I cry. Alma is crying. We are all sniffling. I don’t know how to move forward with the interview. I’m caught off guard by such a personal moment.
Then Mrs. Campbell tells me that one of their proudest moments was taking their daughter Frankie to college. Frankie was the first of her children to go to college and she put a brave face on and let her 16-year-old leave home.
“I wasn’t sure she was ready,” she says.
We made up our mind that we would take her [daughter Frankie to Fisk University]. Didn’t look like we were ever gonna get to Nashville. Thought maybe this is the wrong place to take this child. Frankie was going on 17. Maybe she needed to wait another year. The further that place was, I wanted to tell him [my husband] so bad, “Let’s go back home.” But we went on, got there, got her enrolled and everything. We roamed the campus with her until she found her a little girl that she hooked up with. The last thing we did was have supper with her; took her and the little girl and we went out to eat.
Mrs. Campbell removed her grandchildren’s photos from the entryway to hang one of President Obama.
For her scholarship, they gave her a little job before we left as a dormitory major. This would be applied to her schooling. She and this child were back on campus. And we started home. Last thing, I saw her up in the window looking at us driving off the campus. I said, “There is she watching us.” He wouldn’t say a word, didn’t say a word. We got on the road a long ways. I don’t know where we were when he heard me crying. He said, “You wanna go back?” I said, “Yeah.”
We turned around. I guess we drove 100 miles back to Nashville, I betcha it was. Really and truly I don’t know how long, but I know it was a long ways. I didn’t say nothing to him and he didn’t say nothing to me, but he heard me sniffle. That’s the only thing he asked, did I wanna go back? I said, “Yeah.” I don’t know where he turned around in them rocks, but we turned around and went on back. Campus was just as still and quiet. I said, “They catch us; they put us in jail.” Everything running across my mind roaming around on campus, but we roamed around and roamed around. Didn’t see nothing. I looked up at that window; wasn’t nobody there. He say, “She all right.” I said, “Yeah, but let us let her know that we just leavin’.” He said, “She thinks we did.” I said, “Yeah, but I just wanna go in the dormitory.” I went into the dormitory. There she was, but she hadn’t gone to bed. She in there with the young ladies. Told her how far we made it and came back. She said, “Y’all go on home. I’mma be all right.” I was just a cryin’. He reached into his pocket and gave me his handkerchief, then he wiped my eyes. I knocked his hand down. “It isn’t me; you need your own handkerchief—trying to act like I ain’t mature.” We left we worked our way back to Mississippi.
I’m transcribing Mrs. Campbell’s story one night, and I go to bed thinking of her. She has this slow, drawn-out voice. It’s very deliberate, very low, very eloquent with a flair for quiet drama. She reminds me of Maya Angelou. She speaks so softly, so melodic, that I can’t ever imagine her raising her voice. Her daughter Alma corrected me when I said this: “Oh no, Mother was the disciplinarian.”
I’m on my way to Shelby to see another mother, but I’m very close to Mrs. Campbell’s house. I want to see her. I always want to see her, and I plan to come by before visiting the other mother. It has been raining all morning. With heavy rain, I concentrate on the funnel-looking skies and miss my landmark, the sign on Route 61 that reads, MOUND BAYOU, THE JEWEL OF THE DELTA. I thought Mound Bayou was before Shelby, but it’s not. It’s after. I call and ask Mrs. Campbell if I can come by afterward instead of before. “I’m old, where am I going?” she says. “Just come on by.”
I am giddy pulling into her driveway. The rain has stopped but my feet are soaked in my sandals. I knock on her front porch and take my shoes off. I don’t want to bring water in her house.
She opens the door. “Where are your shoes?”
“They are on the porch. Right here. I took them off, so I won’t bring water in your house.”
She sucks her teeth. “Alma, get this child some socks.” In a few seconds she hands me a pair of freshly laundered white tube socks.
“No thank you. I’m fine.”
“You young people are so hardheaded. Put the socks on.”
I politely decline.
Mrs. Campbell sucks her teeth again. “I’m worried you’re going to get pneumonia.”
“I won’t.” It’s in the eighties and humid—Mississippi in September. “Mrs. Campbell, please sit down. I want to read your story to you.”
She walks into the living room, a little hunched over and slow, and eases into a recliner. There is no seat next to her, so I sit on the floor by her knees, like she’s at her throne. She sucks her teeth about me sitting on the floor. “Pull up a chair,” she says.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Campbell.” I smile at her. I can tell by the look in her eyes that I’ve slightly aggravated her.
“You young folks are so hardheaded.”
I don’t say a word. I know better. After a long pause, I feel forgiven and begin, “Mrs. Campbell, I’m excited. I want to read your story to you and show you your photograph.” I covet the mothers’ approval. I want them to like my work, to know I’m doing right by them, that this project is something good.
After she lets me show her what I have done with the pictures, she asks, “Lemme see Mrs. Self. Lemme see some of the others. I like looking at their photos.” Alma stands next to her and bends over her shoulder to look at the photos. They wonder if they know some of the other women. “Mrs. Jackson! You have Mrs. Jackson?”
“Yes, ma’am.” My project is becoming a book of popular girls in the Mississippi Delta. Mrs. Campbell loves looking at the photos of the other mothers. They all do. I show her the pages that I have designed, and I read her words back to her.
She is quiet. She doesn’t say a single word, but that’s Mrs. Campbell. She’s often quiet, and I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad sign. I’m finished and she finally says, “Oh, this is just too much for me. All these emotions.” I see a single tear slide down her cheek. I smile because I know that I have done right by her.
“I love you, Mrs. Campbell.”
“I love you, too.”
“I have a girl crush on you,” I say, still sitting on the floor by her knees.
“That’s okay, ’cause I have a girl crush on you, too.”
We smile at each other. I resist the urge to lay my head on her knee. I haven’t told her she reminds me of Gram. I was never allowed to let my naturally curly hair air-dry because Gram was afraid I would get pneumonia. I wasn’t hardheaded about that, so it wasn’t until my mid-thirties that I wore my hair naturally. I had no idea until then what texture my hair was when it air-dried. I don’t dare tell Mrs. Campbell that I now let my hair air-dry—even in the winter months—because she would say, “Child, you gonna get pneumonia, put a hat on.”
MRS. LEOLA W. OVERTON, 77
CLARKSDALE
BORN APRIL 1937
STILL MARRIED, 44 YEARS TO SECOND HUSBAND, REMUS OVERTON
6 CHILDREN
5 GRANDCHILDREN
2 GREAT-GRANDS
My mother died in childbirth with me. My father had three wives; he was married three times. My mother only had six of us; I was the youngest. He just gave us all away to anybody who wanted us. My adoptive mother made sure I knew my sisters. I was blessed with two lovely adoptive parents. My sister knows more about our father, and I don’t know anything about my mother. We’ve never seen a picture of our mother, no one has ever told us anything about her. All we know is that she came from Arkansas. That’s it. I know her first name, but we don’t know her last [maiden] name, because on my birth certificate they just got Emma Buggs. That was her married name. It just bothers me. I wish I had a picture of my mother. Not being around that part of the family—it was just horrible. And for us to be, you know, gave away like little puppies.
I ended up growing up in Clarksda
le. My sister Laverne grew up in Round Lake, a few miles from here, because that’s where our father was. That’s where we were born. My adoptive mother made sure that I knew my sister. I have two brothers and she made sure that I knew them. She would take me to see my sister. She wouldn’t buy my sister clothes, but she taught me how to share. I had to share my clothes with my sister and I could not give her anything that I did not like. I had to give her some of my best clothes. So my sister Laverne and I are very close now. I could have grown up not even knowing my biological family.
That’s the beginning of my life. My adoptive [mother] knew my mother and told me that I look more like my mom than my sister does. She knew my mother. I didn’t have any information on her, only on my father’s side of the family, and that’s sad. She was just like somebody never been born.
I raised my children. First thing—I wanted to make sure that they knew that I love them. And I talked to them. We did everything together. First thing, we prayed together. I taught them they were sisters and brothers and they had to stick together. Love each other and they had to always be there for each other. Always taught them that. They had to always share with each other.
(Mrs. Overton tells me that she was divorced from her first marriage and was struggling to find work before she met her second husband.)
I was about 30 years old. God had to take me all the way down—didn’t have a job, didn’t have any money and had children. I’d get up every morning and go look for a job. One morning I got up and I didn’t have any food in the house. I told the children, said, “I’m goin’ lookin’ for a job and when I come back I’m gonna bring you some food.” They said, “Okay, Momma.” I went to several places, and now I need to go home. I was walking. I didn’t have a car, and I was walkin’ down the street, thinking, I don’t have any food, I don’t have any money. I went home and looked at my children; all six of those children were looking at me ’cause they were ready to eat. I went in my house and I went straight through the back door to the next street to my godmother. I walked in her living room and said, “Honey, my children are hungry and we don’t have any food.” That was first time I ever let my pride down and ask anybody for anything. I had so much pride, I would not ask for anything.
She had a fit. “What?!” She got in her refrigerator and just started pulling food out her freezer. Then when she did all that, she gave me some money. My children talk about that now, every time we get together. She gave me some money and she gave me other food to cook. I went to the store and bought chicken wings and a loaf of bread. I went home and fried chicken wings and cooked some rice for those children and they ate. Last time they were home, they were saying, “Those were the best chicken wings we’ve ever eaten, Mother.” That’s one of the things that they remember. I didn’t really understand until I had gotten older, much older. God had to show that to me I had so much pride.
I FELT LIKE AN ORPHAN
Hearing Mrs. Overton’s story brought me face-to-face with the fact that Gram and Pop-Pop essentially adopted me. I remember when I was in elementary school, I tearfully phoned Mom and asked her, “You didn’t want me because I was black?”
“No,” she said immediately. “I loved you. I loved you so much, I asked them to raise you because I knew they would do a better job than I could.”
Her words didn’t stop the fresh pain. “Was I wanted? Was I loved? Was she ashamed?” Those are questions I had already asked my mom years ago. I remember us talking about it after I dropped out of college my sophomore year, in 1989. Before then, I always wondered, but I had never had the guts to ask her. At least I didn’t remember asking.
“You know your father and I divorced when you were 3. I took you and moved to Michigan to live near Gram [Larson]. I needed the help,” Mom said. Gram Larson had moved away from Harrisburg after Mom married, taking Mom’s younger siblings with her. As mentioned, Granddad had died of lung cancer four years before Mom married Dad. Gram Larson needed support from her own mother, so she moved back to Michigan. After Mom’s divorce, she followed, taking me with her. Then she met husband number two, and they moved to Jersey.
“The judge said I was unfit to be a mother because I was living with a man I wasn’t married to,” Mom said, retelling painful history. “He told me to get married. So I married Steve.”
I have fond memories of Steve. He was good to me.
“You cried constantly after we moved to Jersey. You missed Gram Burton,” Mom said. “You cried all the time. It was terrible. I felt like a bad mother. I couldn’t stand you crying like that. You wanted to telephone Gram Burton. You would even crawl into the closet and sit in the back of the closet and cry. No one was being mean to you, you just missed your grandmother. You did this for months and I couldn’t take it anymore. And I wondered what kind of life you would have as a black child with a white mother, her white husband in rural Jersey. I called your grandparents and asked them to take legal custody of you. I was working at a factory, was poor, and knew they could do a better job than me. It hurt me, but I wanted more for you.”
Memory of going to court flooded back. I was nearly 4 years old. I remember the judge’s chamber and him questioning me. I don’t know why the judge ruled the way he did. My grandparents got custody of me when I was almost 4 years old. I lived with them until I was 18.
My mom and I were very close when I was little, even though I lived with Gram and Pop-Pop in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and Mom had moved with her second husband to Browns Mills, New Jersey. I remember seeing my mom every month. She would come to Pennsylvania to get me, usually in the 1973 Dodge Dart she loved that barely ran. It was already hand-painted black when she bought it; you could see the paintbrush strokes. Then I hit that awkward age where I was embarrassed to walk beside her because I was ashamed of being half-black when I was with my white mother. I remember exactly the moment the shame began. It was after Christmas when I was about 14 years old. Mom’s sisters, my sweet aunts Jane and Vicki, would send my sister, Angela, and me checks for Christmas. We would split their $25 checks. Mom always took us to the mall after Christmas so we could shop the sales. It was the highlight of my teenage years. Mom and I were inside a junior clothing store at a mall in New Jersey. I was looking for a sweater, and when I found one, I loudly called out to her. No answer.
“Mom!” I yelled when she didn’t hear her irritated teenager.
Every white child in that store stared at me. I thought they stared because I was not white like my mom and sister. The attention when I called Mom made me very aware that I was different from my mother and sister. As I replayed the scene prompted by Mrs. Overton’s interview, I realized maybe the Whites in that store stared because I was loud. But it never dawned on me at the time. I thought the looks were racially motivated. I thought everyone was thinking, Who’s the mother of that child? I thought Mom was embarrassed about me because I was not white. I turn red when I blush or become embarrassed, and I remember feeling flushed in the face, a terrible feeling, especially as a biracial child. After that—until I was 18 years old—I walked behind or in front of Mom and tried to resist calling her “Mom” in public. I don’t think she ever knew that.
I did the same with Dad. He’s short, stocky, and was really built when I was younger. He wore bell-bottom pants when it wasn’t popular anymore. It was well into the late 1980s and he was still wearing those outdated pants. He had a pair of black ones that tied in the front with a little string, right above the zipper. He wore them with his black Big Apple hat. He’d do that black man pimp-and-walk slide of black men who grew up in the 1970s. He thought he was cool, with swagger. I was embarrassed. I hated walking next to him. Why couldn’t he be like a normal dad? Why he always gotta be cool?
My grandparents William and Althenia Burton holding me in 1974. This would have been around the time they were awarded legal guardianship of me. This was in our home on Hoerner Street in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.”
I would look at both of my parents and feel resentment. I didn�
�t look like either one of them. Didn’t get my dad’s wider nose, though everyone says I am a spittin’ image of him. I don’t see it. I also didn’t get my mom’s pretty, hazel eyes. I didn’t look like anyone. I was just there. I was an orphan.
MRS. JUANITA W. TURNEY, 95
GREENVILLE
BORN AUGUST 1919
MARRIED 58 YEARS WHEN WIDOWED
NO CHILDREN
Bobby and I got up early, left at sunrise so we could get photos of cotton fields along the way, drove two and a half hours—more than 130 miles—to Mount Horeb Missionary Baptist Church in Greenville, where Rev. Albert Calvin Jr. was the pastor. When he invited us to the 11 a.m. service, I forgot to ask the name of the mother I was to photograph.
As we got out of our car, members of the congregation greeted us warmly. We noticed a lot of children, which was a good sign for growth in the church. Seated in a pew near the back on the right side of the sanctuary, I looked at every church mother and wondered, Is she the one I’m to interview?
Bobby noticed an older woman and leaned closer to whisper, “Do you think that’s her?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered back.
A mother got up to make announcements. She was short, classy, stylish, thin. I couldn’t tell how old she was. I hope I age as gracefully as her, I thought to myself. She wore a sharp suit and her short hair was curled. She had the same skin complexion as Gram, a mocha brown. I liked the tone of her voice. She reminded me of actress Ruby Dee, with that air of sophistication. The program said her name was Mrs. Turney. I had told Pastor I wanted the eldest mother of the church, but when I saw Mrs. Turney, who couldn’t possibly be the oldest, I didn’t care—I wanted her in my book.
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