I Am Beautiful: A Celebration of Women in Their Own Words

ported their effort to keep the church open by respondingto whatever modest requests for assistancethey have made. I do this because I respect these oldwomen, and also because I recognize them as thekeepers of a personal heritage that is very dear to me.The cemetery with virtually all of my relatives, includinggrandparents and parents, is just across theway, as is the vetch-covered space where the firstconsolidated school for black people in our communityused to stand. A school my father was instrumentalin erecting. I find myself once or twice a yearsitting on the church steps, peeking into the windows,or just standing in the yard, remembering.What I remember is playing tag and hide-and-goseekwith my cousin and best friend, Delilah. 1 Shewas radiantly black, funny; and fleet of foot, andher mother dressed her in the same airy, colorfulsummer dresses and patent-leather shoes just theway my mother dressed me. Perhaps she had morepigtails; I had bigger bows. In winter we wore identicalmaroon-colored snow suits, which served uswell in the uninsulated church, which was then, andstill is, heated by a potbellied stove. We would growup and lose touch, and she would barely escape aviolently abusive marriage, about which I heardonly after the fact. I remember my father huddledwith other men outside under the trees, laughing.My mother scrubbed and shining, smiling. We wereall on our best behavior, even my incorrigibly raucousbrothers who, only at church, managed to beboth neat and quiet.Because we were Methodists, and sang mostlystandard hymns, the singing wasn't all that great. Iloved it, though, because I liked singing with others—stilldo—and I was, even as a small child, humbledby the sincerity inthe voices of everyone.After we sang any kindof song together, therewas nobody in the congregationI didn't love.Perhaps the singinghad been even more sincerea hundred yearsearlier; legend had itthat the former slaveowners would stoptheir buggies underneaththe red oak to listen.Sometimes professionalgospel singerscame down from Atlantaand "turned theplace out." They wereundisputed queens inThe author in 1950 at age six. their shiny red or bi uerobes: they shouted atGod as if they knew Him personally and also knewHe was hard of hearing. The black stuff around theireyes, which began to run and smear the moment they' Not her real name.began to sweat, was strange to us, as was the fact thatthey wore, and wiped off, more lipstick in an afternoonthan my plain, country beauty mother wouldown in her life.My mother, in addition to her other duties asworker, wife, and mother of eight children, was alsomother of the church. I realize now that I was kind ofa little church mother in training, as I set out for thechurch with her on Saturday mornings. We wouldmop the bare pine floors, run dust rags over thebenches and wash the windows. Take out the ashes,dump them behind the outhouse, clean the outhouse,and be sure there was adequate paper. We wouldsweep the carpeting in the pulpit and I would reverentlydust off the Bible. Each Saturday my motherslipped a starched and ironed, snowy white doily underneathit.One season she resolved to completely redo thepulpit. With a hammer and tacks and rich, wine-darkcloth she'd managed to purchase from meager savings,she upholstered the pulpit chairs, including thethrone-like one in which the preacher sat. She alsolaid new carpeting. On Sunday morning she wouldbring flowers from her garden.tHERE HAS NEVER BEEN ANYONE WHO AMAZEDand delighted me as consistently as mymother did when I was a child. Part of hermagic was her calm, no-nonsense manner. Ifit could be done, she could probably do it,was her attitude. She enjoyed being strong and capable.Anything she didn't know how to do, she couldlearn. I was thrilled to be her apprentice.My father and brother cleared the cemetery ofbrush and cut the grass around the church while wewere inside. By the time we were finished, everythingsparkled. We stood back and admired our work.Sister Walker, my mother, was thanked for makingthe church so beautiful, but this wise woman, whoknew so many things about life and the mysteries ofthe heart, the spirit, and the soul, was never asked tospeak to the congregation. If she and other "mothers"and "sisters" of the church had been asked to speak,if it had been taken for granted that they had visionand insight to match their labor and their love,would the church be alive today?And what would the women have said? Wouldthey have protested that the Eve of the Bible did notrepresent them? That they had never been that curious?But of course they had been just as curious. If atree had appeared in their midst with an attractivefruit on it, and furthermore one that they were informedwould make them wise, they would havenibbled it.And what could be so wrong about that? Anyway,God had told Adam about the forbidden fruit; Hehadn't said a word directly to Eve. And what kind ofGod would be so cruel as to curse women and menforever for eating a piece of fruit, no matter how forbidden?Would they have said that Adam was aweak man who evaded personal responsibility forg-3cI18 O N THE ISSUES • Spring 1997