Little Story #13

I feel like when you grow up in certain northern cities in a fairly liberal family Race is about absence. There were no people of color in our neighborhood. The only Asian family ran a laundry. Grandmom took Poppop's shirts to them. I don't remember any attitude from her but she may have just been silent.
I know most of the Black people lived on another side of Pittsburgh but I don't remember what side. I did see them on the bus when we were down town. I remember one time when the only empty seats were beside Black people. The mommie directed me to sit in one and she took the other. I'm not sure if she said it then but I do know she told me that she didn't think there was any difference between us and them. I now think there are important differences in how our lives were shaped and it's important to think and talk about them. But at that time the mommie's attitude set the tone.
Grandmom was a proud member of the DAR. (Daughter's of the American Revolution) I was beginning the process of becoming a member when Uncle John told me he didn't approve because the DAR had refused to allow Marian Anderson to sing in Constitution Hall. Like so many stories that one is complicated. Lots of squirmy white people trying to pretend there was no racism. For me it was the strength of Uncle John's moral authority that turned me away from being the next generation in the DAR. And it was a moment of realizing that there was in fact racism. Some of which was a little too close to my family.
I'm not sure how old I was but one summer my paternal grandmother and I took a bus to St Louis to meet my Aunt. When I got on the bus I headed straight to the back where there were seats and ... it just seemed like a more interesting place to sit. I did not notice that there were all black people sitting back there. My grandmother did.
When we got off the bus she snapped at my aunt - she made us sit in the back with the niggers. I'm not sure I'd ever heard that word before. No one had to tell me that it was hateful. I could feel it like ice water in my blood. I tried to ask my aunt and later the mommie about it but they vacillated. It was a bad word. I should never use it. But Grandma was from a different generation and just didn't understand. I accepted that it was something old people thought until I heard my father say it.
There was a black man who worked my grandmother's garden. She had a very large back yard and more of a garden than she could keep up with. He would show up at the kitchen door with an arm full of tomatoes, corn and cucumbers. Grandma opened the door wide enough to take the vegetables and they chatted amiably but she never let him in.
I've written so much about my maternal grandmother and I hate to leave my paternal grandmother's story in such an ugly place. I'll keep thinking about her.