Read Online The Grace of Silence by Michele Norris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michele Norris
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the recital, please, Lord, let it be my baby.”
Ensley was cocoonlike, and I would have spent almost all my time in the neighborhood if not for my grandfather. After he retired, he deputized me to join him on his daily errands. Grandpa was a huge man. Very tall. Very dark. Very proud. A former steelworker who wore suits every day after he stopped working at the mill, he’d tell us, “Dress for where you’re going.” I’m not sure he ever got there, but I guess his dark suit and skinny tie signaled where his grandkids were headed.
He drove a big car. Really big. Shiny and dark, with doors that opened at the middle of each side—suicide doors, as they were called. They made it easier to load people and cargo. This was important, because Grandpa rode “jitney.” You see, few people had sedans in Ensley then. My grandfather, a lifelong saver, had waited until he could buy a very big car with cash, not simply for enjoyment but to help him earn money during his retirement. He drove people to and from the grocery store or the doctor or wherever they had to go. This was called riding jitney.
During my summer stays in Birmingham, my grandfather usually carried me into town with him on trips to Bruno’s, the big grocery store. I would have to get dressed up for the day in a starchy little pinafore and patent leather shoes. And since this was before the days of car seats, I would sit next to him in the massive front seat, the two of us in what most people would call Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. Some days, when we parked the car and walked into the business district, my grandfather would be approached by men in work uniforms. They lived in asection across a creek that I later learned was home to Irish and Italian families. They always looked rumpled. They had dirt on their faces, and their hair always seemed wet. They called my grandfather “boy” and “nigrah,” which was supposed to be slightly less offensive and confrontational than
nigger
. Slightly.
Sometimes they’d ask him who he “thought” he was, driving a big car and dressing like a preacher. They would follow us, barking and sneering and spitting on the sidewalk. They would step in front of us now and then to block our way. My grandfather said little. He knew the men by name. I remember that he would sometimes tell them to give his regards to their parents or ask after someone he used to work with at the mills. This would often get the men to back off, allowing us to continue on our way—a man with hands the size of mitts holding on to an overdressed child.
I now wonder whether the little girl in the lace socks and patent leather shoes was invited along for the ride to provide Grandpa with a measure of protection from Birmingham hostility. I can’t imagine putting my own kids into a similar situation, dressing them up as armor for their grandparents. I ran this by Mom, wanting her to say, “You’re crazy” or “Your imagination is running away with you.” But instead she allowed, “We lived in different times. People did what they had to do.” To get by, people had to rely on their wits and control their emotions.
My father used to joke that he and his five brothers, both in looks and temperament, seemed to fall in line with Snow White’s seven dwarfs, except Dopey. “There are no dumb folks in my household,” my grandfather used to say. If you spent any time at all in the little wooden bungalow on Avenue G you would have heard Belvin Norris Sr. assert as much time and again, as if praying or making a promise. He might say itproudly, or spit it out like a stern warning to underscore a command, as in: “Boy, you better figure out how to fix that broken faucet so the eight people in this house can get washed in time for church.” Silence, then: “I may not know much, but I know one thing. There are no dumb folks in my household.” Grandpa Belvin repeated this so often that, if the little Birmingham bungalow had housed a business, the sign
Ensley was cocoonlike, and I would have spent almost all my time in the neighborhood if not for my grandfather. After he retired, he deputized me to join him on his daily errands. Grandpa was a huge man. Very tall. Very dark. Very proud. A former steelworker who wore suits every day after he stopped working at the mill, he’d tell us, “Dress for where you’re going.” I’m not sure he ever got there, but I guess his dark suit and skinny tie signaled where his grandkids were headed.
He drove a big car. Really big. Shiny and dark, with doors that opened at the middle of each side—suicide doors, as they were called. They made it easier to load people and cargo. This was important, because Grandpa rode “jitney.” You see, few people had sedans in Ensley then. My grandfather, a lifelong saver, had waited until he could buy a very big car with cash, not simply for enjoyment but to help him earn money during his retirement. He drove people to and from the grocery store or the doctor or wherever they had to go. This was called riding jitney.
During my summer stays in Birmingham, my grandfather usually carried me into town with him on trips to Bruno’s, the big grocery store. I would have to get dressed up for the day in a starchy little pinafore and patent leather shoes. And since this was before the days of car seats, I would sit next to him in the massive front seat, the two of us in what most people would call Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. Some days, when we parked the car and walked into the business district, my grandfather would be approached by men in work uniforms. They lived in asection across a creek that I later learned was home to Irish and Italian families. They always looked rumpled. They had dirt on their faces, and their hair always seemed wet. They called my grandfather “boy” and “nigrah,” which was supposed to be slightly less offensive and confrontational than
nigger
. Slightly.
Sometimes they’d ask him who he “thought” he was, driving a big car and dressing like a preacher. They would follow us, barking and sneering and spitting on the sidewalk. They would step in front of us now and then to block our way. My grandfather said little. He knew the men by name. I remember that he would sometimes tell them to give his regards to their parents or ask after someone he used to work with at the mills. This would often get the men to back off, allowing us to continue on our way—a man with hands the size of mitts holding on to an overdressed child.
I now wonder whether the little girl in the lace socks and patent leather shoes was invited along for the ride to provide Grandpa with a measure of protection from Birmingham hostility. I can’t imagine putting my own kids into a similar situation, dressing them up as armor for their grandparents. I ran this by Mom, wanting her to say, “You’re crazy” or “Your imagination is running away with you.” But instead she allowed, “We lived in different times. People did what they had to do.” To get by, people had to rely on their wits and control their emotions.
My father used to joke that he and his five brothers, both in looks and temperament, seemed to fall in line with Snow White’s seven dwarfs, except Dopey. “There are no dumb folks in my household,” my grandfather used to say. If you spent any time at all in the little wooden bungalow on Avenue G you would have heard Belvin Norris Sr. assert as much time and again, as if praying or making a promise. He might say itproudly, or spit it out like a stern warning to underscore a command, as in: “Boy, you better figure out how to fix that broken faucet so the eight people in this house can get washed in time for church.” Silence, then: “I may not know much, but I know one thing. There are no dumb folks in my household.” Grandpa Belvin repeated this so often that, if the little Birmingham bungalow had housed a business, the sign
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