Betty Before X

by Ilyasah Shabazz

  “We could call Phyllis now,” I say. I pick up the phone and dial. The phone rings twice.

  “Hello?” It’s Mrs. Boyd.

  “Hello, may I speak with Phyllis?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “This is Betty—and Suesetta,” I tell her.

  “Betty, Phyllis is busy doing chores right now. I’ll let her know you called.”

  “Oh, okay, thank—”

  Mrs. Boyd hangs up before I can even finish my sentence.

  I tell Suesetta, “Next time, you should call. I think Mrs. Boyd likes you better.”

  Suesetta says. “You should call back and tell her you’re Loretta. She’ll let Phyllis talk to Loretta.” Suesetta is sure of this. Loretta is in our sewing class. She used to go to Bethel, too, but then her father became the pastor of his own church, so we don’t see her on Sundays anymore.

  “I can’t do that,” I tell her. “She already heard my voice!”

  Suesetta thinks for a moment. “I’ll do it,” she says. I dial for her and then hand her the receiver. It must ring longer than two times because it takes a while for Suesetta to say, “Hi, may I speak to Phyllis?” Then, “This is Loretta.” Suesetta is talking higher than normal, mimicking Loretta’s birdlike voice. “Yes, ma’am, Loretta,” she repeats. Her eyes get big but then look at ease as she says, “Yes, ma’am, I can hold.” Suesetta smiles at me and motions to me to come to the phone. I stand real close to her, leaning my head toward the receiver so I can hear Phyllis, but I make sure not to touch Suesetta’s nails.

  Phyllis says, “Loretta?” all confused.

  “No, Phyllis, it’s me, Suesetta.” She holds the phone closer to me.

  “And Betty, too,” I call out.

  “Oh,” Phyllis says, like she’s not happy it’s us. “I can’t talk right now,” she tells us.

  “Well, then, why’d your mom give you the phone?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Look, Betty, I can’t be your friend anymore. My mom doesn’t want me hanging out with you and Suesetta.”

  I don’t mean to snatch the phone, but I can’t help myself. “What do you mean? Why?”

  “Do I really need to tell you?” Phyllis asks.

  “Is it because we’re in the Housewives’ League?” I ask.

  Suesetta calls out, “We can still be friends even though your mom doesn’t agree with Mrs. Peck and Mrs. Malloy.” Her voice sounds hopeful, but her face is sad.

  “It’s not about my mother disagreeing with them. I disagree with them. With all of you,” she says. “I don’t want to be friends with girls who believe that buying expensive products from Negro stores is going to change anything. A tube of Dudley’s hair cream isn’t going to bring any of the people back to life who are strung up on trees.”

  I look at Suesetta. Both of us are so confused and already missing our friend. Phyllis keeps talking. “You two are so boring. We don’t have fun anymore,” she says. Then, without even giving us a chance to respond, she says, “I have to go. Bye.”

  Suesetta and I retell the whole conversation to each other, like we need to hear it again in order to understand what just happened. Finally, she says, “We have to do something else. We can’t just mope around all night. Wanna play a game?”

  I can’t think of anything except all the hurtful things Phyllis said.

  Suesetta says, “How about Truth, Dare, Double Dare, Promise, or Repeat? You first.”

  “Double dare,” I say.

  “I double dare you to pick up the phone and dial a random number and have a conversation with whoever answers, like you know them.”

  “Just a random person?” I ask.

  “Yes. And then I’ll do a dare,” Suesetta says.

  I hesitate, then pick up the phone. I dial the first random numbers that come to my mind. An elderly man answers the phone. His voice is feeble and low. “Hello?”

  I put on the most adult-sounding, sophisticated voice I can fake. “Hello?”

  “Who’s calling?” the old man asks.

  “Me,” I say.

  “Me, who?” the old man asks.

  “Who, me?” I say.

  Suesetta starts laughing—so loud that the old man hears her.

  “You kids stop tying up my line with your silly games!” the old man yells. He hangs up.

  We burst into laughter. And even though it’s Suesetta’s turn, I make another call. Who would have thought calling strangers would be more fun than calling Phyllis? The second call ends with even more laughter.

  “What are you girls doing in there?” Mrs. Malloy asks.

  I don’t know why the question gets us laughing even more. “Nothing,” we say in unison.

  Mrs. Malloy is not one to be fooled. She opens the door. “I could use some help with cleaning up,” she says.

  We help get the house back to looking like our house.

  Later that night, when Suesetta and I are lying in bed falling asleep, I say to Suesetta, “One more round?”

  “Okay,” she says.

  “You pick. Truth, Dare, Double Dare, Promise, or Repeat?”

  “Promise,” Suesetta says.

  “Promise me we’ll be friends forever?”

  Nineteen

  I go to sleep counting and counting:

  I am thankful for family and friends. I am thankful for the way laughter swells up mighty like the ocean, then settles like soft waves and comes again.

  I am thankful for surprise phone calls and birthday wishes.

  I am thankful for the look in Suesetta’s eyes when she calls me her best friend, how I know she means it when she says it again and again: “Forever.”

  Twenty

  The next few weeks we stay busy planning Mrs. Peck’s appreciation service. It’s been hard to organize everything without her knowing, but now the day has almost come, so we can stop whispering after church and having private meetings without her. The event is happening tomorrow after our regular Sunday morning service. Today, Suesetta and I are practicing our speech and trying on clothes. Suesetta walks over to her closet. “What should I wear tomorrow?” she asks.

  I look through the hanging clothes—mostly dresses—and pick out the ones I think are fancy enough for the service but not too fancy. I lay them on her bed. “These are cute,” I tell her.

  Suesetta looks them over, then sighs. She goes back to her closet and pulls out three more. “Okay, out of all of these, which one?” she asks.

  I point to the yellow dress.

  “Pick two more.”

  I point to a light-blue dress with red flowers and the pleated navy-blue one trimmed with ivory ribbon around the edges.

  “Okay, so out of these three, which one?”

  “I still like the yellow one the best,” I tell her. “I love the color and I like how it fits you on the top and bellows out on the bottom.”

  Suesetta holds the light-blue dress up to her. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes—it’s really pretty.”

  “Okay. I just want to make sure. I mean, this is a big deal. People are coming from Cleveland, Toledo, Chicago, Pittsburgh. And don’t forget, Paul Robeson will be here, too.”

  All of a sudden my heart is pounding. I know it’s a big deal, but hearing it again is making me feel like I am going to be speaking in front of the whole world. “Aren’t you nervous?” I ask.

  Suesetta assures me, “It’s just like having to say our Christmas speeches in front of the congregation, only we don’t have to memorize it, so it’s even better. You’re good at speaking anyway, Betty.” Suesetta looks over the light-blue dress with red flowers again. “I think I’ll wear this one,” she says. “What do you think?”

  I think she’s not listening to what I think, so I tell her, “Why don’t you do eeny, meeny, miny, mo?”

  Suesetta starts singing the song, pointing to the dresses spread across her bed. The light-blue dress is out first. “Aw, but I like that one,” Suesetta says.

  I laugh. I kn
ow there will be many more rounds.

  Twenty-One

  Just like Mrs. Malloy promised, Paul Robeson is at our church this morning. While Pastor Dames introduces him, Paul Robeson sits like a tender giant, strong and confident.

  “He didn’t have to come to Bethel and bless us, Church family,” Pastor Dames says. “Yes, he is a famous actor. Yes, he is a world-class singer. But this man is so much more. Mr. Robeson stands tall all around the world in the struggle for us colored folk. Brothers and sisters,” he says, “it is an honor to have him with us on this Sunday morning. Please, let us stand and welcome our mighty brother to Bethel AME, Mr. Paul Robeson!”

  The whole congregation stands. We clap and cheer him on. Mr. Robeson can barely say a word because everyone is clapping and cheering him on. Especially all of the women.

  He takes the microphone, grips it in his big hands. I hear thunder in his throat when he speaks. It shakes me on the inside. Every person in the church is still. His voice reminds me of the days with my Aunt Fannie Mae, of the towering trees and Georgia’s glistening stars, of the rooster that woke us to the morning sun.

  When he talks, he speaks about power and peace, and he gets the church all excited. “As an American citizen, I speak against injustice. I will always speak for peace. No one can silence me. Because the Lord is on the side of the righteous, and I am on the side of the Lord.”

  “Amen, brother!” men shout.

  Then Paul Robeson sings “Amazing Grace.”

  Through many dangers, toils, and snares,

  I have already come;

  ’Tis Grace hath brought me safe thus far,

  And Grace will lead me home.

  After he sings, it’s time for me and Suesetta to introduce Mrs. Peck. I can hardly feel my feet as we walk to the front of the sanctuary. Once we’re at the podium, Suesetta grabs my hand and gives it a quick squeeze. My nerves settle a bit and everything I’m supposed to say just flows right out.

  I read Mrs. Peck’s biography first. It’s mostly just stating her birthday, the year she started the Housewives’ League, and how, as a woman, she is a leader of the church. I feel so proud as I recite the part I wrote all by myself. I fold my paper and make sure my voice is going into the microphone. “What I admire the most about Mrs. Peck is her strength and determination. I’ve spent time canvassing neighborhoods with her to get as many women as possible to sign up, and it requires a lot of hard work. Mrs. Peck takes the time to teach us girls so we can make sure everybody understands that Negroes are human beings, too. And as human beings we have feelings and we have power.”

  Suesetta says the next part. “Sometimes people don’t even open their doors because they are scared and don’t know that they have the power and the right to make change. So, for Mrs. Peck to have started this organization with no guarantee that people would support her or that white business owners would change their minds and agree with her, I think that’s a testament to her faith and determination.”

  The congregation claps and a few people say amen.

  Then I say the last part. The part I was most nervous about sharing. I pause for a moment, thinking maybe I should just end it there, but then Suesetta nudges me and the words just come right out like they needed the push. “What I like most about Mrs. Peck is her resilience. I know what it’s like to have someone you love more than anything in the world die and go to heaven. I know that emptiness hurts so much, but Mrs. Peck keeps her joy. She teaches us not to wallow in any misery, but to grow from it.” Then I turn to Mrs. Peck and look her in her eyes. “Mrs. Peck, your leadership is an example to all of us girls, and even the boys,” I say. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Peck is wiping her eyes with a white handkerchief.

  Suesetta says, “On behalf of the African Methodist Episcopal Church at Bethel, we thank you for being a role model to us and a pillar of hope to the nation.”

  Then Suesetta steps closer to the mic and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, please join us in welcoming our faithful leader, Mrs. Fannie B. Peck.” She says it perfectly, just as we practiced it.

  The church is full of applause, and every single person is standing.

  I know people are mostly clapping for Mrs. Peck, but it feels good standing in front of everyone, having them smile and cheer us on, listening to our every word. It feels like family here.

  Once Mrs. Peck comes to the microphone, Suesetta and I take our turns to hug her and then we walk back to the second row and take our seats. “Thank you, thank you,” Mrs. Peck says. “What this means, you’ll never know.” Mrs. Peck thanks a long list of people—some who aren’t even here, but she says their names anyway. Then she says, “I want to remind everyone that the Housewives’ League is more than a trade campaign. The Housewives’ League is about investing in ourselves and in our children. It’s about supporting our men and believing that we have, within our own community, everything we need.”

  People clap.

  “This is about power. The color green has power. Yes, Church. Money has power. The Bible says, ‘Where your heart is, there will your treasure be.’ So I ask you today, do you love yourselves?”

  “Yes!” people shout.

  “Do you love your families? Your community?”

  “Amen,” people shout.

  “Well, if you do, it is time to show it by how you spend your money. Don’t buy where we can’t work! Invest in your own communities first.”

  Most people stand and clap when Mrs. Peck says this.

  But not Phyllis’s mom. Not Ollie Mae.

  “I pray you continue the work,” Mrs. Peck says. “I pray you continue to believe in the power of us. It is the only way we can accomplish any goal—by coming together. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Peck is escorted back to her seat. The audience gives her another standing ovation.

  * * *

  After service, the adults linger, talking while we play and run around until Deacon Boyd tells us to stop playing in the Lord’s house. He has us walk through the pews and pick up any left-behind programs, or tissues, or anything that should be thrown away. A small group of us begins cleaning while most of the kids continue to run around like they didn’t even hear him.

  I am in one aisle, Kay is in the next. I bend over and pick up a fan, a bulletin. By the time we walk through each pew, most people have gone. Ollie Mae hasn’t left yet. She is sitting in a pew, waiting for Arthur to finish up his conversation with Deacon Boyd. That means my sisters and brothers are probably off somewhere playing tag, even though Deacon Boyd has fussed at them at least three times now.

  Mrs. Malloy is deep in conversation with one of the members from Chicago. They have been talking in the corner this whole time. One of the ushers, Mrs. White, comes over to me carrying a black leather purse. “You were excellent, young lady.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Do you know to whom this belongs?” she asks.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Hmm,” she says. She scans the sanctuary. “Well, it can’t belong to any of you young folk. Ollie Mae, is this yours?” She holds the purse up.

  Ollie Mae shakes her head.

  She asks another woman, “Is this yours?”

  “Not mine,” the woman says.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Malloy—” she calls out. But Mrs. Malloy doesn’t answer. All of her attention is on the woman from Chicago. “Mrs. Malloy?” Mrs. White raises her voice just a bit.

  Mrs. Malloy doesn’t hear her.

  “Well, it’s got to be one of theirs,” Mrs. White says. “At least I hope it is.”

  Mr. Malloy walks into the sanctuary, coming from downstairs. Mrs. White looks at him, says, “Mr. Malloy, is this your wife’s purse?”

  He looks it over. “I can’t say. Doesn’t look like it. Then again, they all look the same to me.” He laughs.

  Mrs. White laughs, too.

  Mr. Malloy calls out, “Helen—Helen?”

  Nothing.

  No one can get her attention.

  I
don’t know what comes over me. I guess I just want to help. I don’t know. But for some reason, I open my mouth and shout in my loudest voice, “Mother! Is this your purse?” I didn’t expect to say Mother. The word slipped off my tongue like I had said it before. I didn’t even know it was ever there.

  I walk over to Mrs. Malloy so I can give her the purse. As I walk across the sanctuary, it’s like my feet are in quicksand. I see everyone all at once. Suesetta stops in the middle of the choir stand—where the altos usually are—holding a hymnal in her arms. The ushers look down at the floor. Mr. Malloy is rubbing his balding head. The woman from Chicago has a smile on her face. She reaches out her hand. “Oh, thank you, sweetheart, it’s mine,” she says.

  She says this just as I walk past the pew that Ollie Mae is sitting in. I do not look at Ollie Mae. I just keep walking. Not because I don’t care about her, but because I think hearing your child call another woman Mother might be hurtful. It was not my intention to hurt her, but I can’t take back what I just said, so I just keep walking, right past her pew. I hand the purse to the woman from Chicago. She reaches into it and pulls out a butterscotch candy. “Thank you, baby,” she says.

  “You’re welcome,” I tell her. I take the candy and now I am closer to Mrs. Malloy. She is standing there looking at me with joy all over her face. She hugs me. By the time I turn around, Ollie Mae is gone. Shirley, Juanita, Jimmie, and the boys, too.

  * * *

  That night I lie in bed mouthing the word Mother over and over.

  My lips are not used to saying this word. The last time I said Mother, I wasn’t even two years old, probably just forming words on my toddler’s tongue. I never called my Aunt Fannie Mae Mother. And my Grandma Matilda was just that—my grandma.

  Mother.

  I have a mother now.

  That word keeps me company all through the night.

  Detroit, Michigan

  1947

  I shall allow no man to belittle my soul by making me hate him.