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Authors: Alan Lightman
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the years I remember, she hobbled about from room toroom with legs swollen from diabetes and obesity. In addition to the diabetes, Blanche suffered respiratory problems caused by her smoking and would go into terrible fits of coughing and wheezing, finally dowsing her spasms by drinking an RC Cola mixed with lemon juice. After each of these episodes, my mother would wag her finger at Blanche and admonish her to stop smoking, in the same voice she used to ask her children to stop eating candy. Blanche would smile and say, “Yes’m, Mizz Lightman.” The next day, she would light up her Pall Malls.
( photo credit 15.1 )
In many ways, my brothers and I loved Blanche as much as we loved our mother. And Blanche loved us back. Her love was more simple and reliable than my mother’s. Blanche asked for nothing in return. Some days I would come home from school, injured by a cruel remark made by a classmate, and bury my face in Blanche’s gigantic bosom. “Tell me ’bout it, honey,” she would say, enveloping me with gentle affection. When my brothers and I began dating, Blanche let us know which girlfriends she approved of. Later, when we got married, she came to the weddings.
Blanche worked long hours. She arrived at 7:00 in the morning and left in the evening around 8:00, after cooking dinner for our family and washing the dishes, five and sometimes six days a week. For a number of years, she lived in two small rooms attached to our garage, which my parents called the “servants’ quarters.” At some point, she got a house of her own, on Lowell Avenue near Lamar, and took the bus each morning to the cornerof Cherry and Poplar, then trudged down the street to our house. In the late 1950s, my parents paid her $30 per week. Minimumwage laws didn’t exist, and that was the going rate for black “help” at the time.
Each morning, when she first came through the back door of the house, Blanche would stop in the utility room and change into a white uniform. Then, before leaving in the evening, she would change back into her own clothes. I often wondered what she thought of that white uniform. I suspect that she hated it. But Blanche never complained. In fact, she was always smiling. As a child, I once asked her why she always smiled, and she answered, “I smiles when I’s happy, and I smiles when I’s not happy.”
Blanche’s duties covered everything from cleaning the toilets to washing clothes to ironing shirts to cooking meals. She swept the floors, made the beds, sewed pants that were ripped, polished the silver, picked up the toys, fed the dog, dusted the hundreds of books on our bookshelves. Several times a week, my mother sent Blanche off to the grocery store with a shopping list. Blanche’s reading ability was extremely limited. Almost always, she would come home missing a few items on the list, at which point Mother would run around in a flutter, saying “Blanche, when are you going to learn how to read English?” Blanche would get very quiet and hurt and busy herself putting away the groceries.
On evenings that my parents were going out to a party but my father wasn’t yet home, Mother would ask Blanche for advice as she pulled various dresses out of her closet. “This one makes me look fat, Blanche, don’t you think?”
“You looks pretty, Mizz Lightman,” Blanche would say, and my mother would suck in her stomach and turn around twice in the mirror. Then she would touch Blanche’s shoulder and giggle, as if the two of them were teenagers helping each other dress fora prom. “Blanche Lee, you’re just trying to make me feel good. What use are you?”
A swinging door separated the kitchen from the dining room. In the evenings, while my parents and brothers and I sat eating at the table in the dining room, Blanche ate her own dinner at a small table in the kitchen, ten feet away, behind the closed door. That was the order of the world. The unspoken rule was that Blanche should never watch us as
( photo credit 15.1 )
In many ways, my brothers and I loved Blanche as much as we loved our mother. And Blanche loved us back. Her love was more simple and reliable than my mother’s. Blanche asked for nothing in return. Some days I would come home from school, injured by a cruel remark made by a classmate, and bury my face in Blanche’s gigantic bosom. “Tell me ’bout it, honey,” she would say, enveloping me with gentle affection. When my brothers and I began dating, Blanche let us know which girlfriends she approved of. Later, when we got married, she came to the weddings.
Blanche worked long hours. She arrived at 7:00 in the morning and left in the evening around 8:00, after cooking dinner for our family and washing the dishes, five and sometimes six days a week. For a number of years, she lived in two small rooms attached to our garage, which my parents called the “servants’ quarters.” At some point, she got a house of her own, on Lowell Avenue near Lamar, and took the bus each morning to the cornerof Cherry and Poplar, then trudged down the street to our house. In the late 1950s, my parents paid her $30 per week. Minimumwage laws didn’t exist, and that was the going rate for black “help” at the time.
Each morning, when she first came through the back door of the house, Blanche would stop in the utility room and change into a white uniform. Then, before leaving in the evening, she would change back into her own clothes. I often wondered what she thought of that white uniform. I suspect that she hated it. But Blanche never complained. In fact, she was always smiling. As a child, I once asked her why she always smiled, and she answered, “I smiles when I’s happy, and I smiles when I’s not happy.”
Blanche’s duties covered everything from cleaning the toilets to washing clothes to ironing shirts to cooking meals. She swept the floors, made the beds, sewed pants that were ripped, polished the silver, picked up the toys, fed the dog, dusted the hundreds of books on our bookshelves. Several times a week, my mother sent Blanche off to the grocery store with a shopping list. Blanche’s reading ability was extremely limited. Almost always, she would come home missing a few items on the list, at which point Mother would run around in a flutter, saying “Blanche, when are you going to learn how to read English?” Blanche would get very quiet and hurt and busy herself putting away the groceries.
On evenings that my parents were going out to a party but my father wasn’t yet home, Mother would ask Blanche for advice as she pulled various dresses out of her closet. “This one makes me look fat, Blanche, don’t you think?”
“You looks pretty, Mizz Lightman,” Blanche would say, and my mother would suck in her stomach and turn around twice in the mirror. Then she would touch Blanche’s shoulder and giggle, as if the two of them were teenagers helping each other dress fora prom. “Blanche Lee, you’re just trying to make me feel good. What use are you?”
A swinging door separated the kitchen from the dining room. In the evenings, while my parents and brothers and I sat eating at the table in the dining room, Blanche ate her own dinner at a small table in the kitchen, ten feet away, behind the closed door. That was the order of the world. The unspoken rule was that Blanche should never watch us as
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