The Gilded Years

by Karin Tanabe

  “Ladies, I am going to be president of this school one day,” said Lottie, stepping back down. “And the first thing I will do is make the position of lady principal redundant. The second thing I will do is devote less money to ridiculous trinkets like this spoon holder,” she said holding up the small silver utensil. “Does every girl really need a spoon holder in college?”

  “I’m quite attached to my spoon holder,” said Belle, clutching it in her hand and looking fondly at the silver and china room, which was connected to the dining room. “Don’t take it away.”

  “Spoon holders or not,” Anita broke in, “a very good president you would make.”

  After dinner and chapel were over, the girls retired to lounge in the senior parlor, still relishing the privilege of having their own class-dedicated space, redecorated, as was done every year, just for them.

  “Lottie!” said Lillian Lovejoy, who lived in their hall and was sitting on a small divan near the Steinway piano surrounded by four other girls. “And all the Gatehouse group, just in time. Come and sit with us. Annie Chase’s mother sent her the funniest little newspaper clipping.”

  Anita was one of four girls from Massachusetts in the senior class, as was Annie Chase of Fall River, a few hours south of Boston. Anita had kept her distance from Annie and the other Massachusetts girls during her three years at Vassar, not wanting to speak about the state she’d seen so little of or have them inquire about her life in Boston. Anita was sure they would have family in the city. That was why her first friend at Vassar had been Caroline Hardin. Anita deemed Syria a safe distance from Massachusetts.

  Lottie crossed to the group, treading lightly on the Oriental rugs that had just been placed artistically around the room, and the rest followed.

  “My mother cut this out of the New York Tribune because she saw the word Vassar in it,” Annie said. “She was traveling through New York calling on a Vassar graduate at the time, so the coincidence had her in a frenzy. You should see her letter that accompanied it. It’s eight pages long.”

  “She’ll spare you that horror,” said Lillian, lifting up the clipping to show the newcomers a photograph of a small Negro child. “It’s all about a woman who adopted this funny little Negro baby and plans on sending it to Vassar in twenty years time.”

  “Here, hand it back to me,” said Annie. “I’ll read it aloud.” She sat up straight and waited until Lottie and Caroline had moved behind her for a better view of the photo.

  Anita stayed standing, staring at the group, until she felt Belle’s hand tug her to the floor with the others.

  “The headline is ‘MRS. GRANNIS’S PICKANINNY WAIF MAY GO TO VASSAR.’ ” Annie looked at the picture again, holding it close to her nose. “Now isn’t that extraordinary? And the article goes as follows. ‘Little Christian League Woodwea [sic] is the adopted daughter of Mrs. Elizabeth B. Grannis of No. 33 East Twenty-Second Street. Christian League, or “Tummy” as she is familiarly called, is a genuine little pickaninny, as brown as a mud pie, with the bow legs and kinky head of the typical African baby. She is just three years old and a tot of many accomplishments.’ ”

  “Black as the night sky is more like it,” interrupted Lillian from her perch next to Annie.

  “The storyteller is still telling, Lillian,” said Annie, tapping the article with her index finger.

  “Did that woman really name her child Christian League?” said Gratia Clough, laughing loudly. “Is she unsound? I understand one’s devotion to one’s religion, but this woman has an air of mental illness. Little Christian League’s skin color is the least of her problems.”

  “Tummy is not much of an improvement,” said Lillian. “Sounds like me after two plates of dessert.”

  “The storyteller is still telling!” said Annie again. “How do these professors keep you all quiet?” She took up the paper and read faster. “ ‘Dressed up in a fantastic colored garment and a Fourth of July cap made of flags, she sang and danced before the mirror, lost in admiration for her own reflection, and looking much like an organ grinder’s dancing monkey. She chats volubly, or, as her adopted mother exclaimed enthusiastically, ‘ “She’s a fine linguist and I’ll match her physically and mentally with any child of her age in the country.”’ ”

  Annie stopped reading and looked up. “It does go on a bit but the most fascinating excerpt is at the end. The child’s mother mutters on about sending her to the best kindergarten and then closes with this remark: ‘I shall teach her to be above all snubs that may be offered on account of her color. I expect to send her to college, and I mean that she shall have the best advantages—go to Vassar, perhaps.’ ”

  “Such lofty ambitions,” said Belle. “With that ghastly name she’s destined to do missionary work in Africa. Not that there’s a thing wrong with that,” she said, smiling at Caroline.

  “I don’t know,” said Lottie, taking the paper from Annie. “It all sounds very bold of this woman, this Elizabeth Grannis. And I do admire daring people.”

  “You know who would not appreciate it if you adopted a Negro waif? Your mother,” said Belle.

  “Yes, Mrs. Taylor nearly faints when I give the street children a few coins. I don’t think she could stomach me bringing one in for tea. Or life.”

  “I don’t think anything of it,” said Gratia, standing up and moving to the piano. “Why shouldn’t she be raised just like any other child and attend Vassar one day if she passes the exam? I’m sure the world will be a much different place in fifteen or twenty years. Personally, I have always believed in the equality of the races.”

  “I tend to agree,” said her friend Marion Schibsby. “In fact, I hope she does make it here. I’ll certainly come back to see that.” Marion was from Omaha, Nebraska, and lacked some of the rigid views of the girls who had grown up on the East Coast. “I think it’s up to women like us, educated women, to lead the charge in changing the perception of Negroes, especially Negro women. To call this poor child an organ grinder’s monkey is just not correct. That newspaperman should be ashamed of himself. Talk like that is much of the reason that prejudices against the colored race exist.”

  “She is black, isn’t she,” said Caroline, leaning down to look at the photograph. “A coal black. The natives in Syria aren’t near as black. And some of them have glorious green eyes. The children especially can look quite captivating.”

  Anita knew she should have commented on the child’s skin color, like Caroline, or said something disparaging to join the conversation. She surely couldn’t say anything audacious, as Marion had.

  “Even though this was in a New York paper, all our mothers will probably read it eventually and send it our way,” said Annie. “They are so involved in our Vassar lives.”

  No, thought Anita, my mother knows almost nothing of my Vassar life, except that I always behave with self-restraint.

  Later that October evening, in their silk-draped parlor, Anita and Lottie were discussing their afternoon adventure with the freshmen when a maid brought in a letter.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Hemmings. I hadn’t seen it in the messenger room this afternoon,” she said apologetically in her thick Hudson Valley accent. Anita took it and thanked her, ripping it open and throwing the envelope down quickly. It was from her brother Frederick.

  “It’s not from Porter. My brother is coming to visit me tomorrow,” she said to Lottie, who had come over and was peering at the top of the letter with interest. Anita normally would have lied to her, as she avoided all conversations about her family, but Lottie would have torn it out of her hands if she hadn’t told her more as she read.

  “Anita!” Lottie exclaimed, “You have a brother and you haven’t said a thing about it? You’re a devil! How old is this mysterious brother and is he as striking as you are? If so, I’m joining you for lunch in town, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “What happened to handsome Henry?” Anita asked, angry with herself for opening the letter in front of Lottie and displease
d that the maid had delivered it so late in the day. Anita couldn’t afford to make any missteps, and with Frederick, there were ample chances for error.

  Lottie walked over to the window, looking at the light from the Lodge spilling into the night. “What happened to Henry is that I haven’t received a letter from him since the football game, so I suppose he has already forgotten about little old me down here in Poughkeepsie and has fallen in love with another.” Lottie put her hand to her head and collapsed to the floor in a mock faint. She turned upside down so that her legs were high and exposed.

  “I’ve heard this is a sexual position in India,” she said, wiggling her feet.

  “Lottie!” Anita said sharply. “Do not speak like that.”

  “Why not? Perhaps if I had at Harvard, Henry would have written.”

  “But you’re still set on marrying him?” Anita asked.

  “Of course!” Lottie said, jumping upright. “He’s such a brute, it’s hard not to be in love with him. He has a peasantlike quality that I really do find charming. I think it’s from all that football. But he’s not a peasant, he’s from a very good New York family, which makes him a contender. I’ll get him to look my way eventually. If he doesn’t like this version of me, then I’ll just reintroduce myself as someone else entirely. Men are awfully simple creatures. Can you imagine, I have them all figured out and I’m only twenty-two? What will I do with my time from now on?”

  The next afternoon, when Anita was walking back to her room after Latin class, the halls feeling much colder with the fall peaking in the valley, one of the maids stopped her again.

  “You have a note from a visitor, Miss Hemmings,” said the maid, bending her covered head. “He is visiting from Cornell University and left word with the gatekeeper at the Lodge. Frederick Hemmings is his name.”

  “Yes, Leticia. Thank you. He is my brother,” Anita clarified.

  “Very good, miss,” the maid said, handing Anita the note. Written in Frederick’s neat hand was a letter asking his sister to meet him at the Smith Brothers restaurant on Market Street. Frederick had come to Vassar twice in the years before to check on Anita, but he had always been careful not to step on campus, always leaving a note at the Lodge instead. Anita glanced through the hallways around the parlor to make sure that Lottie wasn’t lurking about, and when she confirmed she was alone, headed to town.

  Though Anita, at twenty-four, was Frederick’s older sister, he knew under what guise she was attending the college, and like the rest of her family, worried about her constantly. Despite his concern, he never stayed at Vassar long. The two knew the way a small community talked, and Frederick had darker skin than Anita. It was not dark enough to attract real attention, as both their parents had light complexions, but they still took every precaution they could.

  Anita walked the few blocks to Smith Brothers, across the street from the large Nelson House Hotel, and saw Frederick in a far seat, barely visible in the window. He looked handsome and self-assured, his wavy hair neatly parted in the middle, his tailored suit new. Anita paused on the street in her simple brown school dress to enjoy the sophisticated figure he struck. Frederick saw her from the window and smiled brightly, nodding his head toward the door and standing as she came inside.

  “Frederick! I’m overjoyed to see you,” she said, embracing him. “How was the train journey down?”

  “Anita, I’m so relieved you received my letter,” he said. “I sent it rather last minute, and I was afraid I’d beat it to Poughkeepsie. I should have sent a telegram, but I didn’t think to until I was on the train. I so wanted to come see you before the weather changed and before midsemester exams.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. Your timing is wonderful. I was just beginning to get homesick. Did you take an early train?” she asked.

  “No, I came down yesterday and spent the night in the little hotel, Dudley Cottage, on Raymond Avenue. I didn’t want to bother you until morning.”

  “You’re never a bother, Frederick. I’m so happy to see you,” Anita said, her face alight. She knew this was the one conversation she would have all semester in which she could speak freely. She wanted to fully enjoy it.

  “Are things going smoothly at school?” asked Frederick. “Are you still happy here?”

  “I am,” Anita replied. “I have a new roommate this year. Louise Taylor. Perhaps you’ve heard of the family. They live in New York. One of those big families that the papers make such a fuss about. ‘Big’ as in wealthy, not ‘big’ as in numerous.”

  “Taylor. Of course I know the name,” said Frederick. “And that is going well?”

  “Surprisingly, yes,” Anita confirmed. “We attended the Harvard-Williams football game in September, and her father paid the fare for our journey. It was wonderful.”

  “You traveled to Cambridge with this Taylor girl?” Frederick tensed, and he leaned toward his sister with a stern expression. “I don’t like that, Anita. Not a good decision at all.”

  Anita knew exactly what he meant. Do not travel to places where you interact with white men. Avoid forming close relationships of any kind. Be friendly, but do not be anyone’s friend, especially not someone like Lottie Taylor. Frederick had always been more cautious than his sister when it came to interacting and befriending those outside the Negro community. His slightly darker skin, the fact that he had never passed as white for more than a few days, his reality of being a Negro student in a white world, and his naturally circumspect character meant he never dared take the risks his sister did. And he did not approve of her behavior when she acted in a way he wouldn’t.

  “It all went well, Frederick,” she said sweetly. “I promise. Lottie would have thought me rude if I didn’t go to Cambridge with her. And we had a lovely time.”

  “I should trust your judgment,” Frederick said, taking a sip of his strong English tea. “But in this case I cannot. Please don’t do something like that again. Stay on campus. Don’t attend any more events with her. Certainly do not travel to New York with her, or become acquainted with her family. Keep a distance. Your work could suffer because of these unnecessary social commitments.”

  Anita nodded in apparent agreement.

  “And how are things for you? At school? You look very well,” she said, quick to change the subject.

  “They’re going fine. My classes are challenging, but as they should be. That’s what we’ve worked so hard for, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely it is. And at home? How is everyone?”

  “Everyone misses you,” said Frederick, his expression softening at the mention of family. “Mother worries about you, of course. And Father more than he will admit. He’s added additional employment, more janitorial work, at night, just for this last year while we finish our schooling. He comes home very late, almost one in the morning most days. I can see the exhaustion becoming a part of him, bending his spine. He tells me not to be concerned, but I am. He’s a slight man to begin with, and all his work is so physically demanding.”

  “Another employment?” said Anita, thinking about her already overworked father, tears forming behind her eyes. “I wish he wouldn’t. I can take on additional tutoring hours. It doesn’t pay very well, but it would help. Or perhaps I can find something more lucrative in town.”

  “No, Anita, you do not have time. You do enough already. He’ll be fine for one more year, and so will you.”

  “I will be, Frederick,” said Anita, knowing full well that her schedule did not allow for anything but the occasional tutoring. “Things are different this year. They’re better.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said pushing his biscuits around his plate with a small fork. “I’m quite jealous that you are away, while I’m still in my childhood bedroom with Robert. I’m too old to be there with him, but I don’t have a choice, do I?” He did not. The Institute of Technology had very limited campus housing, and the only living quarters, the residential fraternities, did not allow Negroes.

  “It certainl
y isn’t fair,” Anita said, “but sometimes I wish that I was in your position. Being here, even though lately I’ve been quite happy, I have moments of crippling exhaustion. Just remembering to be this version of Anita Hemmings, it wears on me at times.”

  “I understand, but please don’t yearn after my position,” Frederick said. “Yes, there are men who are kind to me, but there are many who are not, who are hateful when they see me in classrooms.” Anita thought of Lilly Taylor’s words when they saw Alberta Scott on the Radcliffe campus, and the memory caused her stomach to flip.

  “Of course,” she said apologetically. “I forget sometimes, and I shouldn’t.”

  Frederick sighed, refilling her teacup. “It’s just different. I know you have your own challenges.”

  The siblings looked at one another: two driven, intelligent people living lives dictated by educational institutions and their rules. Frederick could attend school as a Negro but suffered from the racism that went with it. And Anita managed to attend school as a white student while never being allowed to break from her charade. She smiled at him, wishing he could stay with her for more than a few hours. When they were growing up in their small row house, they had always been a pair, studious from the start, sharing one singular goal: a college diploma.

  “You will come home when you graduate, won’t you?” asked Frederick. That had always been the family’s expectation, and Anita knew it.

  “I suppose so,” she said, reluctantly. “Though, if possible, I would like to continue my schooling.” It was a dream that in recent months had crystallized for Anita, and finally seemed attainable. “I would like very much to be a professor, hopefully here.”

  “In Greek?” he asked.

  “Yes. Maybe Latin as well. And Professor Macurdy, our Greek professor, said there might be an opportunity for me to go to Greece to study at the American School of Classical Studies at Athens after I graduate. Many of the other girls will be in Europe—”