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y ThelmaShelton RobinsonFamily photos: Thelma’sfather, “Hop Dick” Shelton,and Thelma, courtesy of theartist. Facing page: ThelmaShelton Robinson 2004,photo : Debora Kodish.Painting, “Yo Mama”courtesy Ife Nii-Owoo.Ifind that truth is strangerthan fiction. If you tell someof these true stories, peopledon't believe it. I tell aboutthings that I remembered as achild, and about things that wereimportant, not just to me, but toeverybody. Experience doesn'tmatter if you haven't got stories.I always loved stories. And Iloved to listen to stories in theneighborhood. My father was awalking storybook. See, he was ahustler. He did so many things. Heused to tell me back in Norfolk, hewould sell fish. And he used tohave a cart, and he’d say, “MissAnnie. Get your pots and pans,here I am the FISH man!” Healways had something that wouldrhyme. He would make things up,like: “To see how sweet your homecan be, go away but keep the key.”He’d say things like that all thetime. My father, he had charm.People loved to talk to him. And heloved talking! He had so many stories.After he came to Philadelphia,he sold vegetables. He sold papers.Then he had this little store on thecorner of Twelfth and Rodman. Andhe named it the Veteran’s Rest. Andhe had mainly men coming inthere. You know, that corner storewhere they shoot the bull. Theyplayed cards and they playedcheckers. And they’d argue. Andthey’d talk about their war experiencesand everything.We lived at 506 South SartainStreet, which was right across thestreet from the Standard Theateron South Street. And that was themain thoroughfare. I mean—therewere so many things you could see.They had people on the cornerpreaching, or tap-dancing, or whatnot.That was commonplace. I’dwatch things—because, you know,the different things you see- theactions that people put on. Whatyou would see happening in theneighborhood, well, the truth isstranger than fiction.I put myself in school. Becausemy brother and my sisters wereolder than I was. I was theyoungest. One morning I woke upand none of them were there. Thatwas odd. And when I asked mymother where they were, she said,“They went to school.” So at thattime, people would put their childrenout—they could go outsideand play and not worry what wasgoing to happen too much. So Iwent out to play and nobody wasout. And every house I went to onour side of the street, everytime Irang the bell or knocked on thedoor, I would ask for the child andthe mother would tell me, “They’rein school.”Nobody was outside but me.And I said, “School? I want to go toschool, too!”So I knew it was taboo to crossthe street. But I wanted to go toschool. So I looked, and I went andI crossed that street. Then I sawthis old friend of the family. Hisname was Mr. Whitey. He was aplumber. And he called me MommyLump. He says to me, “Where yougoing, Mommy Lump?” I said, “I’mgoing to school. But I need a bookand a pencil and piece of applepie.” (Always worried about mystomach! ) So he laughed and hetook me to the corner store, Mr.Snyderman’s little store, and I gotthe book and I got the pencils.Then we went next door. I thinkthere was a Greek restaurant thereand I got a piece of French applepie with the ice cream on the topand the raisins in it. So I was all set!So he was laughing! It tickled him.He just walked me on. He said,“Are you really going to school?”I always loved stories. And I loved tolisten to stories in the neighborhood.My father was a walkingstorybook.I said, “Yes.”So we went around onLombard Street and down to theschool entrance. And he stood atthe gate and he says, “OK, I’ll seeyou.” And I says, “OK.” And he juststood there and he was just laughing,and this lady happened tocome up and she had a little girlshe was going to enroll, so I wentin with them. And when I gotinside, there was a nun there. Andthe lady was giving her the informa-[Continued on p. 16➝]13