Millie revisits May, 1956
I’d looked
ahead at the long, unpaved stretch of road for just a second when my front bike
tire turned sharply into loose gravel.
Before I knew it, I was headed into the ditch, plummeting down the
embankment. I screamed as I landed in
topsy-turvy fashion. Blood ran down my
left arm, and my knees were covered with a mixture of blood, dirt and tiny
pebbles. My new yellow shorts and top
were covered with dust and torn in several places. I started crying, hurting all over and
feeling alone and helpless.
Corn fields
lined both sides of the road. No human
in sight. I put my head down in the warm
dirt. What could I do? No one knew where I was. Several minutes must have gone by when a
shadow fell over me and I looked up. The
sun reflected around the shape of a person.
“Honey, are you OK?” a voice asked.
I immediately started crying again.
She stepped down into the ditch and took the bike off my legs as she
looked me over. “I don’t think
anything’s broken. You stay there and
I’ll get my wagon and take you to my house and we’ll get you cleaned up.”
Did she say
wagon? I felt disoriented. Within a few minutes she returned.
“Here,
Honey, let me help you.” I tried to move
but nothing worked. She put her arms
under mine and slowly I stood on wobbly, muddy, bloody legs. Coming out of the ditch, I saw an old Red
Flyer wagon. “You sit down and I’ll pull
you home. It’s just a short piece up
this road.” I felt too sore and weak to
think except that I wanted to let my mother know what happened. Sitting upright in the wagon I closed my
eyes.
In a short time I felt the wagon
change direction and opened my eyes as we went through an old wooden gate. “Honey, what’s your name?”
“Millie
Jordan,” I replied. “Where am I?”
“Well, you
may know this place as Nigger
Town, but we just call it
our little settlement.”
Yes, she was a Negro. I gazed at my surroundings for the first
time. A long row of shanty-like houses
lined both sides of the road—all badly in need of paint with outhouses in the
back yards. My dad had talked about “Nigger Town”
and how dirty these people lived. “No
good whites go near that place!” he’d rant after a few beers.
“Honey, I’m
Rosie Robbins,” she said as she helped me stand and walk into her house. I really did feel faint and leaned on
her. “That’s right you let me take care
of you.”
As we
entered her front room, I looked around.
The walls were a light shade of blue.
An old gray sofa and chair with crisp white doilies on the backs and
arms sat against a side wall. A
colorful, flower print linoleum covered the floor.
She helped
me walk through to the kitchen. It was
bright and cheerful—yellow walls and a red table with four white painted
chairs. A hand pump was located at one
end of the kitchen sink. Windows lined
the back wall. This was cheerful and very
clean—one more distortion to chalk up to
my father.
Just as
Rosie Robbins led me to a kitchen chair, the back door opened. In walked a basketball player. I felt embarrassed that I couldn’t put more
to his identity, but I recognized him only because of our high school
basketball games. I don’t think I’d ever
seen him in the halls at school although I knew he attended my school. And I had no idea what his name was.
“Hi,” I
said.
He looked down at my scrapes and
scratches and said, “What happened to you?” I’d never been so close to
him. He towered over me. His dark brown skin looked shiny like he’d
been working in the sun.
“I fell off my bike.” Again I felt like crying, but didn’t want to
look like a baby in his presence.
“Robbie, get my medicine box in the
other room.” As he left, I looked up at
my benefactor. Mrs. Robbins was a large
woman with the kindest smile I’d ever seen.
Her hands were calloused and almost looked like a man’s. When Robbie returned, she said quickly, “I
need the mercurochrome and tweezers.
She’s got so many rocks in her arms and knees we can fill the holes in
the road when I finish with her.” Mrs.
Robbins smiled while she went through the painful job of cleansing my
wounds. I winced as she continued her
work though I felt her gentleness as she touched me.
“Do you have a telephone so I can
call my mother?” It was just late
afternoon but I knew Mother would be worried if I were too
late.
“Sorry, Honey, we don’t have a
telephone. I’m not sure your bike is
ride-able, so I’ll see if Robbie’s grandfather can take you home.” I was relieved to know that I could go
home. I’d never been in a Negro’s home
before, and although it was obvious that Mrs. Robbins was very nice, I still
felt strange.
“Robbie, go over to the Jeffersons’. I
think your grandpa is there. See if he
can take Millie home after I get her cleaned up.”
A few minutes later an older man
walked in with Robbie. I smiled
weakly. “Well what happened to you,
Girly?” He leaned down and looked more
closely at me. “Looks like you went
through a meat grinder!” he smiled as his tobacco stained teeth peeked out his
full black lips. It was then that I
recognized him.
“Hi, Mr. Moz, I’m Millie, Fran Jordan’s
daughter.” Mr. Moz was our garbage
collector. His old truck rumbled down
the alley behind our upstairs apartment each week. I’d never seen him dressed in anything other
than old dirty, holey, black coveralls.
Today there were no coveralls though his shirt and pants had seen lots
of wear.
“Poppa Moz, could you take Millie
home? Her bike’s front wheel is all bent
and she can’t walk home—that’s for sure!”
Mrs. Robbins seemed to have a lot of concern for me. I was actually beginning to feel comfortable.
“Well, I can take her now, or just
wait and drop her off when I pick up her garbage tomorrow!” a teasing smile
covered his face. I returned the smile.
“Millie, try to stand and let’s
make sure you don’t faint. You’re as
white as a ghost!” Mrs. Robbins helped
me from the chair. I slowly stood.
“I think I’ll be OK now. I really thank you for all your help, Mrs.
Robbins. I don’t know what I’d have done
by myself.” She reached over and gave me
a warm hug.
“Now, Robbie, you go with your
grandfather and make sure Millie gets into her house OK.”
Our drive home was quiet except for
the sound of the motor. I’d ridden in
many old trucks. My dad and uncle never
had anything clean and new, but I’d never sat between two Negroes. I just didn’t know what to say, and my mind
wasn’t working quite right yet. I really
just wanted to crawl into bed!
Mr. Moz and Robbie walked on either
side of me to make sure I didn’t fall as I approached our front door. When Mother saw me she was shocked, “You
look like you’ve been through a meat grinder.”
Mr. Moz and Robbie began laughing.
“That’s just what I told her Ms
Fran. And her bike ain’t in much better
shape,” Mr. Moz obviously felt comfortable with Mother. I knew she often invited him into the
restaurant where she worked and she’d give him breakfast. Mother thanked them and we went into the
house. I was glad that Dad had a Chicago haul that week and
wouldn’t be home until the weekend.
Mother suggested that I get right
into bed and she brought me a bowl of soup. “Mother, I don’t think they have a
bathroom. I’m sure there were outhouses
in all the backyards out there where they live.” I just couldn’t bring myself to say Nigger Town.
“You’re probably right, but just
remember it wasn’t that long ago that we didn’t have indoor plumbing.” Sure I remembered that. But it still seemed strange. Like maybe a really good basketball player
should have a bathroom.
To Be Continued...
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