Southern Legitimacy Statement: I spent a year living in Charlotte, North Carolina between 1996 and 1997, teaching at UNC-Charlotte and conducting historical research with the help of scholarships from Nations Bank and the St. Andrew’s Society of North Carolina. There were many aspects of white culture that seemed similar to my homeland – the traditional music, the golf courses, deep fried food, genial hospitality – but it was my Black friends who opened my eyes to a whole new world. Southern hip hop was taking off at the time and every weekend was a wild party!
A Real Job
There was a small reception in the Queen’s Hotel after the cremation, although the crowd that packed the church thinned out because Margaret Gunn invited only a limited number of people for the post-funeral party. She could not afford to organize anything lavish and the life insurance from her son Geordie’s union membership would take a while to deposit. The guest list excluded all the people Margaret did not wish to see.
Willie Macdonald, Geordie’s oldest friend, was officially the last person to see him alive. He explained to Margaret that her son did not seem particularly drunk when they said goodbye to each other. They each consumed about six pints of beer, as far as he remembered; not a tremendous amount in the course of an evening and not an infrequent occurrence whenever they drank together. There was nothing stronger between pints and certainly no drugs. Willie was questioned the next day by a policeman who insisted six beers was more than enough to cause a deficiency in motor skills, allowing someone to lose control and fall into the harbor. According to Willie, the police worked out the story long before his interview. Any deviation from their version was dismissed or explained away. Margaret understood the implication.
Others, besides Willie, offered condolences to Margaret, ate and drank for a bit, and then left. At some point, when Margaret was finally tipsy and relaxed enough, and there were only a few mourners remaining, Father Ronnie, the new parish priest, came over. Ronnie, the recent replacement for a priest who committed suicide, was ordained later in life after his wife died. The diocese regarded him as a stable, street-wise option in the parish, after the previous incumbent. He was concerned about Margaret’s mental state, wondering if she would be taking some more time off work.
“I have to go back next week actually, thanks for asking Father,” said Margaret, knowing she already exceeded the number of allotted days for bereavement. “If I take more time I’ll lose pay.”
“Lose pay! After something like this! Really?” asked the priest. Sprouting grey hairs were visible from his widening nostrils. He was oblivious to the concept of working for a weekly wage. “That does seem insensitive, doesn’t it? Your boss would do well to show some grace and compassion at a time like this, especially given the circumstances. What is it that you do Margaret?”
“Well, father, I clean the rooms in this hotel.” Margaret pointed a finger at the ceiling.
“Oh, you do? Right,” exclaimed Father Ronnie, thinking about what to say next. He raised his glass of wine. “Perhaps, after all that’s happened then, this will prompt you to look for a real job. Here’s to that!” Father Ronnie drank his glass dry, assuming his toast, sympathetic and meaningful, would lift Margaret’s spirits. She did not join in.
Margaret was not fond of people looking down their noses at her. She turned to the priest, raised her glass, and said, “I hope you find a real job someday too, Father Ronnie!”
