Southern Legitimacy Statement: I was born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi at the height of the Civil Rights Movement. My great, great grandfather, Charles Manship was Mayor of Jackson during the Civil War. The day after Medgar Evers was shot outside his home Elizabeth, the Black woman who raised me, took the bus to our house to cook, clean and care for me. I had no idea what she endured, the pain she must have carried, while graciously caring for me. What I do know is – what I learned of love; I learned from her.
It Was All Terribly Unfair
“You were so cute when you cried,” my siblings would say, eyes gleaming with delight. My older siblings liked to tell the story of when I was a baby. They would put me in the center of the bed, surround me and shout: “I hate you; I hate you,” until I sobbed.
My closest sister was seven years older, my brother eleven, and my eldest sister thirteen. Seemed they’d been functioning fine without me for years. But on a June day in 1959 I was born and brought home from St. Dominic’s hospital in Jackson, Mississippi. They asked our parents if they could take me back or maybe sell me.
My oldest sister, also shared how she and her friends would dress me up when I was a baby, carry me around like a doll. Showing me love at times, probably left in the crib sometimes forgotten as baby dolls often are.
Mama was 37 when she had me. Mama would tell me, “I tried to have a friend for you,” but there were three miscarriages before me and two followed my birth. She drank bourbon old fashions, smoked Kent Menthols, ate Southern food, which couldn’t have helped. At birth, I weighed only five pounds, but I was the embryo that stuck.
There was someone who showed me love, Elizabeth, our housekeeper, whose name was too difficult for my toddler mouth, so I called her Woosie. She cooked, cleaned, and cared for me.
Mornings just as everyone was leaving for the day, Woosie came through the door in her spotless white uniform. She would pick me up, and hug me, smelling of honey. “You are loved,” she would say, and then she’d put her things in the laundry room next to her designated bathroom that no one in the family used.
While Woosie cleaned the kitchen and prepared for our next meal, she’d plop me on the counter, serve me toast with honey and a tiny bit of coffee with lots of cream and sugar. We’d talk and giggle. I was her shadow for the remainder of the day.
Late mornings, she’d turn on the TV to “As the World Turns” and slip off her shoes, exposing her tri-colored feet, caramel on the top, white on the sides with shiny pink soles. She knew I loved them. They were prettier, more colorful than the pale white feet I was used to seeing around our house. I’d tickle her smooth tough soles until she had to get back to ironing our cotton sheets and pillowcases. The smell of spray-on starch filled the air, we’d chat and watch White people’s drama unfold as quickly as Woosie folded and creased our clothes into neat piles.
When I asked my mother, hopeful, if I could go home with Woosie one day she gave a nervous smile and said, “Oh no you cannot.” That was the end of that.
After all these years of seeing Woosie every day, there came a morning when my mother stayed home and Woosie did not show up. I figured things would go back to normal the following day, but no, Woosie still didn’t show up. Her disappearance wasn’t discussed.
I don’t remember if anyone gave me a false reason. I do remember the racist conversations around our dinner table. Not until I was an adult, did I learn from my siblings that Mama had fired Woosie, had accused her of stealing. But Woosie wouldn’t have stolen anything. The truth is she probably spoke out of turn, gave her opinion on something when her role was to be quiet and take orders. I wish I knew more of the details of why she was fired.
In my 2nd grade class picture, my hair is disheveled, and my sullen face broadcasts the sadness and abandonment I felt in Woosie’s absence.
As a young adult I thought of Woosie often and wondered how she was doing. I asked Mama if she knew where she was. Mama made a few phone calls and found out her number. I had moved to Montana by then. Visiting Jackson one time, I asked Mama if we could have Woosie over, serve her lunch at our table. It took a bit of convincing, but she eventually conceded. She had softened a bit by then and recognized how much Woosie meant to me.
When the afternoon came, on a hot summer day, my nine-year-old daughter and I waited outside my parents’ home for Woosie. Once she arrived, our eyes locked. Twenty years gone and she hadn’t changed: bobbed hair, twinkling eyes, and that sweet smile. She gave me a knowing look. I realized at last that of course she’d known our family secrets, how we had to tiptoe around when my father was nursing a hangover, she’d known I was neglected, that my siblings overlooked me.
My father never cme out of his room during Woosie’s visit. Never even mentioned her name later, after she’d gone.
That afternoon, Woosie, my daughter, and Mama sat at our kitchen table as I served sandwiches and Coca Cola. Mama kept her head low, not saying much. I broke the ice asking Woosie to share memories of our time together. In her soft high voice she exclaimed, “You would latch onto the tails of my dress when I arrived in the morning, and you didn’t let go until I left. We had so much fun together!” “That’s my memory too,” I said. “I never wanted you to leave.”
My mother gave a quick smile and returned to eating. My daughter demanded to hear more stories of our time together.
Once back at home in the West, I received a thank-you-note from Woosie:
Dear Frances,
Your visit to Mississippi made my life worthwhile. I was so glad to see all of you. It made me feel young. I was so glad to see your little daughter. She looks just like you did when you were young. Call me when you are in Mississippi again.
With lots of love, Elizabeth.
Ten years later, I caught up with her. Her health was declining, and she had moved in with her daughter. Woosie had been telling her daughter about all the White children she’d cared for, and her daughter had said, “Those people probably never think of you.”
After letting me in, her daughter graciously moved aside while Woosie and I embraced, leaning our heads back to take in each other’s smiles and eyes. Through her tired eyes, I could still see the twinkle, the love. Her gray streaks, slow movements and swollen ankles gave away her age and poor health. She wanted to hear all about my life out west and my daughter. Before I left, Woosie’s daughter took a photo of the two of us that still hangs on my wall.
Of course, her daughter was wrong, at least about me—I did and still do think about Elizabeth. But she was also right, it was all terribly unfair. How my father never stepped out to even greet this woman who had raised me as much as my own mother. That none of us never knew much about her.
I do know that the gap between my white privilege and what Elizabeth endured as a Black woman living in the deep South was filled in with love during our days together.
Woosie died in 2009 at age 97. I know this from looking her up and finding her obituary. I still think of her often, wish I knew more about her. If only I had contacted her on a more consistent basis, we could have had deeper conversations.
If I could, I’d ask her a few questions:
Woosie where were you raised, how many siblings do you have?
Was that white uniform uncomfortable?
Tell me about your parents, your childhood.
Is it true that you and my mama used to play together while your mama cleaned for my grandmother?
Who took care of your daughter while you were taking care of me?
Where did you learn to cook all that delicious food you made for our family?
Why isn’t my floating island dessert from Joy of Cooking as good as yours?
How much did my parents pay you?
How much was the bus fare to our house?
Which church did you go to?
What was it like to witness all that went on in our household?
How did it feel when Mama accused you of stealing? I’m so sorry that happened.
Woosie, did you know I love you very much?
