by Tonya Bolden
Once satisfied that the kitchen looked as Nella would have left it, Savannah flicked off the lights.
Minutes later—pillows on the davenport fluffed, door to the Edison Amberola shut tight, Crisis back in Father’s old-timey desk—Savannah was up in her room skimming the Poro price list.
Hair Grower
50¢
Liquid Shampoo
50¢
Cold Cream
21¢
Face Powder
19¢
(Shades: Poro Brown, Dark Brown, Brown, Medium Brown, Light Brown, Brunette, Flesh, White)
1 Stem Braid
$2.00
Set of Side Curls
$2.00
Wigs
$25.00
She goes to school. She cleans houses sometimes. She teaches. She sells Poro products.
And she’s so cheerful!
What’s my excuse?
BEST DAY EVER!
Yolande couldn’t believe it!
Was her friend really back?
Savannah actually said more than four words to her as they walked behind their parents en route to Metropolitan AME.
Savannah was possessed of such a pleasant air.
Chipper even.
The real shocker came after Sunday service, after people spilled out of the looming redbrick church, after the Riddles and the Holloways gathered around a dormant elm.
“We are thinking of an early dinner at Dade’s,” said Mr. Riddle. “What do you girls think?”
Yolande’s heart sank when Savannah tilted her head to the side, scrunched up her face.
“How about …?”
How about what? Yolande panicked. How about we just go home? How about you all go without me? How about …?
“How about you all go to Dade’s,” Savannah finally said, “and Yolande and I take dinner at Gaskins’?”
Yolande looked at her parents, then at Savannah’s. All four seemed as stunned as she was.
“Wouldn’t you two prefer Dade’s?” asked Mrs. Riddle. “They have those—”
The fathers were handing their daughters fifty-cent pieces by then.
Best day ever! Best day ever!
When they reached Dade’s Palace Cafe the girls waved to their parents, walked on.
Yolande felt all tingly.
Then like Christmas Day when Savannah linked arms with her.
And a miracle came.
“Yolande, I know I’ve been beastly lately. And I just want to say that I’m sorry for being so … so, well, so beastly. I hope you can forgive.”
Best day ever!
THE SCENT OF LYSOL F&F
Miss Gertie wasn’t right as rain the following week. Nella came again, only this time on Sunday afternoon.
Savannah had just changed out of her church clothes when Nella knocked. She too had just come from church it seemed.
Boxy black walking suit.
White batiste blouse.
Plain felt hat.
From the cut of the suit Savannah reckoned it four, five years old. Nella’s calfskin-and-serge button-up boots looked a lot like a pair Mother once had. Just like the braided leather handbag.
The night before, Savannah had cleaned her bedroom, bathroom, had even mopped the hallway outside her room. She had also given the room down the hall, a guest room that used to be Charlie’s, the once-over. All so that Nella would have less to do.
Idling in the living room, Savannah waited for the scent of Lysol F&F to wend its way in, waited for the kitchen floor to dry. Then she made her move.
“Nella,” she called out, heading for the utility room.
“Yes, Miss Riddle?” Nella had changed back into her church clothes. Just two buttons on her jacket left undone.
“I’d like to ask you something.”
“Yes, Miss Riddle?”
“Think Nannie Burroughs could use my help?”
“Help with what?”
“The school. Maybe on Saturdays I could stop by and—I don’t know, pitch in somehow.”
Nella shrugged. “Can’t hurt to ask.” She glanced at her wristwatch.
“Am I keeping you from something?”
“I do need to get home to Mummy.”
“How selfish of me. How about I walk with you some?”
“If you wish, Miss Riddle.”
“Just let me grab a coat.”
HORRIFIED
Perched in her living room’s bay window, Yolande trembled.
What is Savannah thinking?
Walking down the street with a cleaner—and a monkey-chasing, tree-climbing one at that!
Yolande was horrified.
BEFORE THE OPEN EYE SALOON
Savannah peppered Nella with questions every step of the way.
When did the school open?
How many students?
Is there a streetcar to Lincoln Heights?
Does the school offer French? Latin?
A challenge.
A passion.
Purpose.
Get engaged.
Take hold of life.
Stop being a mere observer.
“So please do ask Miss Burroughs if she could use me, my help,” said Savannah.
“Perhaps you should ask her yourself, Miss Riddle.”
Spent of questions, for the first time in a long while Savannah took in her surroundings.
Drab row houses. No turrets, bay windows, balconies.
Next up, a cram of shops with weatherbeaten signs. Barrows’s Meat Market had pieces of paper stuck askew at dirty windows—Fresh Hams 25¢ lb.… Pork Loin 25¢ lb.…
Affixed to the second-story window, a big sign: ROOMS.
Next door, a secondhand shop with a clutter of tea kettles, milk glass china, nickel silver pitchers and trays, puff boxes, hobnail bowls, carpet sweeper, ash can, clock, candlesticks.
Up ahead, an unsavory-looking fellow leaned against a streetlamp. Cheap baggy suit. Scowl on his face.
Savannah slowed her pace between Bailey’s Down Home Cook Shop and Rex’s Pool Hall. She made a full stop right before the Open Eye Saloon. Outside, three scruffy boys in worn knickers and dingy shirts were shooting marbles.
“Are you all right, Miss Riddle?” asked Nella.
Savannah swallowed. “It’s just that, that—I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you for all the information. You get along to your mother.”
“I understand, Miss Riddle.”
Out of nowhere a little boy came dancing up to Savannah.
“Hello, Miss Fine Lady!”
Savannah recoiled. “Oh, it’s—”
The boy thumped his chest. “I name Bim.”
“Bim, right.” Then to Nella with a weak smile, “Thanks again for your time.”
Oblivious to Bim’s and Nella’s goodbyes, Savannah did an about-face, skittered away, eyes on the ground, wishing for wings. She’d never been that deep into the southwest quadrant, didn’t know anybody who lived there, didn’t know a soul who lived in a neighborhood like this anywhere in the city.
It was blocks and blocks and blocks before she changed her pace to a stroll while chiding herself for being afraid of her own people.
Yolande was still in the window, and fuming, when Savannah turned onto their block.
IN THE WHOLLY IMPOSSIBLE
That fear she’d felt in Southwest spurred Savannah to do better, be stronger, get bolder.
Throwing caution to the wind, the following Saturday she made a step in that direction.
Aware that the ride wouldn’t be a short one, when she boarded the streetcar, along with her purse she had a sketch pad.
As she took the first available seat in the front, she could hear Father’s commandment: “We must always take full advantage of what we can do.” The streetcars were one of the few places where there was no color line.
With the rumble and roll of the car, there were honks of horns, clip-clopping of horse-drawn carriages, newsies hawking the Herald—
�
�All Warsaw in darkness!”
“Typhus scourge rages in Russia!”
“Arrested as robber, killed in gun fight!”24
So much bad news everywhere. All the time! What a cursed and broken world! thought Savannah amid the babble and chatter of a clutch of cyclists, of people crowding sidewalks. Some in a stroll. Others in hurry-up mode.
Just yesterday a six-year-old boy died and scores of other people were injured when a bomb went off in a Southside Chicago25 apartment building. All because the building’s occupants were Negroes. And before Savannah left the house that morning, she overheard her parents talking about Wobblies in some Massachusetts26 town blowing themselves up instead of the mill they targeted.
There has never been a time when there wasn’t misery in the world somewhere.
Sifting out the street sounds, Savannah fastened onto sad sights right there before her very eyes.
Negro men, white men, in tattered uniforms, some propped up against buildings.
Arm missing.
Leg missing.
Scarred face.
Caps turned up.
“Whatever you can spare!”
“I was at the Battle of Cantigny!”
“I was at Argonne!”
The more aggressive ones, tin cups, upside-down caps in hand, waylaid people waiting to cross a street.
A double amputee sat on a piece of wood with wheels, a cigar box his begging bowl. The grease-stained paperboard around his neck bore a crudely lettered plea: “HEP ME PLEEZE.”
Savannah thought about the streams of SITUATION WANTED ads newspapers carried, two cents a word, that began “DISCHARGED SOLDIER.”
Wanting a job as a porter.
Kitchen man.
Janitor.
Chauffeur.
Bookkeeper.
Any office position.
Two years college.
Sober.
Handy with tools.
Savannah changed the subject, turned her attention to passengers on the streetcar.
The prim Negro lady near the rear in a plain gray coat and hat with a veil.
Bright-eyed twin boys in matching tweed Dubbelbilt suits.
The odd-looking white man: bulbous nose, chicken lips, dressed like a member of a barbershop quartet.
Savannah settled on sketching the bright-eyed twins. Not as they were but as they could be. In gunny sacks poised for a race in a summer field, crowded with lupines, day lilies, daisies. Once back home I’ll do it over in pastels.
As the sunlight grew brighter, as a slight sweetness ambled into the bracing March air, Savannah put down her sketch pad, soaked in the sights. Really, the lack thereof.
Fewer homes and buildings, more forest and farmland. More birdsong.
Everyone she saw—walking, driving, riding in a buggy—all Negro. So were the other remaining passengers when the streetcar reached its last stop: the twin boys and that prim lady with a veil.
Up, up, up Savannah walked, the climb exhilarating. At the top she paused, wonderstruck. It was larger than she imagined. Nella hadn’t said there were so many buildings. One in the forefront was truly stately, divine. Wraparound porch, three-sided bow windows, gables.
Savannah headed, not for that one, but for the three-story white clapboard, the one that commanded the highest elevation.
From its raised porch hung a white banner emblazoned with bold black words: WE SPECIALIZE IN THE WHOLLY IMPOSSIBLE.
On the porch Savannah patted her hair, shook out her dress. Head up, she entered.
A petite mahogany girl rose from a desk behind the counter. “Good morning. How may I help you?”
French accent.
Savannah stepped forward, smiling. “My name is Savannah Riddle, and I would like to speak with Miss Nannie Burroughs.”
“I am sorry, but Principal Burroughs is not here. Perhaps I can help you?”
Savannah suddenly felt undone, stupid even. Now what?
“I wanted to know …”
“Yes?”
“I wanted to know if the school could use some help?”
“Help?”
“A helping hand. I would love to spend some hours tutoring in—or teaching …”
“For that, yes, you must speak with Principal Burroughs.”
Savannah’s heart sank. “Well, thank you very much.”
The black candlestick telephone on the desk made Savannah feel even dumber. I should have called first. What got into me?
“Is Nella here by any chance? Nella Walcott?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Savannah put on a happy face. “Perhaps some other time.”
“Or you could wait if you wish. Principal Burroughs should be back shortly.” With a gentle wave of a hand, the girl bid Savannah to take a seat in the lounge.
Savannah headed for the wingback armchair with stout, squat legs, the front ones slendering down to talon-and-ball feet. On the way she picked up a flyer from a golden oak gate-leg table with barley twist legs.
At the top:
BEFORE DECIDING WHERE TO ATTEND SCHOOL
Send for Catalogue of
The National Training School for Women & Girls
Savannah skimmed the rest of the flyer.
“The entire future of your daughter depends upon … Thousands of untrained women are simply pegging out an existence. Why not become a skilled worker in your line and make something better than a living—make a life.”
Make a life. Make a life. Make a life!
Flyer folded up and tucked into her purse, Savannah glanced at magazines fanned out on a table beside that wingback chair. Some her parents subscribed to—the Crisis, the Journal of Negro History. Others she had never even heard of.
Like the Crusader.27 Its motto “Onward for Democracy … Upward for the Race.”
A young woman on every cover.
October 1918: a Dutch bob and readiness in her eyes.
November 1918: flowing locks, sunbeam smile.
February 1919: neat sweater and skirt, spat pumps, atop a stool, telephone in hand, looking like she knows everything there is to know.
Each young woman was clearly doing more than pegging out an existence. So fearless.
When Savannah saw that the magazine was out of New York City—2299 Seventh Avenue—she wondered how far that was from Charlie, then returned to the issue with the young woman sporting a Dutch bob.
Who is she? Where does she live? What does she do?
Savannah was just about to flip through to find out when the front door opened.
Along with a gust of wind, an even more fearless-looking woman with lustrous dark chocolate skin strode in—and so smartly dressed in a green gabardine dress beneath a black walking coat. On her head, a fanciful black satin-and-tulle cartwheel hat at a jaunty angle.
This has to be her.
Savannah rose, not sure if she should approach or wait to be summoned.
“Principal Burroughs,” said the girl behind the counter. “This young lady is here to see you.”
Approach.
Savannah hurried over.
“Good day,” said Nannie Burroughs.
“Good day, ma’am.”
“And what is it that I can do for you?”
“I—I apologize for just showing up—for not telephoning first—I— Hello, Miss Burroughs, my name is Savannah Riddle and I, I …”
Nannie Burroughs squinted. Her smile gave life to dimpled cheeks. “Wyatt and Victoria’s daughter?”
Savannah felt somewhat relieved.
Puzzled too.
“Yes, ma’am.” She had never heard the woman’s name on Mother’s or Father’s lips.
“And what can I do for you, Miss Savannah Riddle?”
When Savannah finished, Nannie Burroughs seemed somewhat stunned. Slightly reared back on her heels, she said, “You really want to pitch in at my school?”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Savannah, eyes trained on that bedazzling cartwheel hat.
�
��Why?”
“Because, well, Nella—Nella Walcott told me about how wonderful—”
“And how do you know Nella?”
“Her mother, she cleans for us and she fell ill and so Nella filled in for her. And we got to talking and …” Savannah ran out of words.
Nannie Burroughs removed one black calfskin glove, the other. “How about you have a tour first,” she said.
“I’d be happy to show her around,” said the girl behind the counter. She grabbed a wrap from a peg. Reaching Savannah, she extended her hand. “Mona Auguste.
“This is Pioneer Hall,” said Mona as she and Savannah headed for the door. “I’ll tell you more about it upon our return.”
The house a few yards from Pioneer Hall, the stately, divine one, was the Mary G. Burdette model home.
“It is where those on the domestic science course practice. One week a student is a chambermaid, the next a parlor maid, cook, or head housekeeper. After several rotations every girl is an expert in every job. Our model home also doubles as our visitors’ lodge and is available for banquets.”
A few steps on was the Maggie L. Walker Hall—
“Dormitories and classrooms.”
Then Whitfield Hall—
“Dormitories and recreation room. Also it’s where music lessons are held.”
“Oh, I play the piano. Perhaps I can teach girls to play.”
Mona merely smiled.
Alpha Hall—more dormitories and classrooms.
A single-story long building needed no explanation because there were signs above its three doors.
LAUNDRY.
PRINTERY.
CLASSROOM.
Next, the community service building, home to a library and a shop.
“Our library is open to the public,” Mona explained. “As for the store, along with general dry goods we sell cakes, pies, and other baked goods students make.”
In addition to that, the students planted gardens in the spring and in the summer ran a farm stand down the hill.
