A Reflection on The Talk: Lessons On Racism in the United States

~ Linda Wright

After reading Citizen: An American Lyric by Claudia Rankine

As the sun set outside the kitchen window, Mom would do the dishes. She would rub the Ivory soap bar onto the sponge and scrub each plate, fork and knife, pot and pan. Then she would gently place the item in the drainer. Unless I had to stay in bed with an ice pack on one of my bruises, I picked each up and dried it. It was a special time of the day when I could ask about things that were puzzling to me.

The year I was seven, while I was wiping a plate with the towel, I asked “Why are some people not riding the buses in Montgomery, Alabama?”

Mom told me that after my father enlisted in the Navy he began basic training in Richmond, Virginia. My parents had only been married a few years, so Mom packed up and moved to be near him. Richmond was very different from the Nova Scotia, Canada she had grown up in, or the Massachusetts she moved to when she married Dad. 

“In Virginia,” she said, “a lot of people had dark skin and they were called ‘colored’ then. Now they want to be called black. I took the bus to my job every morning. If I was the only one at the bus stop, the bus would stop for me and open the door. If colored folks were there first, the bus would not stop. It would breeze on by like the driver didn’t see them standing there. Those people needed to get to work just like me. I couldn’t believe it. How could the driver not see these people standing and waiting for a ride? But no one else seemed surprised. The bus driver would signal me to get on first and then a few of the other folks too. But sometimes the driver would slam the door shut before everyone else had a chance to get on board.” She paused, scowling, “I think they just want to be treated fairly.”

I already knew what it felt like to be left out. The Elementary School Principal had tried to ban me from going to her school because of my bleeding disorder. As I thought this over, I said, “Mom, I don’t think I know any people who are black.”

Then she started her second story of that night. “You know Mrs. Walker the librarian.”  

I liked Mrs. Walker better than my first grade teacher and I nodded enthusiastically. I had never paid attention to her skin color. I knew Mom liked her too because they would talk while I picked out books to take home.

Mom went on, “Did you know she has a Masters degree in education but they would not hire her as a teacher here? That’s why she is a librarian. So even though we live in Massachusetts, black people don’t get treated the same as white.” 

While I was still processing all of this, Mom began her third story. “Before you were born I worked as a clerk in the ‘Better Dresses’ department on the third floor of Forbes and Wallace. One day the world famous singer, Marian Anderson was to perform in the city auditorium. She had sung on the National Mall in Washington, D.C. Thousands of people stood outside to hear her sing and it was broadcast on the radio. When that famous lady came in wanting to buy a dress, the store manager told her she would have to come up to the department I worked in by the service elevator. It was then that I realized that it didn’t matter how talented or famous you were if you had dark skin.” Mom didn’t get angry often but I could hear anger in her voice then. 

By the time I reached adolescence, the Civil Rights protests had reached our city in Western Massachusetts. Whenever my injured ankles would allow me to climb the stairs, my parents went to church and I attended Sunday School. One morning our teacher brought a guest, a friend who was a lawyer and a young black man. His name was Oscar Bright. His lesson was about how head cheese is made. Then with a grin, he said, “Would you like to eat some?” 

There was a chorus of “Yuck, no thanks,” from the teenagers. Then he talked about prejudice and how you can miss out on somethings that are really good if you have a closed mind.

Not long after that day, the morning newspaper headline read “Oscar Bright Arrested at City Hall Protest on Drug Charge.” My best friend, Cheryl joked, “I guess Oscar Bright wasn’t very bright.” I didn’t laugh. I believed that the man I had met would not be so stupid as to carry drugs in his pocket when he knew he might be arrested by police. I said so, feeling angry, like I remembered my mother being when she had told me her stories.

Blueberries: Generosity and the Economy of Abundance

~ Linda Wright

After reading: The Serviceberry: Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World by Robin Wall Kimmerer

This week we purchased three blueberry plants. We haven’t had a blueberry bush since we said farewell to our home in Massachusetts in 2007. Those plants were a birthday gift from my father one April. I don’t remember most of the birthday presents I have received in my lifetime, but I can still remember the joy those blueberry bushes gave me.

The blueberry bushes were a gift that fed me pleasure for years. Each spring when their pink tips started to spread at the edges of green leaves, I relaxed in the return of spring. Gradually the pale white blossoms would begin to expand. The bees and butterflies thought the flowers were an offering just for them. They kissed each tender bloom and carried the pollen from one plant to an other. By mid summer each flower had transformed into a plump juicy berry, dark blue with a rim of pink by the stem, like a berry belly button.

It didn’t take long before the birds discovered the gift too. I’m not sure how many years it took for those bushes to produce enough berries to fill a small bucket, but it did take us a while to notice that if we didn’t put a net over the bushes the birds would gobble all of them up before we had a chance to berry pick. Even after we tied netting around each bush, the birds still got a generous share from what dropped to the ground. Once they discovered that, if they flapped their wings around the netting, a shower of berries would land at their claws and they could feast to their fill. We didn’t mind sharing. There was still enough to put on our morning cereal bowl or put in a bumbleberry crumble.

Since we moved into the retirement community our house has a much smaller garden space, so the blueberry bushes are a variety that is supposed to grow in a pot and they will reach a height of only two to three feet. In Florida February is a good time to plant. The advertisement claims that the plants will produce sweet, dark blueberries. Will there be enough berries to put a few on our cereal bowls, or into a bumbleberry crumble? If not, we will be glad to provide a bit of sustenance to the bees and birds. 

For those who do not know about bumbleberry pie or bumbleberry crumble, here’s how I make mine. It is different every time. I use any mix of assorted fresh and/ or frozen berries… strawberry, blueberry, blackberry, raspberry. My Canadian relatives usually add some chopped apples. If strawberries are part of the mix, you can add some chopped rhubarb. It takes about five cups of fruit in all. I toss the fruit in a small amount of sugar and some cornstarch. I like mine quite tart but most people add more sugar and even honey to their crumbles. Then I put the fruit in a nine by nine baking dish and cover with a mixture of oatmeal, flour and brown sugar. I plop several small chunks of cold butter on the top and bake. It’s my favorite dessert and best when shared.  

Bone Body Mind: Ankle Reflections

~ Linda Wright

After Loving Our Own Bones by Julia Watts Belser

In 1968, I tossed a prosthetic ankle brace into my closet. Wearing that brace had caused a purple welt on the back of my knee. A hematoma formed from the pressure of the strap. The brace had to be modified more than once before I could wear it without injury and, when that was done it did not give the support that my ankle needed. I wore it for almost a year before throwing it into my parent’s attic forever.

In addition to being less than functional, it exposed me as a cripple. The looks strangers gave me were of pity. At nineteen, I did not love my own bones, yet I would rather use a wheelchair if necessary, than do additional harm to my body.

Osteoarthritis in both of my ankles, both knees, both shoulders, one hip and, one wrist, is the legacy of my congenital bleeding disorder. Over the years however, I have become proud of my identity as a disabled person and learned the power of coming out of the crip closet.

Since that first brace, almost sixty years has passed. The doctor looked at my X-ray and ordered me a new brace. After I wore it once, I refused to wear it again. Instead I did physical therapy for what the doctor called “serious arthritis.” That helped to make walking more stable. For the second time in my life I tossed another prosthetic support aside.

When the ankle became inflamed and so painful a few weeks ago that it would not bare my weight, I pulled the brace out from the closet. My bones may be fragile, fused, and misshapen but, I care for them.

Early Sign

Photo by Greg Hume
~ Linda Wright ~ 2 Comments

From my seat at the dining room table, I can see a slice of bright pink through the window. The skinny Eastern Redbud tree stands at the edge of the woods in full bloom . Most of the year this tree is so slender, so fragile, so spindly, that I don’t notice it.

Today though, my eyes are focused on it.. It knows something I didn’t. Spring is on its way even on this chilly February day.

Photo by Greg Hume

Ruby Geneva Harnish

Ruby Geneva Harnish
~ Linda Wright

Gramma Ruby was born in 1875 in Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia, Canada. At the age of twenty-four, she married my maternal grandfather, Samuel Harnish and moved into the two-story farmhouse he helped to build. He was a logger, which meant that he spent his days destroying trees in the Mi’kmaq heartland. Of course, that wasn’t how people thought about logging in those days.

Beginning in 1900, Ruby gave birth to ten children, five girls and five boys each one approximately two years apart. When a neighbor gave birth to two children in less than two years, Gramma would scoff that perhaps they did not know how to use a thimble. This story stuck for me because I have no idea how a thimble could be used as an effective form of birth control. It was, however, only one of the stories I heard of how judgmental she could be.

All her children lived to be healthy strong adults, even the one who contracted lock jaw from stepping on a rusty nail in the barn. Surviving tetanus was unheard of in those times, but Gramma dribbled bone broth between his lips until he could once again move his jaw.

Ruby assigned all of her children jobs. Whether it was knitting mittens and hats for winter or bringing in the firewood, everyone had at least one task to do. The boys did most of the outside chores. The girls separated the cream from the milk, stitched clothing, mended socks and did countless other things to keep everyone fed and clothed.

My grandfather Samuel died in 1927 at the age of fifty-two. His corpse was transported from the Halifax hospital back to the farmhouse where the Annapolis Royal Baptist pastor, performed the funeral. I imagine the viewing and ceremony took place in the front parlor. There was still a small organ in that room in 1956 when I first visited that home.

As soon as they were old enough most of Ruby’s children took jobs in town, teaching school, being housekeepers, or nannies. They all sent back the money they earned to support Gramma and their younger siblings. It was the Great Depression and everyone had to pitch in to survive, but Ruby continued to feed anyone who arrived at dinnertime. As a teetotaler, there would be no liquor in her house.

Four of Ruby’s sons and three of her daughter’s married, despite her strong objections. Why she tried to stop any of her children from marrying, no one in the family can explain.

Ruby was the only grandparent who was alive when I was born. I only met her once. I was five years old and she was eighty-one. I was disappointed that she was not as pleased to meet me as I was to meet her. She wasn’t the cuddly grandmother I had longed for. Ruby’s solution for getting me out of her way was to introduce me to a little girl,my age, who lived just down the road. It was a gift that has lasted seventy years.

Most of what I know of her is by way of observing my mother and my aunts and uncles. Many of them inherited Ruby’s critical tongue, organizational skills, and generosity to those in need. Those traits and the friend she introduced me too are my legacy from her.