Through sniffles, he finally whispered to me, “I’m not going to live in this house with Daddy anymore. I’m going to go and live with Aunt Vera in Jacksonville or with Aunt Georgia in California until I get grown. Then I’ll get me a real job and send for you and Mother. Okay?” “Okay,” I answered, not really believing he could ever do that but hoping somehow he could. As time passed, Cleophus was in and out of trouble. It was not unusual to have police cars drive up to the house any time of day or night, after any petty crime was committed in the city, most of which he never committed. However, Cleophus was known for his thefts and was frequently charged for offenses of which he seemed to have had no knowledge. He was a young, vulnerable, black, homeless teen-ager who appeared to be used by the Tyler Police Department to clear the books of unsolved petty crimes. His only advocate was Mother, who tried all she could to keep him out of trouble. One evening just before midnight, we were all in bed when we heard this horrible “thump” on the front porch. Daddy was up first; then Mother and I started running toward the front door. There we saw my brother lying in a heap with his face and body all swollen and bloody. He was nearly unconscious, and both his eyes were swollen shut. “My God!” Mother screamed. “Somebody help me get him inside.”

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Daddy and I helped to bring his battered body to his bed. Under the lights we could see that he was close to death . . . we thought. “Cleophus! Cleophus, what happened to you, son? Who did this to you?” Barely able to turn his head or move his swollen lips, he answered. “The police did it. They tried to kill me, Mother. They just keep hitting me over and over again until I couldn’t feel it anymore.” “Why, son? Why were they doing this to you? Did you do anything?” “No ma’am, Mother. I was just sleeping on the bench at Lincoln Park when they woke me up kicking me. I hadn’t done anything, I swear, Mother.” “Even if you had done something wrong, they had no right to beat you like this. Nobody has a right to beat anyone like this. Now just be quiet, baby, and let’s get you all fixed up here. Shhhh.” There wasn’t much said by anyone the rest of the night. Mother was up most of the night, in and out of the room checking on Cleophus. I was quietly planning my get-away so that Cleophus and I could live together and get away from Daddy, because I blamed him for everything that happened to Cleo. My resentment grew every single day, but I was too afraid to say or do anything. The next morning Mother complained to the police chief about what had happened to her son at the hands of the Tyler police. They denied that they had anything to do with the beating. “Willie, if I was you, I’d tell your old man to stop whupping up on that boy so hard. If anything happened to that boy of yours, better look at him, and not at us. Y’all know we wouldn’t do nothin’ to that boy. But your old man . . . well, you know him.” Mother was outraged and swore this would not happen to her child anymore. I didn’t know what she meant, and I didn’t ask. I simply did not want to know. Cleophus was eventually sent back to Gatesville to complete his sentence after he continued to break probation. Daddy kept saying, “Tol’ you that boy was no good. Bet they git him straightened out this time! God knows I did all I could.” This from a Christian man who had served as chairman of the deacon board and a leader at the church for as long as I could remember.

My Brother’s Keeper

I kept thinking, Sure you did everything you could, if that means you beat the hell out him all the time, and you took the money he worked for, and put him down for anything he tried to do. With a mentor like you, the devil can relax. We learned that Earnest Lee, Daddy’s oldest son, had gone into the Navy, but when he got out, he did some real physical damage to someone and was sent to prison. We never found out the truth of what Earnest really did, but we learned through other people that he may have killed someone. We were told that Earnest had gotten really mean and was enraged most of the time. Daddy rarely mentioned his name, and I really didn’t know him. I felt sorry for him though, because he had been exposed to double the abuse to which Cleophus had been exposed—from his father and his grandmother. Now Daddy had two incarcerated sons, and he still didn’t have a clue of the responsibility he shared in putting them there. I never understood why some of the grown-ups in the community or in the church didn’t pull Daddy to the side and talk to him about why he was losing his children, one by one, but, as far as I know, no one ever did. Mama Harris and her brother, Uncle Toad, her two sons, Uncle Claude and Uncle Melvin, along with my three half-sisters, all moved into a house on Moore Street that was about two blocks from where we lived. She still ruled with an iron fist, and Daddy still visited her on a regular basis. Being the eldest son, Daddy was expected to take care of Mama Harris and to be the leader in the family. I guess he was being groomed to take Mama Harris’ place when she got too old to keep things rolling in the family. One of Daddy’s sisters had died shortly after we moved to Tyler. His other three sisters—Aunt Molly, Aunt Nealie, and Aunt Lucille—were all married and living in their own places. They all seemed to look up to Daddy as if he were their father rather than their brother. He was actually the second in charge of the family, and often Mama Harris would call on him to take care of family business that could involve anyone in the family. He never disappointed her. My three teen-aged half-sisters continued to be mistreated in

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East Texas Daughter

Mama Harris’ household. They were all pulled out of school on Thursdays to do the washing and the ironing at home. The whole neighborhood thought that was wrong, but nobody ever did anything to help them. Then, all three of the girls were pulled out of school permanently. The reason given was that they had been seen at a store after school talking to boys and they should not have been there. So after each got a terrible beating poured on by Mama Harris, they were punished further by having their education canceled. No more school for any of them. That should teach them. Jerlene, the oldest girl, was in the last semester of her senior year of high school when Mama Harris made the decision. It was in late February, only three short months before graduation. Specifically, Jerlene was actually the one Mama Harris and Daddy had heard was permitting a boy to walk her halfway home from school and even carry her books. She was eighteen years old now and couldn’t even talk to boys, wear lipstick, or fingernail polish. Jerlene begged them to let her stay in and finish high school, but her pleas fell upon deaf ears. Mother Dear tried to intercede for Jerlene first with Daddy and then with Mama Harris, but no one listened. Mother finally called the high school principal to see if there was anything he could do. He said he would try. A few days later, the principal, Mr. Austin, paid a visit to Mama Harris’ house in an attempt to try to persuade her and Daddy to permit Jerlene to complete the school year and graduate. After all, commencement was only eight or nine weeks away. “Mrs. Harris, if you let this young lady finish school, I will personally be responsible for taking her to school and bringing her home in the afternoon.” “Mr. Austin, I hear tell you a good man, but that gal you talkin’ about is my responsibility and her daddy’s. Not yours.” “You’re right, Mrs. Harris, the responsibility does belong to you and your son, but this is a good girl. She has not had one bit of trouble in school. Her grades are good, and she will be graduating in a few weeks. Don’t you want that for your child?” “She done broke our rules, foolin’ round with boys, so she got to 

My Brother’s Keeper

be punished. That’s how they learn, an’ it didn’t take no school books to teach me that! What I know comes from experience, not books!” “Mr. Harris, what about you? Don’t you want to give your daughter another chance? She’s so close to an opportunity for a better life,” Mr. Austin begged. Daddy did not answer but yielded the floor to Mama Harris. “You run that school up there, and we’ll run this house. We done made up our minds, sir. So you jus’ go on back up to yo’ school an’ don’t bother us no more. Good day, sir!” It was done. This had been a traumatic experience for the girls, and the neighborhood buzzed but did nothing as they saw the girls working about the house and the yard. A few weeks later, Jerlene got a job downtown at Good’s Pharmacy, which was located in a bank building. It was here that she planned her own escape from the prison that had held her captive since her mother’s death. She realized it was up to her to break the chain of violence and abuse she and her sisters endured. All the people who worked at the pharmacy and many of the staff who worked in the bank helped her. When she was at home at night and all the older folk were sitting on the front porch after supper, Jerlene would take a few of her things out of the house at a time, placing them in a secret place on the side of the Seventh-Day Adventist Church next door. Her boyfriend would drive by and get the items and pack them away to be safe for the “big escape.” Then one day, she didn’t come home at all. She was gone from the hell that had been her home. She was married in Longview, Texas, and finally settled in Lawton, Oklahoma. Shortly afterward, Wanda, the middle girl, left and moved to Chicago. Even though Mama Harris and Daddy permitted Mary to go back to school, in two years she had married and left the prison as well. They were all free now. Praise God! In 1952, the black high school band was the focal point of the annual Rose Festival Parade in Tyler. The white people wanted to see them display their “rhythm,” and the blacks wanted to brag and boast about their children. 

East Texas Daughter

I played clarinet, and we wore our maroon-and-white band uniforms proudly as the only blacks in this county affair, even though our place in the parade was set just before horses instead of behind them, as we had been in previous years. We kids were disturbed about this, but according to Mr. Williams, the band director, “They won’t be able to keep us down forever. Think of this as one baby step. A step at a time is all we need.” All black-owned stores and shops, cafes, and other businesses closed down to see us march in the parade. We strutted like peacocks as we passed the people on the side of the road. The pride on the faces of the black people was breathtaking, and we felt the spirit of those people on the street with us, marching and playing the instruments. There were mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers, people in wheelchairs, little babies and old people. We could see the victory signs go up, and the applause was deafening as we marched by. Though Emmett Scott High School had won many band competitions, nothing was better than performing at home for those who had sacrificed so that we could have a chance to succeed in something worthwhile. My enjoyment of music carried over to singing in the choirs at school and at church. Sometimes choral groups from other black high schools outside of Tyler or black colleges would visit our school during assembly and render a series of musical selections. Occasionally, we would have one of the white high school choral groups visit. When this happened, male teachers and what appeared to be members of the football team—at least they wore the letter jackets—always escorted them. There was always a special section set aside for them near the front of the auditorium, with the teachers always sitting in the aisle seats. When assembly was over, the whites would walk out in a single file to a waiting bus, never socializing with the black kids. Once safely on the bus, their faces pressed against the windows watching us as we gathered outside the auditorium. It seemed as if they were trying to see something, trying to figure something out. I don’t know what. 

My Brother’s Keeper

In spite of all the segregation and inferior schools and in spite of all the poor quality textbooks that were passed down from the white schools, we black kids had some excellent teachers as role models. These were professionals who were committed to the welfare and education of their students. They hounded you, and they hugged you. They’d yell at you for wrongdoing, and they’d touch you gently in support during a time of personal crisis or family turbulence. Miss Katie Stewart was my favorite of all the teachers. She would stay late if a student were having trouble, either in the classroom or at home. If you just couldn’t grasp a concept, she stayed with you until you “got it.” She knew how to make a kid feel special and did so to me whenever I was in her midst. Miss Stewart was an unmarried tall, skinny lady with graying hair and long narrow feet. While I thought she was pretty old then, she was probably about forty-five or so. She was a teacher of English grammar and composition as well as English literature. She was truly in love with teaching, and you could see it all over her face, especially when your “light bulb” turned on. In everything she did, we could readily see that she desperately wanted every student to learn. In her class every student was treated the same regardless of hue and hair. Each of us knew how she felt about us even when she called us “rock heads” or when she pinched our ears for talking in class. Man, could that hurt! I’m surprised I didn’t come away with gigantic elephant ears. But I truly loved that woman. One day at school a group of us girls got together and decided we were going to pool our money to purchase a package of Lucky Strike cigarettes. We had heard that inhaling was cool, so one of the girls was going to teach the rest of us how to do it. I was scared but pretty excited to learn this adult thing. After all, I was fifteen, and that’s nearly grown. Who was I fooling? I knew I would get the tar beat out of me if my parents ever found out, but I was willing to risk that in order to learn how to do this really cool thing—inhale! After the cigarette purchase, we all went into the girls’ restroom and divided up the cigarettes between the four of us. We decided Nancy would be on watch since she was one who already knew how 

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to smoke. We opened the windows wider, and then we lit up and began puffing. Soon smoke fllled the room. We were coughing, but we kept on smoking—and coughing and sneezing. Other kids were coming and going, but we kept smoking. After about ten minutes of this smoking stuff, Nancy yelled, “Here comes Miss Stewart! Put ’em out, put ’em out! She’s almost here!” In a flash we flushed the cigarettes down the toilet and were fanning like crazy to get the smoke out of the room. I went into one of the stalls and squatted on top of one of the commode so that my feet couldn’t be seen. The door to the restroom flew open. “Who’s been smoking in here?” Miss Stewart asked, but no one answered. “All right, girls, empty out your pockets . . . and your purses too.” I could hear the noise as the items were being emptied out onto the countertop. “Where are the cigarettes, girls?” Nobody spoke. “Okay, girls, march! And don’t you stop until you get Mr. Hilliard’s office.” I heard the door open and then eventually close. I could hear the giggles of some of the other kids in the hallway when they saw Miss Stewart marching the girls. After about two or three minutes, I stepped down from the commode and came out of the stall. I washed my hands and attempted to brush the cigarette smoke from my clothes. Then I opened the door leading to the corridor and walked right into the arms of Miss Stewart who was waiting there. She didn’t say a word but took me by the shoulders, led me up to the principal’s office, and seated me in one of the chairs in the outer office. Nancy and Claudette were already seated. Where was Susie? Susie must have gotten away. The door to Mr. Hilliard’s office opened, and Susie rushed out, tears streaming down her face. “Next,” Mr. Hilliard shouted. He had a black belt in his hand. Nobody moved. “I said, ‘next,’” Mr. Hilliard repeated, only louder. Again, nobody moved. “Get in here, Helen Harris,” he demanded. I started to run the

My Brother’s Keeper

other way, but Miss Stewart was standing there, blocking the doorway. Her eyes told me that I’d better get in there. I went in . . . reluctantly. “Were you smoking in the restroom?” “Yessir.” “Where did you get the cigarettes?” “We bought them, sir.” “Do you smoke at home, Miss Harris?” “Oh, no, sir, Mr. Hilliard.” “Then why are you smoking here? Do you want me to tell your parents about this mess you’ve gotten yourself into?” “Oh, please don’t do that, Mr. Hilliard. Please, sir, don’t do that,” I begged. “Oh, really? Why don’t you want me to tell your parents about this?” “Because it’s not ladylike to smoke, sir.” I answered quietly. “I can’t hear you, young lady. Say it loud and clear,” he demanded. “Because it’s not ladylike to smoke, sir.” “Where do you want it, hand or behind?” “Mr. Hilliard, please. . . .” “Hand or behind?” “Hand, sir!” I said with all the meekness I could muster up, hoping I could soften up Mr. Hilliard a little bit, but it did not work. When I walked out of the principal’s office that afternoon, I was sniffling worse than Susie, probably more from embarrassment and humiliation than from the actual pain, though my hand did burn something awful. Miss Stewart was there still, and the dreadful disappointment on her face embarrassed me even further. “Helen, go to my classroom and wait for me,” Miss Stewart instructed. “Yes, ma’am.” I really wanted to go home, but I knew better than to disobey Katie Stewart’s orders. After about ten minutes, Miss Stewart showed up, closed the door behind her, and locked it. Then she sat at the student desk beside me, and took my hand, gently. “Young lady, I’m not going to talk about the smoking. That’s all over. What’s important here is that you learn from this situation.

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East Texas Daughter



Helen, I know your mother very well, and I know she is very proud of you, but how could you think so little of yourself? You’re old enough and smart enough to make good decisions about some aspects of your life. I know your family, and I know about the hardships you children have suffered, but, young lady, you’ve got what it takes to make it out of that situation standing tall. So, I don’t ever want to hear of these disgraceful things again. Do you understand?” “Yes, ma’am, Miss Stewart. I’m so sorry about everything.” It was nearing the end of my junior year, and I spent a lot of my time talking on the telephone with my girlfriends, especially Virginia, who was my best friend. Virginia and I were about the same age, though she was one grade behind me. We talked a lot about boys, and clothes, and hairdos, and dances, and boys, and boys, and boys. But that’s all I could do, because Daddy was not about to let me “take company.” Talking to Mother one day he said, “This here gal’s fast for liking boys at her age. Talkin’ ’bout boys comin’ to this house? Ain’t no mannish-tail, smart mouth boy goin’ place one foot in this heah house. She jus’ about fifteen years old, and she knows too much already! She done hung ’round grown folks too much. Now she thanks she grown, an’ all she is is near fifteen!” Although Daddy was looking at Mother, I knew who those words were aimed at. He didn’t like it when Mother permitted me to wear face powder and a smidgen of lipstick, and he had a fit whenever I wore nail polish. I knew he would never let me have a boy over. After all, Jerlene had been eighteen when he and Mama Harris had real problems with her dating. I knew I didn’t have a chance at fourteen even though I was in the eleventh grade. One night about nine o’clock Virginia and I were walking home from a school dance with a group of other kids. We stopped by “the cut,” an area that was a teen-age hangout, about halfway between the school and my house. All the kids came there after games and after any social event at the school. The main place on the cut was the Green Top Café, owned and run by a man referred to as “House-man.” He hired several of the kids from school to help out after school, but he, alone, would make the delicious hamburgers, chili dogs, and grilled cheese sandwiches.

My Brother’s Keeper

Aside from the wonderful food, House-man was in complete control of this popular teen-age hangout. If he saw a boy sitting too close to a girl in a booth, he would just walk over to the booth and give them the eye. That’s all it took. Whatever was happening in that booth stopped abruptly. If someone said a curse word, he or she was asked to leave the grounds. If bullies tried to intimidate another kid, especially a girl, House-man would embarrass them about the stupidity of trying to “mess with somebody” who was younger or smaller or a girl. Most of the kids loved going to the cafe because he had the latest music on the jukebox, and all the kids hung out there—both high school and college kids. Most parents didn’t seem to mind too much if their kids went to the cut, because they knew they would be safe there. That is, every parent except my father, who saw this place as a “den for wicked people.” Whenever I went there, I had to sneak. I did that several times with my friends after school or after some social event at school. I never told them that I was not allowed to be there, but I believe they all knew. Virginia knew, for she had seen the wrath of my father, and knew that each time we went there I was literally asking for trouble. But, I would go anyway, not really trying to defy my father but trying desperately not to be different from my friends at school. I just wanted to fit in, especially since I was younger than most of my classmates. There was nothing sinister about this . . . at least I didn’t think there was. Five or six of us were sitting in a booth sipping on malts and sodas. In front of us on the table were several nickels for the jukebox. We were having so much fun laughing and singing along with the top hits that I lost sense of the time. Soon Virginia held up her wrist pointing at her watch. She mouthed the words, “It’s ten o’clock. Let’s go.” “Just ten more minutes, okay, Ginny?” We stayed about fifteen more minutes before we started out for home. We had gone about two blocks when Virginia stopped cold in her tracks. “Girl, look. I think that’s your papa coming. Oh my God,” she said in panic. I looked, and sure enough it was Daddy. He was walking briskly with his usual weapon in his hand. I nearly peed on myself. We

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East Texas Daughter

started running and darting behind this house and that, and we finally split up. I ran the long way home, and Virginia took the short cut to her house. She was as scared as I was, mostly for what she thought was going to happen to me. “Good luck, Helen. I hope he doesn’t beat you,” she said. “See ya.” “Bye, Virginia. I’ll call you. Now go on.” When I finally reached the house it was about eleven o’clock. I found Mother sitting on the front porch crocheting under the porch light. I was in a sheer state of panic and was nearly out of breath when I reached the front porch. “Mother, Mother, I saw Daddy, and he’s going to whip me. Please help me, mother, please,” I pleaded as I squeezed into the porch swing next to Mother. Actually, I was almost in her lap. “Helen . . . Helen Genice Harris! Shhhh. Listen to me,” she said as she held me tight at both shoulders, shaking me gently. “Listen to me. Your daddy is not going to whip you . . . this time. You’re partly responsible for this mess for disobeying the house rule. You knew what time you were to be home, and you didn’t come home on time, nor did you call me. Why didn’t you do that? Now, go on in the house and get ready for bed. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Go on.” “But, Mother . . . Daddy . . . .” “Go on in the house and get ready for bed, Helen. I’ll take care of this.” “But, Mother, I’m so scared.” I began to cry, and Mother pulled my trembling body close to hers and kissed my forehead. “Go on in, honey. You’ll be okay. I promise. Now don’t worry.” About ten minutes later, I was awake but in bed with all my clothes still on and the lights out. I decided to do this just in case Daddy was going to whip me, so I wouldn’t have to waste time trying to put on clothes to run away in. Perfectly logical! I heard Mother and Daddy arguing on the front porch. God, I was so scared! I can’t remember when I had been that scared, if ever. Then there was silence, an awful, screaming silence. I was breathing hard, and I pulled the covers up over my mouth, because 

My Brother’s Keeper

I was sure Daddy could hear me. The screen door opened, and my eyes opened wider . . . and wider. I saw the door to my room swing open, and there stood Daddy in his khaki suit and suspenders, with the big switch still in his hand. He just stood there and stared at me for about fifteen seconds; then he left and closed the door behind him. “Thank you, God! Thank you sweet Jesus for saving my life,” I prayed as I lowered the covers and sighed deeply. During the last week of school during my junior year, we had an “early release” day, and I telephoned Mother at her job to get permission to go to the movies with Virginia. Since Virginia’s father managed the colored movie downtown, Mother gave me her permission. We met several of our friends there, and we laughed and talked and ate popcorn and candy bars and peanuts for over two hours, just hanging out, being kids. When the movie was over, some of the kids stayed to see it over again, but Virginia and I headed for home, still talking and enjoying being best friends. We walked home slowly, talking about this and that until we reached Cochran, my street. There my half-sister, Wanda Lee, who had come back from Chicago, yelled to me. “Hey, Helen. Girl, I’m glad I saw you. Daddy’s been looking for you. He came over to my house asking if I had seen you. I had to tell him I hadn’t seen you. I didn’t know what else to say. I think he thinks you may be somewhere with some boy or another. Where were you? Oh, hi, Virginia!” “We went to the movies, that’s all. Mother said I could go,” I responded somewhat confidently. “Well, be careful. I only know he’s as mad as hell.” “Thanks,” I said, feeling just a little uneasy. Virginia got scared and went the long way to her house. I continued on down Cochran Street until I reached my house. As I was about to go in, I spotted Daddy through the mirror, hiding behind the door. Right away I turned, jumped off the porch and started running across the street, between the houses and back to the street again, but Daddy was on my tail, and he was pretty fast. When I made my second trip to the street, he tripped me, and once I was 

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down he began hitting me with his big twisted tree branch. When I attempted to get up, he knocked me back down, kicked me, and then continued to beat me with the twisted tree branch. Neighborhood people had gathered, but they didn’t help me. As I felt myself losing consciousness, I heard somebody say, “Here comes her mother!” I heard footsteps getting closer and closer, and faster and faster, but I was unable to get up. Then I felt her at my side. “Thomas, what have you done? What have you done to this child?” Mother dropped her packages and carried me to the house in her arms as if I were an infant. One of the men offered to help her carry me inside. She paused only to say, “Where were you when he was beating her? Why didn’t someone help her?” Mother placed me on my bed and again she was washing the wounds of one of her children. I told her what had happened. She held me close and cried with me. “No, No! It is not going to happen to you too. Not my baby!” She rose up from my bed and dusted the dirt and gravel from the bed and her clothes. She then turned to me and said, “Now you rest right here. I’ll have a talk with your daddy. Whatever you hear, I want you to stay right here, do you understand me?” I nodded affirmatively, but I was scared that Daddy might hurt Mother Dear, even maybe kill her. Oh, God, what had I done? In the next room, I heard Mother and Daddy arguing. It scared me terribly, and I worried about Mother. Though I had never seen Daddy hit my mother, I prayed Daddy would not hit her today, because she was not backing down one centimeter. “Thomas, I want to talk to you,” Mother said in a very demanding manner. “Don’ you come here tellin’ . . .” “Shut up, Thomas! I’m talking, and it’s about time you listen to somebody besides your mother. Now, I have stood by and watched as you beat the life out of your own children, causing all of them to leave home before they were ready. Well, I’m not going to stand by and watch you send that child in there to hell.”

My Brother’s Keeper

“Woman, you better . . .” “I’d better what? I am not afraid of you, Thomas, and from this day on you’d better hear me! First, you’d better not ever put your hands on that child again, as long as you live. Second, I want you to know that if you ever beat that child again, I will have you put under the jail, for as long as you live. Do you understand me, man? I have tried all my life to give both my children an opportunity to make it in a world that’s unfriendly to Negroes, but all you’ve done is make it harder for all the children to hold their heads up . . . every single last one of them! You call yourself a father? Well, tell me, Father Thomas, where are your children now? Where are they? What is it going to take for you to get it?” “Woman, you ’bout to make me mad now. You think I’m the cause of them chillun leavin’ home? Well, you the one wrong, woman! They jus’ got bad blood in ’em. That’s what’s wrong with all of ’em! They got the devil in ’em!” “And where did they get that blood, Thomas? Just where did it come from? It seems to me your blood is the only common thread that runs through all of those kids. Do you have the bad blood, mister pure-and-mighty? No, no, it’s not the blood, Thomas Harris. It’s the mind. Your mind. You seem to think that beating these children will stop them from thinking and wanting to live like everybody else. It never worked, did it? But you wouldn’t stop beating them, would you? All of your kids left you and the situation you constantly placed them in. No, Mr. Thomas Harris, it’s got nothing to do with blood. It has everything to do with the fact that you and you alone would not stand up and do the right thing for those kids, including that one in there who’s scared to death of her own father. She’s your youngest child, and you seem hell-bent on sending her in the same direction you sent the other five. Well, I’m not sitting by anymore. No, I’m not going to let you ruin the life of that little girl in there. Now, this is the last time I will be talking to you about this issue, but you better believe I will do what I said.” Daddy was in shock. He just stood there looking at Mother Dear. He didn’t say another word, and he never beat me again. At school I had to face my peers and try to explain why my daddy would beat me. Most of the kids sympathized with me, but then there was the

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East Texas Daughter

meanness of some kids who took off their belts and made loud noises slapping the floor or stairs as I walked by. It was humiliating, and I was ashamed, but Virginia and others stood by me, and I got through it eventually. I kept thinking about graduating from high school, going to college, and never returning to that house again. While I was healing from this incident, I wrote letters to my dad telling him how I felt about what he had done to me. I wrote down everything from the gut level and expressed feelings in those letters I never knew I had. I never gave the letters to him, but Miss Stewart was right. It did help.

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CHAPTER SIX

Baby Steps   years old in April of 1952. When school was out for the summer, I got a job working at Tyler’s famous Blackstone Hotel. Mother was working there in the laundry department and still playing piano for the church. Actually, Mother had asked the bell captain to find something for me to do for the summer, and the whole group of bellhops decided they would have more time to earn tips if they hired someone to operate the elevator for them. So, they gave me the job. My salary was three dollars an hour, which beat the fifty cents a lug I had earned picking blackberries in Lindale the summer before. I was beside myself when Mother told me about the job. I needed the money to help pay for some of my senior activities the next school year. I knew that Mother could not do it all, though I knew she would try. I was excited about my new job and the cute little gray longsleeved uniform with the white collar and cuffs. I was taught how to operate the elevator and was drilled on how to treat the guests, regardless of how discourteous they might be. We had practiced my role several times, and after a couple of days, I was on my own. I felt like a grown-up with a real job. I had been working at the hotel for about three weeks and was becoming proficient at the job. I had been told to try to remember the people’s names as much as I could, because I might be rewarded with a nice tip. I had always been an outgoing person, so this would not be new to me. A man boarded my elevator one afternoon along with three or four other people. He was an extremely handsome man, about thirty-five or forty, and seemed to know a lot about the hotel as he

I

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East Texas Daughter

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chatted with the other guests. He wore a dark blue suit and had dark wavy hair and sky-blue eyes. When I delivered him to the fourth floor, he smiled and tipped me a dollar. I thanked the man and slipped the money into my uniform pocket. About twenty minutes later, I answered a call on the fourth floor. I opened the elevator door and automatically announced, “Going down. Watch your step, please!” The man in the blue suit boarded, this time carrying a brown alligator briefcase. As we were just about to reach the lobby, he yelled out, “Hey, hold it. I forgot my watch.” Immediately, I stopped the elevator and placed the gear in reverse. Before I realized what was happening, the man jerked my hand from the operating handle and began trying to place his mouth on mine. He got me in a bear hug and pinned me against the back of the elevator. He was trying to kiss me, and I was feverishly turning my head from side to side to avoid the unwanted advances of this grown man. “What do you think you’re doing? Let go of me! Let go of me right now!” I screamed as I struggled to free myself. “Just one little kiss, huh? You’re so cute, I just want to kiss you,” the man said, not releasing his hold one little bit. He kept smiling, and he kept trying. Finally, I freed one of my hands and began hitting and scratching at him. I started to scream, but he placed his hand over my mouth. I kept fighting until I had torn the lapel of his suit jacket. Then with his blue eyes piercing mine and with his lips curled in anger that I had torn his beautiful suit, the man held both my wrists tightly and, with his weight, pinned me against the wall of the elevator. “Okay, okay, little wildcat! Take me back to the fourth floor. Looks like I’m going to have to change my jacket, doesn’t it?” I straightened my uniform and brushed back my touseled hair as I cautiously reached for the elevator handle and aimed the car toward the fourth floor again . . . watching this man out of the corner of my eye. When we arrived there, I opened the elevator door with a bang. “Fourth floor. Get out!” “Look, you’re not going to say anything about this, are you? I like you.”

Baby Steps

“Just get out of here, will you?” “I’m really sorry. You married?” “Are you going to get out of here, or must I?” He finally got out of the elevator, and I headed straight to the lobby where I asked one of the bellhops to relieve me for a break. I purposely did not say anything to the captain for fear it might cause trouble and because I didn’t want to lose my job. I went down to the laundry to talk to Mother. She would know what to do. Mother joined me shortly in the little room where most of the black employees took their breaks. Just as she was sitting down on the little bench, the man from the elevator approached where we were sitting, paused for a second, and smiled. Mother said, “Oh, Helen, I want you to meet Mr. Lyons, our new personnel director. Mr. Lyons, this is my daughter, Helen. She operates the elevator in the main lobby.” He smiled and responded, “We’ve already met. She sure is pretty, and she knows her stuff on that elevator. I bet you’re proud of her.” “We sure are proud of her! She’s going to be a senior when school starts in the fall.” Well, that did it! I knew I couldn’t say anything to Mother because she would react to what had happened, and I didn’t want her getting into trouble. I decided I would take care of it myself if he ever tried anything again. He seldom rode my elevator after that day, but, when he did, he never attempted anything with me. I didn’t say anything to any of my friends who also worked at the hotel. It was generally believed throughout the black community, that if a white man messed around with a black girl, it was because she was trash. God knows I didn’t want any rumors started about me. I had heard of black women who were secretly seeing white “sugar daddies,” and when they were found out, they were ostracized and sometimes literally run out of town, either by whites or by blacks. They were always referred to as whores or other such low-level names. It was a label that followed them all the days of their lives. So, I kept my secret . . . except for telling Virginia, who wouldn’t say anything to anyone. When school started in September, I continued to work at the hotel on Saturdays and after church on Sundays. I really enjoyed

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East Texas Daughter

meeting the different people who boarded my elevator. I mostly enjoyed hearing them discuss business deals or their children or some vacation trip they were planning. Most were friendly and cordial. Only a few were rude, using certain slurs to indicate somehow that I was inferior to them. “Girl, keep this door open while I get this or that,” or “Have you ever seen a monkey running an elevator before?” The bell captain had already warned me about such people, and I was to keep my mouth shut and report such incidents to him. Sometimes I did, but most often I didn’t. I just didn’t care. If these people had a problem with me, it was their problem, not mine. I also became aware of the “ladies of the evening” who occasionally frequented the hotel. I didn’t know their names, but they were two or three of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. They were kind and generous to me, and I honestly could not believe that women who looked and dressed so beautifully and tastefully could ever sell their bodies for a living. Some of my school friends who worked at the hotel told me about these women and what they had seen these women do. I concluded that my friends were just lying because they knew I was naïve or because they were just trying to impress me with how worldly they were. My brother had once pointed out to me a trashy-looking woman who he said was a prostitute, but these women at the hotel didn’t look like her. These really attractive women looked like movie stars, not street hookers! One Saturday evening I received a call from the top floor. When I arrived, I found three of my classmates standing outside, grinning like Cheshire cats. “Hey, Helen! Wanna see something really, really cool?” “What is it?” I asked, having no clue of what was so funny. “If you wanna see, you’d better hurry up! C’mon, let’s go! Shhhh!” I hooked the elevator open and followed Don, Junior, and Marlene down the beautifully decorated hallway. One could readily hear the bristle of heavily starched uniforms as we sneaked down the hallway. When we arrived at a room, located in a cul-de-sac, 

Baby Steps

Junior peeked through a tiny little hole in the door, about the size of pencil lead. “Look through here and see what you see,” Junior whispered. I leaned forward to take my turn. I froze! My God, what was this? My eyes got bigger and bigger, and my mouth was hanging wide open! I could barely breathe. There they were, three people on the bed, all naked, and the two women were taking turns rubbing and caressing the man’s body all over; then they took turns in putting his genitals in their mouths. When I saw this, I stumbled against the door, and we all ran so fast down the hallway, we could have put Jessie Owens to shame. I hopped on the elevator, and the other kids flew down the stairs. I was sick to my stomach, and I thought I was going to puke! I parked the elevator on the third floor and grabbed some ice chips from the ice machine and put them in my mouth. My God. How could those women do that? Yuck! What kind of people were they anyway? They must be mentally ill or something. I couldn’t wait to tell Virginia! My senior year was extraordinary. It’s probably the same for most high school seniors, but for me it was special. The reins on me had been loosened somewhat, and I had an opportunity to participate in nearly every single senior activity in which I was interested, and, to tell the truth, I was interested in most of them. I had earned enough money for most of my clothes and to pay for most of the activities, but I didn’t have enough to pay for all of it. Mother was there filling in all the gaps in addition to helping with the bills. My mother’s sisters, Aunt Vera from Jacksonville and Aunt Dorothy from Wichita Falls, paid for my class ring. Aunt Georgia from San Diego and Mama and Papa Cueing sent money to help out. There was so much to be done—a senior trip to Austin, senior prom, special Senior Club activities, and the senior picnic. I was working really hard to come up with the money, and Mother had borrowed as much as she could from finance companies. When Mother asked Daddy if he could help out a little, he readily responded in his usual manner: “I got bills to pay, an’ I don’t have no money to spend on foolishness. That money yo’ folk keep sendin’ heah ought to be goin’ on 

East Texas Daughter

these bills! If they really want to do something, that’s what they oughta do. People got to still live when that gal’s graduation is over.” Mother didn’t press the issue too much. She knew from the beginning that she would have to carry the heaviest load. She didn’t seem to mind, and we were getting it done, Mother and I. While Mother was dealing with my senior year, she was also dealing with her only son’s incarceration at the state prison in Huntsville. The cumulative effect of all his petty crimes and his age finally landed him in the state pen. Mother could not stop this. There was never any mention of counseling, which is so prominently mentioned nowadays for people experiencing similar problems. The only counselor my brother had was Mother, and I’m thankful to God for staying by her side during these horrible times, some of which the world and not even the immediate community could ever have understood. But Mother stood by Cleo’s side, and never once did she ever give him up as damaged goods. This was her son, and she loved him. I never heard her say a bad thing about him, only that he had lost his way. When she prayed, it was a prayer of thanksgiving that her son was not violent, that he was alive, and that he was healthy. Today, I give thanks to God for my mother’s strength and courage. About a week before graduation, the gifts started raining in from the neighborhood, the church, my mother’s family, and family friends. There were dainty petticoats, gorgeous undergarments, sweaters, bathrobes, pajamas, nightgowns, sheets and towels for college, a luggage set from Mama and Papa Cueing, and money from nearly everyone else I knew, or who knew Mother! Mother took great pride in helping me place the articles on the other twin bed so visitors could see them. She was so proud. And so was I. One afternoon when I got home from school, there on my dresser was a brand new, gleaming Smith-Corona typewriter. I didn’t know what to say, so I just squealed to the top of my voice. I never ever dreamed I would ever have a typewriter of my own. “Mother, who sent it? Who bought this for me?” 

Baby Steps

“This is just a little gift to the young lady that I have had the honor of being a mother to for sixteen years,” Mother answered with a proud grin on her face. “Oh, Mother, it’s mine to keep? Forever and ever?” “Forever and ever!” “Thank you so much, Mother. This is the best gift of all. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” “Thank you for being the joy of my life, sweetheart,” Mother responded, with a pleased look in her eyes that I had not seen in a number of years. I hugged Mother so tightly that she had to peel my arms from around her waist. The night before graduation, I lay in my bed staring at all the gifts I had received and counting all the money. I had received a grand total of $250. Finally, I placed the money in the Bible I had received from the church and put the Bible in my dresser drawer. The door to my room opened. Daddy stood there looking at all the gifts. “Sure did git a lot of stuff, didn’t ya?” “Yessir, I sure did,” I answered, not really knowing what was on Daddy’s mind. “Well . . . here’s ten dollars. You use it right, ya’ hear?” There was no mistaking the pride I saw on Daddy’s face, nor was there any mistaking the shame I heard in his voice. I gave him a hug. This was the first hug I had given him since I was a toddler. He hugged me back and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Daddy. I surely will put the money to good use.” With that, Daddy turned and walked out of the room, back out to the front porch and the beautiful cushioned patio chair where he sat every evening after work. On June 2, 1953, I was hyped for graduation and was excited to be the second youngest in the class, at sixteen years old. People from everywhere crowded the beautiful Emmett Scott High School auditorium to witness the rites of passage of their kids, their friends, their relatives, and their neighbors. Mama and Papa Cueing, Aunt Dorothy, and Aunt Vera sat proudly on the same row with Mother and Daddy. I was sad, and I was happy, and I was 

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scared, and I was excited, all at the same time. These mixed feelings were new to me, and when I had discussed them with Mother, she had assured me of the normalcy of my state of mind. I cannot remember when I had seen my Mother looking so pretty. She had a new blue suit and even a new pair of shoes. She had her hair done at the beauty shop for the first time ever. I think I must have forgotten how beautiful she was and how sophisticated and elegant. This was evident on that graduation day as she warmly and graciously greeted family members and the other people she knew. I was very proud of her. Daddy wore his best suit and went about talking to the people he knew. He had escorted Mother like a gentleman, standing when females approached her and making small talk with others around him. Though he never said so, I knew he was also proud. The graduation march began. The “pomp and circumstance” of that evening lasted in my mind for weeks. I remember every step of the march down the aisle and the reverence on the face of my family when I received my diploma. What happened to me on that day lit a fire inside me that even I cannot explain. What I know is the search for meaningful existence subtly began within me, in combination with the graduation march. I didn’t know what it all meant, but I knew and felt the difference throughout my body and my soul even at sixteen. A busy summer followed graduation. What with trying to select an affordable college—away from home—and working at the hotel, I hardly had time to do much of anything else. I knew things were tough, financially, for my family at home, but I kept pushing ahead to get into college. I had to go. It was to be my relief and my chance to “make it.” I couldn’t even consider for an instant the possibility of not going. I was embarrassed when bill collectors would call, especially when some baby-faced white boy would show up at our house and talk to Mother in a condescending manner. “Willie, we haven’t had a payment on this bill for two weeks now. You and Thomas are going to have to take care of this pretty soon or we might just have to pick up that nice, new refrigerator y’all got.”

Baby Steps

“You won’t have to do that! We’ll have the money in there by Saturday,” Mother would say to the man through the screen door. “Well, now, that’s what you said last . . .” “What I said last time was that I would try . . . and I did try,” Mother snapped. “Well, y’all better get that money in there by Saturday. Thomas still working?” “I said we’d have it in there,” Mother said angrily, as she closed the door, not bothering to answer the man’s racist question, which was his reference to the stereotype of black men as lazy. There were two or three scenes like this over the summer, and these visits or calls from the bill collectors almost always led to arguments between Mother and Daddy. One of the key things they argued about was how Mother wouldn’t pay bills with the fifty dollars sent by Mama and Papa Cueing to me for graduation expenses, instead of using it for worthless things that nobody could see now. I remember how terrible I felt. I assumed tremendous responsibility for the financial trouble my parents were in, even though, in my head, I knew I was not directly responsible. “Mother,” I said, sitting on the front porch with her one evening, “here’s twenty-five dollars to help with the bills. I’ll try to give ten dollars every week until I go to school.” Mother turned and looked at me for a long while, with a furrow on her forehead and a tremor on her lips. “Helen, please don’t embarrass me any further by offering your hard-earned school money to pay the bills your Daddy and I owe! That’s our job, and if we messed it up, then we need to straighten it out. None of this is your fault, and I don’t want you worrying about it. When you help out with your school tuition and clothes, that’s more than enough. We should be doing that. So put your money away. I don’t want to hear another word about it.” The arguments between Mother and Daddy continued, and one day I heard Daddy say to Mother that he was going to Chicago with his sister, Nealie, and her husband. He had heard there were good jobs out there, and he was going to get one of them. He told Mother that she could come with him, if she wanted to. “Thomas! Do you think that I’m going to go that far away with

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a sixteen-year-old going off to college with half the money she needs and with a boy in Huntsville who still needs me? Where is he going to go when he gets out? I will not abandon my children.” “Naw! I don’t ’spect nothing from you where them chilluns is concerned! You still got both o’ them younguns tied to yo’ apron strings. They ain’t goin’ to never grow up!” “Well, you may be right, Thomas, but with the help of the Lord, we’ll get by. If you think this is what you have to do, then do it. But don’t ask me to run away from my responsibilities to my children or from the mess we’ve created here at home!” Ironically, Daddy left for Chicago, without Mother, on the same Sunday morning I left for Prairie View A&M College. Ruby Jewel and her father picked me up early that morning. Mother and I had sent my trunk by train, and that morning Mother and Ruby’s father helped to load the car with my remaining luggage, while Daddy never did acknowledge that I was leaving. Mother had tears in her eyes as she hugged me tight and as she waved goodbye as we drove off. I cried as well. Ruby Jewel was a senior at the college, so she helped me get my registration started. Even though I had been on the campus many times before for band competitions, it seemed different now. This was going to be my home for four long years. This was exciting, yet it was somewhat scary. The campus was huge, and there were so many people coming and going. I had always had a “geographical brain deficit,” and now it was magnified. How in God’s name was I ever going to find my way around? It took me all morning to get registered. Lugging my big Pullman luggage, I finally found my dormitory, Lucky Hall, and my room, which was located on the third floor of this old, elevator-free building. I couldn’t believe I was going to have to climb three flights of stairs after about a mile walk across campus. Oh, my God! I don’t think I can make it, I thought, as I approached the stairwell. Why did they put me on the third floor? Father in Heaven, please help me make it up there. There were others coming and going. Most had their parents helping them carry all their stuff, but I was struggling all by myself. Finally one of the fathers helped me with a couple of the pieces, for which I will be eternally grateful.

Baby Steps

I met my four roommates as they wandered in one at a time. They were just as tired and as haggard as I was. We selected our bunks, put some of our clothing away, and rested and talked. Three of the girls were from Texas and one was from Philadelphia, so right away we dubbed her “Philly.” This was the first time any of the girls had been away from home, except for Philly, but I was beginning to wonder if one could believe anything this girl said. She said her parents were rich and they were going to bring her a car next semester. She spoke of the cars she had already had and all the states she had visited. She also talked in this first hour of our meeting about how many times she had engaged in sexual intercourse. The rest of us glanced at each other, which validated some of the thoughts I was having. This girl is nuts! We were starving, so we set out to find the cafeteria. We met up with Ruby Jewel there, and I introduced her to my new friends, while she told us how to work the cafeteria line. It was cool to let the football players “cut” if they wanted to, but it was never cool to let them have your meal ticket, because you would never get it back. She told us not to start off letting the upperclassmen take food off our trays. “If you let them do it, you’ll starve to death!” Don’t ever sit at the same table with seniors, unless they ask you to, and you don’t have to give up your table to anybody, unless you’re pledging a sorority, and your sorority sisters ask for it. Later, Ruby Jewel toured us around some of the campus, pointing out this building and that. She told us where to take our laundry and showed us where the infirmary was where we could always get medicine for the cramps. She took us to the “Rec,” which was the social hangout. Music was blasting, and kids were sitting around talking. The football table was easily recognizable, since everyone sitting there had on the purple-and-gold jackets. She warned us not to fool around with the football guys, because they were just out to see where they could score, especially with freshmen girls. That night I lay awake in my bed, feeling so happy with myself, so happy with being away at college living in a dormitory, so happy I was no longer in Daddy’s house, and so happy to be starting a beautiful new life. Thoughts of Mother came to my mind. I

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thought she must be happy also with Daddy gone to Chicago . . . at least I hoped she was. I finally fell asleep totally exhausted and feeling that utopia was just a grasp away. The rules at the college were strict, especially for freshman girls. We had to be in our dorms by eight and lights out by ten. There were daily room inspections during the first few weeks; you could earn demerits for having any article of clothing in view, or a bed unmade, or a door unlocked. You also earned demerits for going on campus without stockings or socks and for not attending church on Sunday mornings. There had to be written permission from your parents to leave the campus for any reason. Leaving without that permission would earn you a multitude of demerits, which could eventually get you sent home. I thought often of Mother and of Cleophus. I was too embarrassed to tell my roommates that my brother was in prison, so I lied about that. I also lied about how my Daddy had treated us at home, especially when the others talked about places their dads had taken them and the good times they had with their fathers. I was jealous when their fathers would call them on the phone just to say hello and when they would receive letters from their fathers. No, I didn’t want their pity. Though I felt funny inside when I lied, I continued, because the truth was unbearable for me. I received a letter from Mother at least once a week, and many of her letters seemed sad, yet she never wrote a sad word with her pen. I didn’t know what this meant, but I hoped that I was reading things wrong. When I wrote, I tried to write about things I knew she would want to hear about. Dear Mother, Thank you so much for the five dollars. I will use the money well. I took a pop quiz in English today,and I made ninety-six. I think I might be an English teacher. What do you think about that?

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Sometimes when I thought about the troubles Mother was having at home with all the bill collectors, I couldn’t concentrate. I would go down to the first floor and telephone her, col-

Baby Steps

lect. She would try to convince me that she was okay, but I could hear and feel the pain in her voice. Then in November came the dynamite. Dear Helen, I’m so glad to hear that you’re doing well in school. You know I believe in you, and I know you’re going to do just fine! Honey, I didn’t have enough money to send your entire tuition this month, so I wrote the dean and informed her that I would send the rest by the fifteenth. Now, don’t worry, I’ll get the money there on time. When the fifteenth of the month came, Mother had the money in there, but there was no money to be sent in December. Mother arranged with the business office to pay ten dollars a week until everything was caught up. I knew how hard it would be for her to do that, and I knew she would not be able to do it for very long. I started making arrangements to leave Prairie View. I told my roommates there was some serious trouble at home and that my mother needed me there. I assured them that I would return at the fall semester. On the same day the semester ended, I boarded the Greyhound bus back to Tyler . . . to stay. I think I always knew that. I cried myself to sleep on the bus, and I also felt so ashamed that I had caused Mother so much grief. I was a sixteen-year-old basket case, not knowing just what to do or where to turn. Everything was wrong, and it seemed I just couldn’t make it right. When the bus pulled into the station, I could see Mother standing there with her old mouton coat on and a scarf tied on her head. She had her arms folded and was looking at every window and at each person who got off the bus. When she saw me, she walked up to me with her arms outstretched. We cried in each other’s arms. “Honey, this will be only a temporary setback for you. We will find a way to get you back into school real soon,” Mother said in a sort of apologetic way. “Mother, it’s all right. It really is. Don’t worry about me. I’ll do just fine.”

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East Texas Daughter

“Of course you will, honey. I know you well enough to know that this is just a little bump in the road for you. Now, by September . . .” “Mother Dear, Mother Dear. It’s time you stopped worrying about me. I can get a job and help out. It’s high time I did something to help you.” “But you’re just sixteen years old. You don’t even know what this world is all about. Right now, you don’t know how much it would help me if you could just help yourself. You’re going to need an education, baby. It’s going to be almost impossible for you to have a successful life without a good college education. That’s all I want for you, sweetheart. A good life without a lot of financial worries. You deserve that!” Daddy was still in Chicago and was sending money back once or twice a month to help Mother get rid of the financial woes. I went back to work at the hotel as a full-time elevator operator, earning thirty-five dollars a week, plus tips. I attempted to give Mother ten dollars of the money each week, but she would not accept it. “I’m doing just fine now. So, put that money away so you can get back in school. You’ve got to do that. I’m not going to let you forget!” “Oh, I won’t forget, Mother. I will never forget!” Soon we would hear about the unrest among blacks concerned about racial justice in every region of the United States, but especially in the South. It was a scary time in East Texas, because we had heard for years how the Texas Rangers and Tyler police would drum up charges on colored people and then nearly beat them to death when they arrived at the jail. There were also stories of colored folk who had been missing for years. If the missing person had ever been in trouble with the law, it was quickly reasoned that he was probably dead. Nothing was ever done about the police brutality, and the colored people had good reasons to fear retaliation if they put up too much of a fuss. Community leaders warned us all to be careful in our comings and goings. Everyone in the community knew these words, as simple as they were, were aimed specifically at the young black men of our community who were the most likely targets of the so-called law. 

Baby Steps

Mother never failed to remind me of who I was and what I was “destined” to do in my lifetime. She constantly reminded me of those who had gone on before me to pave the way for me. For me not to do anything with my life, according to Mother Dear, was “simply sinful.” “There are many ways to fight this battle that has been set before those of us who are colored. Education is the way that I’ve tried to prepare you for all your life. Helen, you have seen your colored brothers and sisters dehumanized and shamed and discriminated against at the highest level. The intent is to make you feel inferior. Knowledge, Helen, can defeat these barriers!” All my life my mother refused to let me internalize any of what she referred to as “negative social molding.” She recognized that we could not avoid living in the middle of the whole mess but was always there to remind me that I wouldn’t get stuck in the mud if I walked carefully and kept on moving. Education and Jesus Christ were where she consistently instructed me to place my future, whatever the task was before me. She constantly reminded me to use correct English, wear appropriate clothing, not to use profanity, and to select my friends carefully. She also reminded me that each and every human had a specific job to do with certain talents that had been given. She informed me that it was sinful to be gifted with a talent and not to use it to help humanity. “Look around you. What do you see? Many of us have lost our chances through mistakes we’ve made in our lives. Most of us have never had the chances that I see on the horizon for the younger people of this world, for you, Helen, and the children you will have one day. Don’t let the chances pass you by. Believe in Him and that He will make a way for you,” Mother said to me time and time again.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

Ten Years Later   the telephone ringing as soon as I placed the key in the lock. I worked feverishly to unlock the front door. After five years of living in this house, there were times when I couldn’t manage to turn the key the right way. I nearly tumbled head first onto the floor when the lock finally gave way to my labored efforts. The telephone let out another exasperating ring. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I yelled as I grabbed the telephone receiver. “Hello . . . hello . . .” Then there was a click. Angrily, I slammed the receiver back in place. I carried the grocery bag into the kitchen, still wondering who the caller was. I was putting away the groceries I had just spent my last twelve dollars on when the telephone rang again. With the egg carton still in my hand, I sprinted to the hallway. “Hello? Yes, this is she. . . .What did you say? Are you sure of that? . . . Oh, yes. I am very interested. . . . Yes, yes, I will. Thank you. Thank you very much. Good-bye.” I just stood there holding the telephone receiver in one hand and the carton of eggs in the other. I could feel the blood draining from my brain. I felt numb all over and wondered if I were having a heart attack. Finally I collected myself enough to put the telephone back into its cradle. Sure, I knew that I had made an application for acceptance into professional schools of nursing at least six or seven times, but I had always been denied entrance because of the color of my skin. I had begun to believe it would never happen to me, but subconsciously I had hoped maybe this time year after year as I placed my application at this school and that.

I

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Ten Years Later

In a complete state of confusion, sprinkled with sheer delight, I stared at the telephone as if it were some precious gem, coveted by many and owned solely by me. My emotional state revealed itself through a sudden burst of simultaneous tears and laughter that lasted about a minute. When I was finally aware of what I was doing, the laughter and tears stopped as abruptly as they had begun. For some reason, I began remembering all those lost years, all the humiliation and insults and the tremendous pain, whenever I had sought admission into a school of nursing. I felt raped every time I was forced to recall those incidents. I squeezed my eyes shut in an effort to shut out the memory of those ugly experiences, and I thought of the countless contributions lost to this world because of racial discrimination and prejudice. But there seemed to have been a special kind of projector implanted in my brain, which rolled only in reverse, bringing to mind vivid portrayals of many of these dark and deplorable times I thought I had suppressed forever. The lens focused on the year 1955. My dreams and promise to Mother of doing something with my life were not erased by my sudden new life of wife and mother. Sederick, five years older than I, was kind and tenderhearted. We had gotten married after a three-month courtship. Mother had been disappointed that I was marrying so young, and I was sorry that I was again causing her pain. I tried to convince her that this was the right thing for me, but she continued to protest the marriage. We went ahead, getting married at the county courthouse, without Mother present. Sed was one of fourteen children and had been raised in a South Texas rural community called Gause. He had spoken often of the hardships his family had experienced being poor and black and how it took everyone in the family to try to make ends meet. He was one of the only set of twins in this family, and he was united or bonded with his brother, Frederick, in a way that I had never understood. Being an identical twin brings with it certain problems that could not possibly be known to the single-birth person. But I was young and thought the idea was rather cute . . . at first. I would later learn 

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about this kind of bonding and the maturity it takes to accept it. I was not ready for the anguish it brought to our marriage. What Sed and I had in common was our genuine desire to accomplish something in our lives. When he spoke of hard times, he was speaking of the hard life of work that included chopping or picking cotton as sharecroppers. When I spoke of the hard times, I was speaking of the beatings and the dysfunction in my household. We both wanted something, but neither knew exactly what it would be. I only knew my dream involved educational accomplishments and the rewards they brought, while Sed’s dreams were of riches and material things. At any rate, my hopes had been renewed, and I knew this to be true whenever Sed talked about his visions of our lives in the very near future. Our future together always focused on Shalimar, a sweet little six-pound, four-ounce girl born on my birthday in 1954. As it turned out, Shally was the common denominator that diluted the differences between Sed and me. She shadowed Sed’s every move, and from the time she began to babble, she called him “Gain.” It was months before we figured out she was trying to say Green, which most of his friends called him. By the time she was two she referred to Sed as “my daddy” as a way of separating him from his identical twin, Frederick. When other people were confused about who was who, she never was. Sed was her playmate and “partnerin-crime.” He was in no way a disciplinarian. That was my job, in addition to being the nurturer of the famly and the fixer of “booboos” for both of them. “One day we’re gonna have a big house with big rooms, and we’re gonna have money in the bank that you can’t even imagine, and you, my little wife, will have the finest clothes and a diamond ring on every finger, and Shalimar will go to the finest schools and be the only one in grade school with her own car,” Sed joked, as he giggled with pride. “And how do you suppose we’re going to get all these fine things, Mr. Magic Man?” “Just leave it to me. I promised your mother I would take care of you, and I will do it, only I will do it in style. You just watch my smoke,” he would always reply.

Ten Years Later

I prayed that what Sed said would be true, even half-true, and that my hopes and dreams were not just fantasies of a little lost black girl who wanted and needed so much, but the hopes and desires of a mature woman. Our first step toward our dream was our move from Tyler to the city, “Big D.” The three of us moved into a four-room duplex with Sed’s older sister, her husband, and their two children. We were there only about three weeks or so before we began a series of moves that finally landed us in a furnished four-complex apartment unit on the eastern end of South Boulevard, near Fair Park. It was a lovely apartment with shiny hardwood floors and a multitude of windows. It was the first place we had rented where little Shalimar would have her own room. We were so happy that we had made a substantial first step. “We’re on our way,” Sed said as he glanced about the big, roomy, beautiful apartment. “This is our beginning, but it is only the beginning.” Sed was working for a farm equipment company weekdays, practicing his barbering trade on Friday evenings and all day on Saturdays. We had decided that I would stay home with Shalimar until she was older, at least until she started kindergarten. Though that was a dream of ours, it looked less and less likely every day. Sed’s paycheck was becoming harder and harder to stretch. We knew we were going to have to make some revisions in our plans, but we held on to our goal. We could not afford a car, the installation fee for a telephone, or a washing machine, but we believed it was only a matter of time. So, every week I walked the five blocks to the closest laundromat, pulling all our dirty laundry in Shalimar’s little red wagon. When we couldn’t afford the laundromat, I would wash our laundry, including the bed linens, by hand in the bathtub and take them down the back stairs to hang out in the fresh air to dry. I didn’t realize at the time how much work that was. But it didn’t matter, because we had a goal in mind, and this was just a necessary means to an end. I can remember one afternoon overhearing Shalimar and one of her little friends talking. Each was bragging on their toys and how many they had. Shally was only three years old and precociously verbal . . . like her mother.

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The other little girl said, “We got a television set, an’ you don’t even have one. Ha, ha!” Then I remember Shally’s response. “That’s all right ’cause my daddy can make us one if he wants to, and he’ll make us one soon, won’t he, Mommy?” There were tears in her little brown eyes and innocence on her face. I just pulled her close and kissed her little chubby cheeks. “We sure are going to have a TV one day . . . really soon.” I knew then that I would have to get a job to help Sed mobilize our dreams. We were not going to be able to go with “Plan A.” Sed and I talked it over and decided that I could get a job if I could find someone to keep Shally. I made child-care arrangements with Leola and Carl, our neighbors about two blocks down the street. Leola, about thirty years old, had three children and was pregnant with her fourth. Her husband did only light work in the neighborhood, since he had a military injury and could not work on a full-time job. They were a loving couple, and it showed in everything they did. Sed and I were pleased that Leola agreed to keep Shally, so the fee was set at three dollars a day. After about a week of searching, I landed my first job in the city. The job was at a Dairy Queen in Oak Cliff, working the two-to-ten shift. I would have to ride the city bus home at night, but I didn’t mind too much. My only hesitation was having to transfer buses downtown—I was still geographically challenged. But it was a different story with Sed. He protested the fact that I had taken the late shift, and he was irate about my having to ride the bus home that late at night in Dallas. “You know you didn’t have to take that job. If they didn’t have a day shift to offer, you should have turned the job down. I don’t like it, honey, I really don’t like it.” “It’s going to be all right, Sed. I’ll be careful. The bus stop is not too far from the Dairy Queen, and it’s not going to be that late when I get off. I know there will be people around. Feel happy for me, honey, please.” “Okay, okay. But I still believe it’s dangerous. This is not Tyler, you know, and don’t forget all the trouble in Montgomery with the boycotts and everything. Some of it is bound to spill over here. You

Ten Years Later

have got to be extra careful. These times are dangerous, honey.” The work at the Dairy Queen was not rocket science stuff, but I was earning some money to help out, and that felt good. I did worry about being alone at night on my new job. The glass windows that enclosed the place gave the folk who hung around outside easy visual access to the cash register. My greatest fear, however, was having to transport the night’s receipts across the parking area to the owner who ran a nightclub about fifty yards from the Dairy Queen. As hard as I tried to conceal the army-green moneybag, I believed that everyone knew what I was carrying. I jogged across this little parking area every night at 9:45, anxiously looking over my shoulder. One night I couldn’t help noticing two men standing outside the place sharing a bottle of booze. Every now and then they would look in through the windows, winking and grinning. I was deeply concerned when the final customers left and I was alone in the establishment. Then I saw one of the men motion for the other one to go inside. He semi-stumbled inside and sat on one of the little red stools at the counter. I slipped the cash register key into my apron pocket. “Hey, mama. How about a burger?” The man sat reeling and twirling on the stool. I looked at him, trying not to show how frightened I was, and gazed into a set of bloodshot, half-closed eyes. “What kind would you like?” I was trying to show some selfconfidence. “A ham kind,” he bellowed out, laughing at his own futile attempt to joke. I didn’t laugh, and he cut his bellowing laugh off right in the middle of his crescendo. “What’s the matter, lil’ mama, think I ain’t got no bread? That whatcha think? Baby, I got enough money to buy even you. Look at this,” he squawked as he pulled five balled up onedollar bills from his pocket. “I can pay for what I want. I don’t wantcha to give me nothing.” He was quiet for a moment, and I could see him, through the mirror, giving the cash register the onceover. “Hey, baby. How much you got in that thing?”

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“In what?” I asked, knowing full well what he was talking about. “The money keeper there,” he responded, nodding toward the cash register. My heart was racing. I could also see the other guy outside, taking in the whole scene. I turned the patty over, walked over to the counter where the man was sitting, and answered him. “Not enough for you to get arrested for,” I said as I turned to face the grill again. I finished preparing the hamburger and placed it in front of the man. “Hey, baby. You got me figured out wrong. I ain’t gonna rob the place or nothin’ like that, just thought you would just help me out. Hell, sis, who the hell gonna know?” He grabbed at my hand. I stepped back. “That’ll be a dollar forty-five for the hamburger and Coke.” “C’mon, sis. Help a brother out. If we don’t help each other, who else will?” “Your bill is $1.45, sir.” “Well, hell, here’s two dollars. Gimme all my change back.” As I started toward the cash register, I hesitated for a moment wondering whether or not to open it. The man had his eyes fixed on me, and I could see the other man watching from outside. Then out of the blue a couple with a small child walked through the double glass doors. Oh, thank you, God, I thought as I drew up three ice cream cones. I opened the cash register and retrieved enough change for the couple and the man on the stool. The couple left as quickly as they came, and I was once again alone with this man. I went about wiping off the counter top until I saw the man had finished his sandwich. I carefully removed the burger basket from in front of the man and deposited it in the garbage just under the counter. “Come in to see us again. Sure hope you enjoyed your sandwich,” I said, still trying hard to sound calm. “How you know I don’t want another one?” the man asked, grinning. “Sorry, sir, but we’re closing now,” I answered as I untied my apron and placed it under the counter. 

Ten Years Later

“This place don’t close ’til ten. I ain’t moving ’til ten o’clock, lil’ mama.” “Tonight we’re closing at 9:30. Good night, sir. Come in again.” “I said I’m staying.” “Well, suit yourself. I’m locking up.” I said as I put on my sweater and walked swiftly toward the front door. The man got up off the stool and waddled out the door swearing and flailing his arms. “You a bitch. You think you owned the damn place. You black bitch.” I watched the men leave, and when the two were far enough away, I emptied the cash register into the green moneybag, turned out the lights, and locked the door. I ran the key over to the owner and asked for my pay. I never returned to that place. Sed was surprised to see me home so early, and after he heard my story, he held me tight, shivering at the thought of my experience that night. “I’m so glad you’re safe, honey. We were lucky tonight, and I don’t want you ever to be placed in a situation like that again. Honey, I don’t want to lose you. Please . . . no more night jobs until we get a car, okay?” “Aw, babe, I could have handled both those old drunks,” I teased, still shaken from the experience. A few days later, I was downtown job hunting, when I saw a placard in the window of a coffee shop located in a bank building. It read, “Experienced Waitress Needed. Apply Inside.” Since the advertisement didn’t specify color, I went inside this plush building, applied for the job, and got it, working from 7:000 until 3:30. I would earn twenty-five dollars a week plus tips. Nellie, the head counter girl, said she made fifty to sixty dollars every week in tips and was sure I could easily do the same. That sounded good to me, so arrangements were made for me to start the following morning. The coffee shop was beautifully decorated, and as far as Sed and I were concerned, it was a safer environment, especially since I would be working during the day. White customers and white shoppers and employees of this multi-storied bank building kept us hopping all the time. I was the only black waitress, and I was stationed behind the counter. There was a black cook named Annie, 

East Texas Daughter

and a black busboy who was referred to as “Speed,” mostly because he was so slow clearing the tables and booths. Black customers could come into the coffee shop and order at the counter, but they could not sit down and consume their purchases. It was 1957, and segregation was in full force. I had been working there for about a month when trouble began to brew. There was a particular white executive from this building who came in every morning and sat at my end of the counter. One morning as I was getting his usual coffee and warm cinnamon roll, I noticed him flip a folded piece of paper on the counter and motion with his head for me to pick it up. I served him and picked up the crumpled piece of paper. I looked at the man, and he nodded, indicating that I should open it. When I did, I became angry and stared at the man disapprovingly. The note read: “How about being my chocolate cookie? Worth $25.00 every time.” I raised my eyes and looked at the man again. He was smiling, looking cautiously about the room to be sure that no one had seen him flip me the note. I walked back to where the man was sitting and leaned on the counter in front of him. “You write this note to me?” I asked sarcastically. “Keep it down. Want to get me in trouble?” he whispered. “You? In trouble? Of course I wouldn’t want to do that,” I responded with sarcasm that was smothering. I looked this man straight in the eyes, and I looked around the place the same as he had done. Then I made a backward deal with this upstanding, pinstriped, rock of the community—bigot. “I’ve got a great deal for you, Mr. Sam Watson. There’s this place, not too far from where I live . . . that’s really . . . okay. You know what I mean? I’ll write down the address for you, and here’s what you do. You bring your wife and let her be with my husband, and I’ll be your chocolate cookie. How about that deal, Sammy boy?” The man’s cigarette literally fell from his lips into his coffee cup, and he angrily got up, called me a bitch, and left, without even leaving my usual fifty-cent tip. I lost a good customer. About two weeks later, a group of seven young black men entered through the glass double doors into the coffee shop. They 

Ten Years Later

were all dressed very nicely in black leather jackets and matching caps. Their trousers were freshly pressed, and their faces were clean-shaven. A strange silence fell over the place as the leader, a light-skinned, tall young man, nodded his head to the rest of the group, and they took their posts as if they had been previously drilled. They stood silently in pairs next to empty booths with their arms folded and their feet spread slightly. Two of the young men sat on the table in a booth with their backs together and their feet in the seats. Nothing was said. Not even Nellie muttered a word, and she was known for her loose lips. Then the leader caught a glimpse of me behind the counter, standing statue-still in front of the giant coffee maker. With a cigarette behind his left ear, he walked slowly and deliberately toward where I was standing, his brown eyes continuously piercing mine. He stretched his long lean body over the counter and spoke to me in the most condescending tone I can remember. “What the hell you doing working in this lily-white joint, nigger? You slinging hash to these upstanding citizens? Where can you eat, little nigger girl? In the toilet or are they kind enough to let you eat in the kitchen?” Honestly, I thought this guy was going to slap me inside out. The anger he expressed to me surpassed anything I’d ever seen. I was too scared to faint, which I would have gladly done if I could have. Then with his lips curled, he raised his hand and pointed his finger in my face, nearly touching my nose. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. “It’s people like you who’s keeping us back. Don’t you know that, fool? People are dying all over this country trying to stop this s---. You’re a sell-out. Go on and serve ‘da massa,’ you Tom-ette!” I had a sudden urge to go to the bathroom, but my feet would not move. I was so humiliated I could have died. As the leader permitted his body to rebound, I kept having visions of this group tying me to a cross and marching down Main Street, chanting, “A traitor, a traitor. This girl’s a traitor.” A small crowd gathered outside the restaurant was peering in through the windows, but no one did anything and no one said anything. The leader walked to and fro, looking at this one and that 

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one, but he did not utter a single word. After about ten minutes or so, the leader signaled to the others, and they marched out the door. To this day, I don’t know the reason for this particular incident. Desegregation had already begun in Topeka following the Orville Brown case, and the sting from the Montgomery bus boycott was being felt in Dallas as it was all over the United States. What I know for sure is that I felt the heat of the rage that was bundled up inside this group of young black men to whom equal rights had been denied too long. I believe my presence botched up whatever plans they had. Perhaps my presence saved some lives, or maybe it delayed the progress a little longer for all blacks in this city. That morning when I took my break, I was acutely aware of the overturned potato-chip can I sat on in the hot kitchen and the cold restroom whose door had to be manually held together as I sat on the commode. As blacks came in and ordered at the far end of the counter, I began to feel their pain and mine. Immediately following the incident, I can remember Annie, the black cook saying, “Them young-uns is gonna git us all in trouble with they uppity ways. Betcha they on dope or somethin’. People in they natural head don’t go ’round looking for trouble. That’s how come white folks don’ respect us now, on account of scum like them. Betcha they folks is God-fearing people, too. That’s jus’ a shame, a crying shame them boys actin’ like that and shaming all of us.” I kept wishing Miss Annie would just shut her mouth. I knew she was scared, and I knew she had seen more hate and pain in her sixty-odd years than I had seen. I honored her for that, but right now Miss Annie just needed to shut up. After my break, I informed Nellie that I didn’t think I would be staying on any longer. “What’s the matter, Helen? Those boys scare you?” She was trying to act as if she weren’t shaken. “I guess you can say that, but it’s more than that Nellie. It’s more like being jolted into reality.” “Scared me a little, too, but they’re gone now, sweetie, and I’m sure not gonna quit my job over nothing. Shoot, girl, you’ll be walking away from a gold mine.”

Ten Years Later

“It’s not the fear, Nellie. I just don’t think I want to work anywhere where my own people can’t sit down and eat the food they paid for.” “You knew the situation when you were hired, missy. You shouldn’t have any gripes. You’ve been treated fairly, and I bet you’re making more money than you have in your life. Girl, I lay you one-to-nothing that you’re making more money than your ol’ man. Am I right or wrong?” “As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing fair about a racially segregated place, regardless of how many tips I make.” “Well, listen at you, sounding like a real savior. I know Mr. Butler would never have hired you if he thought you were a revolutionary. Listen to me, girl, why don’t you just forget all this stuff and keep your job. I know you’re trying to make a living. Now, I won’t say nothing about all this stuff if you stop it right now . . . okay?” “Nellie, you don’t understand. How would you feel if your people couldn’t sit down and eat the food they purchased in here? Would you like that? Of course you wouldn’t. Well, I don’t like it either.” Nellie did not answer my questions. She just stood there looking at me in disbelief or disappointment. I couldn’t tell which. I continued to work for the coffee shop for about three more weeks, cognizant every single day of the unfairness of the working and social conditions there. When it finally got the best of me, I went to see Mr. Butler, to ask if we could get some things changed. “I hear you saying that you don’t want to work for us anymore. Am I correct?” the man asked, looking up over a pile of papers on his desk. “It’s not quite that simple, Mr. Butler. I really do enjoy my job, but I’m being dehumanized every day by not being able to sit at the counter or at one the booths when I take my break. The other waitresses can do that, so why can’t I?” I asked, deliberately, using a soft tone of voice but expressing myself clearly. “That’s the way it is, Helen. This place is no different than any other, as far as that sort of thing is concerned.” “Would you consider changing the rules in this place?” “I can’t do that, Helen.”

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“Why can’t you do it, Mr. Butler? You own the establishment.” “The bottom line is, Helen, I can’t do it.” “You can’t? Well, why not?” “That’s my business. Are you staying or leaving?” “Well, sir, as of this moment, I can no longer work in an establishment that is socially unfair to me and all black customers. . . . May I have my final check now?” “I sure do hate to lose you, Helen. You’re real good with the customers. Will you change your mind?” “No, I won’t change my mind. I can’t work here any longer.” “I hope you’re not gonna start any stuff around here.” “The stuff around here had already started, Mr. Butler, long before I came.” Many weeks passed, and I was having a lot of difficulty landing a job that I thought was respectable and honorable. I applied for jobs as a clerk in a department store, as a telephone operator, a file clerk, management trainee, and many others. I purposely applied for positions that were advertised as “No Experience Necessary,” or “Will Train.” But they were always “just filled” or the employer was looking for someone “a little older.” I was twenty years old. One large insurance firm accepted my application for a position as a file clerk and granted me an interview. I hoped that this time I could work at a job about which I could feel good. I prayed that it would be so. After all, it was 1957, and some things were changing along racial lines. If I had to be a trailblazer, then, so be it. That Wednesday morning I took special care to look as professional as I could and to be early for the interview or at the very least make every effort not to be late. I arrived at the building about 8:15 for my 8:30 interview. Shortly, I was shown to the office of the personnel director, a very tall, skinny man about fifty or so. He indicated with a pencil in his hand that I should be seated. He continued with what he was doing but finally looked up and said, “You want to be a file clerk, I see.” “Yessir,” I said as confidently as I could. “I read your ad in Sunday’s paper and filled out an application.” “Had any experience?” The man asked, as he flipped the application from front to back.

Ten Years Later

“I learned how to do filing in high school, sir. I did well in that class.” Then there was this dreadful silence. He kept looking through my application, taking his own good time. I wondered what was going through his mind. He finally spoke. “Well, Helen, you don’t seem qualified for the file clerk position since you haven’t ever worked as a file clerk.” “I do know how to file, sir, and I know how to type.” The man leaned back in his chair, and took a long look at me. I didn’t flinch. “How do you know you can fit into our system? Ours is different from the regular filing you may have had in high school.” “I have never had any problems fitting in, sir. I think that has been one of my strengths. The newspaper ad said you were willing to train. Is that right?” The man chuckled as he flipped my application farther out on his desk. “Oh, that. Well, we were talking . . . We were talking about . . . We were . . . Really, I think we may have that job filled. Yes, I’m quite certain about it. We do have that position filled,” he said with that all-too-familiar grin on his face, which every black person understands as part of the we-don’t-want-you-here syndrome. Then the man added, “Now, Wilma, our maid, had to take a leave of absence two weeks ago, because of her health. We sure do need someone to take that over until she’s able to come back.” I was angry. No, I was mad. So, I stood up and smiled at the man. “Now, I don’t have anything against being a maid, but if I had wanted a maid’s job, I would have applied for a maid’s job. But the way I see it, I don’t have any experience at that either, wouldn’t you agree?” I left the room, coolly and calmly. My search for employment continued until I noticed in the Sunday’s want ads that a school for the training of vocational nurses (practical nurses) would begin in two weeks. The school was specifically looking for Negro applicants. This appealed to me after what I had already been through, being turned down so often. Early on Monday morning I hastily went to the vocational building and took the entrance exam. I was immediately informed that I had passed and that I should report to Baylor Hospital in one week to

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begin the training. The training was to begin at five o’clock in the afternoon, which I thought was rather strange. I was told that there would be four months of pre-clinical education and practice, and then we would go to one of the big hospitals in the city for our clinical training, for which we would be paid ninety dollars a month. I was excited about this opportunity, and somehow belived that this was a good beginning for me. It would not offer me that college degree that I yearned for, but I was going to be licensed to work as a nurse, even though I wasn’t quite sure what a vocational nurse was. Sed, Shally, and I rejoiced at the good news that night at home. I made a special dinner for this Green family that was now on the move. I had called Mother over the weekend to tell her the good news about the vocational nursing program. As always, she was supportive. “What kind of a nurse is a vocational nurse, honey?” “It’s like a practical nurse, Mother.” “Is this really what you want to do? Are you sure about this step?” “I don’t know, Mother, but it’s something. Right? I don’t know where it will lead, but I believe it’s a respectable career start.” “Well, whatever it is, if you feel it’s good for you, then by all means go ahead with it and do your best. Now, you be careful, baby, and watch your step. You know the time we’re living in. I’ll let your daddy and your brother know what you’re planning. Is Sed all right with this?” “He’s all right with it, Mother.” Sed and I talked about the racial problems that were popping up everywhere. Sed was frightened for me. He said I was too “gutsy.” Sed thought that I was too naïve and trusting to know when trouble was in my face. I was young, but I was not naïve. I knew that racial conflicts of one type or the other filled the news daily and were the subject of conversations of nearly every one I knew. I was aware that segregation had been banned, but that Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus literally disobeyed the ruling and set out to prevent kids from going to the all-white Central High School. I had watched as the governor stood his ground, blocking the school doors, until President Dwight D. Eisenhower sent troops into that

Ten Years Later

city to try to protect the black kids going to and from the school. I was aware that there was chaos in Arkansas and nearly every state in the South and Southwest. I knew what was happening, yet I was not afraid. I was actually encouraged.


The first evening I was seated in the classroom, which, incidentally, was located in the basement of Baylor Hospital, a huge medical center in the city. I looked around the room to find that everyone in the class was black, except for the nursing instructor. I knew there were white vocational nurses, so where did they go to class? I was saddened to learn that the white or non-black students had their classes downtown at the vocational building, during the day hours. Not again, I thought as I introduced myself to the others in the class. When is it ever going to end? Mrs. Mary Anne Brock, the instructor, was a blonde-headed, middle-aged woman, who I believe was as genuine as they come. It seemed she was not a pretender but a real human being who was aware that black people were also real human beings. Every black person seems to come equipped with extrasensory antennae designed to recognize covert prejudices. Mary Anne Brock passed the test with flying colors. Nearing the end of the pre-clinical period, we were given the opportunity of selecting the hospital we wanted for our clinical training, the paying nine months. As the list was passed around, I noticed that one of the hospitals had one name under it, while the other three had names written even in the margins of the list. I touched the girl next to me and asked what she knew about this obvious imbalance of names. “I’ve heard that the clinical instructor at Methodist Hospital is a real witch . . . with a capital B. I certainly wouldn’t sign my name in the column if I were you. It’s not worth it.” “What have you heard that she does that makes her so unpopular. Is she prejudiced?” “I don’t know about that, but I hear she will send you home if your shoes are unpolished or if there’s a little microscopic stain on

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East Texas Daughter

your uniform and lots of things like that.” “Oh, I can deal with that. What I don’t want to deal with is more of this segregated, discriminatory mess.” “Well, I don’t know what rock you’ve been living under, but just why do you think we’re down here in this basement having classes at night from five to ten, while the white girls are in the regular classrooms downtown mornings from eight to twelve every day? Why do you think that is, Lil’ Miss I-don’t-want-to-open-my-eyes Green? You think they didn’t have room for us downtown? Well, let me tell you something, you’d better concentrate on getting through this school, ’cause there ain’t nothing your little prissy butt can do about segregation. All you’re gonna do is wind up getting yourself hurt. You understand me, girl?” “Thanks, Katie.” Being the adventurer that I was, I signed beneath the unfavorable column. When the list was retrieved by Mrs. Brock, there were two other names listed there also—Inez and Marjorie. When Mrs. Brock called out the names, I thought Katie would die. “Helen, I thought you were smart, but you’re acting like a fool. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I wish you luck. Damn! I can’t believe you did that.” I was not a glutton for punishment, but I figured if I were going to pay a price, I would pay that price at the best possible school. No one had said this woman was prejudiced. What I had heard was she was tough. I could handle tough as long as it was fair. I was going to give it my best shot and pray that my assessment was right. If I was wrong and it turned out that she was a bigot, I would have to deal with it the best way I could. I had to do this, and in my heart and soul, I believed it was right. While some thought I was putting my family and myself in danger with the Civil Rights movement in full operation, I believed I was being afforded a great opportunity, and for the sake of my child and others like her, I had to move ahead.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

Fine-Tuning the Cause    , , and I had been instructed to report to the lobby of the hospital at eight o’clock that August Monday morning in 1957. We were there on time in our brand new gray pinafores and white blouses, our sparkling white shoes, white pantyhose, and our nurses’ watches with the second hand. We were eager to make a good first impression and did, for when Miss Snively spotted us, she looked us up and down, and smiled approvingly, “Good morning. I’m Mrs. Snively, your clinical instructor. I’m so glad to see all of you.” “We’re glad to be here, Mrs. Snively.” I answered. “This is Inez Gibson and Marjorie Pipkins, and I’m Helen Green.” “Glad to meet you all. Please follow me to the classroom.” This was a tall, slim lady with blonde hair that shone like sunshine and bounced cheerfully with every step she took. We followed her down the stairs and across the parking lot to a portable classroom. The white students from downtown were already seated there. The three of us took our seats and said hello to the others. We waited to see what would happen next. With her arms folded and her tiny rear braced against her desk, the instructor began. “Girls, I’m very happy to have all of you here. I’m really surprised, because I usually don’t get so many students. But, be that as it may, you’re here, and I believe you have chosen the right place to be trained.” I wondered why Katie had gotten so bent out of shape. So far, the lady had said all the right things. We had the same objective.

I

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Mrs. Snively continued. “I do demand a lot from my students. Often, the very life of another person will be in your hands, and you must be prepared to do the right thing. Sometimes, it might appear as if I’m being terribly hard on you. Please understand that it’s nothing personal against you, unless you’re being careless and uncaring. If I see that as the case, you will be immediately expelled from this program. Do each of you understand?” We all either nodded affirmatively or said that we understood. What else could you say? “Ladies,” she continued, “I plan to mold you and shape you until you evolve into thinking, looking, and acting like the persons you will be trained to be . . . excellent vocational nurses.” All eyes were on Mrs. Snively. She was focused, serious, commanding, and plainspoken. As the woman began to walk up and down the aisle, giving us all the once-over, I couldn’t ever remember being lectured to this way. I couldn’t help but wonder if Katie had been right. Mrs. Snively continued. “Now, what I have to say next is both embarrassing and necessary for me. The rules have been made, and though I may not agree with them, as an employee, I must uphold them. Some of you, the Negro students, will run into unfortunate situations here. There will be separate eating and separate bathroom facilities. You can purchase what you want in the coffee shop, but you will have to take it to a little lounge just off the central hall to eat it. In the cafeteria, there is a special eating section for the Negro employees, which I will point out on the tour. It isn’t fair, and I know it. Maybe before this nine months is up for you, we will see some major changes. But, until then, we must obey the rules that have been set up for us.” She paused and looked around the classroom. “If there are any problems, I want you to come to me, and they will be taken care of. Don’t get yourselves in trouble over things I may be able to resolve. Now, in this classroom, there will not be any segregation. Every student will be treated the same, and if this is not okay with any of you, do me a favor and leave this class right now.” A noticeable pause allowed for anyone to leave, but none of the ten did. The next weeks were filled with endless assignments—learning

Fine-Tuning the Cause

procedures, memorizing the components of different body systems, observing in the operating room, assisting in the outpatient clinic and the emergency room, working on the wards, in the diet kitchen, the central supply room, labor and delivery, the nursery, and pediatrics. We were busy all the time trying to learn what we had to in order to pass state boards. Mrs. Snively was omnipresent, looking over our shoulders as we performed, interviewing patients we had taken care of, and checking our work when we were finished. If things were done right, she complimented you. If they weren’t, she would hound you like you’ve never been hounded before, making you do the whole thing over while she peered over your shoulder. When it was right, she’d say, “Now that’s the ticket!” When I made it home in the afternoons around four o’clock, I was exhausted, yet I would start dinner and spend some time with Shalimar. I told her what I was now learning at school, but mostly I read to her and listened to her spell her name and the like. Sed was now working every afternoon at the barbershop, so after I had fed and put Shally to bed around seven, I had a little time to study before he made it home. This would be the only time we could spend together, and it was important to both of us. It was difficult to maintain our schedule, but we had goals, and what was happening in our lives was just a means to an end. We knew it was not to be forever. The professional (R.N.) nursing students were sometimes on the same nursing division where we, the vocational students, were. I found myself envious of those students who always got their pick of the teaching patients because they were going to be registered nurses. I suppose I was really angry because I knew that at that time I did not have the same opportunity to go to the professional nursing schools because my skin was black. But, at least I now knew what it was that I would become in this world. I now knew that what I was learning as a vocational nursing student was only the beginning for me. I realized that early in my clinical rotations. I would one day become a registered nurse, even though the way for me to do that was not yet clear. During the entire time of the clinical rotation, some discriminatory practices did not sit well with me. I had lived in the South all

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my life, but for the first time I saw unacceptable behavior among professionals, the educated people who were supposed to be the ones carrying the torch against prejudice and discrimination. I wondered how the hospital’s black employees tolerated the discrimination and demeaning attitudes. I found it difficult to run up to the third floor to the only Negro employee restroom to relieve my bladder. I was bothered when I saw pregnant black employees working in the nursery taking care of little white babies when they could not have their babies delivered there at this same hospital. I was extremely bothered when I saw a little black male patient with gastric problems housed in the same room as a adult double amputee with a tracheotomy. On this same ward was an older black female, dying of cancer, in the same room with a young black female who had a tonsillectomy. I was saddened and outraged by my experiences. I kept wondering how reasonable people could let this continue in a hospital. I was completing my final rotation on the pediatric ward one morning when, during the change-of-shift report, the head nurse stopped in the middle of a sentence, looked at me, and said, “Helen, Marjorie, you have got to see this little boy we have in the ward. He’s a little Indian boy, and he’s not red like I’ve always thought they were. He’s real dark like y’all.” I didn’t respond and neither did Marjorie, so she went on with the report. Another day during visiting hours, the head nurse was looking for me to run an errand. I was in a patient’s room when I heard her coming down the corridor calling my name. “Helen, Helen, I need you, Helen. Has anyone seen Helen?” This lady had always made it a real point to call all the black employees by their first names while being careful to refer to all others by Miss or Mister So-and-So. When I finally tired of her calling me, I stuck my head out of the room and answered, “Were you looking for me, Alma?” She turned as red as a beet, but she kept coming. “Will you please put that child down and go to the central supply and pick up a suction machine?” With that she turned to one of the white parents who was walking her child in the corridor. “Can’t get ’em to do nothing around

Fine-Tuning the Cause

here. And that one in there is just in training to be an L.V.N. She’s never gonna make it,” she said, shaking her head. A few minutes later, I found myself in the office of the director of nursing. “I understand you will be graduating soon, Helen,” the director said. “That’s right. I’ve learned quite a lot here, thanks to Mrs. Snively.” “Well, Mrs. Cain doesn’t feel you have the right attitude to be graduating.” “Attitude? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, ma’am.” “She said you embarrassed her by calling her by her first name in front of other students and parents. Is that right?” “That’s right, ma’am. Did she tell you that she also called me by my first name in front of those same students and parents?” “She is the head nurse of that ward, young lady, and she is due some respect from people who work there. She is the ranking nurse on that ward, you know.” “I agree with you, ma’am. But she is also a role model and should set an example for all the staff working on that floor. I think what she did was rude and also improper. Being a head nurse, she should know better, don’t you think?” “I really wish you wouldn’t do that again, Helen. It could get you in a lot of trouble here at the hospital and also with the vocational nursing program.” “In trouble? What kind of trouble, ma’am?” “The kind that could get you kicked out of this training program, young lady.” “Well, if you and Mrs. Cain follow that path, please be advised that I will not sit by and let that happen when I’ve done nothing to deserve it. Calling the head nurse by her name is not a crime, is it? If so, will you please show me in the handbook where it says a student can be discharged for that?” I watched the director’s eyes widen in disbelief that this young black girl had challenged her to prove it. “Just what do you mean, missy?” “I mean exactly what I said, ma’am. I haven’t done anything that

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should get me kicked out of school, and if I’m forced out, then I’m afraid I won’t go quietly and you can count on that.” “You have a smart mouth, Helen . . . I mean Mrs. Green. That alone is going to get you in a heap of trouble. You may leave, Mrs. Green.” “Thank you, ma’am,” I answered, looking deep into the woman’s eyes before I turned and walked out of her office. I reported the incident to Mrs. Snively, who, after reprimanding me for not coming to her immediately, went to the director’s office. When she came back, she said to me, “You caused quite a stir with this woman, but don’t worry, she’s not going to kick you out. I reminded her of the trouble she would be in if she did that. But, I do want you to be careful and stay out of Alma Cain’s way. She’s on a witch hunt, you know.” “I actually did not cause the stir, Mrs. Snively.” “I know you didn’t.” I don’t know whatever happened about the incident. Nothing else was ever said to me, so I graduated three weeks later, in separate but equal facilities, in April 1958. I took a job at a large medical center about two weeks after graduation. I was anxious about my new career and was relieved when the one-week orientation was over. Now I could be about the work for which I had been so meticulously trained. My first rotation was on a large medical floor. I reported and received my assignment, collected all the equipment I would need, and started my first clinical assignment as a nurse. I felt very proud in my crisp white uniform and white nursing cap with the L.V.N emblem on the right corner and the nice shiny graduation pin above my name bar. When I entered my first room, I was not prepared for what happened. The frail, little seventy-year-old female patient screamed, “Get out of here! I don’t want no nigra girl touching me, get out.” I placed the linens carefully on the armchair near the woman’s bed and said to her, “I’ve been assigned to take care of you this morning, Miss Wheeler, but if you prefer to have someone else take care of you, then please use the call button and tell the head nurse.”

Fine-Tuning the Cause

“I surely will tell her. You stand over there. Don’t you be breathing on me!” the woman screamed. Eventually the woman had to let me take care of her that morning, but she kept mumbling all the time I was making her bed, “I don’t know what this world is coming to. Now I’ve got to let darkies in my room even when I don’t want them here. They’re popping up everywhere among decent people. This never would have happened back home in Alabama. Nosiree! Never, never would have happened.” I chuckle now as I recall that incident, but it was not funny at the time. I had so hoped that this place would be different, but the beginning had not been very good. This incident convinced me that although much was being done to improve civil rights in this country, neither the government nor marches and sit-ins would change the human heart. This would be an individual, internal process. On one occasion when I was working the second shift, a middleaged doctor entered the nurses’ station and asked for the charge nurse. “She’s at dinner right now, sir. Can I help you?” “No, you certainly cannot. I want a nurse. Get out there and see if you can find the nurse. I’m in a hurry.” “She’s at the canteen, sir, but she will be back in about fifteen minutes. Is there anything I could help you with?” “What did you say, girl?” the doctor asked, his angry blue eyes piercing mine. “Did I hear you say you were not going to do as I asked?” “What you heard was that I have patients to care for, and if you don’t have time to wait for the charge nurse to return, I suggest that you go and get her yourself . . . sir!” “What is your name, girl?” He stared at my name badge. “Sir, I hope you see that my name is Mrs. Green, which seems to separate me from the general category of little girls, wouldn’t you think?” He left the ward in a huff and did not return that evening as far as I knew. I hated having to fight these battles over and over again. As part of the orientation period, new clinical employees rotated

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for one month on each service. One day when I was working the morning shift on the general surgery ward, one of the young resident doctors asked me to assist him with a dressing change. The young doctors were, in general, much easier to work with and appeared not to have formed as many negative attitudes as the more established physicians. So when the resident docs were around, things usually went well with employees of color. The patient was a black male, about fifty and semi-conscious. I pushed the dressing cart behind the doctor as we walked into the room. The emaciated man’s small frame looked like a black dot between the white sheets. This young doctor didn’t bother asking the man how he felt; rather, he threw back the linens and exposed the man’s genitals. When he saw the patient’s private parts were exposed, he looked up at me with a devilish grin on his face. I didn’t smile but walked closer to the bed and covered the man’s privates with the linens. The doctor looked up at me again as I prepared a new dressing for the abdominal wound. “Not much to him . . . down there, is it? Not even worth looking at, huh?” My face was hot with anger at this professional person treating this patient, a veteran, that way and me as a woman and as a member of the health-care team. I was quiet. “Hell, I thought your men had enough down there to give a horse a run for his money. This guy here couldn’t fill up a doughnut hole. Look at him . . . he’s . . . “I don’t make a habit of gazing at people’s genitals, not even black people’s. But if you want to look at this man, in that way, then I will leave and give you the privacy to have a great time looking . . . alone.” The look on the doctor’s face more than paid the price for the insults he had handed me and this innocent patient. I needed no further satisfaction. What gave him the right to think I would approve of his racist comments? I was so tired of the insults, the sexual innuendoes, the racist mindset, and the nerve of some people who thought they could do and say anything to people of color. I realized that I lived in a country that permitted such cruel and disrespectful actions and words to people they considered inferior.

Fine-Tuning the Cause

I knew that, yet I hated every single time it happened. I would never accept it. Even in 1958, the behavior of the young, misguided doctor was not typical of the majority of the white doctors and nurses with whom I worked. Most were caring and inclusive, but those who stuck out sounded like a constant drum roll and seemed to infiltrate the hearts and minds of the others. I never understood why some of the white professionals would appear to be fair and socially accepting when alone with a black individual, but as soon as one of lesser hue would enter the room, their comments and behaviors simulated, to a lesser degree, the combatants. But I had started this journey in spite of the odds. I had a job to do. I had a race to run. I had a baton to deliver to the next generation . . . my way. I talked with Mother Dear frequently about the ordeals I faced on a daily basis. It was strange to hear Mother call my dilemma “progress.” She reminded me of how things were back in the 1930s and 1940s. “You know what, honey, when you were born, there was not even one hospital in our area that would accept us. Remember when I had my surgery when you were about eight years old? That was in 1945, and no general hospital would accept me. I had the surgery at the Taliaferro Clinic, the black-owned clinic where I was in the hallway for two days after my surgery because all eight rooms were full. So, yes, baby, we are still lagging far behind, but we’re inching up. You do your part, and leave the rest up to God. Honey, you are in a position to write your own ending . . . and you will.” And so, I continued on my journey.

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Nursing Graduating Class 1968

First Year of Nursing School 1965

Sed and Helen Shally

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CHAPTER NINE

Pain and Deception   in my mind had stopped rolling, allowing me to return to the present in 1965. I found myself in an exhausted heap on the floor with the telephone on my lap. I wasn’t sure what all the remembering meant, but I hoped that it was God’s way of showing me my strength. I had overcome a lot of obstacles in my short life, and this one would be my greatest yet. I hoped that it didn’t mean that I was headed for emotional trauma from which I would not recover. I knew I had to climb this mountain, no matter what. The signing of the Civil Rights Act on July 2, 1964, had prompted many changes in our country, and I suspected it was responsible for the desegregation of the Methodist Hospital School of Nursing. All over the country, signs that had embraced segregation were coming down, one at a time. I wanted so badly to be a registered nurse, for myself first, for Mother who had never given up on me, and for a little girl who depended on me. This opportunity would mean another step closer to the dream Sed and I held. However, I had learned from Mother, a long time ago, that in order to accomplish anything, I first had to remember who was in charge and that God sometimes see situations differently than we do. Mother taught me to believe that there is a purpose for everything that happens, though we might not know what the purpose is at the time. I was thankful for this time, and I hoped I could live up to the purpose. Sederick now managed his own barbershop, and I wanted him to be the first to know the good news. Only he and Mother knew of the hell I had gone through trying to get into professional nursing

T

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schools all over the city. They alone knew of the tears, the humiliation, and the thirst within me that wouldn’t be quenched. Both of them would remember the first round of applications I sent to nursing schools early in 1958, shortly after I graduated from the vocational nursing program. I sent the applications to each nursing school in the city. The replies had come in one by one: We regret to say that we do not accept Colored women into our program. May we suggest Prairie View College where you may feel more at ease among your own people. . . . Your application for admission into our school of nursing was received, but we do not accept Negro women into our school for professional nurses. Perhaps, sometimes in the future we may be able to look into your request. . . . At this time our program is in the process of being revised. If you have not found a school of nursing in the next year or two, feel free to check with us again. . . . The pre-entrance exam will be offered in three weeks. Please complete the enclosed card and return it to this office accompanied by a $10.00 testing fee.

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Needless to say, I made the arrangements to take the test. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I was not going to pass it up for anything. Sed had said that we couldn’t afford for me to go to school, even if I were accepted. So my tank was running on faith, and I believed if I were ever able to get my foot into nursing school door, I would find a way. I had to believe that, for to believe otherwise would be disastrous for me. When I arrived at the hospital, I found myself among other hopefuls, including three other black young ladies. I was surprised to learn that all of them were university students whose grade point averages ranged from 3.0 to 4.0 on a four-point system. I was curious as to why they had come down to take the test since they were well into the preparation for their careers. I was informed that they

Pain and Deception

had been asked to come to check out the school of nursing that was religiously oriented and was known to take only one black student a year, even if all black students passed the test. “Our job is to take the test, and then the organization will request to see the test results if we are failed,” Janice, one of the girls, responded. “Then you don’t intend to go to this school even if you’re accepted?” I asked. “Oh, no. I’m in my last year of pre-med, Linda is in her third year of college at the ripe old age of nineteen, and little Miss Katherine over there running her mouth is in graduate school, working on her thesis in sociology.” I was impressed but confused. Why in the world would they put themselves through this torment with no intentions of following through? So I asked them. “Two years ago several students of color took this exam. All of them failed. One of those who failed had graduated from high school as valedictorian of a class of over three hundred in a mixedrace student body. She complained but to no avail and finally entered another school of nursing upstate. She has never given up on trying to find out if she really failed or what. So, she came to the organization and asked them to look into it for the benefit of other black people who may wish to go into professional nursing. They looked at the university’s records and selected the three of us to check out the entrance exam. So, here we are.” “What is the organization? What can they do about it anyway?” “I can’t tell you that, Helen, but it is one that you would recognize. You don’t have to worry, though, everything we do is for data collection only. We’re students providing a service, free of charge. Only our transportation is paid. We hope that we can have some impact on getting things changed for the good.” We exchanged telephone numbers for the purpose of notifying each other whenever we received our results. We had been told that we would be notified of our status within thirty days. I was so anxious that after about five weeks of waiting for the results, I decided to call the school to see how I had scored. Six different times, on six different days, I called, only to be

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informed each time that the director was not available. I made a special trip to the school, thinking if I dropped in, I might be able to get my foot in the door. The secretary informed me that the director was off campus and would not be back that day. When I asked if someone else could give me the results of my test, I was told that only the director could do that. I was informed that the test results could only go out in the mail, and that I would be notified by mail only. Regardless of what I said that day, nothing would convince them to give me the results. I would have to continue to wait. After six weeks, I gave up hope that I would ever hear from the school. My calls were never returned. As for the university students, two of them had received failure letters, but the other one never heard from the school. Neither did I. From that year on, I sent applications to every nursing school in the city at least once a year. Sometimes I received no reply at all, but when I did, they all began, “We regret to say . . .” I was not deterred. I would keep sending the applications until someone heard my voice, and finally someone did, seven years later.




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The telephone was ringing at the barbershop now, and when Sed answered, I was squealing and talking so fast he couldn’t understand one word I was saying. “Honey, honey. What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” Sed asked nervously. After I had given him the story of the telephone call, he said, “Well, I’ll be damned! I’ll just be damned! After a hundred years, they finally let you in. All I can say is, it’s about time. And, hey, congratulations, honey, you deserve it.” I guess by nightfall I had called Mother and just about everyone else I knew. They had all given their best wishes, and nearly all of them hastened to remind me of the volatile times we were living in—the sit-ins, the painful and controversial Vietnam War, the bitter and hateful things that were being done and said to people of color, and the slow emergence of painful change. It was all true, but

Pain and Deception

I could not give up on the opportunity that I had waited for so long. I had to take the chance. I had to. I guess I must have talked Sed and Shally into unconsciousness, so they went to bed. I did also, but when I heard Sederick snoring in the middle of one of my “I can’t believe it” statements, I got up, got myself a Coke, and sat at the kitchen table just savoring the good news and imagining what it was going to be like. Reality wasn’t far away though, and in the middle of my wonderful thoughts I was reminded of the hard times Sed and I had endured with our relationship over the past years. I couldn’t help but wonder if the stress of being a full-time nursing student and wife and mother would cause the old problems to emerge once again. I shook off the thoughts and attempted to replace them with the good, sweet thoughts of the day, but I couldn’t. It seemed the strange projector in my brain was set on auto and was once again rolling . . . in reverse.




In 1959, shortly after I started to work as an LVN, we purchased, on the GI bill, a little white frame track house on Lovingood Drive in the Highland Hills addition of Dallas. This was another step toward our goal, and it was one of the happiest times of our lives. It was our first house, and, as far as we were concerned, it was part of the American dream. A nice refreshing neighborhood for little Shally to grow up in was what we both wanted. The people in the neighborhood were young couples like us, raising families and looking for a piece of the good life. It was picture-perfect by anyone’s standards. Sed was then co-owner of a barber and beauty shop in South Dallas, on Second Avenue, and I was working rotating shifts at the hospital, more often three-to-eleven than any other shift. Since we only had one car, I would take Shally to school in the mornings, then Sed to work in another part of the city, then back home. I would have driven nearly thirty miles before nine o’clock in the morning, delivering my family to their locations. Sometimes I would spend my mornings cleaning or cooking, but other times I would visit with my friends in the neighborhood,

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watching soaps or playing Bid Whiz until it was time for me to go to work. To do so, I had to pick Sed up at the barbershop so he could take me to work, and then he would double back to our neighborhood and pick Shally up from school and keep her at the barbershop until he got off work about eight o’clock at night. With all the work we were doing, we were spending less and less time with each other. Problems began to arise. When I had wanted to buy a washing machine, Sed refused, vehemently. He couldn’t understand why I needed a washing machine when the laundromat was only a few blocks away. He had said I could go there to do the laundry like many of the young couples did in our neighborhood. So, we argued and argued about it. I knew in my heart that the washing-machine story was not enough to cause the war that had enveloped us. Something else had to be wrong. I had no idea of what it was. “You must think we’re rich or something,” Sed yelled. “I didn’t say anything about it when you bought that living room set, and when you bought the bedroom set, but I’m saying no to the washing machine. We just don’t need it.” “Why, Sed? When I get home at night from work, it’s too late for me to be up at that place, and, besides, I’m too tired. Anyway, Sed, I haven’t missed any payments on the furniture, have I? I’ll pay for the washing machine myself if I have to.” “That’s what I’m talking about. You think that little chicken feed you make at that hospital can buy everything, and now you think you wear the pants in this family. Well, you don’t. I’m the man of this house, and when I say we’re not going to get something, we’re not going to get it. Do you understand?” “No, I don’t understand. You are my husband, not my father, and don’t you forget that. I’m the woman of this house, and I say I need a washing machine . . . and I’m going to get one, with or without your help.” “Go on and try it. They’re not going to sell it to you without my signature, and I’m not signing for nothing.” “I’ll get the washing machine, Mr. Green, on my own signature.” Well, about a week later I got the washing machine, and Sed and 

Pain and Deception

I had a horrible, long, mudslinging, everything-goes fight that lasted for three solid days. We never hit each other physically, but what we said on those days was shameful. It upset Shally so much that she telephoned Aunt Vera and Mother about what was happening. I was embarrassed for them to know how we were behaving, but, even more than that, I realized how much we had scared little Shalimar. I was truly ashamed. Daddy had come back from Chicago in late 1954 and had questioned Sed’s motives even at that time. Now, Daddy was almost consumed with the relationship between Sed and me. He didn’t like Sed, and nothing Sed did or said could change his opinion. Now that Sed and I were having a hard time, Daddy’s criticisms were frequent and even more harsh than they had been in the beginning. According to Daddy, I was just a little girl, and Sed was too old for me to start with. He was five years older than I was and, according to Daddy, he had been in the military and had probably done all sorts of things. “I know men like him, and he can’t fool me, and he knows it! If I had been heah, I would have put a stop to that marriage. I sho’ would!” The fight finally subsided, and I kept the washing machine, but the wounds of that war were deep. No one really wins when so many are hurt. I was about twenty-one or twenty-two and couldn’t understand what was happening to the dream Sed and I had cherished. Where had it gone? Where were the promises we had made to each other? Sed now stayed out late after work, and most of the time he was late picking me up from the hospital at eleven at night. He was in punishment mode. He would show up at midnight or later with Shally asleep in the back seat. Sometimes on Saturday nights he would come home at two or three o’clock in the morning with alcohol on his breath. We would argue about that. We found ourselves arguing about nearly every single thing. Sed didn’t care much for my friends. He called them “Si-Ditty.” I didn’t care much for his buddies either and found fault with nearly all of them, but mostly with his twin brother, Frederick. This guy always seemed to be present, either in person or on the tele

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phone, whenever one of our “big ones” ensued. He tried over and over again to entice Sed to come Temple, Texas, where he was living. Though Sed didn’t go, it was evident that we were going downhill fast. We continued to fight, and Sed was later and later picking me up from work. I finally decided I was not going to put up with it anymore. One Friday evening, Shally and I boarded a Trailways bus to Tyler . . . to purchase me an automobile. After the washing machine incident, I didn’t even bother telling Sed why we were going to Tyler, except to see my parents. Not residing in Tyler, as well as being a woman, I needed someone to vouch that I would pay for the car, and Daddy agreed to do that. I bought a 1955 green Chevy, and, though I felt a little anxious about it, I was at the same time proud of myself. I drove the ninetyseven miles back to Dallas that Saturday night, with little Shalimar singing non-stop every mile of the way. I didn’t know what would happen, but I felt I had taken a necessary risk . . . and I did know it was a risk. When Sed got home that night, about midnight, I told him what I had done. He went out to the garage and looked the car over without saying a word. He didn’t eat his dinner that I had saved for him in the oven. He just looked at me with a sort of revulsion in his eyes, but he was silent. He took a shower and went to bed. I didn’t ask him where he’d been, and he didn’t ask me any more about the car. I was glad we didn’t fight that night, for I was too tired. But the silence continued for days. Finally we reached a point where we had to talk. There was no getting around it. We were aware of our problem, and we both knew we couldn’t go on that way. We were both suffering tremendously, and we each had a low tolerance for what the other said. Our statements to each other were always seen as flaming arrows, burning deeply once the target was hit. The aim was to hurt, and we did a lot of that. Somehow, we came up with the idea that we needed to move from the city and make a brand new start somewhere else. We couldn’t see the consequences of such a move, but we were determined to make it to save our marriage and family. How we had got-

Pain and Deception

ten to point where we were, I was not sure. But I was sure it all had to change pretty quickly. We thought of moving to San Diego, where Aunt Georgia lived, but finally settled on Denver, Colorado, where neither of us had relatives. We had spent our vacation in Denver a couple of years earlier. We had loved the place and decided if we were going to make it, it would be there. After all, it was God’s country. We thought we had finally found the answer with a new start in a new place. It had to be right. Mother and Aunt Vera tried all they could to talk us out of making this move that they believed we would regret. They warned that we were just running away and that our real problems would follow us. Their pleas fell upon deaf ears, for at last we were again focused together. Mother called several times to talk to both Sed and me, using all her negotiating skills in an attempt to help us settle what was wrong between us. If we were determined to go, then Mother wanted us to leave Shally with them until we were settled somewhere. She was disappointed when I would not do that. Daddy was sure that Sed was taking me that far away so he would not have to be accountable to anyone for my well being. There was chaos everywhere. Whatever my family said during that time was too little, too late. Our decision had been cast in concrete. We arrived in Denver that mid-August day in hopes of finding what we had lost back in Dallas. Shally, Sed, and I were excited about the change, though for different reasons. It had been a fun trip for Shally, but for Sed and me it was a means to an end. We were on a mission, a mission that would be a sort of purgatory for us, where we could once again find our way back on the solid track toward our dream. We were focused, and we were together. Sed had made arrangements for us to stay with a “homeboy,” a man he had grown up with in Gause, and his wife until we found our own place. Freddie was a parochial school teacher, and Marianne was an Ozzie-and-Harriett type housewife and mother of two. They were both educated and sophisticated, with Freddie being the friendlier of the two. Our children seemed to hit it off just fine right from the start. Marianne and I were socially polite, but it

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was difficult for both of us—for me, being in another woman’s house, and for her, having me there. That’s the way it was for about two weeks until Sed found a job. We were much better friends once Sed and I moved to our own place. I enrolled Shalimar in school and went about town looking for a job. I found that I could not receive reciprocity for my LVN license in Colorado until I took a test. While I waited to do that, I decided to try another type of job. This took me to the Mountain States Telephone Company, where I was interviewed, tested, and hired as an information telephone operator. The pay was very good, more than it would have been as a nurse, plus the benefits were good. That evening, I told Sed the good news, and he was happy but didn’t seem as enthusiastic as I had hoped. He had gotten a good job as a master barber at a shop most of the Denver Bronco football players frequented. The pay was good, and I thought he would be happy, but he seemed to be in deep thought. “You always seem to land on your feet, doncha’, babe? I guess you will own the whole telephone company inside of a year,” Sed said condescendingly. “Yeah, right.” I responded, not really knowing how to take his comments. Freddie and Marianne visited us regularly, and we became a pretty good foursome at Monopoly and cards. I had also met some of the girls at the telephone company and had an office friendship, but nothing really extended beyond the office. I was trying hard to adapt to a different culture in a different part of the country, so much unlike that in my hometown of Tyler and my adopted home of Dallas. It was difficult, but I kept trying. In spite of all my efforts to adapt, I had a deep gnawing in my gut for Mother, Aunt Vera, my friend Kay from Lovingood Drive, and my friend Hilda. I spent hours on the phone talking to them, wishing I could see them all. I was downright homesick. Sed was later and later coming home from his new job at the barbershop. At first, I really did enjoy it when he told me about the Denver Broncos football players’ haircuts and what the players were like. I truly loved football, especially the Dallas Cowboys, and 

Pain and Deception

I felt it was Sed’s way of keeping me involved with his work. But now, he was returning to his former behavior that initially brought us to this place. He had said he was working late, and I believed that, but when there was no extra money at the end of the week, I began to wonder what was going on. I talked with Marianne about my fears. “Helen . . . Helen. Just because he’s coming home late doesn’t mean he’s fooling around. He may just need some time to establish some new friends. Maybe that’s all.” “I know, Marianne. But there are other things. I can’t put my finger on it, but my gut tells me something is happening. I just don’t know what.” “You know what, Helen, I think you’ve been spending too much time by yourself. You need to get out and do something. Tell you what . . . let’s have a night out tomorrow night. Just you and me. What about it?” “Oh, I don’t know, Mare. What if Sed comes home early and I’m not home?” “Leave him a note, girl. You can write, can’t you?” Marianne joked. “Okay, Mare, I’ll go, but I’m not sure this is right. I’ve never gone out anywhere without him since we’ve been married.” “It’ll be okay, Helen. Don’t worry so much. It makes your hair gray.” Marianne made arrangements for a babysitter for our children at her house. I delivered Shally, and we were off for a night on the town. When we arrived at the nightspot, the environment pleased me. I had never been inside a sophisticated nightclub like this before, and I was in awe of all the large potted greenery, the expensive aquarium, the nice plush sofas and coffee tables everywhere, the soft lights, and the live pianist and soloist. It looked like something from the movies. I was glad that Marianne had insisted that I wear my one really nice after-five dress, for most of the people there were in evening or business attire. I felt safe, and it looked as if we were going to have a good time. 

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We were escorted to a sofa and table near the center of the room, and we ordered two glasses of white wine. I had never been a drinker, so I told Marianne I was just going to sip and that she could have mine when she finished her own. “Sorry, lady, but you are going to drink it all by yourself. One’s my limit.” So we laughed and talked about everything that came to our minds—high school, our families, funny people we knew, and God knows what all. Then it all stopped when I looked up and saw Sed . . . with his arms around a woman’s waist. Marianne saw it too, and both of us sat there with our mouths hanging open. “Be cool, Helen. Don’t say anything . . . just be cool,” Marianne whispered trying not to move her lips. Sederick and his lady friend finished talking with another couple and started on their way to their table. It was then that he looked over and saw us. His already big eyes fixed themselves on us, and he dropped his arm from around the woman’s waist. He was paralyzed. He couldn’t move. I could see that his breathing was fast and shallow. He just stood there, about ten feet from where we were seated, just staring, and we were staring back. I stood up, and Sed approached me sporting one of his patented nervous grins. “Helen . . . I uh . . . We uh . . . Wh . . . What are you doing here?” “It seems that I should be the one asking that question, don’t you think? Introduce me to your friend?” “Helen, It’s . . It’s . . . not what you think. You see . . . ” “Please don’t add lying to everything else you’re doing, Mr. Green,” I said sarcastically. Then I approached the woman with a very pleasant smile on my face. “I’m Helen Green . . . Mrs. Sederick Green, that is . . . and you are?” The olive-toned, hippy woman began to back up, dropped her purse, and stooped over to pick it up. “What’s your name, honey?” I asked. “Darnell,” she said with quivering lips. “I didn’t know . . . I . . . I didn’t . . . .” “Look, he’s my husband. I don’t own him. If you want him, you can have him. Let’s go, Marianne.” We placed ten bucks on the table and left the place, headed for the parking lot, walking briskly but not saying a word. Then we

Pain and Deception

heard footsteps as we were getting into Marianne’s car. It was Sed, so I locked the door. He was banging on the car window and yelling, “Helen, baby, you’ve got it all wrong. Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.” I lowered the window a bit and spoke softly. It was important that I appear under control. “You go straight to hell, you bastard.” That night when Shally and I made it home from Marianne’s house, Sed was already there, sitting on the sofa with the newspaper in his hands, trying to appear as if nothing ever happened. I took Shalimar to her room and helped her get ready for bed, and I went to our room and went to bed, never uttering a word to Sed. The next day I called my friend Hilda, in Dallas, and cried my eyes out while she did everything she could to comfort me, but she could not. “Why don’t you just come home, Helen?” she asked. “Well, Shalimar’s in school, and I hate to pull her out right in the middle of the semester . . . but I will be coming home, Hilda, as soon as I can.” The entire week was a chilly, cold nightmare for Sed and me. I was beginning to believe I had made a big mistake marrying him. I thought I loved him, and I thought he loved me . . . once. Now I was beginning to believe this marriage was one of convenience for both of us. He needed a substitute for his twin brother, who had gotten married earlier, and I needed a way to see my future a little clearer. He had led me to believe he was the one who could make that real for me. Was this true? I don’t know, but that’s what I believed at the time. Little Shalimar didn’t really know what was going on, but she enjoyed her daddy taking her with him everywhere he went, and she was benefiting from her daddy’s “error in judgment.” He finally got around to teaching her how to roller-skate in the parking lot. She had been begging him to do that since we moved into the apartment. She enjoyed her daddy coming home earlier every night and going over her homework with her. I let her enjoy it, but I could see absolutely nothing he could do that would make up for what he had done. There was now a complete loss of trust and faith in the man who was to be my savior.

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East Texas Daughter

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On a Saturday morning, about a week following the incident, there was a knock on the front door. “Who is it?” I yelled from the top of the stairs. “It’s me, Hilda. Open up this door, girl. Get out of that bed and open this door right now,” she yelled, giggling. I was down the stairs in two seconds or less and had that door wide open. There she and a friend stood, grinning from ear to ear. We grabbed each other and jumped up and down, screaming and crying. I cannot put into words how glad I was to see that girl! She introduced me to her friend, and by this time Sed had come down the stairs, greeted them both, and went back up to get ready for work. Shally came down, and I prepared some breakfast for us all, and then Sed went off to work, and Shally went out to play. So we talked and talked. Kim, Hilda’s friend, was given an opportunity to speak every now and then, but it was mostly Hilda and me. “Well, I came for you if you want to go home,” she finally said. “I understand why you feel you need to stay, but you’ve got to know you don’t have to put up with that crap any longer. You’ve got friends who care about you. Just come home with us now.” “Thanks, girl. It’s been pretty bad for us, but I can’t go home now. It would be too much of a disruption for Shalimar. But, I am coming home, as soon as the semester ends. I’ve had enough.” “Just remember, we’re all here for you. All you have to do is let us know.” It had been a wonderful day, and Hilda and Kim would be leaving the next morning since Hilda had to be back to work at the hospital on Monday afternoon. I couldn’t believe they had come all the way to Colorado for one day’s visit. “I had to come see about my friend. It’s okay. It was as much for me as it was for you. I will never forget how you helped me out when I was new to Dallas from the Virgin Islands and alone. This is the least that I could do.” “You’re a really good friend, Hilda. . . . I’m so very glad you came. Things will be a little easier now. I will be home in about six weeks.” “You gonna be all right?” “I’ll be all right.”

Pain and Deception

Things never got much better between Sed and me. We were polite to each other, and that was about it. He never explained the incident, and I never asked. I was tormented by the fact that I couldn’t trust my husband. Every time he left the house, I wondered who he would be with that night. I never asked. So I made arrangements to go home, back to Dallas to start over once again. About two weeks before I was to leave, I told Sed that I was going home and that I was going to sell my half of the second-hand furniture we had accumulated. “If you want to come, Sed, you can, but I will be leaving a week from Saturday.” “I’m not going. I have a good job, and I’m not going back to start all over.” “Okay, suit yourself. But Shalimar and I will be leaving.” About two or three days later, I had sold about half the furniture and was in a full relocation mindset. I had to get home. I was totally and completely miserable. Then, Sed woke me up when he came home. “I’ve been thinking. I may as well go back, but I’m not going to Tyler or Dallas. I’m going to Temple and help Fred with his upholstery business. I will probably go into business with him. His business is really picking up, and he could use the help.” “Suit yourself.” I was not going to get into an argument with Sed about his choice. What difference would it have made anyway? I knew I had better start thinking about how I was going to make it alone with Shalimar, but, first things first. I just wanted to get home.

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CHAPTER TEN

Prelude to the Future   Temple against my better judgment, on the advice of my mother who thought my place was at my husband’s side. It was good that school was out for the summer, because I was absolutely sure that Shally and I would not be in Temple for long. But Mother had insisted, and here we were, hating every single day of it. I remember our discussion before we left. “Mother, I can’t make this work by myself. I’ve been a good wife to this man. I don’t think he really wants a wife. He wants something, but I don’t believe it’s me.” “Can’t you see this is a troubled man, honey? He can’t compete with you. You keep getting farther and farther ahead, and he keeps lagging farther and farther behind. What you’re looking at is a man fighting for his manhood . . . in all the wrong ways. He just doesn’t know what else to do. Stick by him, honey. He’ll come around.” “But, Mother, I’m not his therapist, I’m his wife. There are some things I need too, like support from him. All I get from him is this testosterone rage and unbearable jealousy. Jesus, Mother! I’ve tried so hard, but it just seems that I’m the only one trying. Right now I’m just sick of it all.” “Just try a little harder, honey. What you don’t need to do right now is leave him alone with his feelings of inadequacy. He’s on a roller coaster right now just searching for something. He doesn’t know what he needs to do. You already know what you want to do, but he’s searching for something that will, at least, place him equal to you in his mind. That’s his real problem.”

I

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Prelude to the Future

“What do you think I ought to do, just take a back seat and pretend that I don’t feel this way? It seems to me he ought to at least be responsible for what he does.” “Now, you listen to me, Helen Genice Harris Green! I would be the most disappointed mother in the world if I thought you were pretending in your marriage. I’m only asking you to be a little more patient. He’s not really a bad guy. There are plenty worse men out there. You’ve got a little girl here who loves this man that you’re ready to give up on. I’m only asking you to give your marriage the best chance you can, and don’t forget to bring God into the picture. It’s going to be hard for you, honey, and you’ll need Him to get through this. You absolutely cannot do it alone.” So we all went to Temple, Texas—Sed, Shalimar, and I. Throughout the entire summer, I became more and more convinced that I had made yet another mistake, because things still weren’t any better between Sed and me. I knew some decisions had to be made about this relationship. I wanted to go back to Dallas, but I was confused and didn’t want to make any more mistakes. It was early September, and soon Shally would have to enroll in school. Since I was unsure of my next move, I decided to take her to Tyler to stay with Mother and Daddy until I could work out things. It was a difficult time for me, and I prayed for guidance. I also remembered the terrors of my childhood and Daddy’s “child-rearing” techniques and how Cleo and I had been treated. It had been nearly nine years since I had lived in my parents’ household, and now I was going to leave a child there. But things were different. Mama Harris had died, and Daddy seemed to have mellowed quite a bit. I can’t say whether he had come to see the “error of his ways” or whether the aging process had softened him, but he was now much more approachable and subdued, even with an inviting demeanor and attitude. He also seemed to appreciate and respect Mother more than I had seen during my childhood. He took walks with her, and they enjoyed talking to each other. What shone through clearly now was his budding yet undeniable kindness, tolerance, and sensitivity toward me and his grandchildren. So I left my eight-year-old baby with my parents, while I 

East Texas Daughter

returned to Temple to work on my relationship with Sed and formulate a plan for beginning again. The small white frame house we rented in Temple must have been built over gigantic anthills, because several times a day I had to clear away the ants to cook, to eat, to bathe, and even to sleep. The bug man’s spray did not work, even after the multiple applications. I found the little pests in the refrigerator, the washbasin, the commode, and even the bathtub. Just what I needed to complete my assessment of this place! While Temple was not responsible for the ant problem, the ant problem was in Temple. One morning as I was taking my usual boring walk to the grocery store, I met a lady who was leaving the store. She was just about to drop one of her three grocery bags. “Oh my goodness, let me help you,” I said as I rushed to help her capture the bag and redistribute the others. We struck up a conversation, and it was wonderful talking with someone who was pleasant and who seemed to share my interest in education. Lillian was about forty or forty-five years old and was a widow. She lived alone in a large, older house not too far from where we lived. I was happy when she invited me to her house that day. Lil worked part time as a nurse’s aide at Scott and White Hospital. So, we also had the health-care field in common. One afternoon, we were sitting in Lil’s living room watching the soaps, when she began to follow up on one of our previous conversations. “Helen, have you thought about trying to get into the nursing program at Scott and White anymore? I hear the program is a really good one, and since you’re going to be in town anyway, you may as well give it a shot.” “Just like that, huh? You know, I’m not sure I can handle one more rejection. I really do want to go to nursing school, but I’m just all out of tears right now.” “Feeling sorry for yourself, are you?” Lil asked sarcastically. “Yeah, I guess so. I sometimes wish this baton had been passed to someone else. I’m a married woman and a mother. I wonder why I was chosen to do this. I don’t want to do it anymore. I am just too tired to jump through the hoops yet again.” 

Prelude to the Future

“I know it’s been tough, girl, but you just can’t quit now. The hopes and dreams of a whole lot of little black girls depend on the choices you make and risks you take. You, Helen Green, have got what it takes. All of us don’t have that drive, guts, and perseverance that you have, and that’s what it’s going to take. Sure wish I had it, but, quite frankly, I’m getting too old. You’re young and smart and energetic. You’re the one to get everything started. I believe that with all my heart.” “Did you ever try to get into this nursing school yourself, Lil?” “I never made a serious effort. I talked about it but never acted on it.” “So, you really think I ought to try it, huh? Why me? Why not some younger, single person with no strings attached?” “I think that whoever breaks that line is gonna have to be someone like you, Helen. I don’t think you realize how blessed you are. You’re smart, you’re sophisticated, and you’re not in a racial rage. You can be cool under pressure, and that’s what it’s gonna take. Yes, I really think you ought to try it.” I got the name of the person I was to contact, and when Sed came home I told him about my new adventure or, rather, my continuing saga. He didn’t have too much to say, except to warn me that if I thought he was going to borrow money to pay for it, I was crazy. I called Mother and talked to her about it. As always, she was upbeat, but she had always been that way about just about anything I wanted to do. Her words of hope and encouragement were certainly welcome, but her wisdom was what I longed for more than anything else when I was facing a dilemma. I wasn’t sure I could trust my own thoughts anymore, and I wasn’t sure I had the stamina to face heartbreak once again. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Helen. I know you will make the right decision. If you are not permitted to enter that school, keep your dignity and integrity when you leave. Don’t permit them to lower your character. Do you hear me?” “I’ll do my best, Mother. Thank you for everything. I really love you.” After about a week, I made an appointment to meet with the 

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director of nursing at Scott and White, a Miss Cole. I was told that I would have an interview and would then be given a pre-entrance exam. I arrived at the hospital a little early and was directed by one of the black maintenance men to the office I sought. The building was old and bore the marks of its age. Arriving at the director’s office, I composed myself and walked confidently into the small, antiquated room. The secretary, dressed very neatly in a navy blue tailored suit, smiled warmly as I entered the room. “Could I help you, please?” she asked. “Yes, thank you. I’m Helen Green, and I have an appointment with Miss Cole this morning.” “Are you looking for a job, Helen?” The secretary asked curiously, for it seemed she was sure I was not there as a nursing school applicant. “Not really. You see, I’ve come to be interviewed, and to take the test for the nursing program.” The secretary rose from her seat and stared at me as if she had seen a ghost. She finally managed to ask me to have a seat while she informed the director that I was there. When I was seated, she turned and went into an open door that she closed behind her. I glanced about the room trying awfully hard not to think of what was being said in the other office . . . as if I didn’t really know. The ceiling of this little office was cracking beneath many layers of paint, and the only decor in the room was a picture of a group of nurses, whose uniforms graced their ankles, permitting their shiny black shoes to peek through. Engraved beneath the picture was a plaque that read, “Class of ’39.” I had to chuckle to myself when I thought of the trouble those girls must have had trying to scrub bedpans and clean floors with those long-sleeved uniforms. What a mess that must have been! After what seemed an eternity, the secretary came back into the office and informed me that she, the secretary, would administer the test to me. She guided me through a door just opposite the director’s office. A small wooden table and three student desks furnished the tiny room. The furniture looked as if it had been left over from the days of Florence Nightingale. The secretary handed

Prelude to the Future

me a mimeographed booklet and a pencil, told me that I had one hour to complete the exam, and instructed me to begin. She left the room and closed the door behind her. I carefully looked over the test and found the questions quite basic. As a matter of fact, the level of educational sophistication that had been present when I tested for LVN school was not present here. The only thing I could think of was that I was “home free.” I couldn’t believe a test such as this would be given for such an important profession that dealt daily with human lives. Then I thought that this was probably the first part of the test, and that I had better not count my eggs before they hatched. I went through the entire twenty pages of the test in about thirty minutes. I then went back and checked every one of my answers. I was satisfied with my work, so I closed the booklet and waited for the secretary to return. As I was waiting for the lady to return, I started feeling rather anxious. I kept wondering if this were all for naught. So, I opened the booklet again and went over the answers one more time. This time I notified the secretary that I had completed the test. “Do you mind if I get a Coke or something before I start the second part?” “There’s no need, Helen. This is the complete test. If you like, you can go and get some lunch or something. Miss Cole will have this graded in about an hour. So why don’t you come back around one o’clock.” “I sure will. Thank you.” I was too anxious to eat, so I just got a Coke from the soda machine in the lobby and walked around the hospital grounds, looking over what just might be my professional home, my alma mater. The main hospital building was situated in the center of several former private homes that had been converted into different patient units. I saw patients being carted from one of these converted homes to the main building for surgery or physical therapy or something. Around the corner from this complex was a brand new, one-story, flat-topped red brick building that housed all the black patients. I got sick to my stomach. They even physically separated the black patients from the main building and other

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East Texas Daughter

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patients, I thought as I took a gulp of the Coke. Nausea steamed heavily in the pit of my stomach, as I raised my eyes toward the skies and thought, How much longer, dear God? How much longer? When I arrived back at the director’s office, the secretary asked me to have a seat while she informed Miss Cole that I was there. In just a few moments a tall, thin figure appeared in the doorway of the office. Her graying hair was fixed behind in a perfect bun, and her long-sleeved, heavily starched white uniformed rattled angrily as she came closer to me. She stopped a short distance from my face and stared at me without saying a word, but she wore that all-too-familiar grin as part of the we-don’t-want-you-here syndrome. “I’m sorry, Helen, but you didn’t pass the test.” I was shocked. I was not prepared for this, and the expression on my face must have told the “big chief ” that I did not believe her. She continued her insults. “You colored girls really need to try another field, because you sure aren’t prepared for this one. Have you ever thought about being a schoolteacher? A lot of your people are teachers, and they seem content and proud. I bet you would make a fine one.” I was furious. The nerve of this woman! “Why didn’t you go into teaching, Miss Cole?” “Because I didn’t have to, and, besides, I was qualified to be a nurse.” “Really? Well, I’m going to be an RN, Miss Cole, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You see, I know what I did on that test, and I didn’t have to lie or cheat to do it. I had a great teacher. What I would like to know is just how do you sleep at night?” “Now, you listen to me . . .” “I don’t have to listen to any more of your lies and insults. Nothing you could ever say can extinguish my desire or crush my drive and motivation. I would like to thank you for your very unbiased and certainly professional and fair consideration. Your honesty, integrity, and dedication to the preservation of this school as an all-white Mecca has certainly been evident in your grading of the test I took. I’m sure that being a lady of the highest caliber

Prelude to the Future

played a strong part in directing your conscience as you graded my test with the utmost fairness. Now, good day, ladies, and may God have mercy on your pitiful souls.” I left the room calmly, smiling every step of the way. I managed to smile at the people I met as I headed toward my car. I was under control . . . on the outside. But the truth was, that incident had been a terrible blow to my self-esteem. It was not so much from what the director had said that day, but the culmination of it all. It was the fall of 1963, and the mess was the same as it had been in 1953, when I graduated from high school. Ten years, and it was still the same song, different verse. The difference now was that it was not politically correct to deny entrance exams to blacks anymore. Now making sure they failed was step two. I could feel the hope leave my body, replaced by hopelessness and despair. I had never felt this way so totally before; I was completely devastated by all the rejections. I’d seen this syndrome in others all my life. Pitiful scenes of street people and people in undeveloped countries had caused me heartache. Now I knew without fear of contradiction what it was like to be rejected over and over again. Here I was with my self-esteem at rock bottom and my hope completely gone. Was it time now to walk away and accept the reality of the situation? This time, too much had been lost. The sorrow I felt continued until I remembered my little girl and what awaited her in this big, cruel world. In my heart, then, I knew someone had to do this. Someone had to be the trailblazer. Someone was going to have to take the arrows in the back. Maybe it would have to be me—at least that is what I thought at the time. I prayed that there would never be a day when my little girl would be turned away while trying to pursue an education, or a job, or anything she wanted to do simply because of the color of her skin. These thoughts and memories reminded me that I would have to continue to battle for justice. For me, it seemed there was no other way. As strange as it may seem, I decided to take a job on the elevento-seven shift at the now-famous Scott and White Hospital where I had been denied entrance into the nursing school. Further, I enrolled in the Temple junior college in an attempt to hold tight to

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my dreams. I signed up for all the courses the nursing students were taking. Where that was going to take me, I didn’t know, but it felt like the right thing to do. The nursing students wondered why I was not in nursing school, and so did I. For some of them, it had not dawned on them that blacks were not permitted into the school . . . but all the black kids knew why I was not enrolled in the profession of my choice. Though this was a time of personal degradation and humiliation, it was also a turbulent time in American history as well. Governor George Wallace had personally blocked the Alabama school doors to prevent integration, and there was the nowrenowned march on Washington for civil rights for all America’s citizens. I identified with the Alabama children, and I listened intently to the words of Dr. Martin Luther King in his speech now known as the “I Have a Dream” speech. There was sort of a renewal of my spirit and commitment that day to continue the fight I had begun. In light of the bloodshed and racial tension all over the United States, my family was terribly concerned for my welfare. They knew the kind of fire that burned within me. They knew that I had very little fear, or they may have thought I was just too stupid to be afraid. I was too determined to be scared off. I had now committed myself to get this done, and if I had to stand alone . . . then I would stand alone. Mother and Daddy warned me to be careful. Sederick was ever vigilant and believed he was to be my protector if I were silly enough to keep this thing up. The Kennedy assassination in November 1963 seemed to bring everything to an abrupt halt. The college closed down for the day, and the flag was lowered to half-staff. Nearly all the kids were in shock to be living in a time when hate was so intense that another person could be killed simply because of what he believed. I had admired JFK and felt quite sure that many of the social problems would continue on the healing path as long as he occupied the White House. Now that Kennedy was dead, what would happen to the promise of America? What would happen to the people who had just begun to dream? Who in the White House would stand by the side of the Martin Luther Kings and all of those who placed

Prelude to the Future

their lives in harm’s way every single day? There was some talk of an all-out American race war; then there was talk about a return to the days when slavery was the norm in the South. People everywhere in America prepared themselves for battle, if not physical then through commitment to the cause of racial justice. Within three months after our move to Temple, Sederick was offered an opportunity to purchase his own barbershop back in Dallas. He took the offer, and by December ’63 we were back in Dallas. Thank God! We had been fortunate enough to lease, with the option to buy, a very well built, fifteen-year-old home in the Brentwood addition of Oak Cliff. It was close to Sed’s barbershop and not too far from the school that Shally would attend. It was a cute little three-bedroom house with beautiful hardwood floors and spacious kitchen cabinets. The bathroom was charming with real ceramic tile and spacious cabinets. This house was available to us because of “white flight.” Only three or four white families remained in the Brentwood neighborhood. Nevertheless, we were excited and blessed to have found such a deal. We had been given another chance.




The projector in my mind was rolling slower and slower until it came to a complete halt. I found myself weary from the news of the day and the memories that tormented me so. The Coke on the table in front of me was flat and tepid, and my head ached. I wondered again what it was that had made me recall all those unpleasant memories? Mother had always taught me to listen to my head, and I wondered if this was God’s way of reminding me that the struggles I had already endured had rendered me capable . . . and worthy. I looked at my watch; it was 1:30 in the morning. I undressed and went to bed. I can’t remember what time I finally got to sleep, for sleep wouldn’t come easily for me that night.


It had been six weeks since that awesome call from the school informing me of my acceptance, and I was doing all I could to raise

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the money that would get me through the first semester. I began volunteering for overtime at the hospital and extra shifts at times when Sed or Aunt Vera could keep Shalimar. I worked my fingers to the bone, but there was never enough money left to save for school. Mother had sent fifty dollars to help pay my tuition and twenty-five dollars to help with Shally’s school clothes, but I still didn’t have enough saved to pay for my first semester, which was a requirement. When the date of registration was one week away, I had only been able to save $190 of the $357 dollars I needed. One week away from the start of the first semester. I had never been this close to my dream, and now I felt even further away than I had ever been. I really felt defeated by my own negligence. Why hadn’t I had enough faith to believe that I would get into that school and started saving earlier? I had always been proactive—why had I failed this time? Why? I began trying to rationalize my situation away. Maybe this was the wrong thing to do anyway, being a wife and mother. It would probably be too difficult, and I would have to drop out anyway. Maybe my not being able to earn enough money would save me from some embarrassing and painful situations that I might not be able to handle. Maybe this was just not my time. Whatever the case, I felt beaten, and I had to face these facts, as hard as they were. I just didn’t know what else to do. I was exhausted and disenchanted, brokenhearted and saddened that I might have to close the door on my dream, at least for a while. I was hurting badly, and there was nothing else I could do. “Maybe if I continue to work overtime and all, I’ll be able to go next year,” I told my next-door neighbor, Alma Ree, over a cup of coffee that Friday morning. “After all, I’ve made the first giant step. I did get accepted. I guess a year’s delay won’t kill me.” “Don’t be too sad about it, Helen. The time isn’t up yet. You still have two more days after today. Maybe you can talk to them about a scholarship or something, or maybe if you tell them straight up how the situation is, they might let you pay them out as you go. Good people will understand. Just try it.” “Oh, I hate to go in there begging, Alma. When I walk through

Prelude to the Future

those doors, I want to do it under my own power, with my own money. Don’t you see what I mean, Alma? I can see it all now, ‘Methodist Hospital’s First Black Student Asks School For Loan To Get Started.’ I don’t think I could stand that. I have to be on equal footing with the other students. I don’t want their pity, only their acceptance.” “You know what, Helen? I hear you talking, but I can’t believe this is the girl I know who has crusaded for acceptance for . . . How long has it been . . . six years? And now I hear someone in this room talking about not taking the opportunity that’s been offered to her because of her pride. I can’t believe you, girl. Do you really believe that not one of the white students will have to get a loan? Please, girl, don’t give me that,” Alma said in her soft-spoken tone. “What do you want me to do, ask those people to let me go to the school free? ‘Please, Miss Nurse, I’m black and don’t have all the money, and I’m trying to do something to help my people come up in the world. Please let me go on credit.’ Is that what you think I should do? Really, Alma, is that what you think?” “C’mon, you know I’m only trying to help. You have a chance to make it, girl. Anything could happen between now and next year, and you’d be right back where you started six years ago. Is that what you want? If it is, then quit talking to me about what you want, if you’re not willing to suffer a little bit for it. Think, girl. How many of us have ever had this chance? One? Two? A handful? How many?” Then the most bizarre thing happened right in the middle of Alma’s lecture. The telephone rang. I answered it and found it was the registrar from the nursing school. She had called to see if I were still planning to enroll, because they hadn’t heard from me since the first call. Today was Friday, and she wanted me to know that registration and freshman orientation would occur on Monday of the next week. “Mrs. Green, we’re looking forward to seeing you on Monday.” “I’ll be there.” I’d said it. I had actually said that I would be there for registration on Monday. When I hung up the phone I looked at Alma and said, “I just told the registrar from the school of nursing I would be

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there on Monday. Can you believe I said that? I must be out of my ever-loving mind. God! What is wrong with me? What was I thinking?” “Knowing you, Helen, you’ll make it somehow. I just know you will. You’re a survivor and a Taurus at that. Now, that’s an unbeatable combination.” I knew that our bank account was exhausted, and I had already tried every possible source I knew to borrow the money. God knows I had worked my butt off trying to save the money. I was disappointed and hurt that Sed had not tried to help more. He had stuck to his story each time I had asked him. “Guess you’re just going to wait until next year, honey. You know as well as I do that we don’t have the money, and I’m not going to try to borrow any money. We’re stretched too thin as it is.” “But, Sed, I don’t really need that much. Only $147 more. Couldn’t you see if you could help me get that much?” “Forget it, Helen. We can’t afford it, and I’m not going into any more debt. Like I said, we’ve got our hands full right now. It’s not like this is some kind of an emergency.” “This is an emergency. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see what it all means?” “Forget it. I’m not going to do it, Helen. Don’t talk to me about it anymore.” But I couldn’t forget it. I kept trying to find a way, but no way would come. Oh, God, what could I do? I thought as I buried my face in my hands. Then the thought occurred to me to pray. Maybe, somehow, a miracle would happen. I had nothing to lose, so I fell on my knees and prayed. “God, if it is your will, please make it possible for me to start this school on Monday. I’ve worked so hard for such a long time, but I know you already know that. This is a selfish request, I know, but you alone know that I have waited such a long time for this opportunity. If it is not your will, please make me strong enough to accept your decision without question. Amen.” I believe God knew that I was really saying, “God, please fix this situation so that I can go to this school this year or I will surely lose my mind.” 

Prelude to the Future

About half an hour later, the idea came to me to call my pastor. Maybe he would know someone who would be willing to make me a loan, or maybe the church would be able to help. When I reached him, I emptied the whole story out to him in one swoop. “I must say you do have a problem. Have you prayed about it?” Reuben asked in his usual, calm, cool manner. “Oh, yes, I’ve prayed, and right now I sure could use some words of encouragement,” I answered, hoping he would say that the church would help. When we were nearing the end of our conversation, the pastor mentioned the name of Orville Mitchell, a wealthy, white, Christian man whom I had casually met at a church banquet . . . once. “Why don’t you give him a call? I know if he can help you, he will.” “But I hardly know the man, and I doubt that he remembers me at all.” “Just call him. I believe he’ll remember you. And may I suggest that you say a word of prayer before making the call? I’ll join you in prayer, right here, right now.” I dialed the number I had gotten through the information operator, all the time hating having to ask this man I hardly even knew for money. What in the world would this man think of me? I thought as I dialed the last number. Help me get through this, dear God, please. When the operator or secretary answered, I asked if I could set up an appointment to talk with Mr. Mitchell, today, if possible. I informed the lady that my business was most urgent. She responded, “Please hold.” Then, after a brief pause the voice on the other end said, “Mitchell here. How could I help you, Mrs. Green?” I thought I would die. The most I had hoped for was to set up and appointment with him for later today, and here he was on the phone. Oh, my God! I tried to collect myself. “Mr. Mitchell, you probably don’t know me, but I met you once at the banquet, when Community Bible Church was visiting your church. I think you know my pastor, Reverend Connor.” “Oh, yes, I know him very well.” 

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The conversation went on with some small talk about the church, the pastor, and his wife, and some other members, even Sederick. Then in a more serious tone, Mr. Mitchell asked, “Now, just what is it I can do for you, Mrs. Green?” I got through it. I don’t know how, but I did. Now it was his turn to make a decision. “How do you plan to pay me back, Mrs. Green?” “Well, I plan to work on weekends and pay you back in monthly installments, if you will let me. I believe I will be able to do that, sir, if the payments are not too steep.” “Working is going to be plenty rough on you and your family while carrying a full school load. I had a niece go through nursing school, and I’m aware of how tough it is.” Well, that did it. He probably thinks I can’t do it. Why doesn’t he just tell me “No” and let me keep whatever dignity I have left. There would certainly be no hard feelings. “When will you find the time to work with all the studying you will have to do?” “On the weekends, sir. We don’t have classes on the weekends.” “But when will you ever have time to spend with your family if you’re going to spend every weekend working and every weekday going to school?” “Mr. Mitchell, I know it’s not going to be easy for me or my family, but I feel this is something I must do. I’ve been trying to do this for nearly seven years, and this is my first real opportunity to fulfill a dream.” There was a brief pause, and then Mr. Mitchell stated firmly, “Mrs. Green, I’ll be perfectly frank with you. I don’t think you’ll be able to go to school, work, and take care of a family all at the same time. This is a challenging career you’re talking about, and it requires a lot of time. So, I just can’t loan you the money under those conditions, but do allow me to donate the money to your cause and your convictions.” I nearly fell face down on the floor. I don’t know how long it was before I was able to speak again, but, when I did, all I could say was, “Thank you so very much, Mr. Mitchell. You will not be sorry for what you have done.”

Prelude to the Future

“You know, I believe you’re right. I believe you will make it. You’ll be fine.” We made arrangements for me to pick up the check Saturday morning. When I hung up the telephone, the tears met endlessly under my chin. I thanked God for this gift. Now I was finally able to begin.

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Receiving Diploma 1968

Shally (age 9)

Instructing Students, Methodist Hospital System, 1971

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Beginning   arrived, and I was about to make my debut into the Methodist Hospital School of Nursing. This was a three-year school of professional nursing and was considered among the top schools in the nation. The classification of nursing students was: first year, freshman; second year, junior; and the final year, senior. To say that I was excited was too much of an understatement. I was happy, and scared, and relieved, and proud to be making my start toward the one thing that had never left my mind for six whole years. So many memories continued to try to penetrate my mind, but I refused to permit anything an opportunity to ruin this day for me. Mother called early that morning to wish me well on my first day. After all, she was my mentor and my best friend. From the beginning, she had believed it could be done, when even I had doubts about my stamina and my ability to make it all the way through. She never doubted me, not even once. Sed hung around a little longer this morning than he usually did. “Want me to drive you over there?” “Oh, no. I’ll be fine, honey.” “Well, good luck, honey. Be careful.” He gave me a kiss, and he was gone. I dressed with special care that morning, for it was also the morning my little girl was starting in the fifth grade and I wanted to take her to school to meet her new teacher. When that was done, I came back by home and took another look at myself, wanting to make a good first impression. I felt confident, so I left the house on

M

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this long journey to reach the next step toward my dreams—only fifteen minutes away. The orientation registration desk was located just inside the double glass doors that opened into the living room of a dormitory. Each step I took to reach the doors seemed to represent more uncertainty than the last one. For the first time, I realized just how scared I really was . . . not so much of bodily harm, but of the mental anguish I believed awaited me beyond those doors. When I finally opened the doors, a very tiny and attractive lady extended her hand to me and with a big smile and an obvious deep southern drawl she spoke. “You must be Helen Green.” “Yes, I am,” I responded, smiling and hoping she could not see the bundle of nerves that I was trying to keep under control. “We’ve been so looking forward to your coming. I’m Mrs. Blassingame, one of the freshman instructors. We’re very happy to have you with us this year.” “Thank you. I assure you that I’m very happy to be here,” I said with more confidence than I felt. She issued me a name badge and the schedule of activities for the week and then directed me toward the center of the room where several of the new students had gathered. Not a single black in the group, I thought, as I walked slowly but confidently toward the group. Just then, a short, thin dark-headed girl moved back on one of the sofas to make room for me. “Wanna sit here with us?” Thus the beginning. The entire week was filled with funny skits performed by upperclassmen and all sorts of entertainment and parties. Saran wrap was put over the toilet seats and the door knobs to the toilets rubbed down with K-Y jelly as sort of a hazing of the freshmen. At one of the parties, the freshmen were served fruit from a bedpan and the punch came from a urinal. Little did we know that the punch contained methaline blue, which turns your urine blue. The next day while having our physicals, we found out all about it when giving a urine specimen. Each new freshman’s urine was sky blue. It was quite a scare for some of the girls, but all the panic 

The Beginning

subsided when we heard the chuckles from the senior nurses and the doctors in the clinic. We then knew it was a prank. The upperclassmen finally told us how it happened that all the freshmen had blue urine. We were also assured later that both the bedpan we ate fruit from and the urinals were brand new. It was a fun week. I was amazed that most of the freshmen were friendly and appeared to have accepted me at face value. However, by mid-week, I was beginning to have some doubts about one or two of the students. But that was okay with me. I was in school, and I was going to make those seven years of waiting worthwhile. Nothing was going to get in the way of my dream. I wouldn’t let it, that’s all. There were very few events in my life to which I could compare that week, except Shally’s birth and the phone call of acceptance into the school. Day after day, I found Shally waiting for me with questions she must have been saving since she got up that morning. I never knew one little eleven-year-old could think up so many piercing questions. Of course, I didn’t really mind, because it gave us time together, something that was becoming more and more rare and more and more precious. She liked her teacher and informed me that she had told her teacher that her mother was going back to school too. Her teacher had told her that it was going to be tough for me, her mother, and that she could help by being a good girl and doing well in school. “Will that really help you, Mama, if I’m good and make good grades and stuff?” “That would help me feel good even if I weren’t in school, but I know I’m not going have to worry about that. I know my little girl, and you’ve always done well in school. I just want you to keep it up. That’s what I really want, sweetheart. Okay?” “I’ll try to make all As. Okay, Mama?” “I would like that very much, but more than anything I just want you to do the best that you can. That would please me and your daddy more than anything.” I had learned from some of the new freshmen who lived in the dormitory that it was traditional for a sort of sorority bonding to 

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take place between the upperclassmen and the freshmen nursing students. Customarily, each upperclassman would select one of the freshmen for her “little sister.” Actually, the sister part of this phrase had been dropped and one was simply referred to as another’s “little.” This meant that a freshman’s “big” was somewhat responsible for taking care of her in terms of keeping her informed, giving her the rap sheet on the hard instructors, what the classes consisted of, and what and whom to avoid. The biggest thing, I think, was if you were lucky enough to get through the first year, you would wear your big’s nursing cap during the capping ceremony. This was a big deal. I had not been selected by the last day of the special orientation, and I was sure that I probably would not be. I certainly was not going to let that bother me, for my goal was somewhat different than any goals of the other girls. None of them had a clue of how it had come to pass that I was in that school with them. They didn’t know and there was really no reason for them to know. They could never believe it or understand it, and nowhere in their lives could they have experienced what I had. About noon on Friday of the first week, a blonde junior student approached me in the living room of the dorm. “Helen, do you have a big yet?” she asked, smiling. “No . . . no . . . I don’t think I do . . . not yet anyway,” I answered, trying not to seem too concerned about it. “Then, would you be my little?” “Great,” I answered, abandoning my cool. “I hope you know that I’m old enough to be your mother,” I remarked. “I doubt that very much. I’ve been strutting my stuff on this earth a long time. Do you mind if I ask how old you are, really?” “No, not at all. I’m twenty-eight, and right now I feel every bit of it.” “Twenty-eight! I don’t believe it. I knew you were married and had a child, but I had no idea that you were twenty-eight. You could pass for eighteen or nineteen any day of the week. What’s your secret? I’m twenty-four, and you look much younger than I do. By the way, my name is Susan Gilbert.” “Hi, Susan,” I said, as we both laughed.

The Beginning

On the following Monday, we began our classes at Southern Methodist University. Here I was to be challenged by unsavory and evil monsters other than racial discrimination: chemistry, anatomy and physiology, and microbiology. I had purposely avoided chemistry in high school because I did not feel confident about my math background, and now I was being faced with this monster at the college level in the nursing program. I wasn’t so worried about the other sciences, but I was nearly scared to death that I might fail chemistry. The very word “fail” made me tremble all over. The first week of classes was a nightmare. Full professors on SMU’s campus taught all the science courses, and registered nurses taught the nursing courses on the hospital campus. Day after day I wondered if I would ever absorb all the information that was trying to weave itself into my brain. I found myself envying the girls who lived in the dormitory for being able to get together in the evenings and compare study notes and help each other. Of course, there was a dormitory room assigned to the married students, which included two other girls and me, but usually we found ourselves having to get home after the last class of the day. Occasionally, we could stay a little later at night before tests or something, but generally we studied between classes as best we could. Susan, my big, had not done too well in chemistry during her freshman year, but she passed down all her notes for me to review anyway. At home I would study until the wee hours of the morning, memorizing formulas, practicing my math, and reviewing basic chemistry from a book I had purchased from the bookstore. I was struggling, but I was hanging in there with all the strength I had. Sometimes when I had to stay late at the nursing school library, I felt guilty about being away from home so long. I would then call home to try to relieve myself of some of my escalating guilt. “Hi, Mama. You still studying? Will you be home in a little while?” “It won’t be too long, baby. How was school today?” “It was fine, Mama. I made a hundred on my math today.” “That’s great, baby. Did you have any percentages on your test?”

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East Texas Daughter

“We had two questions, and I got them both right.” “Did you show your test paper to Daddy?” “Yes, Mama. He said for me to leave it on your pillow in case you got home late.” “I’ll be home soon, honey, and I’ll look at it then. Congratulations, sweetheart. “ “Thanks, Mama. Daddy and I cooked dinner, and we left yours in the oven. Wanna talk with Daddy?” “Yes, let me talk with Daddy . . . and thank you for helping Daddy with dinner.” I dreaded having to talk with Sed, because he always had a way of making me feel even guiltier for not being home. “It’s getting pretty late, and you know that old car isn’t running too well. How much longer do we need to wait up for you? Shally needs to go to bed, you know, but she wants to wait up for you.” “I’ll be leaving here in about an hour. I’ll call you when I’m on my way.” At moments like these I wondered if my dream were costing me more than I could continue paying. The homework was omnipresent—so much to do and never enough time. My nights were short, and even those few hours were tainted with feelings of guilt concerning my family and the time I needed for my schoolwork. The weekends were welcome, always. I tried very hard to work out a schedule so that I could spend some quality time with my family and also get prepared for the school week yet to come. One of our favorite things to do together was to go to a restaurant or cafeteria after church on Sundays. Sed could always detect when I had something on my mind, and, more often than not, he knew I was worrying about the ton of homework that would take me the rest of the weekend to do. He would look at me in disgust that I would dare think about other things while we were trying to have family time. “Got a lot of studying to do, huh?” “Yep . . . but I think I can get it done.” “Gonna stay up all night again? Something has got to give, 

The Beginning

Helen. You are putting too much stress on yourself. You are going to pass everything, you know that.” “I don’t know that, Sederick. I only know that I’m studying as hard as I can and trying to keep my family from falling apart. I wish I could get a little understanding from you. Anyway, I don’t just want to pass, I want to do well. You know how I am. I don’t do anything half-stepping. I just need a little more understanding from you.” “I’m trying to help you, Helen. But I get so tired of you being so stressed out all the time. Sometimes I think it might be better if you just quit that school. You still will have your LVN. We really don’t need this school stress and tension anyway.” “Are you out of your mind? You know how much this means to me. How could you even think that? It is out of the question. Quite out of the question. I’m tired of running every time we run into some tough times. No, sir. I am not going to quit.” How was one to keep a family together while flirting with the complexities of science, of different cultures, and of one’s own strong desires to succeed? I loved my family very much, yet it seemed it was not enough for me just to love them. I was pulled from every direction, and sometimes I just didn’t know which way to turn. Sed was not helping me cope, and sometimes it felt as if he were deliberately trying to sabotage the things I was doing. I was blaming him, but at the same time, I knew I was not guiltless. In the dormitory room, I was sitting alone studying one afternoon between classes when one of my married classmates, Linda, entered the room and dropped her load of books on the dresser. “Hi, Helen, What’s up?” “Not much. Come into my parlor.” “Say, Helen, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. I sure hope you don’t get mad,” she said as she plopped down on the other bed. Well, here it comes. How well I knew those kinds of phrases with the addition of “I hope you don’t get mad.” “What is it, Linda?” “My husband works for the city, and he’s the supervisor over 

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some colored boys down there. He says the married ones are always bragging about their other women and how they beat up their wives all the time. I was just wondering if that was true. Do all colored boys beat up their wives and play around?” She kicked off her shoes and propped her feet up on the pillow and turned to watch my reaction to her stupid question . . . but I really don’t think she thought it was stupid. “I’ll tell you, Linda, it has been my experience to find that most black boys aren’t married, and if they are, I can’t imagine some little kid trying to beat up anybody,” I answered calmly and as sarcastically as I possibly could. “These boys are really about my husband’s age, and . . . ” “Well, then, they aren’t exactly boys, are they? Unless, of course, you married a minor. Did you?” Her face was as red as a beet. I was happy that my skin color did not reveal the effects of the adrenaline pumping fiercely through my veins, as did hers, but nothing would conceal my strong heartbeat. But Linda had not had enough and started up again. “My husband said those fellows sometimes get drunk and rat off on the job. Jeff said he really likes them, though, ’cause they’re always saying some funny things.” She laughed. “Like what?” “Like one time this colored boy’s wife came down on the job to pick up his check ’cause he’d spend it all on booze before he got home. When he saw her coming, he told my husband, “She ain’t gittin’ one cent outa me this week. She got a job just like I have.” “And that was funny?” “Yeah. You oughta hear my husband tell it. It loses a little something in the translation. He’d be walking and talking just like Joe. Jeff said Joe cursed his wife just like she was a man. Would you stay with someone who treated you liked that?” “Frankly, Linda, I don’t think it’s any of your business about what I would or would not do in my personal life. But let me tell you something, girl. You seem to be trying to amuse yourself by presenting to me, a black woman, some example of your version of stereotypical black male behavior that’s so often portrayed by

The Beginning

trashy people like you. I resent that. If you had the least bit of couth, you never would have made such a ridiculous statement.” I was angry that this girl, the least intelligent of all the girls I had met at this school, had the gall to ask me about something so stupid. Yet, there she sat facing me, with that grin on her face. She reached into her purse, took out a cigarette, and lit it. Then she turned to me once again. “Tell me about ’em.” “About what?” “About colored folks. My people told me to avoid them as much as I could if I wanted to amount to anything, but I see you’re different from what I’d been told.” “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Linda. How am I so different? But before you answer that, tell me, how many black people do you know?” “I admit not very many.” “How many?” “Okay. None, all right. But my husband knows a lot of them.” “Yeah, well, judging from what you said, it seems he doesn’t know any of them either. Look, girl, if I were you, I wouldn’t go around talking about something I didn’t know anything about. Why don’t you do yourself a favor and really try to get to know a black person before you pass judgment. You’ve heard the phrase, ‘Try it—you might like it.’” “You talking about sex? I hear colored men are just wild about sex, and they can have two or three women the same night, zap, zap, zap, Just like that. White men ain’t like that. They’re more intelligent about it, I guess.” “Linda, you’re talking like a fool. Don’t you know that it doesn’t take a high IQ to have sex? Surely you know that.” “If intelligence doesn’t have anything to do with it, then how come colored people always have more babies than we do?” “I . . . uh . . . don’t really think that’s true, but if it were true, it would probably be because black people are more fertile . . . you know, like superior.” “Oh, I don’t believe that. How could you be superior to me? After all, you were the slave, not me.”

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“That’s right, and look at you sitting there trying to get information from me, a descendant from slaves. How come you don’t already know all the answers?” “I told you. I never got a chance to know colored people. Now, Helen, I don’t want you to think I’m prejudiced or anything, but I have just got to know about the colored men. I told my husband, Jeff, I would ask you.” “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Linda, but there is no way for me to know about all black men. But if you, or even Jeff, really want to know about black men, you ought investigate that—yourselves. I don’t know who, but there might be somebody out there who would take you up on an offer.” Linda just sat there, silent for the first time since she had entered the room. I watched intently as she put out a cigarette, took another one from her pack and lit it. Her hands were shaking, and her voice was quivering as she spoke. “I wouldn’t go out with no colored boy if he was wrapped in gold.” “Well, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that, because I don’t know of a single black man that would have you . . . even if you approached him buck naked. Black men do have their standards, you know. “ About that time, Sharon, the other married girl in the class, entered the room. She must have detected that something was wrong, for she invited me to go downstairs to the library with her and study. I gladly accepted her invitation. Outside the room I breathed a deep sigh of relief and asked God to give me the strength to put up with the Lindas of this world, especially those who might be in this class. In the library, Sharon never asked a word about what might have been going on in that room. I wanted to talk to her about it, but I just wasn’t sure about her either. After all, she was from Arkansas, and I had heard and read about all the racial tension there. So I kept quiet. Sharon was a pretty twenty-six-year-old who was struggling along with a family just as I was. She had one child, and our husbands were similar in attitude about our going to school. She was wise beyond her years and enjoyed certain principles and values

The Beginning

that were important to me as well. She took risks and was as independent as they come. She had a goal for herself, which she planned on reaching even though she knew that the road was going to be difficult. We talked about our futures a lot, and we found some solace in each other. It felt good to have someone to talk with who was mature enough to understand and who seemed to be her own person. I grew to like her very much. We would study on the phone together for long hours after we had gotten our families off to bed. From time to time, we would study at each other’s house until the wee hours of the morning. Neither of our husbands liked that very much, but we did it anyway. Mid-term exams were coming up at SMU, and nearly everybody in the nursing program, at least all freshman nursing students, were scared to death of failing. We had all heard horror stories of freshmen students dropped from the program because of their grades and students who had found the school so difficult that they had suffered mental problems afterward. This was because, in the nursing program, if a student made below a C in any single course, she was dropped from school. This knowledge brought with it sheer terror. The courses themselves were hard enough, and the thought of making a D or below was out of the question; your future was already predetermined if such a thing occurred. The night before finals, I studied so hard that I began to have palpitations. I really thought I was going to have a heart attack. But I continued my studying, going over and over my notes and the text. That monster, chemistry, was still a real threat to me but then so were anatomy, physiology, and microbiology. I finally went to bed exhausted, but all I did was toss and turn. I just couldn’t seem to get to sleep. I finally woke up Sed. “What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?” “No. I guess I’m really worried about the exams.” “You know worrying is not going to help, Helen.” “I know, but tell me how to stop,” I replied somewhat sarcastically. “Just close your eyes and try to go to sleep. Just close your eyes.” “Just what do you think I’ve been trying to do for the last hour?” I snapped.

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“Well, all I know is, you’d better try, or you’re gonna wind up sick or something. Nobody can go on forever without any rest or sleep. I never will understand why they put so much work on y’all at that school. A person would think you guys were going to be brain surgeons or something.” With those words, Sed turned his back and within two minutes he was snoring again. I so wished he had held me and somehow reassured me, just once. But that didn’t happen. I wondered if he really had any idea of what was happening to me, inside. Sometimes I wondered if he even cared. I wanted so much for him to care about me and what I was doing. If he did care, I just wanted him to show it in some way or the other, especially the times when I just needed to be comforted. I was indeed having a little “pity party,” so I just crept out of bed and went back to the kitchen table to go over my notes just one more time. At four-thirty that morning, before I left the table, I prayed that God would let me rest this time. I guess He heard my prayer, for I slept for nearly three hours. This was a big-time rest period for me since I usually got along with much less sleep. I think I nearly forgot how to do it. The next morning, all the nursing students were gathered outside the chemistry classroom and on the stairway in the science building, exchanging answers and trying to memorize formulas. The bell rang, the old class filed out, and the nursing students marched in and took their assigned seats. There was no talking, and right away the test blue booklets were handed out. The labor began. I was done with about half the test when I looked up and saw Betty, one of the brains of the class, turn in her test booklet to the professor. About ten minutes later, a steady stream of students handed in their completed test booklets and marched right out of the room . . . to freedom. I worked meticulously on my test, and, after about ten more minutes, I noticed that only two other students were left in the room. I glanced at the clock on the wall and was happy that I had twenty more minutes to check my answers once again. After about ten more minutes, I decided I had done the best I could, and I marched down the aisle and turned in my test booklet

The Beginning

. . . perhaps placing a noose around my own neck. Why didn’t I take chemistry in high school? I could have taken it. I had the time. But nooo. I had to take band and speech and another year of Spanish. I didn’t know whether I had passed or failed, and when Sharon’s answers and mine didn’t match up, I thought I would die. So, I went home and slept for four full hours. It was then time for me to start my reviews for the rest of my finals to be administered the next day. I managed to get through them all, nervously and with a great deal of insecurity, though I had prepared the best that I could. At the end of the final testing day, I went home and slept for nearly twelve welcome hours while Aunt Vera took Shally home with her for the afternoon and for another one of her famous feasts of whatever Shally wanted. Today was Tuesday, and the nursing finals had been completed on Thursday last week. When the university grades were sent to the nursing school, they were posted on the locked, glassed-in bulletin board in the living room of the dormitory. The grades were posted by name, and if you failed, everyone in the school would know it. I was really on edge; basically I was insecure about the chemistry. I knew that if I were going to get kicked out of school, it would be because of my weakness in chemistry. I was truly scared. I was studying in the dormitory room when the words rang out, “The grades are in. . . . The grades are in.” Doors to all the freshman dormitory rooms swung open, and racing footsteps sounded like a herd of wild buffalo down the hallway and then down the stairs. I was among the herd. When I reached the bulletin board, I heard screams of “I passed, I passed!” Then there were the sobs from the girls who didn’t. I could restrain myself no longer, so I plowed my way to the front of the group and located my name. “Green, Helen G., Anatomy and Physiology-A, lab-A, Microbiology-B, lab-A Nursing Fundamentals-A, and Chemistry-C, lab-B.” I screamed to the top of my lungs, “I passed, I passed! Oh, thank you, Dear God.” “ Sharon and I danced around, arm in arm. I was so happy that my dream was still alive. Some of the girls who had failed sobbed pitifully in their rooms as they packed their things to move back home. Others were silent.

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I truly felt their pain, and I wanted to help, but I knew that whatever was said would only add to the agony and embarrassment they were feeling. The freshman instructors and their bigs comforted these girls. It was a bittersweet day indeed. As I hugged one of the girls, I kept thinking, “There but for the grace of God go I.” After the first semester, I applied for and received the Minnie L. Maffett Scholarship from SMU. This relieved some of the financial pressure. Mr. Mitchell continued to send a small amount of money to help out each semester. Though freshman students could not work, things seemed to be all coming together . . . finally. I thanked God for His wonderful blessings and for the peace of mind I was beginning to experience. I was walking up the stairs to the micro lab one day when I heard one of my classmates talking to some of the others about the heavy load that was placed upon us during this second semester. “I’m not about to go back over to the hospital to study in the nursing library at night. That’s not the best part of town you know, and a lot of niggers live over there.” She looked around and realized that I had heard what she had said. She was suddenly aphasic, and that was a hard thing to accomplish with this girl. I looked at her, smiled, and spoke to the others I knew, calling each of them by name. Inside the lab Gayle kept following me around making feeble attempts at an apology. “Helen, I’m sorry about that crack about niggers. I wasn’t talking about you.” “Of course, you weren’t. I have no reason to want to attack you.” I said sarcastically as I went about adjusting my microscope. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got a lot of work to do.” I picked up a slide, placed it under the microscope, and began my work. Freshmen nursing students often ate in the hospital cafeteria when we were not on the university campus. It always made me feel so good whenever I saw pride in the eyes of the black employees. I always smiled at them to acknowledge them and to let them know that what I was doing was also for them and their children. I knew without a doubt that I had supporters out there even though I didn’t know their names. These kinds of rewards gave me the strength 

The Beginning

to go on when I felt so beaten down. Yes, I would have to continue, not only for myself, but also for them and the millions of others like them and like Shalimar and like Mother Dear who had given so much to get me to this point. Sometimes, a white RN would stop by the table where I was sitting with a group of my classmates, and inevitably, she would wind up saying to me, “You must be Mrs. Green, the nursing student.” “Yes, I am.” “We’re awfully proud to have you here at Methodist. Don’t let these girls spoil you now.” I always wondered what phrases like that meant. But then there was the standard, “Do you know so-and-so? She works on the third floor, and she looks just like you.” The one thing I could surmise was that she was probably black, but I was sure I didn’t look like as many people I was told that I did. The day finally came when the freshman class made its clinical debut in the hospital. Here we were with our blue short-sleeved uniforms with the white cuffs and removable buttons down the front indicating we were freshmen student nurses. No caps or white pinafores (which would eventually be worn over the blues) were permitted until we were juniors. Nevertheless, this was a special day, for it meant the beginning of clinical experience that would eventually lead to becoming an RN, the hope and dream of every single one of the girls. Some of the students were so excited that they had forgotten their watches, their name badges, pens, and many other articles we had been ordered to have on our persons that morning. I was excited, too, but mostly because it was a long time getting here, and here I was—a student nurse in the same hospital where Alma Cain had predicted I would be discharged. It was hard to believe. The first week went okay. Of course, I received my share of the looks and the attitudes from some of the white staff and patients, but I did not feel intimidated. I must admit, however, that the stakes were a lot higher. The expectations of the professional nurse were that she would handle all situations in a professional manner. I planned to do just that. It was quite difficult to ignore some of the 

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attitudes, but I worked hard at it. I just couldn’t mess up now. I’d come too far. After a few weeks, I felt the tensions loosen somewhat, and I began to make my way the only way I knew how, trying to perfect everything I did. I did not want there to be any question about the abilities of the one and only black student in this nursing school. I was aware that this was probably not the best way to move ahead, being compulsive and all, but I knew I had a lot to lose. It was absolutely necessary for me to do well, and I knew it. For me, there was no other choice. One morning I was assigned to a patient who had had a simple mastectomy performed the day before. After I had completed her morning care, I went to the nurses’ desk to record on the patient’s chart. While I was busy recording, her doctor walked up and snatched the chart from my hands without saying a word. He started toward the room. I trailed in behind him since I was assigned to this patient today. It also was not ethical for a male physician to change a female’s dressing or do any kind of an examination without a female staff member being present. “Get the dressing cart!” he yelled without turning his head around to acknowledge my presence. I worked swiftly so that the doctor would not have to wait. I glanced over the cart to be sure it was adequately supplied and then wheeled it into the patient’s room in record time. I placed the cart so that I could easily assist the doctor in changing the bandage. He had the patient’s bandage off in nothing flat, exposing a line of tiny black sutures on the lady’s left chest. The doctor was reaching for antiseptic sponges to cleanse around the wound. I picked up the forceps, and he took them out of my hands without even a grunt. I then began to open some gauze flats for the new dressing and placed them within the doctor’s reach. He reached onto the cart and picked up another set of flats, at which time I promptly offered, “I opened up that set for you, sir. I used sterile technique,” pointing to the ones just in front of him. He ignored my remarks and continued to open up new packages of flats, dropping the contaminated wrappers on top of the ones I had previously opened. Then it was time for the tape.

The Beginning

“What size would you like, sir?” I asked, with two different sizes in my hand. He reached over me and took a roll of two-inch tape from the spindle. My bandage scissors were out in a flash, ready to cut the tape for the doctor, when he ripped the tape between his fingers. He then put the roll of tape on the opposite side of him so I could not reach it. Then he picked up the soiled dressing from the bed and began to hand it to me, with the soiled area facing me. I glanced up at him, and he had that look on his face. I picked up a waxed paper bag and indicated that the doctor should place the soiled dressing in the bag. Then, without a word, he turned and threw the dirty dressing in the patient’s wastebasket. He looked at me with a victorious grin and said, “That’s all. Take the cart away.” I gathered up the mess the doctor had made and was beginning to leave the room when Mrs. Arnold, the patient, started to say something. The doctor motioned for her to be silent until I left the room. Outside the door, the tears that had been forcibly restrained would not be held back any longer. I took a clean flat from the cart and dried my eyes before anyone could see me crying. I was still in a daze as I worked to restock the dressing cart. “How much longer, Dear God? How much more do I have to take? It isn’t fair! It just isn’t fair!” I thought as the tears began to well again in my eyes. Pity party? Probably, but the pain was real, and it kept recurring. About twenty minutes later, I returned to Mrs. Arnold’s room to see if she were all right. She tried to apologize for her doctor’s behavior. “You just keep right on going, hon’, and don’t let people like him get you down. He’s a good doctor, but they forgot to teach him manners in medical school. Now, listen to me, young lady. If you really want to be a nurse, you just keep on going and you will be a good nurse. Just stay in there, child, and do not quit over stupid things that some people do. I just don’t care how much schooling a person has, he’s still ignorant and downright stupid if he doesn’t know how to treat another person. Now, promise me you won’t quit . . . promise me that, please,” she said as she stretched out her arms for me. This time, I wept on the shoulder of a seventy-oneyear-old white woman. One would have expected her to be among

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the bigots, but here she was giving hope and comfort to me, a black woman. “Thank you, Mrs. Arnold,” I said as I took a tissue from the box on her bedside table. “You know, it would take an act of Congress to get me out of here.” We both laughed. Then Mrs. Arnold added something that took me by surprise. “Now if you need to do a dressing to get some kind of credit, let’s just take this ole thing off and put on a new dressing prepared by my nurse,” she said as she began to raise her hospital gown. “Oh, no, Mrs. Arnold. I have plenty of time to get in all my dressing changes. But I want you to know that I appreciate your efforts very much. Thank you.” “I’ll put you on my prayer list, sweetheart. You’re gonna do just fine.” I never told the others about my little run-in with the doctor. Maybe I was embarrassed, I don’t know. I just didn’t want them to know that I was being treated differently. I did not want their pity.

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C H A P T E R T W E LV E

Advancing,Hoping, and Praying    the second semester was quickly approaching, and if we were lucky enough to pass all the courses, we could participate in a special capping ceremony. This event traditionally ended the probationary period for the freshmen. All freshmen student nurses looked forward to this day, which was second only to the graduation ceremony. Actually, our bigs had told us that if we could get through the first year, the other years would be easier. I was counting on it. When the grades were posted, I was pleased that I had done well. I guess the grade that I cherished the most was the A I had earned in chemistry and lab. That was my final grade and the last time I would have to worry about that monster. I was thankful that I had learned so much, but I would never take the course again if they were paying me millions. I might be ambitious, but I’m not crazy! Most of the other students passed all the courses as well, but there were a few who didn’t make it. Linda was one of them. Believe it or not, I truly felt sorry for her, because in spite of her bigotry and ignorance, she really did want to become a nurse. I wondered what kind of nurse she would have become. Again, I thanked God for helping me earn the right to stay in school. The capping ceremony was a wonderfully regal occasion, full of tradition and reverence. I marched down the aisle of the large church auditorium with my crisp white pinafore over the blue uni-

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form, carrying a small porcelain “Nightingale” lamp with an unlighted white candle in the spout. The nursing cap, which up to this point I had not been permitted to wear, was carried over the lamp . . . very carefully. The organ music stopped, and we were all seated. When the speaker completed his brief talk, one by one, our names were called, and we marched up front and knelt before the altar. Here the director of the school, Ms. Cecelia Stevenson, placed the caps on our heads. Our lamps were then lit from a flame held by an upperclassman, which symbolized completion of the probationary period and a welcome to the ranks that would lead to the proud title of RN. After the ceremony, tears flowed down our cheeks, for the struggle that preceded this occasion was truly unbelievable. Unless you had been there, it would have been impossible to know what it was like. Many of the students who had previously failed were there to wish the survivors well. I was both happy and sad to see them. I knew how many of them had struggled during the two semesters, and I believe some of them would have made fine professional nurses. In the lobby of this huge church, there were tears in Susan Gilbert’s eyes when she gave me a tiny jewelry box containing a beautiful golden caducean necklace and a letter of congratulations. The tears were beginning to flow again, and I let them as I read her inspiring letter and felt the genuineness of her spirit. I was glad she had selected me for her little. Mother and Daddy had come up from Tyler for the ceremony. Others of my family and also my friends and church members were present in the audience. I had sent Mr. Mitchell a special invitation, but he couldn’t be there. However, he sent me a check for $150 to help out wherever it was needed. Every single thing was perfect . . . except Sed was not there. He said he was not able to leave the barbershop in time for the ceremony. I was hurt and embarrassed, mostly because my parents had traveled a hundred miles for this occasion. I don’t know why Sed did not think it was important, but he set his priorities and decided his Friday night business was much more important than this tra-

Advancing, Hoping, and Praying

ditional ceremony. The tears I shed that night were partly for that reason, intermingled with those of sheer joy. That night at home, the pride I saw on the faces of my parents and my little girl more than paid for the struggle I had gone through so far. I remembered, as I listened to Mother and Daddy talk about the ceremony with excitement and pride, how Mother had always pushed for an education for me. I realized how much I loved her for her undying faith in me. I could also hear Daddy still saying, “She could read and write before she had one day of schooling.” I realized too that he was trying for the first time to be a real father who cared. I was twenty-nine years old, and I pitied him for what he had lost with all his children. Mother cupped my face in her hands and repeated, again, the words of Mrs. Arnold, “Just go all the way, honey. You can do it. Mother knows that it won’t be easy for you, but if anyone in this world can do it, I know my baby can. Now, you know I don’t have much money, but I’ll do whatever I can to help out. Just let me know what you need.” “Thanks, Mother. You’ve already done far too much.”


We were finished with courses on the SMU campus. Now all the non-nursing courses would be taught on the hospital campus by professors from various universities throughout the city. These courses, according to our bigs, would be a cakewalk. However, they warned us that the nursing courses would increase in intensity. I didn’t want to hear that! I was ready for a little bit of relief. I couldn’t believe that anything could top what I had just been through. I believed I had left part of my soul back at the university where we had dissected cats and raised a stink in the chemistry lab. Nope! I refused to believe that anything could be any worse. Miss Endres, the junior medical-surgical instructor, was a master at her subject, and her self-confidence inspired me greatly. She held my attention from the beginning to the end of every class, glancing at her notes ever so casually, only for continuity. She was as tiny as our freshman instructor was, and was she ever a little tiger! She quickly became my mentor despite all the reading assign-

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ments, diagrams, pop tests, and nursing-care plans. I found myself placing her on a pedestal. I wondered how anyone could possibly know so much about so many different things. On the nursing units, there were the never-ending impromptu questions. “What’s this patient’s diagnosis?” “Myocardial infarction.” “Meaning what?” “Death of part of the heart muscle from the lack of blood and oxygen.” “What drugs is the patient receiving?” “Valium, Polycillin, heparin, and Dilantin.” “Heparin? What’s heparin?” “An anticoagulant.” “Meaning what?” “It prolongs the blood’s clotting time.” “What’s the side effect of this drug?” “Bleeding from any body orifice.” “How much water is given with this heparin capsule?” “This is not an oral drug. Heparin is a parenteral drug given by injection.” “By which parenteral route is the patient receiving this drug?” “Subcutaneously.” “Very good, Helen. Carry on.” I was always glad when the round of questions was over, and I was glad she didn’t ask me about the side effects of all the other drugs I was administering. I would have died if she had. But before I did, I would have recited the old faithful three—nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. You seldom missed with those. One morning, I was assigned to a white male patient, about fifty, with a diagnosis of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, commonly referred to as COPD. Mr. Banks was the typical COPD patient with a mild “barrel chest” and pursed lips that helped him breathe. His color was indicative of poorly oxygenated blood. The main objective of his nursing care was to preserve the patient’s oxygen reserve as much as possible. To help accomplish this, he received oxygen by nasal cannula and was on complete bed rest.

Advancing, Hoping, and Praying

I introduced myself to the patient and then took his vital signs. The nursing-care plan had indicated that this patient liked to receive his morning care before breakfast, so I told him that I would be right back after I recorded his vital signs. When I returned to Mr. Banks’ room, I found him sitting upright in the middle of his bed, with his head hung low as if he had just heard some bad news. “Are you all right, Mr. Banks?” “No,” he answered, without even lifting his head. “What seems to be the problem, sir?” “Come here and sit down. Let me try to tell you what my problems are,” he replied, as he raised his unshaven face ever so slightly. I walked closer to the edge of the bed and, being very focused, asked, “Now what seems to be the problem, Mr. Banks?” “You’re a cute gal, and I know going to school must be pretty expensive for you. How would you like to make some extra money . . . say, fifty dollars?” “Doing what, Mr. Banks? I’m pretty busy and don’t have much spare time.” It was then that the man exposed himself by throwing back the top sheet. He was naked from the waist down and was erect. I quickly snatched the covers up to his neck and stepped back from the bed nearly in shock. He continued his gross remarks. “Since I’ve been sick it’s been hard for me to . . . you know . . . get things going down there. I don’t want to let this chance pass me by. You black gals have a way with men, and I need a woman real bad. All you have to do is close the door, and nobody’ll ever know the difference. They’re scared of me . . . think I fuss too much . . . so nobody will be coming in here. Look, five minutes, and you’re fifty dollars richer. We’ll both get something outta this. C’mon, I really need somebody.” I was in a daze as I walked toward the man with fire in my eyes and my lips curled in deep anger. Shaking, I leaned over the man to the point that my nose was nearly touching his oxygen cannula. “What do you think would happen, Mr. Banks, if a person struck a match just below this little tube that goes into your nose? There would be this sizzling sound of human flesh frying. That would be

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your lungs, Mr. Banks. Now, I’m going to ignore those stupid remarks you made, but you’d better be cool, mister.” “Aw, c’mon. It won’t take too long. I haven’t been treated in a long, long time. You ought to be flattered that a white man wants you, and you know I’m able to pay the price. Just let me touch you . . . please. I’ve had many black women in my lifetime, and I know what y’all like. But I haven’t had one as young as you. So young and tender.” “I don’t really care what you’ve done or who you’ve done it with. I only know you won’t be doing it with me.” I left the room. A few minutes later I was sitting in the nursing station reporting the entire incident to the head nurse. She assigned a team of three nurses to take care of Mr. Banks, for which I shall be eternally grateful. I was permitted to take a break, and I sat alone in the coffee shop, in which seven years earlier as an LVN student, I was not permitted to sit. Some things had changed . . . some things still had not. How many people would ever know what it is costing me to reach my goals? I wondered just how long it would be before I was accepted as a good and worthwhile human being. How long before people would realize that my skin color was a matter of pigment, not a ticket for insults and humiliation. It was 1966, and it appeared that maybe my grandchildren would benefit from my struggles. I did not see the end in my lifetime. Another day I was assigned to 4-Central, one of the most difficult patient care units in the hospital. Patients with all types of disorders, both medical and surgical, were housed here, along with overflow patients from ICU, orthopedics, and the emergency room. Patients with infectious conditions and those with chronic disorders were often placed on this unit because of its large number of rooms. The corridors were long, and only four of the rooms had private baths. This meant a never-ending parade of staff with covered bedpans and urinals marching up and down the corridors to the big utility room near the center of the corridor. I was assigned to a patient who had been categorized as “difficult.” The poor woman had everything in the world wrong with

Advancing, Hoping, and Praying

her, and the staff dreaded going into her room because she was demanding, arrogant, critical, and nearly always confused. I approached her about 7:30 in the morning. “Mrs. Stone, I’d like to take your temperature and blood pressure.” “Well, I don’t want them taken.” “Your doctor will want to know how you’re doing when he makes his rounds.” “I don’t care what he wants. He can just ask me if he wants to know anything.” “Now, Mrs. Stone, you’ve had your temperature taken every morning and . . . ” “That’s the trouble. All they want to do is take your temperature, measure your blood pressure, take your blood, take you to xray and make you swallow that gosh darn awful stuff, and I’m still sick. It’s not doing me no good to have all that stuff done if it’s not going to cure me. I’m just not gonna do it anymore. Do you hear me?” “I know how you feel, Mrs. Stone. Sometimes it seems the cure is long and uncomfortable, but . . . ” “Now, don’t tell me how long it takes. You’re not a doctor. You’re not even a nurse.” I took the glass thermometer from the holder and began shaking down the mercury. “What are you doing, girl?” “Getting ready to take your temperature, Mrs. Stone.” “Look here, little girl, I’m paying for this service, and I said I didn’t want it.” “I know,” I said as I slipped the thermometer into her mouth, which quieted her for a few minutes. She mumbled something, and I motioned for her to keep quiet while the thermometer was in her mouth. I took her blood pressure and then removed the thermometer from her mouth. She started in again. “And another thing, a person can’t get no service around this place. I’ve a good mind to just get up and get out of here.” “You can’t get any service?” “That’s what I said. They all think I’m crazy.”

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“Nobody thinks you’re crazy, Mrs. Stone. What makes you think that?” “Aw, you’re just like all the rest of them. Used to be a time when we could trust the colored girls. Now y’all getting so uppity, can’t even do that no more.” “That’s not quite fair, Mrs. Stone.” “You don’t think so, huh? Well, for your information, that little colored nurse’s aide comes in here every night to give me a pill to put me to sleep, ’cause they don’t wanna be bothered with me. Well, I just fixed that ladybug. I’m saving all of them pills right here in my drawer. Whatcha think about that?” “Let me see the pills, Mrs. Stone.” “All right. If you don’t believe me. . . . ” She opened her bedside table drawer, and there they were, five chloral hydrate caps. “See, what did I tell you. That girl is trying to make a dope addict outa me, and I’m not gonna let her do it.” “I’ll just take these, Mrs. Stone, but be sure to report to your doctor just what you’ve been doing with the pills they give you at night. Okay?” “Oh, no you don’t, little lady. You’re probably in cahoots with them. Gimme back them pills. I’ll tell my doctor if you don’t give ’em back, you little black thief.” I could still hear Mrs. Stone yelling when I reached the end of the corridor, “Don’t come back in here anymore, little nigger. You nigger thief. Somebody, stop that nigger!” I put the caps in a container and labeled them. Then I reported to the team leader what had occurred. She was not surprised. She assured me that I had done the right thing by removing the medication. Nothing was said about the words that were being yelled by Mrs. Stone, and I was glad that a big deal was not made of the incident. One of the major projects during this semester was the writing of a special paper on death. We called it, the “Death Paper.” We were informed about the project around the beginning of the semester in order to give us time to research the work properly. I beleived I had taken advantage of this time, working sporadically on it every chance I had. The night before the paper was due, I

Advancing, Hoping, and Praying

carefully read my work and was pleased with what I had done. Feeling satisfied with my best efforts, I went to bed and slept. The next morning, with the paper in hand, I marched into the classroom feeling proud of my masterpiece and of the sleep that I had gotten. I turned in the paper. About two weeks later the papers were returned. Miss Endres informed us that, on the whole, the papers had not been too good. My stomach began churning, and I didn’t feel sure about my “perfect” paper anymore. When class was over, she called our names, and, one by one, we took our papers and left out of the classroom. Just outside the door I began searching for my grade. I found it. I had made a C- on this paper I had worked on for weeks. I had read it over so many times that I knew it from memory. What could I have missed? What was wrong with my paper? Then I found a note written in red on the very last page, “Bibliography-excellent, Footnotes-excellent, References-good, Grammar-good. Not enough about death.” This grade was the same as failure to me. It was the lowest grade I had made, even lower than the C in chemistry during my first semester, because this had a minus after it. With this paper carrying so much weight, I wasn’t at all sure what my final grade in this course would be. I was afraid, not so much of failing, but of not living up to my own expectations. The pain I felt that day was all consuming. When I got home that evening, I stormed about the house angrily, throwing things around, and swearing like crazy . . . in my mind. I never really learned how to cuss well. Oh, for once I wished I could have just cussed right out loud and screamed the words so loud that the house would even tremble. But the words would not cross beyond my lips. My family knew something was wrong, and they avoided me like the plague. Later, Shally brought an ice-cold Coca-Cola over to the table where I was studying. “Mama, I made an A on my math today. Only three people in the whole class got all the questions right,” she said as she beamed with pride in her accomplishment. “Hey, that’s good, baby. Let me take a look at this famous test,” I

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said as I glanced over the test where the teacher had written, “Excellent.” “I’m so very proud of you, Shally. Do you think the extra study time had anything to do with this great improvement?” “I guess so, Mama, but do I have to keep on studying math for a whole hour? I never get to watch TV anymore.” “Never, Shalimar? How about starting your study time a little earlier . . . say, start studying at six-thirty instead of seven. Would that work better?” “And still study the math for a whole hour, Mama?” “Okay, Shally, if you start at 6:30, you can stop at 7:15. But if you start to fall behind, we’ll have to gear back up to an hour again. How’s that?” “Okay, Mama, thank you so much. What are you so sad about today, Mama?” “Oh, your mama bombed out on her big paper. I made a C-.” “Oh, no. Not the one you wrote about people dying and all?” “Yep. The death paper killed me.” “But you didn’t make a D, Mama. You won’t have to drop out of school, will you?” “No, honey, I won’t have to quit school. It’s just that I thought I had done much better than that, that’s all.” “That’s okay, Mama. I betcha your paper was longer than any body else’s.” “You’re probably right, baby, but that doesn’t count. The content has to be just right . . . and mine wasn’t.” “I thought the story you wrote about the little girl with leukemia was sooo sad. Say, Mama. Maybe that’s the real reason she gave you a C-. She probably cried her eyes out, and she gave you that grade because you made her cry,” she said, giggling. “You know, Shally, you just might have something there. I never thought about that. Why, you little psychiatrist, you figured it out. And all this time I thought I just didn’t write a good paper. What do I owe you for your analysis, ma’am?” We both laughed. Thanks to my little budding genius. I gave her a hard kiss on the forehead and hugged her so tight she was 

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squirming to get away. I thought of how very lucky I was to have this little girl in my life. She was nearly twelve years old now, and I was very proud of her. Our class did occasionally have fun together. We would all go out to eat or have pizza or something brought in to the dorm. One of the fun things we did during our junior year was preparing for the Junior-Senior Banquet. Actually, it was a time when the graduating seniors were honored and the junior class was the host. I had been elected class president and had the primary responsibility for coordinating the affair, along with the dean and instructors. It was fun and quite a welcome break from our usual grueling academic activities. As we planned the affair carefully, I realized that I had come to like many of my classmates a great deal. It was a lot of fun being with them. Sometimes we were silly and as goofy as schoolgirls. It was apparent to me that it would be through people like them that this whole mess of discrimination and racism would finally be truly ended. Frequently, some of my classmates would drop by my house to study. They would bring food and sodas and other snacks. Sometimes I would prepare hamburgers and the like which they really seemed to enjoy. Our favorite thing to do was to have pizza delivered and use all our time for quizzing each other. We had really bonded, but the bond between Sharon and me was stronger than the others, probably because we had so much in common. Nonetheless, I really liked being accepted as a genuine human being without anyone having to be cautious about what was being said or done. This is what had happened between Sharon and me and what was happening, to some degree, with the others. Sharon and I understood each other’s problems, and we always offered each other a nice shoulder and a comforting word of compassion. It was good to have her there, and I will cherish that relationship for the rest of my life. I learned from her, a white Arkansas native, and she learned from me, a black Texas-born sharecropper’s daughter. Neither of our husbands was too pleased with our relationship, but they both tolerated it, and that was okay. The big night of the banquet finally arrived, and I was pretty 

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excited about the whole thing. The banquet had its own merit in that it gave hope to those of us who were juniors. I could now see myself where the current seniors were, being honored as the graduating class. “Next year, it will be my turn,” I thought as I sat there at the head table with the president of the senior class and all the “brass” from the hospital as well as the some of the board members. We were served an elegant dinner, and then it was time for me to introduce the speaker of the evening, which by tradition was done by the president of the junior class. I had a swarm of butterflies in my stomach and would have given anything to be sitting out at the beautifully decorated tables with my classmates. I rose from my seat, trying hard to appear confident as the brave leader of the junior class, knowing full well that at that particular time, I was deprived of guts. I found my way to the microphone, and spoke, “May I have your attention, please?” Everyone stopped their talking and dining and turned my way. “We’re happy to have as our guest speaker tonight a doctor who is well known to the student nurses at this hospital as a friend, a mentor, and one who has always shown a great deal of respect to each of us. May I introduce to you our friend, Doctor Gary Don Ketron, from Tulane College of Medicine and presently in his second year of surgical residency at Methodist Hospital School of Nursing.” Everyone started laughing. God! What are they laughing about? I thought, with a frown on my face. Then it came to me that I had said the doctor was doing his residency at the school of nursing. What can I do to correct it? I felt like such a dodo. I then turned to the doctor and said, “Sorry, Doc, but we see you so much, you seem like one of the group.” Everyone was laughing again. It had worked. Even I was less tense now. Then when the doctor began his speech, he started by saying, “Helen, I wish I were in the school of nursing. The faces are a lot prettier over there.” The seniors graduated one week later, and those of us who ushered were proud to display the blue velvet bands on our caps and 

Advancing, Hoping, and Praying

the beautiful senior class pin with a chain that connected to a small pin bearing our year of expected graduation, 1968. This meant we were officially seniors. One more year to go! In retrospect, the two calendar years had gone by rather swiftly, even though it didn’t seem so at the time. But here I was, a senior! Though my instructors at the nursing school had been just great, I had an encounter with a professor who came in from one of the universities to teach a particular course. The man was short, very thin, and had fixed ideas about the races, which included their mental capacities and potential. One day during the class period, I asked the man if he would clear up a point that I didn’t understand about the assignment for the next class. “No, I certainly will not. You probably won’t understand it anyway,” he said as he turned his back to me. “What do you mean by that statement?” I asked, as if I didn’t know. Without even thinking about it the professor responded in a cool, matter-of-fact way, “There’re certain things you people just can’t comprehend. You just can’t. Oh, I’m not blaming you directly, but you just don’t have the brain cells to work with as the rest of these girls do. I really don’t see how you ever got into this nursing school considering that fact. Must have been some quota or something. I always thought this school was particular about who they accepted, but now I guess they don’t have much of a choice.” He stuffed his papers in his worn leather briefcase. “For your information, I was accepted because I qualified. Thank you very much,” I responded angrily as I sat there staring at this “little” man who was attempting to insult my intelligence and the intelligence of my whole race. Here was a shadow of a man, teaching this kind of slop to impressionable students in one of the best nursing schools in the country. What was he doing on the university campus where there were fewer checks on professors? I kept staring at him, and so did my classmates. Sharon got up from her seat, took the one next to me, and began whispering to me how much of a bastard the man was. He watched this interaction, shaking his head in disgust. My other classmates 

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all pulled their student desks closer to mine in protest of his behavior. Finally, the entire class encircled me. The professor angrily left the classroom. When the professor sent the grades to the school, he totally ignored my presence in the class and left my name off the list. The nursing school office was on the phone calling the university, but this was Friday and the professor could not be located. Consequently, I had to go the entire weekend wondering if the man were going to fail me or not. The waiting was awful, but I was ready to fight this matter all the way to the Supreme Court if necessary. On Monday afternoon, my name and a handwritten C were placed among my classmates’ grades. I knew it was not fair, and I should have made an A. I needed to bring some closure to this thing. I don’t know to this day what happened to get my grade sent to the school, and I think I really don’t want to know.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On theWay to the FinishLine            to work well with many of the head nurses on the patient-care units, and this assured me that many changes had occurred since my days as a student LVN. There were a few reminders of 1957, but, for the most part, many changes had occurred. I could see it in the treatment of minority staff members as well as patients of color. While black and white patients now were on the same floor, it was rare to see patients of different races in the same room, though it did occur occasionally. There no longer was separation of the races in the cafeteria, the waiting rooms, or the restroom facilities. The most significant change, I believe, was that now, black female employees could have their babies at this health-care facility rather than going to another hospital where the OB patients were separated by race or to the county public hospital in the city. Little black babies could now be viewed right alongside little white babies in the nursery. The one change that had not yet occurred, however, was that there was still not one single black registered nurse working within this facility. Team Leadership was a course specifically designed to teach the senior nursing student how to manage a nursing unit and all that goes with that. Here seniors were in charge of other staff, and, later on in the year, senior student nurses on their days off from class could work for pay in charge of a unit but under the direc-

I

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tion of a house supervisor. I often worked for pay in the operating room where, at least to me, the stress was less and the pace slower on the weekends when the docs did not have to rush to get to their offices. I had been assigned to a nursing unit where the head nurse obviously hated me on sight. I guess that sounds rather paranoid, but my experience on that unit bore out my feelings. On the days my rotating partner, Lynette, and I were assigned to be co-leaders of the unit, we’d come on duty early so that we could make out patient assignments for the staff. One morning we arrived about 5:30, fresh and alert, to do our jobs. We had received instructions from the head nurse the day before. We worked together on the sheet for about thirty minutes. Feeling that our work was good and acceptable to the head nurse, we laid it aside and went down to the cafeteria for breakfast. We believed the nursing instructors would be proud of the professional way we had managed the assignment sheet. After inhaling our meals, we headed back to the unit to receive the commendations we expected from this woman, in spite of the fact that she had a little “color” problem. As we entered the nursing station, we found the head nurse pacing up and down in front of the chart rack and screaming to the top of her lungs. I wondered what had stirred her up . . . this time. Then I found out. “I’d like to know why you two messed up the assignment sheet like this,” she screamed waving the sheet in the air. “You’ve got my aides doing this, and the dental students doing that. What are you two substituting for brains in your heads?” She was looking at me, not Lynette. I tried to answer in a civil tone, while the rest of the staff looked on. “Ma’am, you told us yesterday that this was the way you wanted the assignments made out, and we were only trying to follow your instructions.” “I never told you any such thing. You just can’t help lying, can you, missy? Make this assignment over. Right now!” She threw the assignment sheet down on the table. So, again we went to work on the assignment sheet, and when we had finished, we noticed it was prepared in the exact same way. 

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Lynette and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. “What do you think, Lynette? This is the best way to do it.” I whispered. “I don’t know . . . Dammit! There’s no other way to do it right,” Lynette answered. “There is just no other way to do it.” “Okay, let’s turn it in to her, only you do it. Let’s see how that works.” “Okay, but don’t go away. Please stand by me, okay?” Lynette pleaded. “I’ll be right by your side,” I assured my partner. When Lynette presented the sheet, the big chief looked it over and smiled at Lynette. “Now, that’s much better. Go ahead. Make sure the staff gets this.” Lynette looked at me and winked, and I winked back. All that morning the head nurse was on my back about something or the other. She yelled at me before the other staff, trying to insult me. I kept quiet. She criticized the way I was irrigating a catheter. I said nothing. I was due back from break at 10:15; I arrived back at 10:17. She criticized my timeliness. I was weakening, but I managed to hold it together and keep quiet. She found all sorts of odd jobs for me to do, such as cleaning the IV poles and the dressing carts. I did them without saying a word. I had three preop medications to administer at the same time to three different people in three different rooms. I was four minutes late with the third one, and she bawled me out. It was then I felt my eyes begin to fill with tears and my lips tremble with fury. I can’t give this stupid woman the satisfaction of knowing she made me cry, I thought as I took a tissue from my pocket and dabbed at my eyes. But I just could not keep back the tears. I picked up the telephone and called my clinical instructor. The head nurse stood nearby to hear what I was going to say. “Would you please come down to the unit right now? This is an emergency, and it just can’t wait . . . please?” I met my instructor on the stairwell, and there I really cried a river. My instructor stood by my side with her arm around my shoulders as she supplied me with more tissues. Quietly, she 

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attempted to comfort me as best she could. We sat down on the steps, and she took my hands in hers and tried to be inspirational. I finally managed to speak. “I would like to be transferred to another nursing unit, please.” “I’m sorry, Helen. I just can’t do that. I know this woman is not the easiest person to work with, whether you’re black or white. But what I really believe is that I would be doing you a disservice if I transferred you.” “Disservice? Pardon me, but what could I possibly learn from this woman? I’ve been exposed to people like her all my life. I don’t need her to teach me how some people can hate. I already know all about that.” “Helen, you’ve got to understand that this is just one of the problems you’re going face in this profession. I want you to hang in there. Let this woman know what you’re made of. You have got to do it, Helen. If you leave this unit, she wins. What chance would another black professional have on this unit? Tell me that.” “Is this some kind of test of my courage and tenacity? Well, if it is, I don’t mind failing this one. Just get me off this ward.” “It’s not a test, Helen, but you must stand up to the woman as a professional. I assure you it will not affect your standing in this school. Everybody in the school knows your character and integrity. She can’t really hurt you.” “Oh, yeah?” I managed to say with a slight chuckle. The only thing I knew was that at that moment I would have liked to have grabbed that woman by the shoulders and shaken her until she rattled like an empty wagon. I had never seen anyone with so much hate, at least, not up close. I wondered how this woman, a health-care professional, was able to take care of patients with the attitude and heart problems she had. I only knew that I had experienced another incident of “discounting.” It had been painful but not life threatening, though at the time it surely it felt like it. Things were never much better on that unit, but, through the grace of God, I managed to complete my rotation on that service. I never did reach the point where I liked or even respected this woman, and her attitude toward me never changed. I had acquired, however, the wonderful art of blocking out the bitter and mean

On the Way to the Finish Line

things she would say to me. My mother once told me to picture this woman running across a big wide field filled with grass burrs. The woman would be stark naked and a big black Doberman would be snapping at her rear end. Mother advised that I should do this whenever this head nurse or any other person did or said hateful things to me that were insulting and discounting. So, I began to imagine the snapping-dog scenario whenever I felt discounted. I would manage to smile and walk away. Most of the time it worked, but not always. The evaluation this head nurse had completed about my performance and competency evidenced her desire to have me thrown out of school. During my evaluation interview with Miss Stephenson, the dean of the nursing school, my faith in human beings was once again restored when she said, “I want you to see what I and the rest of the nursing faculty think of this evaluation.” With those words, she ripped the papers in tiny little pieces and tossed them in the wastebasket opposite her desk. Then she leaned back in her chair and said, “I know the time you’re having here is not easy. I also know this is a very lonely journey for you. I honestly don’t know what I would do if I were in your position. I’m not sure I could stand up under the pressure. Please believe me when I say I just do not know what I would do. You’re a brave and strong woman, Helen Green. I want to help, so you just let me know how. Can I count on you to do that?” “You can count on it,” I said to the director in a thankful tone, knowing full well that if I called the director every time there was a racial issue on the unit, I would have to be joined at the hip with her. I couldn’t bear to think that I couldn’t stand on my own two feet. I had to take control of the situations that confronted me. I had to handle them the best I could. I realized that the time for complete and unconditional acceptance by everyone had not yet arrived, if it ever would. I knew I must continue my journey despite the racist and discounting attitudes.


I was at home about nine o’clock one evening when I received a long-distance telephone call from Tyler. The woman on the other

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end, Sister Sesson, whom I had known all my life, informed me that Mother had taken seriously ill, and I should come at once. “Oh, my God!” I screamed. “What happened to her? What’s wrong with her?” Sister Sesson did not answer my question. She only instructed me to come right now. I knew that something terrible had happened to my mother, and I just could not imagine that she could be critically ill. Not Mother, I thought, as I woke up Sed and Shally and told them what had happened. Mother can’t die. What would I do without her? Oh, what am I talking about? Mother is not going to die. Is she, God?” “What are you going to do about school, honey?” Sed asked as he snapped the luggage closed. He knew there were only a very few days one could miss out of each rotation and still pass the course. All I knew was that my mother needed me now, and there was no one else to care for her but me. I had to go no matter what the outcome. “I don’t know, Sed. I just don’t know right now.” “Well, you’d best call someone so they can tell your instructors.” I called Sharon and told her what had happened. She agreed to inform the instructors for me. I would call them the next day, as soon as I could. I was crying now. The tears flowed freely as my husband and my little girl comforted me. I felt sorry for myself and for Mother who had always been there for Daddy and me and Cleophus. I knew that things must have been serious; otherwise I knew she would never have permitted them to call me. I was really worried. We arrived in Tyler about two hours after the call and went straight to the hospital. Mother was in a semi-private area that was crowded with people from the church, most of whom I knew. They all greeted me and made way for me to get to the bedside of my mother. Then I saw her. She was grunting and thrashing about in the bed. I could readily see that she was paralyzed on one side, and her mouth seemed twisted to one side as she mumbled in an attempt to speak. With tears in my eyes, I walked slowly to the bedside where Daddy was trying to comfort her. He looked up at me 

On the Way to the Finish Line

with sorrow in his eyes and made way for me to move closer to the bed. “Mother . . . Mother, it’s me, Helen. I’m here now. Don’t worry. I’m going to stay right here with you. You just try to rest now, Mother,” I said as I leaned over and kissed her forehead. She gazed at me as if she were trying to remember who I was. She moved her mouth in an effort to speak, and when she couldn’t, tears rolled out of her eyes . . . and from mine. “I know you want to say something, and it just won’t come out. That’s okay, Mother. I’m going to stay with you, and we’ll figure this out. Try not to worry right now. Let’s just wait to see what the doctor has to say.” My mother had suffered a stroke. A cerebral vascular accident, my instructors would have said. Jesus Christ! What was going to happen to her? How serious was she? Couldn’t somebody tell me something? I turned away from Mother and let the tears flow down my cheeks. One of the church members tried to comfort me, but I ached too much to be comforted. I needed to cry it out, and I did outside the room in the corridor. “There’s nothing we can do now, Helen. It’s all up to the good Lord now. Just pray and ask Him to take care of your mother. He’s the only one who can do it now, honey,” Sister Sesson remarked. “She’s one of His children, ya know.” I did pray. Oh, God, how I did pray that my mother would be all right again. She had always been there when I needed her to comfort me, encourage me, and strengthen me. Now I felt helpless while she was in such great distress, fighting for her life. I didn’t even know she had hypertension. Why didn’t I know that? What else about my mother didn’t I know? Where had I been? A couple of hours later I was brought back to some sense of the present when Sed told me that he and Shally were going back to Dallas. He said he would come back for me whenever I called. I kissed them both, and they left. The church members were beginning to thin out, so I pulled a chair up to Mother’s bedside and stayed there the rest of the night. It was a bad night, but she began to settle down about 5:00 .. 

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Early the next morning, the doctor informed me that he didn’t know just how much recovery Mother would make or whether she would recover at all. “Why isn’t she in the intensive care unit then?” “Helen, your mother’s insurance wouldn’t stand the cost, and we knew she could not pay out of pocket. We know you’re concerned, but we’re going to do everything we can right here on this unit. We’ll let you know of any changes. You can also read her chart anytime you want to see how things are going. I assure you that everything will be done for her.” There were special nurses assigned to care for my mother. The medical staff knew that I was a student nurse from Methodist, and, out of professional courtesy, RNs and senior student nurses were assigned to take care of Mother around the clock. Everyone knows that these are some pretty good hands to be in if you are hospitalized. They were a magnificent group of professionals who spared nothing in their care of Mother. This was certainly something they did not have to do, and to this day I am very thankful for those nurses, doctors, and student nurses who cared for my mother in 1968 at Medical Center Hospital in Tyler. At the end of the third day, Mother was a little less restless but was quite depressed and teary. This was somewhat typical of stroke patients but not at all typical of my mother. I talked to her, read to her, and kept her as alert as possible. I wanted to protect this woman’s dignity the best I could. So when the nurses came in with food or medications, I made sure she understood what was going on. “Mother, the nurse is here with your injection. She wants to put it in your left hip this time, so we’re going to help you turn to your right side. Let me know if the turning is uncomfortable for you.” On the fourth day, I noticed Mother could respond to certain questions I asked with, “uh-huh” or “uh-uh.” I thanked God for that. I also thanked Him for my nursing experience that allowed me to do something for this precious woman. So I, along with the wonderful nurses and fellow student nurses, provided superior care to this most deserving, sweet, unassuming lady who was my mother.

On the Way to the Finish Line

The weekend came, and Sed and Shally came down for me. I was very tired, yet I hated to leave my mother. I had certainly been humbled by the experience and by the attitude of the nurses and doctors and all the staff. After all, this was East Texas, where prejudice and discrimination had prevailed. Now, these East Texans at Tyler Medical Center Hospital were administering care to “Muddear” that was above and beyond the call of duty. They assured me that Mother would receive the best of care while I was away. I didn’t doubt it for one second. All the way home that Sunday night, I felt anguished with the pressures coming at me from all sides, and I didn’t really know exactly what to do. When I arrived home that night, I immediately called back to the hospital to see how Mother was. She was fine. I took a bath and was fast asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The next morning I was up and on my way to talk with the instructors and the dean of the nursing school. Uncertain of what they would do or had decided about my future, I was ready to plead to stay in school if I had to. I had no idea of what I would do if their decision was for me to drop out of school until the next year. I was already thirty years old and another year away from my family could be disastrous, really deadly, to a family that was already operating on fumes and the grace of God. During the talk with the instructors, they all agreed to give me another week to be with my mother. They gave me reading assignments and lecture notes on what would be covered during my absence. They all showed true concern for my dilemma, and for that I was grateful. When I was in my car, I breathed a sigh of relief that for now I was still in school. I was on my way back to Tyler by six o’clock that Monday evening. Aunt Vera, Mother’s sister who now lived in Dallas, volunteered to look after Shalimar, who was now thirteen. Aunt Vera also offered to come over after work and prepare meals and do whatever else had to be done while I was away. But, of course, Sed, being the self-proclaimed chef-of-the-century, decided he really didn’t need any help. He did accept her assistance with Shalimar. My anxiety was relieved with Aunt Vera looking after Shally, because she loved her so much and spoiled her senseless. My trip back to Tyler was

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less stressful than it would have been if I’d been worrying about my child. When I arrived back at Medical Center Hospital, I found Mother getting a back rub from one of the professional nursing students. The entire staff greeted me warmly, and even the nurse’s aides were giving me reports of the things Mother had been able to do that day. The charge nurse informed me that some neurological tests had been run that day, and she would give me the results as soon as they were in. I found Mother to be a little more responsive than she had been when I’d left the day before. On Wednesday when the neurologist was examining Mother, he asked her many questions, assessing her current status and, to some degree, her prognosis. “What is your name? Can you tell me what your name is?” “Wi-Wi-Wolly Way,” she managed to say. Everyone around was grinning and applauding her efforts. “Now, tell me your whole name,” the doctor requested. “Wi-lee Way Ha-wis,” she replied distinctly. “Willie Raye Harris. That’s very good. Just keep up the good work. I think you’re gonna be okay,” the doctor responded with a certain amount of pride and satisfaction. Then he walked over and put his arms around Daddy and me. “Looks like this lady is gonna make it. It sure does. She’s got some kind of will to live, that lady does, and she has used all of that will to come back to us. Y’all are very, very lucky people.” The doctor squeezed our hands as he shook them on his way out the door. To try to describe the feelings I had at that moment would be like trying to describe what love is or what the inside of Heaven is like or the face of God. I kept thinking of her “will to live” and the struggle she must have had or the debate she was having with God in order to stay right here. She had her reasons, I’m sure. The doctor informed us that Mother could go home the following Sunday, three days away, if all things continued to go well. He was sure to remind us of all the things and special foods she would need. He described the exercises that had to be done, as well as the bowel and bladder training that had to take place. There was so much to be done!

On the Way to the Finish Line

I worked my fingers to the bone trying to get things ready for Mother’s homecoming. I scrubbed the house from top to bottom and washed up all of her sheets and towels in the new washing machine that Daddy and I purchased. We had gone to a medical supply store and purchased a bedside commode for Mother to use during the night and for the continuous bowel and bladder training she would need. We also got a wheelchair to make it easier for Mother to get around in the house. The ambulance brought Mother home that Sunday, but she didn’t seem to recognize the house at all. I watched as the ambulance attendants put her to bed. Her right arm hung loose, as limp as a dishrag. Tears welled in my eyes as I saw just how helpless she really was. I kept remembering how much she had enjoyed playing piano for the church’s “Victory Chorus.” I wondered if she would ever be able to do that again. I wasn’t able to get all things worked out for Mother’s care, so the school gave me a final extension of one week. I knew I was getting farther and farther behind with my studies, and I used every minute I could to keep up. Any time Mother was resting or late at night I would drag out the books and study until I couldn’t concentrate any more. I would talk with Sharon on the phone, and she would update me on what was happening in class. About the middle of the week, we found a lady who worked as a sitter. She was willing to live in and take care of Mother through the week, and Shally and I would come down on the weekends to care for her. I didn’t realize how many things had to be settled and prepared for Mother’s care, and I nearly lost it trying to be sure things would be just right before I left. I gave the woman an orientation to the house and the food Mother had to have, as well as the daily exercises she had to complete. The sitter assured me she understood all things. That Sunday night I drove home in an exhausted state. When I arrived at my house, I sat in the car for nearly ten minutes before I could gather the strength to go inside. Sed and Shally were still at church, so I took a hot bath and went to bed. The one thing that I felt good about when I left Tyler was a little girl who lived about two blocks from my parents’ home. Jeanette was one of the children of Mrs. Bessie Fry, a widow. This young

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girl, who was around ten or eleven years old, would come down to my parents’ home, sit with Mother, comb her hair, run errands, or do whatever she could to help my mother. She was wise and focused for her tender years and had no problem being around older people. Because of her sincerity with my mother, I grew to love her and finally took her as my “godchild.” She became absolutely inseparable from the rest of my family. The next morning it was school all over again. I knew I had a lot of catching up to do, and I was ready to face the music. My classmates and instructors seemed glad to see me, and I must admit that I was happy to be back. I didn’t particularly care for being behind the rest of the class in its rotation, which was a predetermined number of weeks or days on a specific service such as pediatrics, OB-GYN, etc. Consequently, the entire rotation was extremely difficult for me. I had to spend some of my off time in the clinical area to make up for the time I had been out, and I had to do my share of papers and nursing-care plans. By the end of the rotation, I had just about caught up with the rest of my classmates. I earned a B in the course. It looked like an A+ to me. Mother was making a remarkable recovery, and she telephoned me every now and then, just so I wouldn’t worry about her. Her speech was still slurred, but quite understandable. It had been a long hard fight for her, but she was winning. She was still interested in how I was doing in school and, of course, how her granddaughter was getting along. The stroke had left her with significant weakness and some paralysis on the right side of her body. She struggled hard to overcome her weakness through the routine exercises the physical therapist helped her with two to three times a week. I would follow through with these on the weekends. Finally, Mother could feed herself, dress herself, and, with the help of a leg brace, she could walk about the house and perform some minimal household tasks. Soon I began going home every other weekend instead of the every-Friday schedule I had continued since her stroke. She no longer required anyone to be with her on a daily basis, so visiting nurses came twice a week, physical therapists continued to come at least once a week, sometimes more often, and Jeanette was there. I

On the Way to the Finish Line

was very pleased and thankful. Mother could speak a lot more clearly now, and frequently she tried out her writing skills with her left hand. Occasionally through the week, I would receive a letter from her, scribbled as clearly as she could make it, and I understood it all. I would chuckle at her attempts to make me laugh, and I would cry at the effort I knew it took for her to write a two-paragraph letter. As I look back on it now, this was a woman who, at her worst, demonstrated enormous faith and hope by attempting and completing tasks. It was my mother who gave me unusual encouragement to continue. She was some kind of mother and some kind of woman. I was truly blessed. Then, in April of 1968, the world came to a standstill when an assassin’s bullet took down one of the world’s greatest leaders, Dr. Martin Luther King. Today we celebrate the good things accomplished by this man, but during his active civil rights career, not everyone appreciated him. As a matter of fact, even some of the black people did not fully trust this man who seemed to have popped up out of nowhere to lead the black people to certain victories. In the end, it was a sad time, and people, both black and white, shed tears of great sorrow that yet again a leader in our country had been killed because of his beliefs. Of course there had been the usual talk in the black community that because of his views and unpopular beliefs, “they” were surely going to kill him. It was true that Dr. King’s death was forecast early in his short career, and his followers and others who believed in the work he was doing thought that it was probable. No one knew that his attempts to reach the mountaintop would continue to be successful after his death. While the King assassination was not a surprise, it was so traumatic and shameful that the whole of America hung her head in great shame. Here was a man who had given everything to assure that all people would have an equal opportunity in this, the greatest country in the world. He had now paid the ultimate price. The world stood paralyzed not knowing what to expect next. We had seen what toxic situations could breed. When and where would it all end? Here and now I hoped. The whole world mourned his death and cried at his funeral along with Mahalia Jackson as she sang my mother’s favorite Negro

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spiritual, “Soon I Will Be Done with the Troubles of This World.” As dignitaries dabbed at their eyes, for a few moments different races, cultures, religions, and causes linked arms together, symbolizing unity. It was a powerful statement. Thank you, Dr. King. Following the King assassination, Mother and the rest of my family became extremely concerned about my welfare as the lone traveler on this road I had chosen. Though, in contrast to King, I had no microphone and little visibility, many thought that I should watch out and protect myself from the invisible enemy. There were constant pleas from family and friends for me to be careful. I loved them for their concern, but I was well aware of the risk I was taking. I had always been careful but not afraid. Mother once said that a little fear is a healthy thing. At this time in my life, I could not afford to be overly concerned. To do so would surely end the journey prematurely. I had come too far My senior year was nearing an end, and I kept count of the days until I would walk down the aisle with the black velvet band on my cap and the shiny, golden pin on my chest. Finally, I could see a glimmer of light, and I was filled with pride and a certain joy that I know could not have been experienced by my classmates. I can remember bowing my head in thanks that I had made it this far, when only a few years earlier, I was not permitted to enroll in this school because of the color of my skin. The senior banquet was nearing, and I was in hog heaven the entire week before. This year, my class would be among those being honored. Sharon, my best friend, would have to sit at the head table as the senior class president. I was so glad that it would not be me this year. My only regret was that, traditionally, only the junior and senior student nurses attended, along with the top hospital brass. Not even husbands could attend. The night of the banquet, I soaked my weary body in my best bath oil and bubble bath. Shally was as busy as a little beaver arranging my clothes and my hair, and, of course, telling me what to do. I took special care with everything, especially my beautiful, light blue, after-five dress for which I had paid too much. I had borrowed a matching evening bag from Alma, and when I opened it, I found she had placed a beautiful card inside and a twenty-dollar

On the Way to the Finish Line

bill. The card read, “Have fun tonight. You’ve made it like I always knew you would. Congratulations, Alma.” The private club’s dining room located at the top of an Oak Cliff Bank Building was beautifully set, and I instantly recalled the year before when I sat at the head table and made the big boo-boo. I laughed as I thought about it, because, tonight, I sat among my friends with whom I had spent almost every day for three calendar years. Many of these girls had shared dinner with me at my home, and they had become my extended family. They were a wonderful group, and I truly loved them all. There was excitement in our eyes, as we remembered the past three full years together. We laughed as we talked of all the things that had happened to us and the goof-ups in which we had been involved. We talked about all the crazy things we had done and the risks we had taken, especially Janet’s going down to the kitchen via the dumbwaiter after hours to get us some food to eat during the night shift. We remembered heating food in the autoclave and the ornery surgeons who had made the student nurses cry. We recalled the first week of orientation when we were given punch from a urinal to drink. We talked about our first injections and the first IV we started. We talked about the famous codes we would announce over the intercom system and countless other crazy things we had done, just to endure the pain and stress of school. We especially remembered the adopted school song, singing it out loud to the tune of Notre Dame’s “Fight Song”: I go to MHD O pity me. There’s not a damn man in this nunnery And every night at eight they lock the door I don’t know what the hell I ever came here for And when I’m on that train and homeward bound I’m going to turn the whole town upside down I’m gonna drink and smoke and stay out late Yes, by heck. I go to MHD. There was a short, motivational speech following the dinner. The speaker received a standing ovation from the senior class,

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which he certainly deserved, for the entire speech was packed with meaning for nurses. He spoke of nurses’ being advocates for patients while performing crucial “hands-on” services and said nurses were unsung heroines in meeting the health needs of society with compassion. He challenged the graduates to leave their marks on the health-care community in a way that the world would know that we were a caring group of professionals. Then came the announcements of the awards—the most important part of the program. The announcement of the valedictorian was not really a surprise to anyone, for Betty had outshone everyone in her studies. Many thought I would be the salutatorian, but I knew the first semester of school and chemistry would not make that possible. This honor went to Sharon. She was surprised and shocked. She ran over to me, crying. “Helen, I thought for sure you would get this. I’m so sorry you didn’t receive this. You deserved it.” “Are you kidding me? Don’t be silly, Sharon. You earned it and you deserve it.” I led applause for her as she stood there crying. All the graduating seniors stood with me as I saluted my very good friend. Finally, the big moment arrived. Who would receive the Florence Nightingale Award? This was the school’s highest award, given for academic and clinical excellence and voted upon by the professors, nursing leaders at the hospital, and the senior students. This award was like receiving the Heisman Trophy in football or the gold medal at the Olympics. It was prestigious and coveted by every student nurse. The executive director of the Methodist Hospital system, Dr. Bolton Boone, rose from his seat at the head table and went to the microphone. After a bit of small talk, to a completely silent audience, he announced, “And the recipient of the Florence Nightingale Award is . . . Helen Green.” I could not believe what I had heard. I think I almost fainted. I felt light-headed, and the situation seemed unreal to me. Tears began flowing down my face, and the applause was deafening. Even the waiters were applauding. With a tear-stained face and trembling knees, I went forward to 

On the Way to the Finish Line

receive this precious award, which was a golden bracelet with one charm that read, “Florence Nightingale Award.” I gazed at the award in amazement and with certain humility and thanksgiving. “Thank you, sir. And thanks to all of you who have helped to make these three years I shall remember as long as I live. In the years to come, I know I will remember each of you fondly. Again, thank you for making a very difficult situation a very wonderful experience.” The banquet was over, and congratulations and greetings were coming from every direction. As soon as I could, I called home to spread the good news, and Shalimar squealed to the top of her voice. She handed the telephone to her daddy who gave his warm congratulations. He said he wished he could have been there to share that moment with me . . . so did I. The remainder of the evening was shared with my classmates at Becky’s apartment. We had snacks and some of the girls had drinks, and we talked and sang some of the goofy school songs that had been handed down over the years. I can remember it all now, people on the floor or on sofas and pillows, barefoot with evening attire on. We were happy and were probably making no sense in anything we said. We talked about the first year and all the horrible tests, and we shared stories of some of our patients and how difficult some of the treatments were to learn. We ended the evening with promises that we would forever keep in touch with one another, no matter what. We all embraced one another. It was a sad time, and it was a happy time. When I got home, the family was still waiting up for me. We talked and talked, and I guess I must have told the whole story of receiving the award fifty times, how my knees trembled as I walked forth to receive it. Shally wanted to try on the bracelet, and she kept twisting her wrist this way and that to see the glimmer of the shiny gold links. She was fourteen now, and I could see in her teen-age eyes that she was planning what she was going to do or say when she showed the bracelet off to her friends. “Don’t even think about it, girl,” I said adamantly, as I unclasped the prize from her wrist. 

East Texas Daughter

The next morning, I was called to the hospital for an interview with a newspaper reporter about my experiences as the only black student and about the award. Later that day, a local radio station interviewed me and that played the tape all day long. I received telephone calls from my friends, nurses, doctors, lawyers, and from some of my former patients. The rest of the week was more of the same. Job offers were in abundance, and I was flattered and felt as light as a feather.


The graduation march started, and I marched down the aisle in my beautiful white uniform and heavily starched cap, now with the black velvet band across the top, indicating that I was a graduate nurse. The smiles on the faces of Sed and Shally and of Mother and Daddy and of all my relatives and friends sprinkled throughout this great auditorium gave me the only award that I needed. I stood tall, and in my heart I was saying to each of them, “I made it, not just for me, but for all of you who had enough confidence in me. And for you little ones, who one day may decide to choose this path.” The white attendees plowed their way through the people to extend a hand of congratulations or to give me a warm hug or a kiss on the cheek. Mr. Mitchell wore a smile that night, and I was happy that I had also made it for him. “Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. You made this all possible for me.” “I’m not the one to thank. . . . I’m so proud of you.” Wearing her brace and a very proud face, Mother insisted on going to the reception that was held across town in the school’s auditorium. Daddy and I helped her into the building where we found a comfortable seat for her. She glowed with satisfaction as she accepted congratulations from the people going and coming. She seemed even more proud than I, as she told people how I used to read from her college books when I was only five years old. The goodbyes among the graduates were sad and tearful, because we would never be together again as a group, and we knew 

On the Way to the Finish Line

some of us would never see each other again. When we embraced that night, we all remembered how we had loved and supported each other, and somehow we knew that we would all be okay.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Price of the Challenge      first job as a graduate nurse at Garland Memorial Hospital, a small, progressive, community hospital in a suburb of Dallas. I had worked there before, as an LVN, and had enjoyed my experiences. Mrs. Starling, the nursing director, had asked me to come back to Memorial when I graduated from nursing school. I was to work in the emergency room, and I was also assigned to assist on other units as relief staff nurse. Mrs. Starling was a very fair person and one with accomplished clinical and leadership skills. I knew she could teach me what I needed to know as a beginning professional nurse, and I was happy that she had made a place for me on the nursing roster. One morning I admitted a middle-aged black man to the emergency room. He was complaining of seeing spots before his eyes and dizziness. He was alone, so I checked his blood pressure and other vital signs and found them to be within normal limits. During my initial assessment, I found that the man was a diabetic. I further learned that the man had experienced a severe headache the night prior, for which a neighbor had given him some yellow pain pills. He didn’t know what the pills were but had taken four of these over a period of about six hours until his headache was finally relieved. I placed the man on one of the stretchers in the ER while I notified the doctor on call. Just then I heard the screech of automobile tires and looked toward the ER entrance to see a private automobile had whirled up to the entrance ramp. A tall, muscular blonde-

I

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The Price of the Challenge

headed man jumped out of the car and ran into the waiting area yelling, “I need some help with my mother. She can’t breathe good. I need some help, now!” I grabbed a wheelchair and raced to the blue sedan just as fast as I could go. I found a little old lady, about seventy or so, sitting in the front seat taking rapid, shallow, wheezy breaths. I checked her pulse and then asked the man if he could assist me in getting the woman into the emergency room. “What the hell are you paid for? You can lift her out as well as I can. What’s wrong with your damn arms?” Oh my! I could tell this was not going to be a good day. I tried being firm with the man. “Listen, mister. I don’t have time to play silly games with you. If you want help for your mother, then you’re going to have to help us out a little bit here. Now, lift her shoulders, and I’ll get her feet.” “I didn’t ask for your damn help. I came here looking for a doctor, not a goddam maid in a white dress.” “Are you going to help me lift this woman out of here or do I have to call someone else?” “Move, dammit. I’ll move her myself!” he screamed as he picked up the woman in his arms like a baby and carried her through the double doors into the ER. I followed close behind, pushing the wheelchair. Inside, I pointed out a stretcher where the man could place the little lady, but the man just stood there staring at the black man lying on the stretcher in the other emergency room. I pulled the curtain, and again pointed to the stretcher. “You can just put her down right here, sir.” “Not in this place . . . with him over there. Hell, no. Not in here.” I was furious with this man because this room was where all the essential equipment was located. The only other stretcher I had was in waiting for an OB patient already on her way. “Your mother needs help, sir. Let us help her. Don’t you want help for her?” “Not from you, I don’t. If this is all this place has to offer, well, I’ll be damned if she’s going to stay here.” “The doctor will be here right away, sir. Just place your mother right here.” “No, thank you. It’ll be just my luck that he’ll pop in here look-

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ing just like you. I can get some help somewhere else where no nigger bitch is going around parading like a doctor with a stethoscope around her neck. I’m gittin’ outta here.” In a flash, the man had his mother tucked away in the front seat of the car. He sped away just as quickly as he had arrived. I thought I had seen it all before. It was unbelievable to me that this man would rather take a chance on his mother’s dying than to have her taken care of by a black individual. How deep is hate? How does it manage to keep developing the long reach of its tentacles? I stood there shaking my head in disbelief, wondering if anyone would ever believe what I had just witnessed. The nurses at the hospital were warm and kind and appeared to accept this black nurse. The doctors were not used to working with a black professional nurse. They were somewhat distant but not unpleasant, not really knowing how much they could trust me, and perhaps wondering whether I really knew anything or was just a token graduate from nursing school. A few of the docs would talk to me about the weather or about obvious news headlines or something else safe and benign. They wouldn’t discuss anything of medical significance with me unless I brought it up. When I did, they were professionally courteous, though almost always condescending with their comments. Some might consider this the arrogance of physicians. I considered it the preamble to their education about me and all other nurses, especially black nurses. A few weeks after taking my first job, it was time to take state board exams. After two consecutive days of grueling questions and answers, my enemy, failure, entered my mind once again. I thought I hadn’t done too well on the exams. I wanted so badly to believe I had passed. For six long weeks I went home from work in search of that envelope from Austin. Part of me was happy that it was not there, but the real Helen Green had to know, no matter what. I wanted that R.N. to go after my name more than anything I knew because my future was wrapped up in that letter from the State Board of Nurse Examiners. It was a powerful piece of paper. I had just returned from lunch one day when I received a telephone call. The unit clerk said it was important.

The Price of the Challenge

“This is Mrs. Green. Can I help you, please?” “Helen. This is Sharon. State board results came in today, and I passed. I passed!” Screaming with excitement, she started reading off the percentile she ranked in, and, I can tell you, I hardly heard a word she said. “That’s great, Sharon. I guess I’ll find out my news when I get home from work.” “You know you don’t have to worry, Helen. You know you passed.” “I don’t know that, Sharon, but I sure wish I did.” “Let me know as soon as you know, okay?” I wandered around the units in a daze, knowing the answer to my dreams was probably at my house resting in my mailbox. I had to know the results of the tests. I could not wait until I got home. I had to know! Then I thought about calling the school of nursing. They would have the scores. “That’s what I’ll do. I’ll call the school,” I said out loud to myself. I went into one of the empty patient rooms and closed the door. I said a short prayer and dialed the number to the school. As soon as the telephone was answered, I asked if the grades were in. “They sure are, Helen. They came in this morning.” “Could you . . . could you . . . could you please tell me if I passed?” I asked as I shook all over. “Oh, yes. You sure did. All of our students passed. Every last one of them.” She attempted to give me my scores, but I think I might have hung up the telephone as soon as I heard that everyone had passed. I know, at the very least, I didn’t hear anything she said after that. I sailed out of the room and into the nursing station hysterical. The first person I saw was one of the nurse’s aides. I hugged her, while screaming, “I passed! I passed state boards!” Tears were streaming down my face as I was embraced by nearly everyone on the unit. Some of the ambulatory patients came to their doors wondering what was the matter. Somebody told them of the good news, and there were cheers and singing, “For she’s a jolly good nursie.” Coming from the patients, I was a little embarrassed. I had been so excited that I nearly forgot I had two wings of one o’clock meds to pass. When I thought of it, the head nurse and one

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of the other R.N.s were on their way down the hallway to begin passing the medications. “Go on, enjoy this day. This is our present to you,” one of them yelled as they went into the patients’ rooms administering the medications I had prepared, which was a definite “no-no” in nursing. But there they were, trusting that my calculations and proportions were correct. Later that afternoon, the staff gave me a surprise party. They had sent out to a local bakery for a cake, and right smack dab in the center of the frosting were the initials, “R.N.” One of the staff members made me a homemade name badge that read, “H. Green, R.N.” Ah . . . that looked good to me. I suppose the only thing that had surpassed my joy that day was the day I received notice of my acceptance into the school of nursing. That night at home was another of our joyful jubilees. The period had now been placed, and I was on my way . . . somewhere. I continued to work at this hospital for nearly a year. After talking with Becky, one of my ex-nursing classmates, I decided I wanted to go into the specialty of cardiac nursing. I learned that a coronary care course would be offered at Methodist Hospital and that the nurses would be paid the regular RN salary during the entire course. This sounded exciting to me. This would be another opportunity to learn and my very first formal training as a registered nurse. It would also be closer to home. When I informed Mrs. Starling about my decision to go, she was quite disappointed. At the same time she encouraged me to do whatever I thought would advance my career. “Helen, I really had big plans for you here at Memorial, and, frankly, I really don’t want you to go. I guess I always knew that we wouldn’t be able to keep you content forever, but I had hoped it would be for a longer period than this.” “It was my plan to stay here longer, Mrs. Starling, but this opportunity has come up, and I just can’t walk away from it. It’s the first coronary care course offered there.” “You’ve done so well here, and I know you will do the same wherever you go. You’re so full of life and energy, and you have a great talent for teaching. I hate to lose you, but I guess I would do the same thing if I were in your shoes.”

The Price of the Challenge

I hadn’t realized how much I had missed the hassle and fast pace of the big medical center until I was back on its halls once again. As strange as it may sound, it was good to be back home. I was extremely pleased with my new job as one of the first CCU nurses at Methodist Hospital. Yet, there was something at this place that seemed to be cautioning me, warning me that the time had not yet come for equality in its purest form, that I would still have a mountain to climb. I did still feel the sting of the bruises that were inflicted before, but I was stronger now. Another black registered nurse also took the CCU course and worked in the coronary care unit. She was a little older than I and had been a registered nurse much longer than the rest of us. As we talked, she told me how she had been subjected to more harassment than even I had been at the beginning. Consequently, she was bitter and was not liked much by the nursing staff in the unit. She was an excellent clinician and a very assertive person, both functionally and verbally. Her enemies bloomed like wildflowers, and she soon resigned from the unit under a great deal of pressure. Before she resigned, I had many conversations with Carmen. She shared her experiences with nursing, many of which are too grotesque to mention. Carmen had been paid not to go forward with plans to go to nursing school in her hometown. In other words, she was run out of town. She had graduated from a nursing school out of state, about five years before my struggles began. She told me of her battle to win acceptance into nursing school; it was similar to my own but more evil and much more hateful. There had been personal attacks on her that had damaged her reputation. She had been threatened within an inch of her life if she tried to integrate that school. She had been run off a country road late one evening by a couple of white men who gave her a warning to stay in her place. I began to understand her bitterness, and my heart went out to her. I felt a kinship with her. Nobody on the unit knew about Carmen’s struggles, and consequently, nobody understood her attitude, which seemed to be, “Everyone is going to pay for my misfortune.” I was working the second shift one evening when one of the doctors came into the unit wearing the usual green scrubs.

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“Is there anyone here?” he asked as I sat there with an eye on the monitors. “Who are you looking for?” I asked. “One of the girls. Are you here alone?” “Did you need something? Karen is in room five and the others are at supper.” “Yeah, I wanted to do a physical on the new patient in room two, but I’ll wait until somebody gets back to help me.” “You . . . want someone to help you do a history and physical on Mr. Simpson?” I asked with a puzzled tone. Nobody needed help to do a history and physical in CCU. It was customary for all docs to do these alone, especially with same-sex patients. “Can’t hardly do it without the proper equipment, can I?” he asked with that grin on his face.” “I think maybe I can handle that for you.” “That’s okay. I’ll just wait for one of them.” I went ahead and got the equipment—all three pieces of it—and placed it on the desk. “If you decide to go ahead with the exam, here’s the equipment.” “I told you I’d wait. Don’t you ever listen to anybody?” “Now, wait just a minute. I didn’t yell at you, so don’t you yell at me, okay?” I responded, looking the young doctor straight in the eye. He picked up the patient’s chart and went into the room, leaving behind the equipment. When he reached the room, he rang the call button. “Yes, Mr. Simpson?” I responded. “This is Dr. Forrester. Bring me that equipment,” he ordered in a rude and disrespectful manner. I clicked off the intercom and started to pick up the equipment I had previously placed in front of the doctor. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him through the glass watching every move I made. I was just about to pick up the equipment, when the telephone rang. I picked up the phone and found Dr. Snyder on the line needing a report on his patient. I gave him the report and took down some orders. In just a few seconds, Dr. Forrester rushed out of the patient’s room, picked up the equipment, mumbled something, and went quickly back into the patient’s room.

The Price of the Challenge

When Dr. Forrester had completed his work, he came out of the room and dropped the chart and the equipment on the nurses’ desk and left the unit in a huff. One of the other girls asked, “What’s wrong with him?” I just shrugged my shoulders. What was the point anyway? Nobody who worked in that unit would understand. There would be some sort of an explanation about his behavior, and I just didn’t want to hear it. I feel I need to make a reference point here. Not all of the staff who worked in the coronary care unit were racist. As a matter of fact, most were not. There were also those who were my personal “bodyguards,” explaining what I meant when I said something and overreacting to a statement or behavior in an effort to be politically correct. Of course, I never welcomed this attitude. I was an adult and quite capable of taking care of myself. It always made me feel like a child when I was “saved” by a well-meaning colleague. One morning I was assigned to a white female patient, Mrs. Price, who had suffered a heart attack a few days before. She, like all the other patients in the coronary care unit had to be fed, bathed, and prevented from exerting too much energy. This little lady was as cute as a button and just as bright for her eighty-two years. She had been in the unit about three days, but I had never been assigned to take care of her. That morning when I walked into her room, I introduced myself and told her I would be taking care of her this morning. “Well, that’s all right with me. I like colored folks.” “That’s good. Would you like to brush your teeth before your breakfast tray comes?” “I sure would. Be sure and not touch the brush part, sweetheart, y’know, the part I put in my mouth,” the woman said, as if she were talking to a child. I got the woman’s toothbrush for her and prepared her for her morning care. I hadn’t really thought that much about the toothbrush statement, and then the woman said, “Don’t touch around the rim of that water glass, honey. Do they give you girls examinations before you start to work in here?” “What do you mean, Mrs. Price?” “I mean blood tests and things like that.”

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“We all have chest x-rays and blood tests, Mrs. Price.” “That’s good. I had a colored lady working for me once, and she was a good hard worker too. Found out she had TB after she had been working for me for two years.” I didn’t say anything. I thought maybe if I let this woman get what she had to say out of her system, she’d feel better, and I could get on with what I had to do. “You know,” she continued with a mouth full of toothpaste, “sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be colored. Y’all seem to be so happy all the time, and y’all can work circles around our people.” A backhanded compliment? I didn’t respond to her statement but took her toothbrush and rinsed it off, and I handed her a damp washcloth to wash her face. “You a regular nurse?” the woman asked as she scrubbed her face. “Yes, I am, if you mean a registered nurse.” “Well, that’s good. That’s real good. I know your people are proud of you.” “I hope so.” “If more of your people would take up some kind of trade like you did or do something to occupy their minds, there wouldn’t be so much stealing and raping and killing on the streets.” “You believe we could solve all the murders and rapes and robberies if the black people were educated?” “Well, maybe not all of them, honey, but ninety-nine percent of them,” she explained with the most sincere look on her face. “For the life of me, I never could understand why colored people have to go around stealing and raping like they do. The thing that gets me the most is that they do it to their own people.” “I think that’s true with all races, don’t you?” “White folks just don’t kill as quick as colored people will. Colored folks just as soon kill you as look at you. I don’t mean you, honey, but a lot of the coloreds.” “Oh? Do you know of any black people who have killed somebody?” I asked smiling and trying to act unaffected by what the woman was saying.

The Price of the Challenge

“No. No, I can’t say that I know any of them personally, but I hear about it all the time on the television and the radio. Now, you’re going to deny that, aren’t you?” “I see your breakfast tray has arrived. I’ll get it for you.” I left the room and outside the door I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. I found it amusing that this little lady had it all worked out in her mind. Not because it was particularly funny, but because this woman really believed what she said. This could be scary if these were the thoughts she handed down to her children and then the thoughts were perpetuated. It was somewhat pitiful, though, to know how much this woman had restricted her growth by her inflamed, false beliefs. She would never know what the whole bouquet is like. Mrs. Price’s remarks were the truest form of racism, easier to recognize and springing from a lifetime of forming ideas based on ignorance. Sometimes I found racism wrapped in pseudo-inclusionary clothes—usually only in group settings—the “I love everybody” statements where someone is trying to convince himself of how he feels; the “invisible” phenomena where they don’t see color, and many others. I have and will endure them, but I will not be sucked in by any of them. If someone likes me, seldom do they have to say it. If someone is an accepting person, seldom do they have to tell me they are. If someone is racist, never do they have to explain themselves. Shalimar was fifteen years old now and in the midst of the years of defiance, rebellion, and self-discovery. She knew everything, and suddenly I knew nothing or what I knew was certainly suspect (I was only thirty-two). In spite of the emerging “new” Shally, she was mostly compliant though argumentative; enjoyed being home, yet dreamed of faraway places; dressed in mini-skirts though brought them down on request; and had a “Keep Out” sign on her door, though she permitted us to come in as we desired. I guess she was right on schedule with the telephone growing out of her ear, makeup being as necessary as food, her peers becoming her confidants, and her room looking like a tornado had hit it several times over. All her young life, I wanted her to have the kind of life she was entitled to as a human being and as an American. I wanted her to

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have the best education we could afford to give her, but, even more than that, I wanted her to be the happiest creature to walk the face of this earth, without extra baggage of prejudice, bias, and racism. As I grew to understand some of the dynamics of this society, I offered my understanding to her in the form of role modeling, personal teaching, and mentoring. More than anything I wanted her to have the experience of equality and choice, of really enjoying the many good things of life that would make her complete and satisfied. Religion had always been a part of my life, but I wanted her to also know about spirituality and the network formed by these two. I wanted very much to expose my daughter to some of the fulfilling experiences—classical music, ballet, and swimming—not available to me as young girl growing up in East Texas with poor, struggling parents. I wanted her to appreciate the arts, revere the talents of others, and be a productive individual. She was very bright and often curious—two ingredients, as I saw it, for a successful life. Early in her life, Shally attended parochial schools, first St. Anthony in South Dallas, then Immaculate Heart of Mary in Oak Cliff. She also attended public schools, which helped her to be wellrounded. Actually, her being well-rounded wasn’t always the reasons she attended public schools. Sometimes it was based on geographical location and sometimes it was based on finance. During the beginning of her high school years she attended Bishop Dunn High School in Oak Cliff. Sed and I really wanted more children, but I had suffered with extremely severe endometriosis and other uterine abnormalities since I was a young girl. The doctors considered it a miracle that I ever had the one child. Test after test revealed that my female problems were worsening, further reducing any hope of my ever becoming pregnant again. I was despondent and thought I would not be able to fulfill that part of my dream—to have two children. While I kept much of my emotional devastation to myself, I grieved when I saw my friends with their expanding families, knowing that I could never have any more children. I later visited my mother in Tyler. I had to have some relief from this extremely troublesome worry that would not abate. Going

The Price of the Challenge

home felt good because Mother was there. I needed her so much, because I knew she would not tell me, “everything’s gonna be alright,” if it were not going to be. I wanted to be near her, because she would not permit me to continue drowning myself in self-pity. I needed some help facing reality, so I went home for a week. When I turned off the interstate onto the highway that would lead to my parents’ home, a sweet peace enveloped me—the smell of the pine-laden fresh air and soil, the sight of the roses and the vegetable stands along the highway, and the recognition of the old familiar stores and houses and streets. I remember when I walked into the house that day, the aroma of garden-fresh veggies came from the kitchen. It was reassuring to see Mother standing with her arms open to receive me. It was a good thing that I had come home. This is what I needed—the warmth of Mother and the unconditional acceptance she expressed, no matter what. We talked about everything under the sun but mostly about Shally. Around suppertime, we finally got around to talking about how I was feeling. “And how are you doing, my dear? Something troubling you?” Mother asked. “I don’t really know how I am, Mother. I just can’t seem to get over what the doctor said about not having any more children.” “Still having some pain down below?” “Every month like clockwork. As you know, it was like this, Mother, before Shally was born, but I gave birth to her. I can’t understand this.” “Yeah, I know it’s difficult for you since you are set on this magic number of kids you want to have. It’s always difficult when things don’t work out the way we plan, but adults find the strength to work around these hindrances.” “I can’t work around it if I have my uterus removed. You know, that’s what they’re talking about if I don’t get any relief pretty soon. Mother, I’m too young for this. These things don’t happen to young women like me . . . do they?” I asked in a childlike manner. “Of course it happens to young women. It’s not typical, but it happens. This type of thing can happen to anybody. No one can predict these things, because we are all so different. Maybe it would

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do you some good if you checked with another doctor. Have you done that yet?” “I did. They both agreed with Dr. Blake.” “Now, you know, Helen. That settles it. You’ve done all you can do. You’ve always taken good care of yourself, honey, and you’ve got to know that none of this is your fault. You can’t help what’s happened to you any more than you could if you were born blind or born with a bad kidney or a bad bladder or a bad heart.” “I don’t know. Somehow this feels different.” “Would you feel better about it if it were your eye or one of your limbs or even your breast?” “What? That’s not fair, Mother.” “Fair? Honey, very few of us escape physical suffering of one type or the other in our lives. Some you can see and others you can’t. I say you’re pretty lucky.” “How could you say that, when you know how much having two children means to me?” “Two, five, fifteen. How did you get settled on that magic number anyway? Why couldn’t it be one? Did you just pick a number out of the air? What’s so magic about two?” “We just wanted a nice-sized family, Mother. If we had three kids, that would have been all right too. We just wanted to have more children, that’s all.” “Well, what can you do about it, honey?” “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” “You don’t know? Well, honey, what are your alternatives?” “What are my alternatives? What do you mean? I can’t see that I have any. I haven’t heard anything about a uterus transplant.” “Now, don’t be sarcastic, Helen. You’re not the first person who lost something dear to them early in their life. I know sometimes it feels like you’re the only one, but it is not the end of the world. I think you’re being rather selfish when you ought to be appreciative for your good health, not to mention the beautiful little girl God gave to you before your problems grew worse.” “I am thankful, Mother, but I’m also very sad that I’m not going to have any more children. It may be selfish of me, but that’s how it is with me right now.”

The Price of the Challenge

“If you can do anything to change things, then do it, Helen. Otherwise you need to get on with your life and concentrate on things you can do.” “Mother, I don’t know . . . ” “If you can’t change the situation, Mrs. Helen Harris Green, then you’re going to have to deal with what’s before you. Deal with it, Helen, before it makes you sick. I know there is sort of a mental thing that goes along with this specific kind of female organ loss, but enough is enough. Plans can be changed. You need to sit down and decide whether you’re going to go around moping for the rest of your life about this or whether you’re going to get on with the rest of your life that’s just waiting for you. That’s the decision you’re going to have to make. You can use what you have or you can just live in the past, longing for something that is never going to be. Those are your choices.” “Just how can I get past this? I’ve been really trying, Mother.” “I know you think you have, honey, but it seems to me that you’re stuck. You can do this. You have got to change your thinking, your mindset. Listen, do you remember that girl who was the big bully up at T. J. Austin when you were in the sixth grade? She used to try to pick a fight with you nearly every day. She was much bigger than you, and she would step on the heels of your shoes everyday after school causing you to trip and fall. Remember that?” “Oh, yeah. I remember that all right. I even remember her name, Olene Hyde.” “That’s right. Well, you started going another way home and you did all right for a few days, but as soon as Olene learned which way you were traveling, she started going home the same way. Well, one day you came in the house with a big smile on your face because on that day, you stood up to Olene and faced her one on one. Remember?” “You bet I remember. I was scared as I could be, but that day I had had enough and when I saw her and her best friend coming that day, I waited for them. I put my books down on the ground, looked her right in the face and said, ‘Let’s get this over with right now. I’m ready for you. Come on if you want to fight.’ Well, that girl didn’t know what to say. She just turned her head and crossed to

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the other side of the street. Hm-m-m, I had just about forgotten that.” “Well, there’s sort of a parallel to your present situation. Facing it head on will help you get past this time in your life. You’ve done it before, and you can do it now, don’t you think?” “I’m going to give it another try, Mother.” “Then it’s settled. You’ll see the difference, sweetheart,” Mother promised as she gave me a big hug and handed me a stack of plates to set the table.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Pride and Poverty         latter part of June 1969 and after endless interviews, home visits, and classes, Sed and I were approved to be adoptive parents. It had been fifteen years since Shally was born, and at thirty-two years old I was preparing for a second child. We were beside ourselves with excitement. We had made a careful decision to adopt in December of 1968 when we visited a church sponsoring orphan kids or kids who had absent parents. Seeing the children who needed parents moved us. We placed our application with an adoption agency shortly afterward. We soon found out that having a baby in this day and time was an awful lot different than it had been in the ’50s. First, it cost so very much more than it had fifteen years ago. Second, I was much older; and third, incredible technological and medical advances had made the general physical task of taking care of a baby so much easier. These included disposable diapers, ready-prepared formulas containing basic vitamins, and so many other conveniences that had not even been an idea when Shally was a baby. That was a good thing. I did wonder, at the eleventh hour, whether I was up to the task, but when Monday morning rolled around, we were all set to pick up our baby. When the door swung open, the social worker walked through with the most adorable little two-and-one-half-month-old baby boy in her arms. A big grin flashed across Sed’s face, and I was speechless, one of the few times in my life, I might add. My arms automatically spread open to receive our only son and Shally’s little baby brother. He was gorgeous, with black wavy hair, chubby

A

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cheeks, and tan, smooth, satiny skin. His plump little legs kicked jerkily, showing off the white satin booties. I held him carefully, staring at his deep brown eyes and tiny snub nose and cute little pink mouth. I closed my eyes and silently thanked God for such a precious gift. Shally was standing by me, touching the baby, and trying to talk baby talk. “Oh, Mama, can I hold him? . . . Please let me hold him,” she begged with her arms already in the holding position. “Sure, honey, but be real careful now,” I answered as I placed the baby in her arms, stepping back to take another look at him. Sed was hovering over whoever was holding the baby, grinning and trying to talk to the baby. I noticed the social worker leaning back in her seat, enjoying the spectacle my family was creating. We were happy, and we didn’t care who saw or heard it. Tears of great joy made their way from each set of eyes, including the social worker’s. It was truly a momentous and blessed occasion. The baby’s biological parents had been college kids who were not prepared to take on the task of parenthood. They loved him enough to want the best for him, and we were honored to be his parents. We named him Mark Christopher Green. That evening at our house was like the Fourth of July. Friends stopped by to see the new little addition to our family. They would talk in whispers as they entered the baby’s room, and their faces would light up when they saw the perfect little bundle of joy that was causing all the commotion in this household. My colleagues and many of my nursing school buddies visited, and these girls were passing him around like a photo album, taking pictures with him and begging to feed him. Now, the feeding was mine. I was going to do it first . . . and I did! After about six weeks at home with the baby, I returned to work in the coronary care unit. However, it was difficult to maintain a schedule with shift rotations being a big part of the scheduling in the CCU. I knew that I would have to find some work that would be more compatible with my home life and the new baby. I really loved the coronary care unit, but my family needed me, and now it was my turn to make this sacrifice for the good of my family. I took a job as a school nurse with the Dallas Independent

Pride and Poverty

School District. The hours were 8:00 .. till 4:00 .. with the weekends off. It was a good job, even though it did not pay as much as I was used to receiving. This job allowed me regular time to be with my family, and that was a good thing. I needed my family now more than ever. I was assigned to two predominantly black elementary schools in poverty-stricken portions of the city. Out of the scores of kids enrolled in the larger school, only two or three were white, and there were no whites enrolled at the other school. A couple of the kids were from racially mixed households, and there were one or two Hispanic kids. After about a week on my new job, I was still trying to get a handle on my duties. I was to check the children’s eyes, teeth, and immunization records. Periodically, I was to check the children’s hair for lice and ringworms. I was to check their skin for impetigo or evidence of active diseases. I was to follow up on any condition that I referred to another professional for attention. I was to send any child home who showed evidence of infectious disease or those whose immunization records were not up to date. I was to make home visits to certain kids who had been out with illnesses over a certain period of time. I was to keep the teachers educated on health-care issues and was to participate in the PTA activities whenever requested. Since I had started this job in the middle of the school year, there was much confusion about what to do first. The work was behind and seemed endless, and I had only a few months to get it done for the year. I can vividly remember making a home visit to one of our students who had been out of school for nearly three weeks with some sort of illness. The school had not heard from the parents, and there was no home phone number. Whenever this kind of situation came up, the school nurse, generally with a companion, was instructed to visit the home to determine the problem. This day there was no one to go with me, so I struck out on my own with a map of the streets of South Dallas in hand. (If you recall, I was thoroughly geographically challenged.) I finally located the run-down, old apartment building and the

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apartment I was seeking. I knocked on the door, and a male voice from within yelled, “Come in! The door is open.” I turned the doorknob and stuck my head in, smiling. “I’m the school nurse,” I said nervously as I attempted to open the door that obviously had something solid behind it that prevented me from opening it all the way. “Just come on in,” the man said. “That’s Jack back there, and he’s drunk. He ain’t gonna feel nothing. Come on in.” I hesitantly entered the small apartment and was shocked to see such a mess. I don’t believe I had ever seen anything so pitiful in my life, and I had seen some pretty bad places. I had entered through the kitchen door and was now standing in the kitchen where there was a table filled with dirty dishes and empty beer and soda cans. There were roaches running freely over the dishes and utensils. There was a small single bed or cot in the corner of the room. It had no mattress, but instead there were heaps of rags, towels, and newspapers covering the old box springs with some of the coils sticking out. “Have a seat,” the man said, pointing out a chair on the other side of the table. The floor clicked under my feet with each step I made. I had been taught always to carry folded newspapers with me on home visits, so I pulled the neatly folded paper from my bag and placed it carefully in the seat and sat down. I was scared, but I tried to act confident. “Are you Mr. Jackson?” I asked the man. “Me? Mr. Jackson? Naw . . . I’m Leonard Davis. Ain’t no Mr. Jackson living here.” “I’m here to see how Tamika Jackson is doing. Is her mother here?” “She’s back there. Guess you want me to get her, huh?” “I would appreciate it very much, Mr. Davis. Thank you.” In another minute or so, a woman, about thirty-five or forty, appeared in the room wearing a khaki shirt over a sleeveless multicolored Hawaiian-style dress. She was in her bare feet and wore a very bad, disheveled wig. “You from the hospital?” she asked.

Pride and Poverty

“No, ma’am. I’m from the school. How is Tamika doing?” “Guess she doin’ all right. She still in the hospital.” “In the hospital? What happened?” “Well, they took her ’pendix out las’ Friday . . . Lord, Lord, that po’ chile sure did worry me with all that heaving up and that temp’rature. Lady, I thought my girl was gonna die.” “I bet that was scary for you, Mrs. Jackson. Really sounds like she was pretty sick. I sure hope she’s doing better now.” “I reckon she is. They said she was gonna be in there for awhile. Something ’bout peri . . . peri-nitus or something like that. She got tubes down her nose and they’re feedin’ her through her little veins. Po’ little thing. I know all that junk bother that girl, ’cause they sho’ did bother me when I had ’em.” “I know they do bother her, Mrs. Jackson, but peritonitis is really very serious. Have you talked with her doctor lately?” “Now, you a nurse and you know how busy them doctors is. ’Spect he’ll tell us what he wants us to know when we go to get her.” “When do you plan to see her again, Mrs. Jackson?” “Go see her? Honey, I can’t do nothing for that chile. She in a place where she can get the best. I ain’t got no way to git over there anyhow, but I go down there to the store on the corner, and I calls her every day. Now when they tells me they gonna turn her loose, I’ll find somebody to take me out there, I sho’ will.” Just then I noticed a gigantic rat on the cot bed in the corner. His tail seemed a foot long. Mrs. Jackson noticed the fear on my face and turned to see what the matter was. She saw the rat halfway under one of the layers of rags on the cot. She immediately got up and went over and slapped at the heap of rags and newspapers. The rat jumped off and went scampering in the direction the woman had come from. She watched as the rat disappeared and looked at me and said, “He’s gone, but I can’t promise he won’t be back. They really bad ’round here. Seems like nothing we do can get rid of them bastards. They ornery as hell.” She raised some of the mess of rags and newspapers and, to my amazement, there lay a little boy about four or five years old asleep under that stack of mess. She slapped the little boy across the rear end and said, “Jerry. Hey, Jerry. Boy, get up and get in my bed ’fo’

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these rats eat you up. Go on now, get in there!” The little boy sleepily got up and followed the path of the rat. That afternoon I visited Tamika at Parkland Hospital and found a cute little girl who was still very sick. A nasogastric tube was hooked up to a suction pump, and IVs were running. She smiled when I entered her room. “Hi, Tamika. How’re you doing, hon’?” “Just fine,” she answered. “Did you come to see me, Miss Green?” “I sure did. Is everybody treating you right up here?” “Yes’m, I guess so, but I want to go home.” “I know you do, baby, but what we want most for you right now is for you to get well. Everybody misses you at school, y’know. Your mother misses you, too, and she wishes she could come more often. She’s been checking up on you every day.” “I know. I sure do want to see Mama and Jerry Junior though. Do you think I will be going home soon?” “I don’t know, honey, but I’ll try to find out something before I leave. Okay?” As it turned out, Tamika remained in the hospital for about two more weeks. I visited as often as I could. One morning after I had been at the school for about three months, a little girl about eight years old came into the clinic and handed me a note from her teacher. The note requested that I examine the child for possible child abuse. I instructed the child to be seated. “I can’t,” she answered, holding on to the chair back and shifting from one foot to the other. I could tell something was terribly wrong with this child. “Debra, why can’t you sit down, honey?” “’Cause I got sores on my ass, that’s how come,” she said without emotion. “Come over here, Debra,” I ordered as I sat down at my desk. “Let me see what’s wrong with your behind so we can get you sitting down again. You know, you just can’t stand up for the rest of your life, now can you?” I said, trying to loosen the tension some. “I ain’t gonna do it. Mama told me to keep my mouth shut.” 

Pride and Poverty

“Okay, Debra. You can keep your mouth shut, but I’m going to take a look at what’s wrong with you. Now lie down here on the bed. Do it Debra . . . right now.” Debra, clad in black tights under her skirt and a long-sleeved shirt in the middle of April, moved reluctantly and lay prone on the cot. I raised her dress and pulled down her tights. I gasped at the horrible sight of raised abrasions, hematomas, bruises, and open sores not only on this child’s buttocks but also all the way to her ankles. It was a wonder that the child could even walk. “What happened to you, Debra? Who did this to you?” I asked as I took the hydrogen peroxide and bandages from the cabinet. “Nobody did it. I fell down,” she answered, unconvincingly. “Debra, honey, did someone beat you? Tell me. I want to help you.” Debra kept silent. She closed her eyes. I could tell she was scared to talk to me, and I felt sorry for this little girl. “Debra, did your father do this to you?” “I ain’t got no daddy.” “Then who did this to you, honey? Your mother?” Again there was no answer from Debra’s lips. Just then, Mrs. Pearce, the child’s teacher knocked on the clinic door. I opened the door slightly, and she entered my office. “Her mother nearly beat her to death again, didn’t she?” she whispered. “You mean her mother did this to her?” I asked. “I’d be willing to bet you two to nothing she did it. Once before she had this child taken away from her by the Child Protective Service for the same kind of stuff. They let her have the girl back. I never thought they should have done that. That woman’s going to kill that child one day. We’ll have to report this to the authorities, you know.” We did report the incident, and within the hour the people from CPS were there. They already knew Debra, and it appeared to me that Debra was glad to see them. She seemed ready to go with them to the hospital for treatment. I watched them walk away with 

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Debra, wondering what in the world was going to happen to that little girl. I was also thankful that there were people like the CPS workers who would protect a child from further harm. There had been no one at all to protect Cleophus. The principal notified Debra’s mother of the situation. The mother left work to come to the school where she cursed us all out. She blamed me for the whole incident, and she had to be restrained by two male teachers from attacking me physically. “You high and mighty nurses think you know everything. What right in hell do you have to report me to them people? You act like you don’t know what it takes to raise a child when you have to work all the time. You think you’re better than me? Well, you ain’t. Who do you think you is taking my child away from me? You’re gonna be sorry that you ever laid eyes on my child. Do you hear me? You will pay for what you’re putting me through, you black bitch. You ain’t Jesus Christ.” I stood there, not really showing any emotions, but I was scared to death. I knew what we had done was right, but I wondered what had been so tumultuous in this woman’s life that she had to beat her child. Now she was trying to blame me. Through her anger, I could see the woman’s frustration and rage, and I could see her lashing out at the whole world for her current state of helplessness. I was her target that day, and Debra had been her target yesterday. Which one of her children would be tomorrow’s target? I had a young sixth-grader helping me out in the office a couple of mornings a week. I taught her how to fill out the appropriate forms, and I welcomed her assistance as I examined some of the kids. Her name was Laura, and she was a bright and ambitious twelve-year-old. I spent a lot of time talking to her about the advantages of a good education and how to better herself. She listened intently and seemed to be hanging on every word I said, searching for some glimmer of hope for her young life. I took every opportunity to talk to her about what was right and what was wrong. I listened to her problems and tried the best I could to point her, always, in the right directions. However, before the school year was over, I learned that this young lady was pregnant. I was 

Pride and Poverty

extremely disappointed and sad over this, and I felt so sorry for this bright young girl whose future was now uncertain. What would happen to her? For Pete’s sake, she would barely be thirteen when the baby was born. Laura had been too ashamed to come to work in the office, so I went in search of her. When she saw me, she dropped her head and attempted to go the other way. I called out to her. She stopped, and when we were face to face, I just held her. The tears came streaming down her sweet, beautiful, little baby face. “I’m sorry, Miss Green. I’m so sorry,” she sobbed as she turned and ran out of the building. She never returned to school after that day. I telephoned her home several times to keep up with her and to let her know that I still believed in her. Her mother said she had gone to live with her aunt in another city. “Maybe it’ll be better for her there. She won’t have to face her friends and everybody. Her aunt is going to adopt the baby,” the mother said. “That may be the best thing for her at this time, Mrs. Hawkins. Does she plan to come back to school when this is over?” “I sure hope so, Miss Green. I sure do hope so.” That was the last I ever heard from Laura Hawkins. I had left my telephone number for her to call me if she needed me. She never called. The principal had said to me on my last day, “I know you’ve been shocked over what you have seen here, and I’ve seen you work at trying to get some of these things resolved. I didn’t interfere with what you were trying to do, but I knew that you thought none of us cared. Now you know how it is. We can only hope to give these children a little motivation so they can help themselves, but if the truth be known, most of these girls and boys you see here will become the exact duplicates of their mamas and papas. They become what they see. You just keep on doing the best you can. That’s all any of us can do now. It’s going to take time and money to right what has been wrong for so many years. Just don’t give up on ’em.” I guess during my short career as a school nurse, I did see sparks 

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of hope among the kids. I saw some kids from extremely dysfunctional home situations come to school every day and do quite well. In spite of all they had encountered and been subjected to, they somehow seemed to be emotionally stable and adaptable. Many of the teachers were hopeful, but many of them felt that the pattern would continue to repeat itself, and they had lost hope. There were kids who came from families who were most assuredly poor but also proud. Most of these parents pushed their kids toward a better life than they had ever experienced. These were the parents who were always present at PTA meetings, open houses, and other school functions, sometimes still wearing their work uniforms. I believed this was where the hope rested. They had very little but they were determined to give it all for their children. They knew the odds were against them, but if there were a grain of a chance to help their kids, they were willing to do whatever it took. They wanted these tender young children to escape the chains of poverty and hopelessness that lurked in the communities where they lived. Now I knew what Mother meant when she said, “Very few things of substance in life are easy, and any accomplishment in life only raises the next bar a little higher.”

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Tokenism,Racism, Prejudice, and Bias     was out for the summer, I returned to work at Methodist in CCU. After being back a few weeks, the director of nurses talked to me about the possibility of my becoming head nurse on the largest patient care unit in the hospital. I guess my first reaction was flattery that they would ask me, but reality was there right on cue, warning me that this would be “another first” and that I probably was not ready for this awesome responsibility. I wondered why they had selected me. I had only been out of nursing school two years or so. Why not one of the other nurses whom I knew was certainly as qualified as I? While I really wanted to take this giant step, paranoia almost overcame me. That night at home, I talked it over with Sed, leaving little doubt in his mind about what I really wanted to do. “The only thing I don’t understand, Sed, is why me? I’m relatively new to this professional arena, and I’m still learning. I know there are other nurses, white nurses, who qualify for this position. Some of them have worked there much longer than I have. Don’t you find that mighty strange?” “Oh, yeah. It sounds strange all right. You’ve gotta know there is a motive behind it, but . . . you’ve also got to understand that she didn’t ask the others. They know that getting a black nurse in that position is good public relations for them,” Sed responded animatedly. “But still the fact is she asked you, didn’t she? Are you going to

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look a gift horse smack dab in the mouth? Jeez, girl. What in the world is wrong with you?” “I just wish I knew the reason for sure, Sed. I really would like to know how I was chosen from among all those nurses who work CCU. There’s Becky, who’s a fantastic nurse and was my classmate for three whole years. Then there’s Rita, who’s even better and who has worked there for a long time. They’re good, Sed, and they’re my friends. When I took my leaves and made time changes for the baby, they were constant in that unit.” “So you’re saying you are not as good as they are, huh?” “No, Sed. You know I didn’t mean that. Hey, look. I want the position, and I’m not trying to find a way out. I’m just trying to understand why the only black RN at this hospital would be selected to be promoted from amongst all the other nurses. That’s what I’m saying and all that I’m saying.” “I wouldn’t care why, if it were me,” Sed answered sarcastically. “If your chances would have been there when they should have been, there would be no question, now would there? Your problem is you’ve got too much pride, and, if you ask me, your little tail is going to continue being left behind unless you change your way of thinking.” “You mean you don’t care that this may be a token appointment?” “You’ve earned the right to the position and I don’t care how many of them have been there longer than you or who was your classmate. I betcha you’ve been on the nursing path longer than they have. . . . And if you had been permitted to enter the school when they barred the doors you would have been there longer than any of the rest of them.” “Being promoted just because I’m black is not something I would like to boast about. As a matter of fact, I think it’s quite insulting.” “Well, I don’t believe it’s absolutely the only reason the woman asked you. I happen to think you’re pretty good at what you do, and obviously a lot of other people think so as well. Maybe part of the reason is public relations. So what?” 

Tokenism, Racism, Predudice, and Bias

“Well, I’m really going to have to think about this one.” “You are an absolute puzzle, Helen Green. I don’t think I will ever figure you out,” Sed had answered. “Well, there’s nothing difficult about figuring me out. I’m as transparent as Saran wrap, and you know that,” I said with a chuckle. I had been given some time to consider the offer, and for about a week I thought about little else. Sed and I had several more conversations about the situation, discussing the pros and the cons. Though I was ambivalent, I finally decided that I would do it. So, on the eighth day after the offer was made, I informed the director that I would accept the position of nurse-manager of 4-Central. Though I was certain that I was being used as a public relations tool as the token black manager, I was finally able to get past that, because I met all the qualifications for the job. Deep down I knew this hospital was trying to pay an overdue penance, and I was going to have to learn how to live with that, as much as I hated the notion. The media—the hospital’s public relations group, and the black and regular press—concerned me. It bothered me to continue to be singled out because of my skin color, but, on the flip side, the pride I saw on the faces of my family and friends attenuated my feelings somewhat. I don’t believe I would have minded making the news if I had believed that the focus was on my intellect or nursing skills, but thinking that the main reason was the color of my skin was disturbing. So the appointment to the position of head nurse lost some of its glitter. After spending about a month on the SMU campus at the Cox Business School taking business management classes, the day finally arrived when I was, indeed, the head nurse of the unit. I was a little scared that morning when I boarded the elevator to go up to the fourth floor, where “my” nursing division was located. The unit was quiet at 6:00 .. so I placed my purse in the small cubical of an office that I shared with the service manager. I was greeted by some of the night shift as I made my walk down the long corridor to the nursing station. I had previously scheduled a short get-acquainted meeting 

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between the 11–7 and 7–3 staff and me. I really wanted an opportunity to let them know that I realized how they adored the former manager, Mr. Deering. I also wanted very much to start our working relationship out on the right foot. I wanted them to get a chance to know me, and I needed to know them as well. In the small conference room, many of the staff sat nervously wondering what I was going to say, and, more importantly, they were surely wondering what things I was going to change. After some cordial greeting time, I opened the meeting. “I think most of you already know me. Anyway, I’m Helen Green, and I will be replacing Mr. Deering as your head nurse. Mr. Deering has already introduced me to many of you, and I would like to say that I am very happy to have the opportunity to know all of you and to get a chance to work with you. I guess what I really want each of you to know is that I’m new at this job, and I will certainly need your help in trying to make this unit as good as it can possibly be. I will be asking for your input on many of the procedures we will be trying out and the new ideas we may be working on. Basically I want you to see that this is our unit, not mine, and it will take the best efforts of us all to feel good about the work we will be doing here.” Most of the group sat around nodding affirmatively while others sat motionless. Still others moved about in their chairs, saying nothing, their faces revealing some anxiety. “If any of you have any questions you would like to ask me or any situation you would like to discuss with me, I’ll be willing to take a stab at whatever it is,” I said as I looked about the room. I paused for a while, smiling at this one and that one, trying to give them permission to speak up, but nobody did. “Okay. If there aren’t any questions, we’ll close this meeting. I thank those of you who stayed over for this meeting and the rest of you for coming in early.” It was nearly three weeks before we had the next full staff meeting. Actually, the meeting was called in response to disruptive mumbles and grumbles I’d heard either directly or through the proverbial hospital grapevine. All of my registered nurses were white, and the rest of the staff was pretty much equally divided

Tokenism, Racism, Predudice, and Bias

according to race. What was most disturbing was that there seemed to be a lack of respect for each other among them. There was no teamwork, and rudeness and arguments between them were too frequent. The small group gathered in the conference room. I started the meeting. “I understand that some of you are unhappy. I’d like to hear from you about whatever is bothering you.” There was a brief moment of silence before one of the aides spoke up. “I’m just gonna say it, Mrs. Green. I don’t like the way you’ve been making the assignments. Some of the girls don’t have nearly the amount of work I have to do. Mr. Deering never made the assignments that way. He divided the load up equally where everybody had the same number of patients. I don’t think you’re being fair.” “Miss Davis, are you saying I always assign you to the most difficult patients?” I asked this lady, who had worked on this unit for more than ten years. “It just doesn’t seem like you’re dividing up the work load right, that’s all. I had Mr. Spencer yesterday, and I have him again today. He’s hard to take care of. It really takes two people to take care of that man. Mr. Deering never would have made the assignments that way,” she answered angrily. “Do you have any suggestions on how we can improve the assignments and still be fair to everybody, Miss Davis?” “Well, all I know is that it seems like every day I’m on duty, I get assigned to the most difficult patients. It seems to me that these hard patients should be spread around among all the aides.” “Thank you, Miss Davis. I will certainly look more closely into your situation to see what we can do. Are there others of you who feel the assignments have been unfair?” I asked, looking about the room. One of the other aides spoke up. “I don’t necessarily think I have the hardest patients to take care, I just have so many patients that I don’t think I can do a good job rushing through them like I have to do. That’s about all I have to say,” she snapped as she turned her head away from me. “Thank you, Olivier. Anyone else?”

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I was really surprised that the registered nurses had not spoken, for it was from them and about them that I was having the most difficult time. I decided to go around the room, asking for comments and solutions. “What about you, Mrs. Daniels? Are you having any special problems?” She leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and confidently said, “There’s no problem here that can’t be worked out if we all worked together.” “I agree with you. What problems do you see?” “That’s it. Nobody’s working together,” she said somewhat gruffly. “Try to be a little more specific if you can, Janice. If you know of specific problems, then let’s get them out in the open right here, right now.” “I’d rather not say right now, but I’d be happy to discuss my concerns with you, alone.” “All right, Janice. We’ll set up a time after this meeting. Do any of the rest of you have any gripes or grievances you wish to express?” A few of the group became restless and began moving about in their seats. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t seem able to get to the root of it. After a long pause, I spoke to them again. “I would like to take this time to try to explain why the patient assignment has changed. Miss Davis, you are right. Your assignments used to be equally distributed among all the aides, and now they’re not. It’s my fault that I did not explain this to you, but I assumed that you would know. I apologize for that. If you notice carefully, the assignments are now being made on the basis of the acuity rating of the patients, that is, how much care a particular patient requires, and not by the number of patients. If you’ve noticed, whenever staff members are assigned a difficult patient, they are assigned a fewer number of patients. So you see, the number of patients is not really the issue here. From time to time all of you will be assigned the same patient for two or three days in a row. The reason for that is so that you can get to know the patient and the care that is required for that patient. I realize that sometimes problems will arise, so when these problems come up, you are to go to your team leader for assistance.

Tokenism, Racism, Predudice, and Bias

I’d like to add that some of you are assigned certain patients because you do such an excellent job with those patients. As far as Mr. Spencer is concerned, Dianne Davis, he asks for you every time you’re not here. You have a way with our older clients and especially with Mr. Spencer. I’ve been pleased with the care you’ve provided him. Is he such a problem for you? Really?” “Sometimes he is, and sometimes he’s not. I’ll help out with him, but I don’t want to have him every single day. Sometimes he drives me crazy being uncooperative, and that takes up all my time. You’re right, I do like working with the older patients, but I also like to be relieved from that sometimes, too,” she explained. “We’ll see if we can change up more often, Miss Davis. Okay?” When the meeting was over, some of the staff seemed still somewhat disturbed that things were changing from the way Mr. Deering ran the unit. I knew that this would be the case, and I also thought that time would take care of most of that. However, by the end of the morning, I had a transfer request on my desk. This didn’t surprise me either. There was some trouble with some of the doctors. I was checking off orders at the nurses’ desk one day when one of the doctors came up, near where I was sitting and began talking loudly to a white aide, as she was documenting patient vital signs. “I’d like the patient in sixty-four to be started on some intravenous fluids. We’ll start her on D-5-W, 1000 cc to run over four hours, and see how she does.” I turned to look at the doctor in a quizzical manner, for he knew he could not give that type of order to a nurse’s aide. He looked away as soon as our eyes met. I rose from my seat and started to leave the nurses’ station when the aide caught me by my arm. “Mrs. Green, Dr. Stewart said . . .” “He was talking with you, Miss Lance. I suppose you will have to do what the doctor requested.” The doctor had picked up the patient’s chart and was looking out over his reading glasses at the conversation that was going on between Miss Lance and me. “Mrs. Green, I can’t do that. I’ll be fired if I tried to do that,” she squealed.

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“That’s right, Miss Lance. It might be well if you reminded the good doctor about that,” I said pleasantly but sarcastically. I guess the doctor had heard enough, for he slammed the chart closed and walked toward where we were standing. He was enraged. “I gave her that order, and I want the order carried out . . . right now.” “Dr. Stewart, you know the policies here. Now, if you don’t want me to start the IV for you, then I suggest you start it yourself, because the nurse’s aides are not permitted to do that . . . as you well know.” “I didn’t intend for her to do it.” “Then who did you intend to do it, Dr. Stewart?” “You heard every word I said to her. I suppose you do know what D-5-W stands for, don’t you?” he said with a smirk on his face. “Dr. Stewart, I won’t stand here and argue with you about my intelligence . . . or lack of it. If you have a special order, then I suggest that you verbalize your orders to me, another R.N., or you can write them in the order book.” “I don’t have to tell you anything.” “That’s right, Dr. Stewart. You have two other alternatives,” I said with all the calm I could muster. “You know what? I don’t know how you ever got this job,” the doctor yelled. “But I’ll be damned if you’re gonna keep it with my patients on this ward.” He threw the patient’s chart across the room and stormed out of the nurses’ station and down the stairs to the director of nurses’ office. A small crowd had gathered outside the nurses’ station wondering what the matter was. I informed them that it was nothing, and they slowly disassembled and went about their duties, still talking to each other about the incident. One of the other nurses picked up the chart and was trying to put it back together again. She handed the chart to me, and I read the order the physician had written. It read, “D-5-W, 1000 cc to run over eight hours.” I had clearly heard this man say over the next four hours. What he said would have caused a serious error with a patient who was already in congestive failure. 

Tokenism, Racism, Predudice, and Bias

I collected the equipment and went to the patient’s room to start the fluids. When I was finished, I made the woman comfortable and left the room. By this time, the doctor was back on the unit searching through different cabinets. “Could I help you find something, Dr. Stewart?” I asked in a soft voice. “Where do you keep the IV fluids and the stuff to start ’em with?” I pointed out the cabinet to him and then asked, “Are you looking for the fluids to start on Mrs. O’Brien?” “Correct. Since that’s the only patient I have on this floor,” he mumbled. “It’s been done, Dr. Stewart.” “Did you start it . . . or . . . did the aide start it?” he asked with an emerging smile on his face. “I started it. I hope that’s okay with you?” He started laughing and walked over and placed his arms around my shoulders. “I sure would like to apologize . . . if you’ll accept it . . . please.” “Oh, that’s okay. Forget it.” “Try to be a little patient with me. Things have been the other way so long, it’s just a little hard for me to get used to the way things are now. Oh, hell, I messed up again, didn’t I?” he said, laughing. “You know, when I left here a little while ago, I kept thinking, ‘Who the hell is she, telling me what to do?’ What I really found out a little while ago is that I’m a bigot. The problem is, I didn’t even know it myself. I had never ever really thought about it myself, but there I was mad as hell because a black nurse told me what to do. Deering used to do that all the time, and I never thought anything about it. And here I am telling you all of this, because I feel like a stupid fool.” He was laughing, and I was laughing too. I found the doc’s apology quite refreshing. “That’s okay, Dr. Stewart. You’ve said enough . . . and thank you.” “I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings. Did I?” “Not really. I’m fine, thank you.” 

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“Well, I do thank you for being so understanding. I’m not even sure I could have taken what I dished out to you. Forgive me?” “No sooner said than done.” The doctor gave me a little smile and left the unit. I hoped an understanding had been reached, and I prayed that it would be that easy with all the others, but it wasn’t. Time after time, there was some kind of minor incident. I think the thing that was the most insulting was that some of the doctors would rather tell me a joke than discuss the progress of their patients with me. I didn’t mind a good clean joke every once in a while, but when this was their only means of communicating with me, it was humiliating and downright disrespectful. Of course, a few of the doctors were genuine professionals. It didn’t seem to matter to them whether I was black or white or polka-dotted. They simply wanted their patients taken care of. Then there were the doctors who would stand face to face with me in a pseudo-conversation, their eyes roaming about the whole room. They would speak loudly so there was no mistaking that what we were talking about was strictly on the up-and-up, purely professional. At least once a week I would come to work at five in the morning so that I could spend some time with the night shift before they went off duty. My schedule was posted in advance on the bulletin board so the staff would not be surprised, and, most of all, so they would not think I was checking up on them. On one of my early mornings, I found the charge nurse in the nurses’ lounge taking a well-deserved break. We exchanged greetings and some small talk, and, as usual, I proceeded to make rounds on the patients who were listed as serious. One of the aides, who was working extra on our unit, joined me as I started down the long corridor. “Do you always come in this early, Mrs. Green?” “Oh, no. I’m not sure I could do this every day. But I do usually make it here around six or so.” “I’m glad you came in early today, because I really want to talk with you about something. I hate to start anything, especially since I don’t work on this floor very often.”

Tokenism, Racism, Predudice, and Bias

“What’s the trouble, Marsha?” “That charge nurse wants me to give medications, and I know I’m not supposed to, but what can I do when he tells me to go and give the patient the pills he has in the little cup?” she asked with deep concern. “You could tell him you’re not supposed to do that. You know that, Marsha.” “I did, but he told me to go and do it anyways. He said it was a stupid rule. I’m scared not to do it, Mrs. Green. He can get pretty mean sometimes.” “I’ll talk to him. But don’t ever administer medications again, okay?” “I sure won’t, Mrs. Green. You will talk with Mr. Dodson about it then?” “I will. Now, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” I went about making rounds, and when I entered Mr. Wiley’s room, I saw a small figure lying quite still, apparently asleep. He was a black man who had presented at the hospital with bleeding gastric ulcers, for which he had received blood. His hematocrit was dangerously low and worried his physician. He had also been in the hospital here some three or four months earlier following a severe myocardial infarction. I walked quietly to his bed and raised my flashlight to the level of his chest to check his respirations. There were none. I quickly turned on the overhead light and saw dried bloody vomitus stringing from the man’s mouth to the pillow. I checked his pulse. It was absent. I checked his pupils. They were dilated, fixed, and unresponsive to light. His skin was cool to my touch. He was dead. My God, this man was dead! I put on his signal light and started positioning the bed for CPR. I gave the man a quick firm blow to the center of the sternum. Nothing. I picked up the telephone and dialed the special code for a “Dr. Heart.” I then began external cardiac massage. In a few seconds, the nurse’s aide came running into the room, followed by the “Dr. Heart” team and, finally, by the charge nurse, Mr. Dodson. The team doctor signaled for me to pause on the compressions as he plugged in his stethoscope and listened for heart sounds. He checked his pupils and carotid pulse.

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“He’s been gone for some time. When did you discover him?” the doc asked. “About four minutes ago,” I answered anxiously. “Looks like he aspirated. Who’s the doctor?” “Kennedy.” “Any family here?” “I don’t think so.” “Chaplain been called?” “Not yet. I’ll do it right away.” The necessary things were done for the patient, including notification of his family. I was still at a loss for what had happened and how long it had been since the patient had been seen. I was angry that the charge nurse had not bothered to answer the signal light. Maybe he was in with another patient and didn’t hear or see the call light, I thought. So when the body had been taken to the morgue and the family had been taken care of, I asked Mr. Dodson when he had last seen the patient. “I’ve been in and out of there all night long,” he snapped with his heavy British accent. “Yes, but exactly what time was it when you saw the patient last, Mr. Dodson? There was nothing written on his chart for this shift.” “Now, don’t go thinking I didn’t go in to see that patient because he was colored. I saw him three or four times tonight.” “What I want to know is when you saw this patient face to face. I’m not talking about going to the patient’s door and looking in, but actually seeing the patient, Mr. Dodson. Do you understand what I’m saying? I need to know when, Cecil.” “What the hell is this? I don’t have to be treated like this by you. If you think being the head nurse gives you the right to question me. . . .” “Mr. Dodson, a patient has died. Died, Mr. Dodson, and all you can do is go on a defensive ego trip. Help me, man, don’t fight me.” I had a difficult time trying to get to the truth from Cecil, but by the time he had left the unit, a timeline had been established, and I was satisfied with that. Cecil Dodson was acting out of guilt when in reality his notes had shown that he had seen Mr. Wiley about 

Tokenism, Racism, Predudice, and Bias

twenty minutes or so before I discovered him. I could live with that. However, his arrogant attitude was a serious problem and would have to be dealt with. The autopsy revealed that Mr. Wiley had suffered a massive heart attack from which it was not likely he would have survived. Nevertheless, Mr. Dodson went on a heightened discrediting mission, trying to harm me professionally wherever he could. His anger was so apparent and so vicious that his team was worried about him and especially about his telling the patients what a poor manager I was. I would arrive at work each morning only to find a list of things that he claimed had not been done on the previous shift. He did a lot of talking to others outside the unit, and he had been seen rummaging through my office during the night trying to find . . . something, anything, that he thought would cause professional harm to me. A couple of weeks after the incident, I received a telephone call while at work. “This is Mrs. Green. How can I help you?” “Are you the head nurse?” the muffled, gruff voice asked. “Yes, I am. Can I help you, please?” “I know you’d better help me and a lot of other folk right now.” “Pardon me?” “I said you can help a lot of us by getting out of there, bitch.” “Who are you and what do you want?” “We all want your black ass out of our hospital. Nobody wants you here.” “Sir, if you’re looking for the psychiatric wing, they gave you the wrong number.” “I said we want your black ass out of there or you will pay a price!” I hung up the telephone. I was a little shaken, but for some reason I was not afraid, and I was not going to quit, especially in response to a sad, cowardly telephone call. I’d been faced with better than that. Really! I talked with Sed about the incident, and he grew quite concerned. 

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“They’re all coming out of the woodwork now. If they couldn’t get you one way, they’d get you another way. Well, I think I’d better start driving you to and from work. Just let ’em start something with me.” “Nobody’s going to start anything, honey. And I don’t need you taking me to and from my job. I can take care of this . . . my way. I’m a big girl now.” “Have any idea of who might have made that call?” “I have an idea, but I’m not certain. There are people who don’t like me, you know, for one reason or another.” “Do you think it was that male nurse you’ve been having trouble with?” “I really don’t know, honey.” “Just be careful, Helen. Be real careful. Do you understand me?” “I will, Sed. I promise.”

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Inevitability and the Price of Change        were settling down on the nursing unit. The Wiley incident was not the main topic of discussion anymore, though Cecil Dodson continued his angry and defiant behavior. This was a new day, and I was providing a new type of leadership. It was a difficult time for me and for the staff as well, but I liked the way things were steadily progressing. The law of averages and health-care history, however, made me aware that more likely than not the unity and calm that had begun to emerge might not continue. So, in the back of my mind was the question of when the fly would light in the ointment . . . again. I wasn’t looking for the fly, but I was aware that whenever filth emerges, flies are sure to follow. The nursing administration office was hiring nursing clinical coordinators. These RNs with higher degrees and more experience were to assume leadership positions and take the clinical responsibilities off the shoulders of the director of nursing. These nurses were the support and guiding arms of the head nurses or nurse managers. This was a new concept for this hospital, and it was bound to have its growing pains. There was one CNC each assigned to the med-surg units, critical care and CCU, OB-GYN and pediatrics. The one assigned to the med-surg units was Cindy Chamberlain. From the outset, there were disagreements between this new clinical coordinator and the head nurses she supervised. Since I had the largest unit, the fall-out from the disagreements multiplied

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among my staff. At first it was difficult to determine whether the undercurrent among the staff was internal or external. I soon learned that the trouble had started elsewhere, but the debris had landed here and stayed. In the beginning I had no problems with Ms. Chamberlain. I saw her as quite charming and a gifted leader. She looked like a cute teen-ager with a bouncing blonde ponytail and braces and rubber bands on her teeth. Nevertheless, she appeared quite experienced and knowledgeable about clinical nursing issues. It was good to have her around on the unit, and I thought I could learn much from her. It wasn’t long before I came to know that the woman was also quite gifted in her ability to manipulate staff underhandedly and negatively. I saw her do it with some of my staff; she would lead them to the cliff and then walk away, assuming no responsibility for having gotten them there. I, then, would be left to clean up the mess and put the pieces back together again. These maneuvers were done in such undesirable ways that I began to wonder if the woman had an emotional problem, whether she was racially prejudiced, or whether she was totally power hungry. I can remember talking to Cindy one afternoon in my office about the goings on within nursing service and specifically about my unit. “How do you think things are going on this unit, Cindy? This is really my first experience with management, and I could use any suggestions you can offer me,” I admitted. “Are you kidding me? Helen, if I had another head nurse that was as good as you are, I wouldn’t have any worries. None. You know, you’re going places at this hospital. Have you ever thought about being a clinical nurse coordinator?” “Oh, no! I’ve had my hands full just trying to run this one unit, and that has been quite a challenge. No, thank you. I really need some more experience before I attempt to tackle anything like that. Hey, I’ve only been out of school three years.” “Well, you’d make a fine one, and you’ll get there if I have anything to say about it,” she said with sort of a wink and a nod. “Already you’re the best head nurse I have. Some of these people I

The Inevitability and the Price of Change

supervise have been in their positions for three . . . four . . . five years, and they don’t have half the management skills that you have. Now, that’s remarkable. Now, between you and me, I really think you’re nursing director material. You’ve got the demeanor, the attitude, the calm, and the smarts.” “Surely you jest,” I answered, laughing. “Now that, I know I’m not ready for.” Things went on in a positive way for a while, but they began to change when we had a minor disagreement over a clinical issue one day. Actually, the disagreement was about whether to use egg-crate foam or lambs wool on a bony little patient who was on complete bed rest. Ms. Chamberlain liked one, and I liked the other. From that day on, this woman never let up. She told my colleagues that I was a rebel, a hell-raiser, and a real problem. For the life of me, I could not understand what had happened. “What? Me, a real problem?” I responded to one of the other head nurse’s report of Cindy’s accusations. I was laughing because it was so ridiculous. “This woman is either crazy or she must be Cecil Dodson’s sister.” We both laughed. As time went on, with Cindy’s constant harassment, I wondered what it was profiting me to continue to stay in such an adverse atmosphere. I had held the position for more than a year now, and I had gained confidence and a certain respect from my staff as well as the physicians. I was satisfied with what I had accomplished on the unit, especially the way the attitudes had changed about client care. Staff appeared pretty happy with the new system, and the docs were pleased with the care their patients were receiving. Some of the docs were requesting that their patients be placed on my unit, and this was a complete turnaround from earlier days. The staff took a lot of pride in what they did, and there was healthy competition between them, which I saw as good for the patients. Nevertheless, the tremendous work was wearing on me, and the negative vibes from the CNC represented another weight around my ankles. I didn’t need that. I was seriously considering turning in my resignation when a member of the South Dallas Business and Professional Women’s Club approached me. I was informed that my name had been sub-

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mitted by one of the members to receive its annual recognition, the Trailblazer Award. This was an award given to one or more black individuals who were first to accomplish something in a particular field. I was extremely humbled to be recognized by people outside of my own family for the struggle I had been through. So I decided that I would wait until after this recognition was over before I submitted my resignation. Actually, I didn’t really want to give up the position and the unit with which I had worked so hard. However, I was feeling more and more as if I had to do it or my professional reputation would be so tarnished that it would be difficult to mobilize my career. During the Trailblazer recognition services, I was among several black professionals presented awards before a huge crowd of people, both black and white, in the ballroom of one of Dallas’ largest and swankiest hotels. I had always been proud of my accomplishments, but I was feeling emptiness inside. I knew that being a pioneer on my particular path was rugged indeed and that my troubles were far from over at the hospital. I recall ambivalent feelings as I sat at the table that day, remembering why I was there and recognizing that my fight had really just begun. Being a trailblazer was only the beginning. About three weeks later, the harassment from this CNC continued in the form of disrespect to me as the unit manager. She aligned herself on the side of disgruntled staff against me, trying to embarrass me before my staff and patients and others too numerous to name. I was getting pretty fed up, and I believed it was about time the two of us talked. I was deeply concerned about what was being said to others, especially those outside the unit who might just believe what they heard. As the old adage goes, “any opinion that goes unchallenged is true.” I wanted and needed the respect of my colleagues, so I had to clear things up with Cindy Chamberlain. I set up the meeting. In my office, Mrs. Chamberlain sat in the straight-backed side chair with her legs crossed, looking very confident, her tiny notepad in her lap. I began the conversation. “Mrs. Chamberlain, I think it’s obvious that something has gone wrong between us. My problem is, I’m

The Inevitability and the Price of Change

having some difficulty knowing what it is. I’m hoping that you will enlighten me on what you see as the problem.” I was trying hard to be professional. “The only problem I see, Helen, is that you’re jealous of me and of what I’ve accomplished in a few short years, and you really just need to get over it.” My jaw fell. I guess I must have looked like a fool because I had no earthly idea what the woman was talking about. She continued. “We both know that you would like to become clinical coordinator, and you’re jealous because I’m younger than you, and I’m your supervisor. But I’m used to that, and you’re no different from the other head nurses I’ve had to deal with in the past. It doesn’t bother me,” she snapped. I thought, you arrogant, egotistical witch. You have been spreading rumors about this nurse and that one, and now you’re conceited enough to have delusions of grandeur. But I tried to remain cool, and, more than anything else, I had to keep remembering that this was just another one of her tricks to get me to explode, so she could take me down. “You can’t be serious. Cindy, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I am not the least bit jealous of you. Why should I be? Seriously, now, I really would like to know from you, face to face, what it is that’s bothering you so much about me. Can we talk about that?” “Well, Mrs. Green, I think you know of the incident with Mr. Dodson, where you accused him of not looking after the black patient who died. Well, I believe you were wrong, and Cecil has been seriously hurt over your allegations. Every white person doesn’t hurt blacks, you know.” “What were my allegations? As you well know, I never accused Cecil of anything. Why would you choose to believe him in his state of obvious fury?” “Now, I believe you know Mr. Dodson did not deliberately cause that man’s death. Come on, Helen. You know he didn’t, but you acted as if he did.” “I believe, Mrs. Chamberlain, that there are certain functions charge nurses must perform. As you know, on the night shift, one of the primary tasks is to check to see that all the patients are okay,

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especially the ones who are seriously ill. I believe Cecil Dodson did that, and I have told him so. I never said anything different. The rest of the stuff you’re talking about is all in Cecil’s head. My problem was and is Cecil’s attitude toward me. I do not and will not accept his arrogant and disrespectful attitude.” “Well, your nurses have been complaining to me that . . .” “Mrs. Chamberlain, let’s call a spade, a spade, okay? The nurses on this unit have consistently informed me of your interrogation of them about how I run this unit. You have called them up and had them come to your office behind my back, and you have called them at their homes, looking for some kind of “bad seed” to plant on me. Now, Cindy, we’re finally in this room face to face, and I would appreciate if you would tell me straight up what problem you have with me. Otherwise I’m going to consider your behavior improper and total harassment.” “Your reports have been turned in late to nursing service.” “Come on, Cindy. Here is my report record,” I said, pointing to the duplicate report log. “And you know every report I’ve turned in has been on time, except for the one where you personally gave your permission to turn it in a few hours late because of an emergency on the unit. Would you like to see your signature of approval? Perhaps you’ve forgotten,” I said sarcastically. “It was late nonetheless,” she answered, somewhat embarrassed that I had duplicates of records of my transactions with her. I knew then that this was a personal vendetta. I refused to let her conveniently accuse me without any proof. “Cindy, I’ve been accused by you of something, what I don’t know, but let me tell you what I think anyway.” I knew I was walking on thin ice, but somehow I had to do it. This anguish had to stop right now. It had gone on much, much too long. “The difference between you and me is that I know, without fear of contradiction, who I am. I’ve had a long time to figure that out. I don’t need anyone to validate me. Somehow, you have tried to make me responsible for your personal inadequacies. I won’t accept your failures, Cindy. I just won’t do that, no matter how you try to undermine me. I just will not buy in to what you’re selling.” 

The Inevitability and the Price of Change

“Are you finished?” she asked, uncrossing her legs and moving to the edge of her seat. “Not quite. Now I know that for some reason you want me out of this job. I just want to know why. Could I get that one answer from you . . . straight up?” “Are you going to resign, Helen?” “That’s a decision I’ll have to make, isn’t it?” She was gone, just that quickly. Whether she was aware of it or not, she had finalized my thoughts about resigning. I closed the door to my office and thought about what I should do. I could hear Mother’s words, “Don’t make decisions when you’re upset.” I settled in the old chair and began thinking about my future. When the shift was over, I went home and talked to Sed about my decision to resign. He wanted me to do whatever I believed was the right thing. I really didn’t know just what to do, so I meditated and prayed. After a few days, I decided I would resign and go to work for one of the smaller community hospitals where there was not so much “dog-eat-dog” politics. Maybe I’d go back to Garland Memorial. I sat down one night, composed the resignation letter, and decided I would turn it in to the director of nursing the next day. As I wrote the letter, I grew angrier that this additional weight of unfairness had been placed on me. My thoughts wandered back to my beginning, where education seemed to be my only hope. Now, because of this education and very sick individuals, I was actually being forced out of a wonderful home I had made for myself. Though I knew Cindy Chamberlain had a personal dislike of me, I was smart enough to know that unless there was some support for her irrational behavior, this woman would never have laid her professional life on the line as she was doing. She was too smart to attack the one black manager in the entire facility unless she had a support base somewhere. That certainly would have been political suicide for her. So, the politically correct thing to do was to discredit me first, gain the support of my peers in my degradation, and then let me go, either through dismissal or demotion. Either way I would be the one paying the price. They would look like the good Samaritans who gave the black girl a 

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chance, and she blew it. I seriously wondered who was at the base of the trouble and to what extent they were willing to go to get rid of me. By the end of the week, every nurse manager in the hospital had either called or come by to see what the matter was between Cindy and me. I had not said a word to any of my colleagues. Each knew of Cindy’s deceptions by now, and she had stung most at least once, yet they were too frightened and too squeamish when it came down to standing up with me in public. Everyone, that is, except for Sharon Speaks, my nursing school classmate. Sharon would come up to my unit every day, and we would go to the coffee shop together for break. She drafted a letter to the director of nurses and to the board of trustees, outlining how she and other nurses and staff felt about me being railroaded. Not only was Sharon visually and verbally active in my cause, she was also comforting and respectful of my need for some privacy, my need to handle my own affairs, my need to vent, and my need for a true and unrelenting friend. She was there when I needed her, although it would have been so easy for her to be silent or secretive about our friendship. Sharon Speaks was the only true friend I had at this hospital. A few weeks after my talk with Cindy Chamberlain, I found myself in the office of the director of nurses, explaining why I was resigning. “Helen, we really don’t want you to go.” “I’m not sure that statement is quite accurate, Miss Lee. But I’ve come to accept the inevitability of the chaos created by my working relationship with Mrs. Chamberlain. So, I think the best thing for me to do is to resign my position and go to work somewhere else. I’ve given this considerable thought, and I think that would be best.” “Why, Helen? I’ve heard nothing but good reports from just about everybody. Do you want me to talk to Mrs. Chamberlain? Would that help?” “I’m not sure anything can help now. There was a time when I thought that a mediator might have been helpful in our situation, but that didn’t happen. I’ve tried to reason with the woman on

The Inevitability and the Price of Change

many occasions, but she is unreasonable. The trouble is, she and I are cut from two different bolts of fabric. We will never match up and she keeps reminding me of that.” “Helen, will you try once more to make a go of it? Maybe I’m the problem, Maybe I haven’t given you the support you needed. And maybe . . .” “I appreciate what you’re trying to say, Miss Lee, but I think my resignation is the right thing to do for me at this time. I really can’t see any other way.” “Are you sure, absolutely sure, that this is what you want to do?” “No . . . no . . . I wish I didn’t have to do it. I sincerely love my job, but I know I can no longer tolerate being the scapegoat of this woman. I’m more than a little tired of her using me for target practice. I’m not willing to tolerate it any longer.” “Let me talk to her, Helen. She’s a good person, and I think there has just been a bad misunderstanding between the two of you. I think this thing can be settled without your giving up the position you’ve been so great at. Let me try to settle it.” “I sincerely appreciate the effort, Miss Lee, but you are her boss as well as mine. It appears to me that if something were going to be done, it should have been done long before it got this far. I’ve read petitions signed by every nurse manager on the med-surg units and most of the nurses working the day shift. Each of them seems to believe that Cindy Chamberlain is a power-hungry, indiscreet menace. I don’t believe the trouble is just a simple misunderstanding between us. However, I thank you very much for your kind offer. I’ve given you thirty days on the notice. I’ll be leaving after that time.” “Helen, I really did not know the extent of this problem until today, and I am so sorry about everything. I sure wish I could change your mind.” “Thank you for your understanding, Miss Lee.” I left the director’s office feeling ambivalent about my future, yet at the same time I felt a sense of relief. I knew somewhere there would be a place for me. I knew there had to be a balance somewhere. I just didn’t know where or how it would come about. My staff was dumbfounded when I informed them of my decision

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to resign. There were some tears, some hugs, and some requests for me to stay, but they soon recognized that I had made up my mind. This was a very hard time for me. I had finally developed a staff that believed in me, and I was having to walk away. I wanted so much to stay, but I knew I had to go. About a week or so before my resignation would be final, I was called to the director’s office once again. She’s not going to change my mind, I thought as I entered her office. She asked me to be seated. “Helen, I know you’re set on leaving, but just hear me out on one more thing.” “Miss Lee, my mind is really made up, and frankly I’m just not in . . . ” “Just hear me out, Helen. I really don’t want to see you go, and as much as you may believe it, there is no conspiracy against you, at least I don’t know of any such thing. I don’t think you know the extent of the influence you have on people here. You are a complete package. You’ve got a lot of talent and excellent nursing skills, and those are desirable and winning skills by the computations of any director of nurses. We need you here, and I hate to lose you to another hospital if I can make you a good enough offer to stay.” She tried to laugh. “I really need someone in the education department to be an instructor and assistant coordinator of that department until we find a master’s-prepared director. You have what it takes to do an excellent job, and they need some leadership up there. I think you would be excellent in this position. The turnaround of the staff on 4-Central proves you’ve got what it takes. Not just anyone could have done that. The doctors are even singing your praises, and you know we don’t get that very often.” “Thank you. You’re right, I do like teaching. I’m just not sure I’m ready to do that right now. I’m planning on getting my bachelor’s degree pretty soon, and that’s going to take a lot of my time.” “Well, Helen, this would be the perfect job for you. You can set the hours convenient for you, and there are no early or late hours. You wouldn’t have to work weekends either. At least think about it. 

The Inevitability and the Price of Change

Don’t think about how angry you are right now. Try to concentrate on what you can do to advance your career. And, by the way, the job pays more than the position you’re currently in.” “My pay is not the problem, Miss Lee, but I’ll think about the offer.” “That’s okay. Take as much time that you need. Just think about it.” My remaining days on the unit yielded both sadness and sweet relief. My last day brought beautiful words from the entire staff, even Dr. Stewart. It was quite touching when I learned that Dr. Stewart had contributed the most toward my departing gift. He was there during the party, serving as sort of host. Well, at least one bridge has been crossed, I thought, and I was pleased about that. A few days later I decided to take the job in the staff development department. I still wasn’t sure this was the right move, but if it weren’t, I could still resign as planned. I had unpleasant thoughts of seeing Cindy Chamberlain everyday, but at least she would be out of my hair, as I would be reporting directly to the director of nursing. I welcomed that.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Carrot and Stick         in the education department for nearly a year before the administration finally hired the master’sprepared, non-nursing director they had promised. This news came at a very good time, because Bonnie and I were working our tails off without prior experience in a formal education department. Though we had learned a lot from our colleagues at other health-care facilities, I, for one, was sure that teaching classes did not have to be preceded by all the work Bonnie and I were doing. I was beginning to like classroom teaching very much. It was amazing to me the satisfaction that followed preparing a student or group of students to provide service to the patients. I taught the R.N. and L.V.N. classes, and Bonnie was responsible for teaching the nurse’s aide course. We both cooperated to do new employee orientation every other week. We had a clerk-typist, Sheila, who was an unhappy transfer from another department. She was not the most skilled person in the world, but she was willing and did have an outgoing personality, which helped out a lot. Yet she made consistent typing errors, and she forgot to do a lot of the things we asked her to do. Being as compulsive as I was, this nearly drove me crazy. I knew she would never stand the test when the new person arrived, but I was unwilling to let her go. Larry Daley finally made his debut into the department. He was about six feet tall, slender, and had beautiful teeth and dark brown hair that was receding and thinning. He seemed to be in his early forties. Most important, he wore a nice warm smile. We introduced

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ourselves, and then Bonnie and I showed him about the department. We took him down to the coffee shop for a little getacquainted talk. He seemed pleasant enough and comfortable to talk with. Finally, our team was complete. During that week we introduced Larry to the projects and classes we were involved in and generally welcomed him into the department the best we could. He was a little bit standoffish and seemed somewhat distant from whatever we showed him, though he was quite pleasant about it. He always seemed to be thinking about something and reminded me of the statue of “The Thinker.” There seemed to be another agenda, something that we didn’t know about. I was a little puzzled, but I was still quite pleased that we had a leader, and, for now, that was quite enough. One day after Larry had been there two weeks, he called Sheila into his office and let her go. She came out of his office sobbing and told us what had happened. I was not the least bit surprised even though I felt very sorry for her since she was supporting her disabled husband. I really wanted to tell Larry about the possibility of placing Sheila in another area where the workload was not so intensive, but I didn’t. I just told Sheila to go to personnel and see what jobs were available that she could do. She thanked me, but at the time she was feeling overwhelmed and angry. She finally got her things together and left the office. Bonnie and I wished her well as we hugged her good-bye. Larry’s next step was to try to set up our office spaces to improve efficiency. Over the period of one week, we completely changed offices twice. Each time we moved, Bonnie and I had to transfer records and files and books and all the stuff educators need in teaching. Finally, it seemed that he was pleased. We were glad! There were many, many disappointments over the next four or five weeks. Most of these revolved around Larry’s poor organizational skills and his lack of attention to details. I began to wonder what was going on. Please, God, don’t let this be a mistake. Make everything okay up here. Please don’t let hell visit me up here as well, I thought one morning as I prepared to make rounds on my students. As I was leaving the office, Larry asked me if he could go with me. “Sure, come along,” I answered, delighted that he was at last

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showing some interest in what I was doing. He went with me from floor to floor as I checked out each of the students. Actually, I was dumbfounded by his lack of understanding of the routines in hospital settings and his lack of professional knowledge about in-service education and routine patient care. I knew he would not be proficient in these areas, but the degree to which he failed to understand was disappointing. Finally, after about two hours, I had completed my rounds, so I invited Larry to coffee with me. “Do you mind very much if we have a break in my office, Helen? It’s on me,” he responded. “Okay. That’s fine with me.” When we were seated in his office, he closed the door. What’s going on? I thought as I tried not to show the alarm on my face. Then he spoke. “Helen, I was wondering . . . what do you think about Bonnie?” he asked nervously, leaning back in his brand-new executive chair. “I don’t really know what you mean, Larry,” I answered, looking and feeling puzzled and a little stupid. “I’ve been watching her, and—God, she doesn’t act like she knows much about nursing. Hell, she doesn’t even look like a nurse. Ha, ha, ha!” He leaned further back in his chair. “I always thought nurses were cute. Ha, ha, ha!” “In my opinion, Larry, Bonnie is an excellent nurse and an even better instructor. I really enjoy working with her. We make a good team.” “Well, you know she’s pregnant, don’t you?” he asked with a devilish grin on his face. “I think this department will be a helluva lot better off if she doesn’t come back after the baby.” “What? Bonnie not come back? Larry, she’s great at what she does. She’s been good for the department and has the energy of ten people. She has built a superior course for the aides, which we could even market to other hospitals, especially the smaller ones. What are you saying?” “Look, I just don’t like that girl, okay? She’s impolite, and she’s ornery as hell. I just don’t think she goes with the image the 

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department is trying to develop,” he responded, steepling his hands in front of his face. “Larry, I really feel uncomfortable discussing Bonnie with you. Maybe you ought to be telling her these things. She does deserve to know,” I said as I excused myself and left the room. A couple of days passed and the thought of what Larry had said was really playing on my mind. I believed that Bonnie was going to get the shaft, and somehow I felt responsible. That Friday morning when we were setting up for Monday’s classes, Bonnie confronted me about my attitude. “What’s on your mind, Helen? You’ve been acting kind of funny for the past two or three days. Did I do or say anything wrong?” “Oh, no, Bonnie. It’s nothing like that. I guess I’ve just been preoccupied.” “You sure have. I was worried that I had done something to you. Well, what’s the matter? Trouble at home? Shalimar okay?” “Bonnie, things are okay at home. Don’t worry, I’m fine.” “I do worry, Helen. You and I have been through too much together. I know when something is wrong with you, so you may as well tell me what it is.” “Bonnie, I just can’t talk about it right now, okay?” “Something about Larry, right? Well, is it? It is something about him, isn’t it?” I didn’t answer. I felt so bad for knowing what I knew. I wanted to run as fast as I could go and cover my face from the shame I felt for not telling Bonnie about what was going to happen to her. “If it’s about Larry, Helen, don’t worry about it. The bastard’s had it in for me ever since I told him to go to hell when he started quizzing me about your morals and your competence and all that bull. He’s one arrogant SOB, if you ask me.” “He’s been quizzing you about me?” I asked, thoroughly surprised. “He just did it once, and when he realized he had screwed up, he was pissed. I told him if he had half the intelligence and values you had, he could sprout wings and fly. Can you believe that? I walked out, and he hasn’t spoken to me since . . . thank God.” 

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“Why was he doing that? What does he have against me, Bonnie?” “Don’t be naïve, Helen. You know what he has against you. You, of all people know that you don’t have to do anything for that kind to single you out. Simply put, he’s a racist. He said he didn’t want any black people working in the department. He said it would lower the quality of the department, and that it just didn’t look right.” “He said that to you?” “He sure did. He offered me the chief instructor’s position, and I told him that if you didn’t get the position he could stick it in his ear, ’cause I didn’t want it. He hasn’t spoken to me since. Frankly, Helen, I really don’t give a damn. When I come back from maternity leave, I’m going to . . .” “Bonnie, Bonnie, I’m not sure he’s going to accept you back in the department after the baby. I’m so sorry, Bonnie. I’m so sorry.” “Oh, don’t worry about it, Helen. That’s what lawsuits are for.” Bonnie was steamed, to say the least, and she had good reason to be. For the next few days around the department, you needed an ice scraper to get through the day. It was simply awful. I had to be polite to the boss, and I had to keep on working, seeing him on my units and knowing what he had said about me and what he said was going to happen with Bonnie for no reason. I could not believe this man was capable of being so deceitful. I thought I had seen it all with Cindy Chamberlain, but he had topped even her. About two weeks later Larry called me into his office to give me my performance appraisal. He had only been there about ten weeks, but he was ready to give me an annual performance review. He rated me excellent in all areas except one. The man had rated me unsatisfactory in adaptation. I could hardly contain myself, not because I thought I had superior adaptation skills, but because I knew that this was my searing punishment for not standing by him as he threw my colleague to the dogs. And, all along, he saw me as a dog or lower. “I don’t understand this unsatisfactory rating in adaptation, Larry. Explain that to me, please,” I said calmly as I leaned back in the straight-backed chair.

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“Well, Helen, it’s no secret that you don’t like change, and I don’t believe you liked it one bit when I came in and took over your position.” “My position? I was never the director. You knew that, Larry.” “Aw, c’mon, Helen. I’ve talked with Mrs. Chamberlain, and she said you didn’t really accept her either when . . .” “Now you wait just a minute. Cindy Chamberlain is not really known for her biblical lips, Larry. Anyway, what does that have to do with this rating?” “Look, that’s only one item, and, to tell you the truth, if I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t rate you unsatisfactory anywhere. But I was angry with you after our talk, and I guess I just reacted. I’m really sorry about that, but that’s the real reason.” He leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head and continued. “You still got an above-average rating, overall. So, go ahead and sign it and I’ll make sure your raise will be on your next check.” “Change the rating, Larry, and I’ll be glad to sign it.” “I can’t do that, Helen. The original has already gone in. Hey, just sign the damn thing. Nobody’s gonna look at it anyway.” “Forget it, Larry. I’m not signing this evaluation. As a matter of fact, I would like to file a formal protest.” “Don’t be foolish, woman. Sign the thing!” “It’s the principle of the thing, Larry. You downgraded me because you were angry with me. That definitely is not fair. I am not signing it!” “I get the feeling, Helen, that you think you deserve special favors because you’re black. I don’t give any special favors, young lady.” “And I don’t ask for them either, Larry. I’ve made my way standing on my own two feet. I don’t need nor want any handouts from you. What I want is what is fair. Nothing more and nothing less.” “That kind of talk can get you fired, you know. Do you think I won’t fire you because you’re black? I’ll fire you, young lady, in a heartbeat,” Larry responded angrily. “Then fire me, Larry,” I said as I backed slowly and quietly out of the room. I left the hospital that afternoon finding myself, once again, in a

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state of turmoil. I was bitter and angry, and I vowed to myself that I would go down swinging if it came to that. It was 1972, and I was still fighting these battles. Being black was only one part of it. Now, being a woman was added to the universal discrimination repertoire. But those were the cards I’d been dealt, and I would play them out. I’d already ridden on the back of the bus, behind the white line that separated me from fairness. I had eaten in the kitchens of restaurants where they took my money and wouldn’t let me sit down where I chose. I had used the restrooms and drunk from water fountains labeled, “Colored.” I’d given over my place in the shopping line when a white woman demanded to be served before me. I had waited nearly seven long years for the nursing school to integrate so I could get an education. I had indeed paid the price of freedom, and Larry Daley was not going to extract that from me. No, I never would roll over and forget. With my documentation in hand, I went in to talk with the hospital administrator, who had hired Larry in the first place. I handed a copy of my evidence to him as I took a seat. He glanced over it and then handed it back to me. “Exactly what is it you wanted to see me about, Mrs. Green?” “I wanted to talk to you about an unfair evaluation given to me by Larry Daley.” “What do you want or expect me to do about this evaluation? It looks pretty good to me.” “I want you to insist that Larry correct this evaluation. He said if he had it to do over again, he would not rate me the same. I have it all here on my anecdotal notes. Would you like to look these over again?” I asked, attempting to hand the binder to the administrator. “I don’t think I need to. I’ll get in contact with you if I find that I need to talk with you again. Now, you really do need to try to work with this man. He’s a fine educator and a very good manager. You could learn a lot from him if you would just give him a chance.” Give him a chance? I thought as I stood up to leave the room. I stopped at the door and looked back at this administrator who didn’t have the time to spend on these little spats. Nonetheless, he

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was quick to say, in a roundabout way, even though he didn’t know or want to hear the facts, he was sure that I was the one at fault. I spoke. “I really don’t want to cause any trouble, Mr. Scott, but the truth is the world is changing, and I’m part of that change, and so are you and Larry Daley and the rest of the staff here at Methodist. You can talk to Mr. Daley or not talk to him. The decision is yours. But this one thing you can be sure of—I will not sit by, any longer, and let injustice set my life’s path for me. It just won’t happen, Mr. Scott. Not anymore.” He was startled and confused and didn’t really know what I meant. He just stared at me, and I believe he was speechless. I quietly and confidently left the room with my head held high but also without any plan for future dealings with this issue. I had hoped, beyond hope, that this issue could have been resolved, but it didn’t happen. A week went by. Frankly, I had hoped to hear from Mr. Scott by this time, in anticipation that he may have really given the complaint some thought. I had hoped he would make a sincere effort to understand what was happening in the department. Really, though, after all was said and done, what was he going to do? I didn’t really want him to fire Larry. I only wanted him to investigate what had happened. I guess I really wanted the administrator to show some evenhandedness in whatever he did. I went about my work, staying out of Larry’s way. Bonnie and Larry were having a nonverbal war, so hot that I could almost see the steam forming whenever they were near each other. Larry and I were having sort of a polite, verbal shoot-out. The new secretary was worried about what would happen when the entire fuse went. She was polite to us, yet she didn’t want to get herself into trouble. Nobody blamed her. I soon learned that Cecil Dodson had been terminated for incompetent work and lying about another incident. Since his discharge he had made threats to the hospital that, in his words, “catered more to niggers than to their own kind.” (Little did he know.) In connection with Cecil’s termination, Cindy Chamberlain had lost all her head nurses either through resignation or transfer. This included the person who had replaced me on

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4-Central. Cindy was now under fire from the administration. Whenever I saw her, she looked like a tired, pathetic zombie. The confident bounce to her walk was noticeably absent. She looked defeated and alone, but I could not feel sorry for her. One extremely busy day in the department, I received a telephone call from the administrator who requested that I come down to his office when I was off duty. So, at 4:30, I was sitting in Mr. Scott’s office waiting for an answer to my grievance. I was nervous, and I worked hard to try to cover it up. It had been nearly three weeks since my complaint. While I was aware that some type of an investigation had occurred, I truthfully didn’t have a clue of which way it was going to go. I was indeed apprehensive. Glen Scott was polite and behaved with a business air of what I called “pseudo-objectivity.” After a bit of small talk, he began his carefully drafted script. “Helen, I’ve talked with Larry, and it seems to me there’s just a simple misunderstanding between the two of you, and I suppose you’re just going to accept that he’s your boss, and that’s the way it’s going to be.” I felt my face growing hot, and I could feel the rate of my breathing increase and deepen as this man continued his defense of Larry. “I feel, Helen, if you realize that this is a fair and honest man, to all people, you’d like him. He’s a good guy. Now, you’ve had excellent evaluations since you’ve been with us, and the matter of this little item on this form doesn’t matter worth beans. You’re making too much of this. Just let it go, and let’s all move on.” “Thank you, Mr. Scott, for looking into this matter. I don’t know too much about you, and I can tell you really don’t know me either, for, if you did, you would know that I don’t lie, and I am not a hysterical female, as you are suggesting. If you really knew me you would also know that I stand accountable and responsible for whatever I do or say. I don’t run away from problems, Mr. Scott, and I don’t bury them, pretending they don’t exist. I came to you because I believed that an injustice was done to me and I thought you were interested in the well-being of all the staff at Methodist. Now I hear you say that the best thing for me to do is just shut up, keep quiet, and go ahead as if nothing ever happened. I must admit that I am 

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both surprised and sorry to hear that from you, sir. You see, Mr. Scott, you’ve called Larry fair and honest. I call him vicious and vindictive. You’ve called him ‘a good man.’ I call him a narrow-minded, egotistical bigot. Is that the mindset you want from your department directors? Now, you tell me, Mr. Scott, why do you think I felt it so necessary to come to see you about this issue that you have categorized as nothing? Do you think I just wanted to start trouble?” “In the real world, Helen, nobody’s a saint, not even you. I really don’t believe things are as bad as you’ve represented them between you and Mr. Daley.” “If that’s the way you feel, then I suppose I fooled myself when I thought all this could be handled amicably. But now, I guess there’s nothing more for us to talk about,” I said as I rose to leave. Mr. Scott rose and was approaching me with his right hand extended, smiling. I did not extend mine. “You’re an excellent nurse, Helen, and I hear from everyone that you’re a wonderful teacher. Don’t ruin your record here with petty complaints like this. It just does not become a sophisticated person like you. Let’s just bury the hatchet, okay?” His plea was making me sick to my stomach. “Mr. Scott, it sounds to me that you are threatening me. If this is true, I will ask you right now not to do that again. Listening to you today has helped me to know you better. What I now know that I didn’t know before I walked through those doors today is that you don’t want a good nurse or a good teacher. What you want here is a compliant servant. I’m sorry to inform you that I just don’t fit that mold. Thank you for seeing me again. However, I must tell you, I do plan to get some closure on this situation, sir, if not from you, then from somewhere else.” I left the room. It was hard for me to concentrate that evening at home with Chris demanding my time constantly. Everyone knows that you can’t ignore a three-year-old. I tried reading his favorite stories, but he knew the stories inside out so I couldn’t skip any pages, though I tried. I believed I had earned the right to mope around a bit, but I didn’t have the time to feel sorry for myself. I simply had too much to do. 

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The next morning, I drove to Commerce, Texas, and picked Shally up from East Texas State University. I didn’t have a chance to complete my pity party before Shalimar informed me that she didn’t want to go back to school. “What are you saying, girl? I can’t believe this. Why don’t you want to go back to school? You of all people know what it will mean to you later on. What in the world is the problem? Huh? Tell me, Shalimar.” “I’m just tired of school, Mama. Seems like I’ve been going to school all my life, and I’m just tired.” “You’re just eighteen years old and in your first year of college, little girl. What do you mean ‘tired of going to school’? You tell me, how do you think you’re going to make it in this world without something in your head?” “I’ll make it. I’m not like you. I don’t enjoy all that stress and stuff.” “What in the world do you think is going to happen to you without an education? If you don’t like this school maybe you could go to one of the junior colleges and live at home. Maybe that will be better for you. Just don’t quit, Shally. You may never get back.” “It’s not the college. It’s me. Can’t you see that? It’s me, Mama. I don’t want to be any big-time professional something. I just want to be me, and I need some time to find out who I am.” “Confused, are we?” I asked sarcastically. “Well, just what is it you’re trying to find out? It seems to me that you didn’t have any identity crisis when you went off to school. Tell me, exactly what is it you want to do to help you . . . find yourself?” “Well, I was thinking about getting a job and probably getting my own apartment or something.” “Or something? What does that mean?” “There’s nothing wrong with me getting an apartment, Mama. A lot of girls my age have their own apartments,” Shalimar said as she turned her head to look out of the car window. “I know that. How are you ever going to finish your education when you’re burdened with rent and God knows what all?” “Just don’t worry about it, Mama. I’ll figure it all out, and I’ll go back to school when I’m ready to go back,” Shally responded.

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I couldn’t understand what was happening to my little girl. I didn’t ever think I would hear her say she didn’t want to go back to school. I was not prepared to deal with this. I needed to talk with Sed about all this. It was moving too fast for me. I felt as if I were suspended somewhere up above, looking down on this happening in someone else’s family, not mine. Sed’s answer to the whole thing was to encourage Shally’s previous thoughts about going into the military. He thought the military would teach her some discipline, and she would have enough money to go on to school when she was discharged. “Sed, are you crazy? This is a young, impressionable eighteenyear-old who knows nothing about anything. I don’t want her going into any military service. She needs to go to college, Sed. That’s what’s going to be a lifeline for her.” “And just tell me, how are you going to get her there? She doesn’t want to go anymore. So if she doesn’t want to go to college, then let her go into the military. You can’t stop her, you know.” “I know I can’t stop her,” I admitted. “But all her life I have been preparing her to do the right thing with her life. What has it all been for? The military? Not a chance! If she goes to the military, we’ll lose her for sure. I am just so very disappointed in her.” “We haven’t lost her yet, Helen. Now, you’re just going to have to face the fact and trust and pray that she’ll do the right thing . . . for her. God knows better than we do.” “God, where did we go wrong? Why can’t she see what she’s doing?” “We didn’t go wrong anywhere. This is one of those greener-pastures themes. I think we ought to let her do what she wants to do as long as she works and pays for it.” The weekend was a series of talks and persuasions from both Sed and me. Shally was bullheaded and believed it was her life and she would decide what she wanted to do. The one thing she was sure of was moving out into her own apartment and getting a job. We assured her that her priorities were backward. It was a stressful time for all of us. Monday morning finally rolled around, and I was faced, once again, with the torment of working in the same department with

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Larry Daley. The weekend had indeed provided some relief from some of the trouble in the department, but it was “back in the saddle again” for me. God, how I dreaded facing it all again! I loved my work better than anything in nursing so far, but the stress of this pathological environment was too consuming. Bonnie’s evaluation was due this week, and I was dreading that as much as she was. Well, it did happen. He told her that he was not accepting her back into the department after the birth of her baby. A verbal battle followed, but Bonnie held her ground legally and forcefully. There were tears in her eyes when she came out of his office, but her spirit was not broken. Realizing that we were in the battle of our professional lives, we knew we had better keep clear and precise documentation of occurrences within the department, both good and bad . . . to be fair. We never talked with Larry alone, and we decided the atmosphere would clearly be professional whenever he was present. We purposely, in a professional manner, would occasionally ask for his assistance on various teaching problems where concepts and methodology may have been in question. Not once was Larry able to assist us. He either did not know the answers or he was “too busy” at the moment. When we’d invite him to meet the new orientation group, he refused, stating either that he had a meeting to attend or he would catch them later. Everything of substance was truthfully and carefully recorded confidentially, and the documentation continued until we believed we had enough evidence to prove our case of managerial incompetence and professional bias against staff. We meticulously prepared the evidence and mailed it special delivery to the board of directors of Methodist Hospital, the human resource department, and to Mr. Scott. It was done! It was a scary time, but we were hopeful that someone, somewhere, somehow would hear us. If the work we had done could not help us, then others who would follow us might benefit. The work would not be lost. It just couldn’t be! I had been taking some courses at night whenever I could to allow me to go back to school to obtain my bachelor’s degree in nursing. I would be finished with my prerequisites within the next few weeks, and as time neared course completion, I knew that it

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was about time for me to go. Bonnie was also nearing her due date, and neither of us wanted to leave our work in the department unfinished. We had to finish it and finish it well. We had to make our time and effort count, so, hopefully, whoever replaced us would know that the instructors who preceded them were indeed professionals. Shortly after the distribution of the letters of evidence, Bonnie delivered her baby over the weekend. Within a few days, I handed in my request for an educational leave of absence to begin in three weeks. I said on the request that I would be willing to work on a part-time basis but not in the education department. When Larry heard the news, he behaved like a rabid animal for about a week. I continued to be present each day, working in a quiet and professional manner to fulfill my obligation to the department. Not once did I mention the letters, and not once did Larry inquire. Larry was now appearing in the classroom every now and then, complimenting me and making small talks to the groups, as we had requested so many times before. Now, in the classroom, he sang my praises, as if he knew what my level of competence was. However, it was too little too late. A couple of days before my three weeks were up, Larry called me into his office and closed the door. Oh God. Here we go again. “Helen, I really hate to see you go. You have a way with teaching, and I must say you really know how to get a point over to a large group of people. I have been quite impressed.” “Thank you, Larry,” I said as I smiled and accepted his compliment . . . or whatever it was. “You see. I want you to know that the reason I didn’t sit in on your classes before was because I knew I didn’t have to. You’re a great nurse educator, and everybody knows that.” “Thank you. Now, what is it that you really want to see me about? I really am very busy, and I have a classroom full of students waiting.” “I just wondered if you really are coming back to this hospital after you get your degree?” “Not to this department, Larry.”

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“I wonder if you will reconsider that.” “Absolutely not.” “Just like that, huh?” “Just like that.” “Why, Helen? What did I ever do to you? I just stared at Larry for a few seconds. When I could respond, I did in the only appropriate manner that I could. “If there’s nothing else, I really do have to go.” Planned and unplanned investigations, both inside and outside the facilities took place within a few weeks after I left for educational leave. These continued for some time, and it was evident that Methodist was taking a good look at their entire operation, especially human relations procedures. Within a year, just before I completed my bachelor’s, I learned that Cindy Chamberlain and her associates were all dismissed. A short time later, Larry Daley and all of his cronies were given opportunities to resign. I had also resigned from the hospital as a full-time employee but was still retained on the roster as a PRN nurse to work when I could for CCU. Shalimar had gone as well, to her own apartment. There was absolutely nothing I could do, and I finally came to realize this. I remember talking with Mother about this, and her words validated my thoughts. I guess I was really looking for someone to tell me I had done the right thing. “Well, baby girl,” Mother began, “that little girl is a lot like her mother. You went one direction, and she’s trying it another. She’s eighteen, Helen, and eighteen-year-olds do and think differently than those of us with some years of living experiences. The more you try to strap her down, the more she’s going to buck you. You’ve been a good mother, so try to lose the guilt. This is about her. This has nothing to do with you. It’s the times we live in, her peers, and her own immature mind. Just be there for her, baby, for she will surely need you. For now, that’s all you can do.” “But, Mother, I just don’t know how all this happened in such a short time. One day I had a sweet, compliant, inquisitive little girl, and in one blink of an eye she seems out of control. She doesn’t listen, and she goes the opposite way than I’ve been trying to lead her 

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all her life. There must have been something that I did wrong somewhere.” “Well, let’s just see what that might possibly be. Hm-m-m. Let’s see, I can clearly remember you going to her PTA meetings and to all her little programs at school and at church. I remember you taking her to Sunday school every single Sunday morning. I remember when she was having some trouble with math, you hired a tutor to help her to master that. I remember your trying to give her guitar lessons, which she rejected, piano lessons, and swimming lessons. I remember this little girl being with you and Sed everywhere you went. I can remember your taking precious time to answer a question from that little girl when you could easily have brushed her off. I often wondered how you did all that while still being a wife and a full-time student as well. Now, Mrs. Green, you tell me where you went wrong.” “It just feels so bad to be rejected by the very child you gave birth to and cared for. I just don’t understand.” “Now, you listen to me, Helen Genice Harris Green. You’ve done everything you could have possibly done except live for her. Sure you’ve made some mistakes, but there’s not one parent who would not have to admit to the same thing. We’re not perfect . . . that’s God’s business. You have done the best you could. God expects us to do the best we can. That’s all He requires. Now it’s all up to Shalimar to put it all together . . . with you, my dear daughter, standing in the background.” “But she’s so young, and . . .” “Would you just listen to yourself? Who do I hear talking about being young? As I recall it, you gave birth to this little girl we’re talking about when you were only seventeen. Right?” “Yeah, but times were quite different then, Mother.” “Not that much, honey. It just feels that way now that you’re more mature.” “Do you really think she’s going to be all right?” “I don’t know, honey. All you can do is pray for her now.” Weeks passed. Now and then we would hear from Shalimar. She said she didn’t call more often because she didn’t have her own tele

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phone, so we had one put in for her. She still didn’t call much, and whenever I called her, I seemed to be a nuisance to her. I helped to get her a job at Methodist in the cardiopulmonary lab. As I worked PRN in the coronary care unit, I would occasionally see her. This was good. Her dad would go by the apartment to see her every once in a while. Sometimes he’d find her there, and sometimes her roommates didn’t have a clue where she was. I began to worry. I didn’t like what I was feeling. She was changing right before our eyes, and we felt helpless. The time finally came when Sed said, “Let’s go bring that girl home. She is completely out of control.” She wasn’t paying her share of the rent, and the other two girls were mad at her. They were also mad at Sed and me when they realized we were not going to pay it for her. I felt sorry for them, but that had been the deal when Shally moved out. I was finally beginning to realize what my Mama Cueing had always said, “When they are babies, you could just eat them up, and when they become adults, you wish you had eaten them up.” I didn’t know what was going on with my daughter. She wasn’t interested in much of anything anymore. She would be gone for hours, and we never knew where she was. She was argumentative, and not at all interested in the family. I prayed that she could get on with her life. She left the job at Methodist and settled on one at the Skaggs Albertson’s bakery. One day she came home from work and announced to her father and me that a man she met at the store had invited her to come to California with him, and she was going. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This was not my little girl with the enviable intelligence. This was someone else. I didn’t know her anymore. I was so afraid for her! “Who is this man, Shalimar? What in the world do you mean that you’re going with him? Have you completely lost your mind?” “I’m going, Mama. I’m not changing my mind!” Shalimar said, nearly screaming. “This is my life and nobody’s gonna tell me what to do about it.” Sed and I talked about this situation. I was absolutely devastated. I just could not understand what had gotten into my daughter.

Carrot and Stick

“Shally’s not in her right mind, Helen,” Sed tried to explain. “She’s doing things and acting like she doesn’t even have a family. Something is wrong with that girl. This is more than rebellion. Open up your eyes, honey. I think we’ve got a bigger problem on our hands.” “What do you mean, Sed?” “I mean I think the girl is on some kind of drugs or alcohol or something. People just don’t change that quick and go against everything they’ve been taught all of their lives. Something’s happened to that girl, and I do believe it has something to do with drugs. I know you don’t want to hear that, but it’s what I believe.” “I don’t think my little girl will ever touch that stuff. Please, Sed, don’t say that.” “I know it’s hard to believe, honey, but I believe it, and I love her too.” I was disheartened and hurt that Sed would say that about the little girl he had rocked to sleep at night, the little girl who thought it was this man who made the world go ’round. To me, that was the epitome of deception. How could he turn on her so easily? Shalimar left, as she had promised, to go to California to meet up with some man she had met at a grocery store. What is she looking for? I thought, as I tried to figure out what was happening. I remember crying so hard at church the following Sunday, until I found myself making deals with God to bring my daughter back to me, safe and sound. “God, if you will just bring my little girl back to me, I’ll do anything.” Friends tried to comfort me, but they could do very little. I kept having visions of my little girl out there, somewhere, doing God knows what. Days went by before we heard from Shally. She finally telephoned, collect, to say she was okay, but she did not give us an address nor would she tell us what part of California she was in. She didn’t sound very happy but said she was fine. We asked what she needed, and there was the same answer all the time. “Nothing.” After about two weeks the telephone bill came, and then we

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East Texas Daughter

knew what part of California she was calling from, and we had the telephone number. We called the number and found out that it was some sort of clinic. When we asked to speak with Shalimar Green, they got her on the phone. “Hello.” “Shalimar? Is that you, Shalimar?” “Yes.” “This is Mama and Daddy. How are you doing?” “Fine.” “We’re worried about you, honey, and we want you to come home. What in the world are you doing up there anyway?” “Nothing, Mama. I’m not coming home right now.” “Daddy and I will come and get you if you want us to.” “I’m nineteen, Mama. You can’t make me come home.” “I know I can’t, honey, but won’t you even tell us where you are?” “I gotta go, Mama.” “But Shally . . .” She was gone, and my heart ached. Sed, Chris, and I just held each other and cried. She wasn’t coming home, and I didn’t know where she was or why she was there. It was like a movie, only I didn’t know when this would end. We tried the police in that California city, but they couldn’t help because of Shally’s age. I tried as hard as I could to get them to check to see if she were okay, but to no avail. “Ma’am, if you talked with her there, she is not being held there against her will. There is nothing we can do at this time.” “But she’s only nineteen!” “Ma’am, I know you’re worried about your child. I would be too if she was my child, but she has reached the age where she doesn’t have to have anyone’s permission to go and come as she likes. I’m sorry, ma’am.” I called Shally twice a week, and she would talk with me for about a minute. That is, I did the talking and the questioning. She continued to give her “nothing” answers. Then about four weeks after talking with the police, we got a phone call from Shally. 

Carrot and Stick

“Mama? I wanna come home,” were the words coming from my child’s mouth. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” “I’m okay, Mama. I just want to come home.” “Okay, honey. We’ll send you a ticket for one of the airlines for today, okay? I’ll call you right back with the time and everything. Don’t worry. We’re going to get you home, baby.” I made the arrangements and notified Shally of the time and the airline. Sed and I were excited and thankful that she was coming home. We arranged for Sed to pick her up, while I got her room ready. I wondered what had happened to my child. Was she the same girl who left here nearly two months ago? Or was she someone or something else? When my baby walked through the door that evening, I didn’t believe this was my Shalimar who had always taken such great pride in taking care of her appearance. She looked like a ghost. Before she had gone into her drug ventures, she had been somewhat chubby. Now, she was a mere shadow of herself. It was in the middle of winter, and she had on sandals with no hose. She was wearing the jacket we had purchased for her before she left. She wore no lipstick. She had no luggage and no purse. Sed looked at me and dropped his head and shrugged his shoulders. I put my arms around her and took her back to her room. She wouldn’t talk about what had happened in California, and I didn’t push it that night. I was so glad to have her home. I believe she was glad to be home. Chris was jumping up and down with joy that his big sister had come home again. She talked more to her little brother than she had to either of us. But that was okay. Sed and I just thanked God that night for bringing her home to us. We asked for help in dealing with whatever problems she had. I cried in Sed’s arms that night. “You were right, Sed. You were right all along. How could I have been so blind? After all, I’m a nurse and should have picked up on all the signs.” “You are also a mother, honey, and you didn’t want to see it, that’s all. We’ll get her better, and she’ll be all right pretty soon. 

East Texas Daughter

We’ve just got to keep on praying. We asked for her back, and we got her back. Now we’ve got to work on getting her sound again. That’s gonna take some work. She’s a mess right now.” “I know, honey. I hope I have the strength left to do it.” “This is a family thing, honey. You can’t do this by yourself. It’s gonna take you and me and Chris and the church and everybody we know who cares about that little girl in there. She’s lost, honey, and it’s up to us to help her find her way. Only God can guide us to the right decisions. We’ve got to depend on Him to lead us.”

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

Moving On— My Way   Shally later.IIIIIII III IIII II I I IIII III IIn May 1974, I graduated from Dallas Baptist University with my bachelor of science degree in nursing. That same month, I took a job as director of education at Timberlawn Psychiatric Hospital. My colleagues at Methodist had tried all they could to persuade me to stay there. They said I would forget all my skills, and some even said that psychiatric nursing wasn’t “real nursing,” but I believed I was ready to move on with my career. Now, at thirty-seven years old, I had seventeen years of various and good health-care experiences behind me. I was ready to leave my home hospital and move out on my own, where nobody knew me. I needed the change, my entire body and soul needed it. I had to go. It was time. After careful interviews by skillful psychiatric professionals, I was hired to set up and direct Timberlawn’s first educational services department. I felt honored that I had earned that position, but I knew that I would again be the first black person to direct or even coordinate a department at this facility. I thought that this was not tokenism, yet I wondered about the total atmosphere where there were no black nurses, no black physicians, and generally no black professionals whatsoever. I was concerned but not afraid. This private hospital was the Cadillac of psychiatric hospitals with its large, select medical staff and its gorgeous, well-manicured grounds with dozens and dozens of old oak and pecan trees. There

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were several buildings scattered throughout this huge estate, many named for the founders and others who had served as psychiatristin-chief. Timberlawn’s first hospital was opened in 1917. The original building, a mansion, had been restored and was the administrative building, referred to as the White House. Most of the staff greeted me warmly, and I believed I had finally found the place where I could spend the remainder of my career. I don’t want anyone to misunderstand—racism existed on that campus, though not nearly to the extent I had seen before. What was more prominent was “elitism,”“narcissism,” and “discipline protectionism.” It was no secret that the physicians ran that facility catering to the well-off and those with very good insurance. Poor clients with no insurance at this time were not seen on this campus. I wondered if this is what Dr. Jerry Lewis, psychiatrist-in-chief, meant when he said the facility was in the midst of change. I hoped that his words were not just the articulation of change but the demand for change as well. If they were, then I was happy to be a part of this magnificent facility. I had been thoroughly interviewed by Dr. Lewis, and I was informed at that time that I would be the first department director of color at this facility and I should be patient as the process took place. He did not sugarcoat the situation whatsoever, and that alone reassured me that I had made the right decision on coming here. This charming, very bright, tall, and handsome psychiatrist was an artist at interviewing, and his techniques were warm and open yet probing. When the formal interview was over, I felt accepted by him as a professional, and that felt pretty good. I joined the Texas Society for Healthcare Educators to begin building resources. I visited several education departments throughout the city and finally, after about two months, decided what would be the best for us at Timberlawn. The plans were approved, and the department was finally underway. A secretary and later two instructors were hired. It was a magnificent beginning. I was required by the psychiatrist-in-chief to complete an interviewing techniques course on campus along with our psychiatric residents. This was a one-year course in which one learned how to

Moving On—My Way

communicate effectively with different types of people and patients. Learning interviewing skills was essential in the psychiatric community, where the belief was that people always expressed what they felt if the interviewer was skillful enough. All in all, this course was to help us understand ourselves as much as it was to learn how to interview the clients. It was a confidential course, and each of us was informed that what went on during the course could not be revealed to others. It was considered a privilege to be invited to take the course. Only one or two other non-physicians had been invited to participate in this course since the opening of this facility in 1917. I felt honored. Throughout the course the intensity of the interviews increased, and the opinions of my classmates grew more and more microscopic. Not only were we learning from the text but from each other as we performed our interviews by two-way mirror, while the rest of the class observed. What was said during the interview was very important, but just as important were body movements, breathing patterns, gestures, or lack of them, on the part of either the interviewee or the interviewer. At all times we had to be focused, sensitive, compassionate, confrontational when necessary, and, the hardest of all, we had to listen. Really listen to the spoken words and listen for the unspoken words, and then connect them with the client’s body language. This was exhausting work! Immediately following the interview, the critiques began in sort of a round-table format. At times, each of us felt stripped naked in front of the group. They had no mercy on me as a nurse, and I had no mercy on them. We were to interpret what was going on within ourselves as well as with the patient. Everyone had to express himself or herself. “I thought it was significant when you leaned forward and challenged the client.” “You kept moving your hand alongside your face. It seemed somewhat awkward. Can you explain why you were doing that?” “When the patient answered your question, did you notice how he clenched his fist? What do you suppose that meant?” “You didn’t feel comfortable with this patient. What was that all about?”

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“Do you feel you may have some issues along that line that you need to deal with?” “I felt you were intimidated by the patient. You let the him take over.” “You seemed reluctant to ask the patient about her sexual problems. Why?” “You did a really fine job keeping the patient focused. How do you think you did?” The staff docs and chiefs-of-service were paid very well, and the entire administrative staff received perks, which made recruitment easy for Timberlawn. There was the instant recognition, relaxed working environment, generous bonuses, push for staff to be on local, state, and national committees, and push for authorship of professional papers and books. Many high-profile people and/or their families were or had been patients at this prestigious facility. Graduates of the residency program were honored and definitely privileged if asked to stay with the hospital after graduation. It was indeed a place of privilege with deep and extended roots throughout the psychiatric community nationwide. The treatment of nurses at this physician-owned facility was cordial but somewhat behind the times. While other health-care facilities were looking for and encouraging nurses to seek higher education and some certifications, this facility liked nurses where they could see them—loyal and committed to Timberlawn’s purpose. Very few if any of the nurses had bachelor’s degrees, and none had advanced degrees. It was well-known throughout the city’s nursing community that Timberlawn’s nurses traded their upward career mobility opportunities to work in luxury. Nurses at this facility were “lifers,” and in spite of their lack of advanced education, they provided superior care to the clients. Nurses who came to work for Timberlawn and were vocal about nursing issues or those who had some issues with the tools nurses had to work with were often silenced, if not by the hierarchy of physicians, then by being ostracized by some of the other nurses. One had to fit the mold or pay a price. The mold was never going to be redesigned to fit the person.

Moving On—My Way

Schools of nursing rotated their students through Timberlawn as part of their psychiatric clinical education. It delighted my heart to see the students on campus, and I loved every moment I could give to them. Those absorbent young minds, full of curiosity and fire, reminded me of my days as a student nurse on that same campus five years earlier. Undergraduate students from high schools and junior colleges spent their clinical rotations on our campus. Some post-graduate students did part of their clinicals on our campus. It was a good training ground for most health-care professions whose base was behavioral science. So, at Timberlawn, one had a panacea on one hand and a roadblock on the other. If you were where you wanted to be and never intended to leave, then there was no better place to work. There were exceptional learning opportunities on campus, fair salaries, opportunities for off-campus training, unusually good hospital benefits, opportunities to belong to certain associations, opportunities to invest in the organization, and a wonderful, family-like atmosphere. It was indeed an ideal setting for work that didn’t seem much like work.

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CHAPTER TWENTY

Loss and Grief    1974, and Sed and I remained in the old home we purchased in the early ’60s. By anyone’s standards, we were doing quite well. We had good friends and good and solid connections with our church and community. However, we faced other problems that seemed to consume us: our daughter was still trying to find herself in the big city of Dallas, and my pursuit of a career had created an terrible, unexpected monster in my home. Sed and I argued constantly over role issues, sometimes over money, sometimes over how Chris was being raised, and always over my friends, who were both black and white. Sed didn’t trust any of my white friends, except Sharon. He said she was different from the others (where have I heard that before?). He constantly reminded me that it was “them” who had blocked my way and the way of all the black people from the beginning. How, he demanded, could I have forgotten that? “I think you’ve forgotten how you were treated trying to get into those schools of nursing. I think you have forgotten your enslaved black people who died trying to have just a few of the freedoms we have now. How could you side up to them like you do?” “Sed, get a grip! How in the world do you think I could ever forget my struggles of the past . . . and of today? I can’t forget them, and I don’t want to forget them. The pain and insults are still with me, and they haunt me daily. The difference between you and me, Sed, is that I know my friends didn’t enslave my forebears, and I refuse to permit myself to build up a gut full of bitterness and hatred for every white person I see. No, Sed, I won’t do that. I can’t

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Loss and Grief

believe you’re saying that, while out of the other side of your mouth you’re claiming to be a Christian. What a hypocrite! Just remember those are your feelings, and don’t try to project them onto me. And, by the way, don’t forget who put up the money for me to get started in nursing school. Even you wouldn’t help me. Just don’t forget that while you’re hating and distrusting people.” “Now, that man was different. . . .” “Different? Like Sharon is different? How was he different, Sed? Because he gave me money? Is that what makes him different?” “He wasn’t trying to Tom you down. He just gave the money and didn’t ask anything from you. Now, those so-called buddy doctors and buddy nurses claiming to be your friends are just making a fool out of you, and you’re too bullheaded to see it. Sure, they sit with you at the luncheons, and they talk with you on the telephone, but, except for maybe Sharon, which one of them can you count on? Tell me that. Which one? I’ll tell you. None of them!” “Count on! Count on them to do what? These are my friends not my caretakers. Anyway, who can you count on, Sed? Which one of your solid black group can you count on? Who has always been there for you? When you had some problems a couple of months ago, which one of your ‘brothers’ came to your rescue? And just who was it that did come to your rescue? I can’t hear you. I’m getting really sick of your whining. You’re really going to have to deal with your crazy insecurities. If you want to limit your friends to blacks, then go right ahead. As for me, I’m going to broaden my horizon as wide as I can get it, and learn from any and everybody I can.” “Another thing, I don’t like the way you’re trying to raise Chris. Shally’s gone, and now you’re trying to make a sissy out of that boy. I do not want you trying to enroll him in piano lessons like you did Shalimar. I want you to understand that right from the start. The next thing you’ll want to do is give him ballet lessons, and then sewing lessons and God knows what else, all in the name of broadening his horizons.” “Give me a break. Your testosterone is taking over your brain. What has happened to you, for Pete’s sake? Music is gender neutral, and I know firsthand that a lot of little boys take music.”

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East Texas Daughter

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“Yeah. A lot of little white boys. Now, this little black boy is not going to do it, and you can count on that. I’m not going to let that boy mess up his life like Shally did. I don’t care what bizarre stuff you try to put him in.” “Are you trying to blame me for Shally’s problems?” “I didn’t say that!” “Well, say it if you think it.” “All I can say is I wouldn’t have tried to put her in all those things she was in. I think it made her think she was more than she was, and she didn’t fit in around here. Now look at her. She can hardly stand on her own feet without you propping her up.” “I know that this is not really the way you feel. Whatever is bothering you, you need to get it fixed before you rot inside from envy, jealousy, and low self-esteem. Don’t try to roll those problems onto me. I’m not buying what you’re selling. The one thing you can bet your life on is, I will continue to do whatever I think is in the children’s best interest. Yes, Sederick, I will do whatever it takes. The question is, will you consider their best interest or your own shortcomings?” Because of Sed’s insecurities and the fact that my salary was slightly higher than his, life was simply unbearable for him. He entered into deals on top of deals. Each one, according to him, was going to make us rich. He was a con’s best dream. Most of his deals fell through, but he would not be deterred. According to Sed, each deal failed because I did not fully support him. We’d argue about the money he’d lost on this venture or that one and inevitably the arguments would always spill over into the what-went-wrongwith-Shalimar syndrome, over and over again. Within a month following our last argument, Sed went to Alaska to find our fortune. I protested but to no avail. It seemed I had married my father. The similarities were astounding. “Why, Sed? Why are you selling the barbershop and doing this? We’re doing fine. I don’t understand.” “What you mean is you’re doing fine. You have a future with your job. I don’t see any future with the barbershop anymore. I’m forty-four years old, and I don’t see a future for my wife and kids. No pension, no insurance, no . . .”

Loss and Grief

“Stop whining, Sed. Look at what we have. We have some money in the bank and a nice savings that most couples our age don’t have. We have health insurance from my job for the whole family. So, what are you talking about? I thought we were a team. Now it’s all about you. I believe it has always been all about you. We don’t have any big problems except those in your own dinosaur-like brain that has you jumping from pillar to post.” “Call it what you will. I’m going, and I’m going to make enough money to see us through the lean years when I’m old and can’t work anymore. I know you don’t want to understand that, but you’re just gonna have to accept it.” “Then go. Do whatever you want. Go on. Find your riches in Alaska.” After Sed left, I did worry about his state of mind and what would happen if he didn’t make it this time. I worried about what it would take for him to feel successful. Whatever was killing him on the inside was directing his behavior in strange ways, and I wondered where that would lead. I prayed and hoped that I could give Chris what he needed to grow up to be a good man. I prayed that God would give me the skills to bring Shally in out of the rain and back to her senses. I prayed that God would give me the strength not to wither in the face of yet another crisis in this household. Memories of the Sunday morning that Daddy left Tyler for Chicago to make his riches kept creeping into my mind. Strangely, I felt that I was walking in the same shoes my mother had so many years ago. Funny how life is sometimes. It was lonely in our household after Sed left for Alaska. I kept busy working hard at my job and hard at trying to be a good mom. I received letters from Sed about once a week, and once a week or so we would talk by telephone. He sent money home, and I put it away in the savings. His letters would always include at least one whole paragraph about the beauty of Alaska, topped off with how much money nurses were making in that state. He would always end his letters with, “Think about it. Just give it some real thought.” Sed returned home about five months later, decked out in new clothes and with rolls of one hundred dollar bills in his pocket. I believe the idea was to impress me, but what impressed me was

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East Texas Daughter

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how stupid it was to be carrying all that money on his person. But it was so good to see him. Shortly after his homecoming, he started talking about the beauty of Alaska and how much he loved it. I realized that he had not come home to stay but to convince me to come back with him to Alaska. It didn’t take long for him to realize that I was not going to Alaska. After all that was said and done, I think Sed’s biggest surprise was the fact that I was not trying to keep him from going back to capture his dream if that was what he wanted. “If you want to go back, then the best thing for you to do is go back. Get it out of your system, honey. Chris and I are fine. I really don’t want to start all over again.” “Listen to me, honey. We can have our furniture placed in storage, rent out the house, and when we come back, all we’d have to do is add to it. We will be able to get a big, two-story, with four or five bedrooms so when the kids need to come home we’ll have the room for them. The money we could make together could . . .” “I’m not going, Sed, but I won’t stop you from going if that’s your wish.” Sed did not go back to Alaska, but he was never happy about it. He complained and whined more than ever, and he was never satisfied with any of the several jobs he took. He was restless, and he had become bitter. He started to drink and stayed out to all hours of the night. This had always been his “MO” whenever he was troubled. Inside of a year, we reached a point of no return, and we were divorced. The kids took the divorce pretty hard. Chris cried and became terribly sad and needy. He didn’t want me out of his sight for long. He wanted his family back, and somehow he thought he was to blame. The counselors and child psychiatrists on my job helped me to know how to deal with the pain that my son was feeling. Of course, Shally blamed me, as she always did. She suffered her own private hell without letting anybody in. This had become her way of dealing—withdrawal and silence. I saw Sed about twice a week, when he’d stop by the house to see how we were. For the first time in years, we began to have a dialogue. After a while we began going out to dinner or to a movie or

Loss and Grief

something. Chris always hated it when Sed left at night to go to his own place, and I tried to make him understand, but he didn’t. After about seven weeks, we were remarried in the justice of the peace’s office. Sharon said this must have been the shortest divorce in history. I really never felt divorced, except for the absence of the continuous arguing. Mother had been ill off and on since her first stroke in 1967. The circulation in her right leg was extremely poor, and her leg was almost always swollen, hot, and painful. She developed ulcers on her right heel and ankle, which caused her severe pain, and no amount of physical therapy or medication seemed to help. The doctors decided amputation was the only hope for relief. My high school classmate, Sam Houston, now a successful surgeon, performed the surgery. I was there with her when it was done, and I cried with her for such a significant loss. This was extremely hard on her because she feared she would be even more handicapped by additional limited mobility. My mother cried while I held her tight. That was the least that I could do. Following the amputation, Mother never seemed to do much better. Aside from the grieving for the loss of her body part, there was an episode of temporary blindness and several little strokes, which led to her insidious debilitation. She had one final stroke in January 1977. This one affected her swallowing and breathing, and, shortly afterward, my mother died at the age of sixty-nine in a nursing home in Tyler. The day my mother died was one of the saddest days of my life. I felt like an orphan at forty years of age. My mentor, my friend, my teacher, and my confidante had now left me to fend for myself. I think her name should be listed in the history books right along beside Mary McCleod Bethune, founder of the National Council of Negro Women. My prayer is that God has given her a special set of golden wings, for she practiced what she preached. I never knew how much I loved her and how much I would miss her. As I said good-bye, I had to say, “Thank you, Muddear, for everything.” I also believe she knew that her son, Cleophus, was there. Her son had come home once again. About two weeks after Mother’s funeral, on January 30, 1977,

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East Texas Daughter

Shalimar gave birth to a tiny—two pounds, four ounces—little baby girl, Kasey. I had to pull from all the reserves I had to help me get through this. While I grieved for my mother, I also grieved for my daughter who was still struggling, and I grieved for this little infant girl, my first grandchild, whose prognosis was not too good. About two months later little Kasey came home at the hefty weight of four pounds and twelve ounces. She was out of the woods, but there was still a lot of work to do with her. I prayed that God would give me the strength to help Shalimar learn how to take care of this baby, while letting her be the one to take control. Then I remembered Mother’s words that she used so effectively with me when I thought I was in trouble. “Hard times are the preparatory grounds for good character.” I had begun working toward my master’s degree three evenings a week. I still held down my full-time job at Timberlawn and was still very much involved in my son’s school and recreational activities. I guess I just didn’t know how to do less. I had been going at such an accelerated speed for so many years that I really didn’t know how to slow down. Nevertheless, I was really enjoying the program and found it much more relaxing than any of the undergraduate courses I had taken. I looked forward to expanding my knowledge in business and human relations, since my plans were to remain in hospital administration of some type. Six months before I was to graduate with my master’s, Sed took ill. He was having a terrible time keeping weight on, and his enormous appetite was decreased significantly. Sed was an averagesized man, carrying about 170 pounds on his 5’ 11” frame. As he began to lose weight and complain of fatigue, I encouraged him to go the doctor but, as usual, he refused to go. He believed that whatever it was would pass. One evening I got home from school, and Chris, now ten years old, informed me that his daddy had been throwing up. Again, I insisted that he go to the doctor, but he refused to go. Then, on the Fourth of July, about a week after the vomiting episode, Sed was out in the backyard making his famous barbecue. I looked out of the kitchen window and saw him bent over, holding onto the shelf in front of the barbecue pit. The very 

Loss and Grief

next morning I made an appointment for him to see the doctor. This time he agreed to go. He was vehemently against my going with him. He kept saying to me, “I’ve just got something wrong with my stomach. Good Lord, Helen, I don’t need you to go and hold my hand. I’m not a child.” I went on to work but worried a great deal about Sed, particularly whether he would really keep the appointment. He did go, and by the time I got home, the doctor had already called to give Sed the report. Sed said the doctor didn’t like the results of some of the tests and wanted him to check in to the hospital immediately. I later learned that his blood tests had been compatible with hepatitis. So, we prepared to get him into the hospital to get this problem taken care of. “Mrs. Green, it looks like hepatitis, but I’m not sure about that at all. I’m going to have a scan done, and I’ll know more about it. We’ll do that first thing in the morning.” I was worried, more worried about the look on the doctor’s face as he discussed Sed’s case with me than I could admit at the time. In retrospect, I knew my mind had gone into a research mode, looking for whatever that grim look on the doctor’s face meant. The next day, even before Sed had returned from the scan, the doctor was in the room talking to me. I had known him for years, and he wanted to be frank with me, as frank as he could be at that time. “I’ll tell you, Helen, I don’t like what I saw. We’re going to schedule him for surgery in the morning. I don’t know, but it looks like we may have some kind of lesion on the liver. Does he drink much?” “Oh, no. He went through about four months where he drank frequently, but he stopped that and hasn’t had a drink since then, I don’t believe.” “Well, we’ll see what we have in the morning. I’ll talk to him about it.” That evening as I sat with him in the room, Sed began to demonstrate a little fear. He had tried to hide his feelings, but after he had talked with the 

East Texas Daughter

doctor his defenses were down, if not completely blown out of the water. “Honey, if I don’t make it through this thing in the morning, I want you to . . .” “Don’t talk like that, babe. You’ve gotta have hope that this thing can be fixed. You must believe that, Sed,” I said as I slipped my arms around him and held him tight. “Just pray that whatever is wrong in there can be fixed.” So we prayed together. The next morning my pastor, Reuben, and I waited nervously for news from the operating room. The surgeon had promised to let me know the results of any tests, examination, or anything they discovered just as soon as he could. About an hour later, I looked up to see the doctor approaching us. I stood and walked hesitantly toward him with my pastor at my side. One look at the doc’s face told me that we were in trouble. “Mrs. Green, the news is not good. The mass was malignant and too large for us to remove. There’s no good way to tell you this except to say it right out front. We did all we could at this time but it looks like he’s going to have a rough time ahead. You’re a nurse, and you’ve seen this before. I’m not going to try to lie to you. It looks bad.” Though I suspected something, I could not believe what I had just heard. I found myself shaking my head in denial. I was nearly in shock. Never did I expect this! “Is it liver cancer or what?” I asked, trying to elicit some sign of hope. “It looks like the pancreas was the primary site, but for sure the liver is involved.” “No! Oh, no. Are you sure about this? Could you possibly be mistaken?” “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this news, Helen,” the doctor said as he walked closer and touched my shoulder. “But as you know, as long as he’s alive, there is some hope. You can see him in recovery in a little while. I’m so sorry.” I was crying now, and I couldn’t hear anymore. The chaplain helped us to a small private room where I cried and cried. It 

Loss and Grief

seemed like a dream . . . unreal . . . a horrible, horrible, nightmare. But it was true. Sed had cancer of the pancreas, a notorious killer. Later that night when I told the kids, we all cried together and held each other. They were both in great pain, and I didn’t know how to fix it. I just held them. “What can they do, Mama?” Shally asked, with tears streaming down her face. “You never should have let him go out to Alaska by himself. If you had gone. . . .” “Don’t be silly, Shalimar. If I had gone the same thing would have happened, except he would have been hundreds of miles away, not close to his family. Now, we don’t know just what to do yet, honey. He’s going to come home first, and we’re going to think about it and decide on the plan of treatment for Daddy. One thing I want you both to know is Daddy’s going to need us all when he comes home. There are some big decisions we are going to have to make about his care. We’re going to have to be with him as much as possible, and we’re going to have to be a strong family to get through this. Daddy is the priority here. We are going to help him to live the best that he can. We don’t need any sidebars. Do you both understand?” Sed came home about a week or so later with a load of medication for his pain and for his emotional distress. He was weak and looked frail even though he tried hard not to give in to the discomfort. We spent a lot of time talking about our lives together, and, for the first time in a long time, we really listened to each other. We talked about what he should do about treatment, and he depended on me to seek out what would be the best treatment for him. He didn’t trust doctors. I called and received literature from the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. I talked with the doctors and nurses via their hotline, seeking the best treatment and the patient prognosis with that treatment. At that time, there had only been one known patient who had lived for twelve months after the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, so our search continued. We checked the laetrile clinics together, and while they had claimed success in prolonging the lives of some of the victims 

East Texas Daughter

treated with this therapy, they turned us down for the treatment, stating that Sed’s condition had progressed too far. We checked into the vitamin therapy cancer treatments, and Sed rejected that. After about seven different research efforts, Sed decided to go for the chemotherapy, which was first suggested by the surgeon. We had both become sort of experts on the treatment for pancreatic cancer. We reviewed the materials together, talked with doctors by conference, visited various doctors, and checked out clinics together. When it was all done, I was glad Sed had chosen a method he considered to be the best chance he had. We knew what to expect, and we knew we needed to get started soon. So, we made arrangements for Sed to start the treatments the following Monday morning. When we arrived at the clinic, we noticed all the people sitting around waiting for various types of treatments. Some looked very sick and hopeless, and others looked frightened and concerned. This was scary. I watched Sed anxiously looking about the room for some sign of hope. I could feel the tension in his body as I reached to hold his hand. A tall, very thin lady, about forty or so, moved about in the waiting room in an angry mode, nervously looking through the stack of magazines, only to get up and start pacing again. She carried an emesis basin around with her, and her balding head was evidence of her chemotherapy. She couldn’t be still and kept moving with a box of tissues in her other hand. She was alone, and my heart went out to her. Sed was watching her intently. After about ten minutes of waiting, the nurse called us in. They weighed Sed, who had lost a total of sixteen pounds since his hospitalization. We were placed in a small room with an examining table and an IV stand that held some prepared solution for therapy. The doctor came in and greeted us and then went about explaining all of the procedures and side effects to us. When he had completed his talk to us, Sed spoke. “I know this therapy isn’t going to cure me, Doc, so how much time will it give me?” “Well, Mr. Green, it’s hard to tell. People react to the therapy differently. But generally speaking, I think we can safely say six 

Loss and Grief

months to a year.” “Doc, tell me truthfully now . . . what kind of time will that be? Will I be confined to the bed? Will I still be vomiting and hurting like I’m doing now?” “I can’t promise you that you won’t have some discomfort, but if we can reduce the size of the lesions, you should begin to feel much better. I’ll do everything that I can to make you comfortable through this entire process. Mr. Green, you really owe it to yourself to try to make this treatment work. You must have the right mental attitude as well. Research has shown us that your mental outlook has as much to do with the success of the treatment as the medicine does.” “Has everyone who takes this treatment for my kind of condition . . . died?” Sed asked, really putting the doctor to the test. The doctor finally answered, “To be honest with you, I know of a man about your age who went through the chemotherapy, and he lived for nearly eighteen months. That’s the longest that I know of. But we must keep trying, who knows, you might be the one for whom the chemotherapy may work effectively for an indefinite period of time.” “Do you know or have you read about any cases where the patient lived, sir?” Sed demanded. “How many of those who lived eighteen months were really alive, or were they just existing?” The doctor was silent. He bowed his head, and I believe he hurt as much as I was hurting as he gave Sed the best report he could. Silence. Then Sed managed to stand up and speak as he extended his thin hand to the doctor. “Thank you for being so up-front with me, Doc. I really do appreciate it.” We left the office. We rode around for about an hour talking and thinking about what we were going to do. “I don’t want to leave this world looking like that woman in that waiting room. Did you see what she looked like? If I go out, I’ll do it on my own terms.” “So what do you think you want to do? Are you sure about the chemotherapy or would you like to think about it for a few more 

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days? Sed, I’ve seen some patients begin to feel a lot better once the treatments take hold.” “I’m sure about the treatments, Helen. You heard what the doc said . . . or didn’t say. I don’t think I want to do that. I really think I’ll just let God be in charge.” “What about what the doctor said about the possibility of the treatments being the one that might get rid of all that growth? That could be God’s way. Don’t you think you ought to try it? You can always stop it if you want to.” “What I know is that treatment is going to make me even sicker. Honey, you’re going to have to face the fact that I’m going to die. In a few months I’m going to be dead. That’s what I know. The good doctor knew that, and I don’t see why I should go through the hell of the side effects if I’m going to die anyway. That’s what I think. So while I have a few good days left, and I believe God has given me that time for a reason, I’m going to do some good. I’m going to tell my story to everyone who will listen.” “Sed, what about our going down to M.D. Anderson and talking with the doctors down there? There may be something that our doctors don’t know yet. Maybe . . .” “Look, honey. We have spent the last two weeks reviewing the literature they sent us. They were straight up with us when we talked with them on the phone on three different occasions, with three of their top doctors. They have already talked with our doctors. Don’t you know if there is anything that can be done our doctor would know it? He talked directly with the docs at Anderson. Now, I’ve made up my mind, honey.” The weeks that followed moved too swiftly. Sed went about visiting his friends and seminary schools, testifying at churches and talking to everyone he knew about getting right with God. We also talked a lot, and Sed revealed much to me about his life and the vows he had broken within our marriage. I suspect I never would have known about the things he revealed to me, and I never would have believed them had I heard them later. I knew that Sed was trying to get right with God before he had to meet Him. He asked for my forgiveness, and I forgave him without hesitation. He seemed so relieved, and he thanked me as tears rolled down his face.

Loss and Grief

As the time went on, I could readily see that Sed was rapidly losing his fight. His color was changing, and his palms and soles of his feet were pale. The pace at which he had started out giving his living testimony eventually dwindled to an occasional visit to the neighbors. He was going downhill fast, and he had lost forty-five pounds in a little more than three weeks. His vomiting was projectile in nature, and he carried a washbasin around with him as he moved about the house. When he was able to make it to the commode, he would slide down to his knees and hang his head over the bowl. Whenever I started in to help, he would wave me off, insisting that he could do this himself, in spite of the fact that he was getting weaker and weaker. If I stood in the bathroom door to make sure he didn’t fall, he would wave to me to leave him alone. He did not want me to see him in such a weakened condition. Usually I stood just outside the door, trying very hard to respect what Sed thought was his dignity. He didn’t like that very much. One evening Sed and I were sitting on the front porch when I told him of a plan I had been thinking of for the past few days. “Honey, I’ve been talking to the dean and I’ve come to the decision that I can be here with you more if I dropped out of school. He said I could pick back up at this point in the next semester. I also have three weeks of vacation saved up at work, and I’m sure there would be no problem if I took it now. Honey, I want to spend these times with you. I worry about you every single one of the three hours I’m at school. I need to do this.” “If you really want to help me, then please don’t make me feel guilty. Don’t you dare drop out of that school,” Sed snapped angrily. “This is October, and you’ll be done with the whole thing in December. I’ll admit I’m a little weaker now, but I can still do some things for myself. I don’t need you to wait on me hand and foot. I can take that phone around with me. So, promise me you won’t drop out of school. You owe me that. So promise me. Say it, Helen. Say, ‘I won’t drop out of school.’” “Listen to me, Sed. School is something I can finish anytime, but the time I want to spend with you, well . . . I may not have that long. So this is really my decision to make. You can’t make me promise that. It’s not fair to me.”

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East Texas Daughter

“Say it, Helen!” Sed insisted. “You’ve got to say it now!” “I can’t promise that, Sed. What about what I want? You promised me that we would go through this together. Now you’re backing down. My place is right here. . . .” “Promise me, Helen. Promise me right now that you won’t drop out of school. Don’t make me leave this world with that kind of guilt. If you want to take that vacation, then go ahead and do that, but don’t drop out of school. We can change our routine so you can help with my shower earlier, but Mama is up here, and she can stay until you get home. That’s what I want, and I would think that I should be granted this one last thing. Now, tell me you won’t drop out. Say it now.” “Okay, okay. I’ll do my best to stay in there, but . . .” “There will be no buts. Honey, I’ve got to know that you are going to get that piece of paper that’s gonna give you a chance to make a better life for yourself. You’ve got Chris to think about, you know? Shally needs some help in getting herself straightened out. The whole thing is going to be on your shoulders. You’ve got to finish what you started. Okay?” “Okay, Sed, okay. But I don’t feel right about it.” I recognized that Sed was slipping away from me and the rest of our family. His own family visited him often and was having a difficult time dealing with his grim prognosis. Shalimar was struggling a lot with her dad’s illness, in addition to the rest of her problems. Chris was trying very hard to deal with his dad’s impending death. He was only ten years old. Sed was readmitted to the hospital in late October at a weight of seventy-seven pounds. He remained in the hospital until his death on November 17, 1978, four short months after his diagnosis. He was only forty-six years old. It was a sad day, a very sad day indeed for all the people who loved him. Sed and I had talked about everything under the sun, from how to conduct his funeral services to how to raise Chris and how to help Shalimar and her little girl, Kasey. Although Sed had done all he could to help prepare us for his death, dealing with the finalities was difficult for the kids and me. We all grieved in our own way, 

Loss and Grief

and none of it was pleasant. Chris needed much more nurturing, and Shalimar got lost in her world, looking for a way to escape her pain and loss. I suffered, with my friends Agnes, Sharon, and Alma by my side every step of the way. It seemed that this great loss in my life, along with my mother’s death, had a snowball effect for me. My mother had seven siblings, and three of them preceded her in death. My mother’s sister, Aunt Dorothy, died of a heart attack shortly after my mother’s death in 1977. My half-brother, Earnest, who had run away from home early in his life, also died of pancreatic cancer in 1980. My half-sister, Wanda, died of a brain aneurysm in 1983, and just more than one month later my half-sister, Mary, died of throat cancer. My mother’s sister, Aunt Vera, who lived in Dallas and who had been by my side as I took care of Mother and Sed, died of gastrointestinal cancer in August 1984. Her brother, Uncle Alvin, the only one of mother’s siblings to have children, died seven weeks after Aunt Vera of a brain aneurysm. My half-sister Jerlene died in March 2001 from lung cancer—she never smoked a day in her life.The last of mother’s siblings, Aunt Georgia, the California girl, died May 16, 2001. As her “assumed child,” I was in California with her during her last days. This ended that generation of McEwings. After Sed’s death, I found myself alone and wondering what to do. My faith had been significantly shaken, and I felt very vulnerable. During this time, my continuous prayers to God were for relief from the misery and the loneliness I felt. Mother was not here to instruct me, and I was simply lost for a while. It was about two months before I recognized that it was God who was compensating for my personal loss of strength and faith by propping me up daily. There was absolutely no other way I would have made it through these tremendously difficult period. A little more than one month after Sed died, I graduated from Amber University (now called Amberton University) in Dallas with a 4.0 GPA, which brought with it academic distinction honors. My half-sister, Jerlene, was there, and so was Chris. We had not been able to locate Shalimar. It had been difficult to complete this degree, but my professors 

East Texas Daughter

had been tremendously supportive, allowing me to make up some of the work on my off time. There was one professor who came to the hospital where I sat with Sed. She sat with me and brought me homework or picked up the homework I had completed. I especially appreciate Mrs. Raye Adams who taught research methods back in 1978, and, if I never told her before, today I wish to say, “Thank you” for going above and beyond what is expected from any college professor. I will never forget the compassion and genuine caring. The day I received that piece of sheepskin, my eyes fixed for a second on the heavens, and in my mind I thought, Hey, Muddear and Sed! This one’s for you guys!

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Helen, executive director of nursing, Dallas County MHMR.

Standing, left to right, Andrea, Casey, Joshua, Christopher, Shalimar; Seated, Helen and Chris.

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C H A P T E R T W E N T Y- O N E

When in Rome…      sold the old house on Fernwood in 1984, six years after Sed’s death. I had to move on, so I purchased a brand-new home closer to my job and, more importantly, within walking distance of Chris’ school. We had watched as the old neighborhood begin to deteriorate. The once well-manicured lawns began to give way to unkempt residences now housing transient families. Just a short distance from our old house was a block of duplexes that once were the envy of the neighborhood. It was now rumored these nice units were where drug dealers sold their goods to adults and kids alike. I had seen two of my son’s playmates and friends lose the battle to drugs, and my son informed me that a drug pusher had approached him while he waited for the school bus one morning. That was the final straw that shoved me into relocating. I had been forty-two years old when Sed died, and now, at fortyseven, I realized that for the first time since I was seventeen I was single and I was scared. I also had a fifteen-year-old son whom I wanted to see escape the chains that had disabled so many of his friends, my neighbors’ children, and his sister. Whatever chances I could give him would have to be given now. Even though the new house would cost me six times as much as the current mortgage on Fernwood, I had to go. No, I was not stupid enough to believe that just moving to a nicer section of the city would be the safety net for Chris. I just wanted desperately to give him chances. This was only one of those chances. The middle-to-upper-middle-class neighborhood, Buckner

I

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When in Rome . . .

Terrace, was located in the Pleasant Grove section of East Dallas. Once mentioned in the news as “The Best Kept Secret in Dallas,” it was only five minutes from my job and about five minutes from Chris’ school in the opposite direction. It was a nicely kept area with a nice mixture of old and new homes, two-story and singlestory. The neighborhood was about sixty-five percent white and thirty-five percent minorities. It was quiet and relaxing. Chris was blooming into a fine young man, but the turmoil of adolescence was not a foreigner to my son. He was shy and bold, good and naughty, sweet and sour, and, generally, at the opposite ends of every adjective simultaneously. He was exceedingly compliant, obedient, and spiritual, yet he was inquisitive to a fault, curious, and a rule-bender. Typically, though, he was an adolescent who was somewhat narcissistic, had a know-it-all mentality, girls on his mind, a name-brand mindset, acne on his face, and no bottom to his stomach. At the same time, he gave me the greatest joy that any parent could experience. So typical, so unique, and so wonderful! I often thanked God for giving me such a fine son. Timberlawn, which had fared so well long before the beginning of my career with it, was now beginning to hit upon hard times. Most of this was the result of two things: scandals in the private psychiatric hospital community that affected us very much and the managed-care phenomenon that has affected the entire health-care industry. The once-envied Timberlawn patient waiting list, especially of adolescent patients, disappeared, and the patient census dropped lower and lower. Some of the buildings had to be closed, and senior management attempted to balance the losses with plans for recapturing the usual patient population once again. But the efforts were eventually futile. In 1990 and 1991 times grew even harder, and hiring freezes, layoffs, and salary reductions began. Since Timberlawn had always been recognized as a privileged facility, dealing with failure was difficult and was handled at best awkwardly and, in some cases, unfairly. The hospital was in a survival posture, and the chips would fall where they would. I saw valuable employees who had given their hearts and souls to the company weeded out. Anything

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and nearly anyone was fair game. It was indeed sad to see this elite, prestigious facility brought to its knees. There were high hopes that the hospital would recover and save its highly publicized image, but it seemed that this institution could never return to its former level of greatness. It was becoming difficult to remember the bells and whistles. Eventually, I had a decision to make at fifty-four years of age and after nearly eighteen years with Timberlawn. Where would I go this time? What should I do now? I did not have the advantage of youth any longer. Neither did I have the advantage of time. Luckily, I did not have to look too far nor too long. Once the news was out that Timberlawn was in trouble, several headhunters contacted me. I went on several interviews both inside and outside the city and state. I finally accepted the position of director of nursing at a National Medical Enterprises hospital, Psychiatric Institute of America in Fort Worth, but that was short-lived as the facility closed seven months after my arrival. I moved on to Bedford, between Dallas and Fort Worth, where I took a position as director of psychiatric and addictions nursing with a fine health-care chain, Harris Methodist, whose base hospital was in Fort Worth. But the travel grew to be too much for me after about a year. I finally landed at the Dallas County Mental Health and Mental Retardation Center, where I was hired as the director of nursing of the psychiatric intensive care unit. I took three weeks off between jobs to rest and to reflect upon what was going on in my life and what was going on in this world. Where was my place now that I was getting older and now that the entire health-care system was changing? I had gotten a late start in my career, and there was still so much territory I wanted to cover. How was I going to cover the areas I wanted now with age discrimination influencing my career? During my reflective moments, I recalled many victorious moments as well as those when I had failed. I had learned from all. There had been the first admission of a black into the school of nursing, the first black to be a nurse-manager at the same hospital, the first black department director at Timberlawn, the first black president of the Texas Society of Healthcare Educators, the first

When in Rome . . .

black to be on the board of directors for the TSHE division of the Texas Hospital Association, and the first black chairperson of the board of directors of TSHE. I had come through it all with no external scarring but with an abundance of character-building experiences that today most certainly would be considered traumatic by sociologists and psychologists alike. Now I was about to begin again. The Dallas County Mental Health and Mental Retardation Community Center is an organization operated by the state, with some of its funds coming from the county. There were numerous units throughout the city, some rendering care to patients with mental illness, some caring for clients with mental retardation, and others caring for a mixture of the two. Two family clinics treated children and adolescents, four outpatient clinics treated adults, and a forensics psychiatry unit worked in clinics and at the jails. There were also several group homes and workshops for the mentally retarded. Most of the clients were not financially able otherwise to afford these services. Others were “insurance poor,” meaning their insurance had run out or they had lost their insurance when they lost or changed their jobs. For many, we were only game in town. This would be my first encounter with the public sector and to be sure, it did not have the flair of a Timberlawn nor a system of deep pockets as Harris Methodist of Fort Worth. On the morning that I reported for duty, there was no formal orientation set up for me at this unit of the center. My orientation to the hospital unit consisted of sitting in the administrator’s office and listening to historical information about the hospital, its bad and its good. I was then given two huge, three-inch policy-andprocedure manuals to review. When I opened the door to the place designated as my office, I thought I was going to die. Dust and filth had accumulated on the metal desk and file cabinet, and there was junk spilled on and inside the desk—food wrappers, salt and pepper and ketchup containers, oozing jelly and jam containers, and individually wrapped crackers. A desk drawer was missing, and the upholstery on the clerical chair was filthy. Completed forms and other yellowing papers were heaped on top of the desk, and there was a

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cardboard box filled with various items, apparently placed there for storage. Just above the desk the ceiling was missing acoustical tile pieces, and several electrical wires protruded, accompanied by cobwebs and I don’t know what all. I asked the administrator whether there was another office available. She insisted that they were short of office space and unapologetically assured me that this was indeed my office. “Well, is someone going to clean up this mess?” I asked, trying hard to let the woman know that this was an unacceptable place for anyone to work. Again, unapologetic, she answered. “If you want it done, you’ll have to do it yourself. We do things for ourselves around here. You’ll learn. This is Dallas County, honey.” She was gone. I looked about this place and wondered just how much time and energy it was going to take to get things done. I looked at the telephone sitting on the desk and noted the layers of filth on the mouthpiece. Then I heard a noise and looked up to see the long tail of a rat extending from the ceiling where the tiles were missing. I was out of there like a shot. I did get another office that was much more suitable. As time went on, in spite of mismanagement and chaos, I worked at a feverish pace to try to bring about some change to a situation that was unacceptable to me. Client care at this unit was borderline at best. This was an intensive care unit for severely ill psychiatric patients, and I was consistently concerned about the type and quality of care being rendered. There seemed to have been an attitude of entitlement and a feel of a fraternity and cliques among some of the staff. There were great divisions between the disciplines and sometimes within the different disciplines. Health-care professionals know that it is not unusual to have divisions among disciplines with different philosophies of client care, but it was different here, and the lines were clearly drawn. Some of the staff were apparently making jokes and predicting my demise after I had been there a couple of weeks. I had begun meeting with groups of nurses, enforcing the current policies,

When in Rome . . .

developing and posting new standards, and trying hard to let client care be the issue. The staff working against me predicted I would not survive more than three months. The point was that they were not going to help me survive. So, I hung in there trying to build a staff that I thought could help me do the job. There were hits and misses, but I kept on plugging. I came up with plan after plan that I thought would resolve some of the problems. Time after time, the plans, in one way or another, were sabotaged, though there were little breakthroughs every now and then. These breakthroughs were where hope for the unit rested. The staff was about sixty-five percent black, while whites and other races made up the remainder. The patient population was reversed, about sixty-five percent white, while blacks and other races made up the remainder. Some nurses, both black and white, wanted to see the unit run in an upstanding and professional manner. These individuals came forth, one at a time, revealing information to me in order for me to get a handle on the cause of the chaos. These were brave soldiers, for they knew that revealing what they knew might cost them professionally. But they did it, and I appreciated their valor. However, in the end, it proved to be too little too late. An unfavorable standards rating was rendered by a regulatory agency on campus to investigate a serious problem of employee behavior. As a result of the rating as well as all the burdensome chaos that had beleaguered this unit, the board of trustees and central office could not absorb any more bad press about this unit. The decision was made to close the hospital and outsource the patient care. Once the unit was closed, I was retained by the organization as its first executive director of nursing or vice president of patient services. This was a newly created position. The executive nurse would be responsible for the nursing practice of all nurses employed or contracted by the center in all of its units. I was now located at central office, where I was obliged to change the mindset of most of the one hundred nurses who had worked for an organization with a psycho-social base and one that had expected little of them in the past. This was an enormous task. It

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East Texas Daughter

was up to me to persuade the organization’s leadership to use the nurses in other ways to optimize client care and to include nursing duties for which we could be compensated. Nurses, traditionally, have always been seen as a true lifeline to and advocates for the clients. Traditionally, nurses were considered a health-care system’s most valued resource. This did not appear to be the case at this center. So there was work to be done, and I anticipated that some of those nurses from whom nothing had been expected would have to be brought forward kicking and screaming into the real world. In early 1998 while I was in the midst of restructuring the nursing service department, I had to be hospitalized for a much-needed surgical procedure. Although my condition was not malignant, it was nonetheless a serious operation and required me to be away from work for about eight weeks. During my recovery, I took time to reassess my needs as an individual and a professional. A new CEO was in the process of changing the direction of the organization. This new change of direction or business plan convinced me it was time to finish the job I had started and move on. I had been with the organization for four years. By the end of my employment with the center in 1999, I had seen the departure of three CEOs and two medical directors. In spite of it all, the center was improving its care of the clients. Nurses were now applying for work at the center, in contrast to earlier days when the recruitment of truly skilled and ambitious nurses was extremely lean to naught. We now had an enviable waiting list of qualified nurses. While the ice had only been cracked, it was significant enough to give me hope that we were resolving the issues that meant a lot to me. It had been a struggle every single step of the way from the very beginning of my placement in this organization. The picture of diversity displayed by the organization in no way reflected the degree of difficulty in leading the group successfully. On a degreeof-difficulty scale from one to ten, it was definitely a ten and beyond. 

EPILOGUE

           into the medical nursing field more than forty years ago, blacks, other racial minorities, and women have made some real, measurable progress. The inflammatory rhetoric once used to restrict these groups, especially blacks, is no longer heard through a megaphone. As the rhetoric decreased in tone and popularity, other covert, softer languages replaced the unpopular words, still assuring that the numbers of minorities that succeed are minimal. The ropes have been loosened but not removed. I am proud of whatever contributions I may have made to help the process. The youth of this nation, hopefully, will never really know what it’s like to be told, “You can’t go to this school,” or “You can’t eat in this public restaurant,” or “You have to stand or sit behind this line on the bus,” simply because their skin is black. However, they must never forget why these words are no longer heard: because somebody, somewhere, paid the price for them with their blood, with their life or with their spirit. Lest we be lulled to sleep in this time of seemingly racial calm or into thinking the battle is over and racism and discrimination are relics of the distant past, incident after horrible incident keeps emerging to show us that some hearts are still unchanged. As recently as 1998, the senseless murder of a black man, James Byrd, in Jasper, Texas, reminded people throughout the United States that the war against hate and racism had not yet been won. Two young, white men tied Byrd to the back of a truck and dragged him

S

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East Texas Daughter

down a country road until he was dead. No reason . . . except he was a black man. Not all racial incidents occur on a lonely country road in the middle of the night. The assault weapons of choice may be social, economic, educational, political, or even medical. They are all just as deadly as the Byrd murder. The extraordinary experiences that have been mine served to strengthen my resolve to proceed along my path with great care and awareness of my social and political surroundings. My experiences have definitely shaped my mind, honed my wit, suited me with armor for covert battles, humbled my very being, polished my spirit, fertilized my emerging wisdom, and strengthened my faith in God. As I look back on my life as an offspring of East Texas laborers, I can vividly remember my journey out of poverty. Muddear already knew the road would be hard and unfair, yet she toiled mightily to smooth the way for me as best she could. I was a mature adult before I realized how much she was ahead of her time, fighting poverty and social entrapments. She would not let her vision for her children be dimmed, no matter what the situation. I don’t have words to thank you, Muddear. I hope I’ve made you proud. Daddy had great difficulty with parenting, but I suppose he did the best he could with what he had. When he got sick with renal failure in February 1987, I nursed him as best I could and was with him when he took his last breath at age eighty-four. It had been easy for me to forgive him for those early years of what today would be called child abuse. I realized that he was a product of his own experiences. I believe he knew, late in his life, what he had done to his children was wrong, and I felt his shame. My brother, Cleophus, never had much of a chance to do well. By the time he was an adult, he had a long list of petty crimes on record with the police in Tyler. Because of this, he was consistently turned down for jobs, until he finally gave up trying and took to living on the streets or wherever he could. I think Mother and I lost him when he ran away the first time early in his youth. He was never able to 

Epilogue

regain his footing. He is now approaching sixty-eight years of age and still paying the price for the life he seemed destined to lead. I lost track of him six years ago and have searched for him over the past two years, and I can’t find him. I believe he does not want to be found. He needs to know that I love him and wish him well. Shalimar did finally come in out of the rain. She is now deeply involved with her church. She struggles still, except now she relies heavily on God to direct her path. She lost some valuable years during her earlier struggles. These struggles and her wrong decisions also led to a serious disconnect between my little girl and me. It seems the mother-daughter bonding, which should have occurred during those tumultuous, tender young years of her life, began but did not come to a successful conclusion. She apparently has not forgotten the “tough-love” philosophy of refusal to rescue that I eventually had to employ. I am just thankful now that the actions I took might have indeed helped save her life. Thank you, Shally, for following the path you feel God has set for you. Chris did not become the hotel owner, the Olympic star, the famous artist, the college graduate, or the marine officer I thought he would. He only became a good citizen, husband, father, and a wonderfully sensitive young man any mother would gloat about. He is now divorced and starting over again with his young son, Christopher. He has not followed the path that was set before him. He has chosen his own route and reminds me of that often. He is far from perfect, but he’s my imperfect son who is one of the most caring human beings I’ve ever known. I hope he never loses that quality. I pray for him often as he tries to make his way in this world. He is learning, through trial and error, that life is not always fair. Over the past two years I have periodically worked as an independent lecturer and educator on subjects having to do with life skills and change, both in the workplace and in one’s life. I have also worked as a consultant on nursing issues. In 2001 I was appointed to the board of trustees for Dallas Metrocare Services, formerly known as Dallas County Mental Health and Mental Retardation Center. 

East Texas Daughter

As I begin the process of winding down my career, I realize I have no regrets of the hand I was dealt. Rather, I embrace it. I have learned that sticks and stones may break my bones and scar my body, but they can only slow my progress, not end it. So it is and so it was for this “East Texas Daughter.”



W

hen I arrived back at the director’s office, the secretary asked me to have a seat while she informed Miss Cole that I was there. In just a few moments a tall, thin figure appeared in the doorway of the office. "This must be Miss Cole," I thought as the woman walked slowly toward me. Her graying hair was fixed behind in a perfect bun, and her long-sleeved, heavily starched white uniform rattled angrily as she came closer to me. She stopped a short distance from my face and stared at me without saying a word, but she wore that all-toofamiliar grin as part of the we-don’twant-you-here syndrome. "I’m sorry, Helen, but you didn’t pass the test." I was shocked. I was not prepared for this, and the expression on my face must have told the "big chief " that I did not believe her. She continued her insults. "You colored girls really need to try another field, because you sure aren’t prepared for this one. Have you ever thought about being a schoolteacher? A lot of your people are teachers, and they seem content and proud. I bet you would make a fine one." I was furious. The nerve of this woman! "Why didn’t you go into teaching, Miss Cole?" "Because I didn’t have to, and besides, I was qualified to be a nurse." "Really? Well, I’m going to be an R.N., Miss Cole, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You see, I know what I did on that test, and I didn’t have to lie or cheat to do it. I had a great teacher. What I would like to know is just how do you sleep at night?"

TCU Press Fort Worth

ISBN O-87565-276-X

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