[Note: I hope to grow this piece as we get closer to the release of Stephen Spielberg's silver screen travesty based on Katheryn Stockett's atrocity, "The Help," the latest in a too long line of completely fabricated, studiedly oblivious, and teeth-clenchingly familiar paeans to The-Black-Woman-Whut-Raised-Me genre that white (mostly) Southerners just can't seem to let die. I might not be able to bury the genre, but I can damn sure write a hole through it. Right now, this is all I've got time for. But I'll be back.]
A white girl, all grown up, zooms through cyberspace and finds me at my desk in 2006. It seems she has a wedding dress encased in glass hanging on her wall and she thinks the framed frock has something to do with me. Mama is the link to this white woman’s object of iconic revelry. Fact is I’m not feeling very friendly towards my caller. It’s not her fault, and yet…
When my caller was very young, my mother, Odessa Singley, was her Grandmommy’s maid. On this nostalgic call, though, my Mama comes out of the caller’s mouth as “Odessa” just like it did back when she was seven and Mama was forty-seven. Mama—“Odessa”—was her “best friend,” she says; her anchor in a storm of sequential parents, relocations, and other family mayhem. “Odessa” was her harbinger of summers that began with packed bags and eagerly awaited trips to Grandmommy’s.
And, forty years ago, “Odessa” made the wedding dress hanging on the caller’s wall. Instantly, my caller becomes “the Wedding Princess” even though she never really was a bride because at seven, she was qualified only for the wedding getup, not for the wedding man. “I loved Odessa and she loved me,” she declares, whipping me back to the present. Her declaration of my mother’s affection for her stops me cold.
Call me crazy, but I’m thinking the maid might’ve been several steps removed from thoughts of love so busy was she slinging suds, pushing a mop, vacuuming the drapes, ironing and starching load after load of laundry. Plus, I know what Mama told us when she, my sister, and I reported on our day over dinner each night and not once did Mama’s love for the Wedding Princess find its way into that conversation: She cleaned up behind, but she did not love those white children.
But here I am: the phone pressed against my ear and the disembodied voice of the grown up Wedding Princess on the other end. I make a mental note: This is how being white, female, Southern, and 1960 can frame a conversation. Instead of pinning myself to the wall of Princess’ lovely memory, I gear up to pin Princess to the truth. In our imminent war of dueling narratives, mine is bout to kick some princess ass.
It’s so unfair, possibly cruel, this verbal beat down I’m preparing for Wedding Princess. I mean she didn’t do anything to deserve this. Mama wasn’t her washerwoman after all. Still, I’m seized with a desire to unroll Princess like I would a sleeping bag packed away damp in the attic and left there to ripen season after season. I’ll hold my nose with one hand and give her a thorough shaking with the other, maybe hang her out to dry before sending her back to the attic.
While I’m plotting my revenge, Wedding Princess has already waded deep into her revelries of the day “Odessa” presented her with the Wedding Dress.
It was exquisite. She was such a perfectionist with her sewing, you know. The finished seams, the hemming tape. It fit me perfectly because she had measured me for it, but then I realized didn’t have the right shoes to wear with it, so she took me shopping. It was the happiest day of my life! Me and my best friend. Grandmommy had to practically peel it off of me. I never wanted to take it off. That’s why it’s hanging on my wall. Every time I look at it, I think of Odessa and that day.
I throw my first punch.
“Have you ever thought about the fact that the woman you call ‘Odessa’ was the same woman my friends called ‘Mrs. Singley’? That she supported a family on the six dollars and bus fare (fifty cents round trip) your Grandmommy was paying her? That the woman you call your ‘best friend’ was forty years your senior and had another whole life of dignity, hopes, and dreams that had nothing to do with being in service to you and Grandmommy? That maybe “Odessa” didn’t like you as much as felt sorry for you because you were the baby of the family, the one your brother and sister slapped around, the one they were always leaving behind? You ever thought of that?”
Wedding Princess is silent, so I continue.
“I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just telling the truth. I could let your pretty story stand about who ‘Odessa’ was to you, but you called me”—which, by the way, was a very brave thing for her to do. So, I felt like she deserved to know my story.
“And as for Grandmommy whose home was such a wonderful respite for you every summer, since we’re sharing stories, let me tell you exactly who Grandmommy was to me.”
I was fourteen when Congress was debating what they would pass the next year as the Civil Rights Act of 1964. I was sure what they were talking about had something specifically and personally to do with me because we were discussing the same thing in school, too. So, our black segregated classroom conversation became the nail on which I hung the one thing that I knew definitely had to do—very specifically and very personally—with me. I was fed up with Grandmommy and the shitty way she treated Mama, most especially the six dollars and car fare slave wage (pardon the oxymoron) Grandmommy dispensed for an entire day of work she was too sorry to do for her own damn self much less her own family.
In my junior high class one day, we talked about how white folks insisted on being called “Mr. This” or “Mrs. That” while refusing to call black folks by anything except their first names. I brought that conversation home to our dinner table that night because that’s where we discussed the ways of white folks generally and specifically the ones whose houses Mama cleaned. Because, as she put it, they were constantly trying to find new ways to wipe their asses in her face.
One of the ways they accomplished such a scatological result was that they always got to be “Mr.” and “Mrs.” while Mama got to be “Odessa.”
That conversation had left me on low boil and rising because there was never any talk about how I could do something, how I could have a hand—or even just a little toe—in upsetting that balance of power. So by the time I got home, I had hatched a plan. I knew I was going to snatch my mama some of the respect that was long overdue from Grandmommy.
I had to call Mama at work every day as soon as I got home from school so she would know I had made it home safely and could be sure I hadn’t been hijacked by a dude in a ‘do rag holding his crotch while standing on the corner, tonguing a toothpick.
I dialed the number.
“May I speak with Mrs. Singley, please?”
“ Whooooo?!” Startled indignation dragged that one word out of Grandmommy’s mouth long enough for an owl to rotate his head 360 degrees. Silence spread out behind her hoot so long that, for a minute, Edith had me convinced that she really didn’t know who “Mrs. Singley” was even though she had been making out a check to ‘Odessa Singley’ twice a week for fourteen years.
Click. She hung up on me.
Seven or eight times more we repeated this routine, each call taking less time than the one before as Edith got quicker on the disconnect. (In the days before caller ID and answering machines, she had no choice but to keep answering in case I turned out to be somebody she actually wanted to talk to.) By my final try, I was the vanquished. Edith had cut me down to size and twisted my tongue back to its original position of supplication: “May I speak with Odessa, please?”
This is the story I spit out to the Wedding Princess about her revered and recently departed Grandmommy.
“But that’s the way things were with everybody back then. That’s just the way it was. That reminds me of…”
She stops, catching herself, suddenly self-conscious. But I’m not having it.
“No, that’s the story I want to hear,” I goad her. “That one right there, the one you just stopped in mid-sentence. Tell me that story.” She complies.
Seems she and Grandmommy were standing on the screened sun porch one day, a space I instantly recall because it starred in my fantasies of curling up with a book among the wicker rockers and chaise lounges with plump pillows covered in a summery floral print.
The Wedding Princess continues: “I don’t know why, but I had a quarter and I put it in my mouth. And Grandmommy became so short with me. She said, ‘Take that nasty thing out of your mouth right this minute! You have no idea where it’s been. For all you know, it could’ve been in some Negra woman’s bosom!”
“And you’re sure she said Negra?”
“Oh, yes! We never said that other word.”
“Uh huh. So, don’t you think that’s fascinating that the worse thing Grandmommy could think to say about that quarter was that it might’ve been ‘in some Negra woman’s bosom’? I mean, not in the gutter, not in the street, not passing through a thousand filthy hands, but in some Negra woman’s bosom.
“Mind you, that same bosom would’ve been attached to other body parts that made up a Negra woman who was cleaning Grandmommy’s house; wiping her invalid father’s shitty ass; and even cooking and serving Grandmommy her food. A Negra woman who had fed, burped, bathed, changed, and comforted Grandmommy’s babies. Yet and still, the…absolutely… worst… place for your quarter to have been was in some Negra woman’s bosom.”
Surprise! Seems Wedding Princess can take a punch because she’s still on the line. So I keep going.
“You know what? Thank you for sharing this story. Really. Because it reminds me of something I’ve wanted to tell you throughout this conversation, but I keep forgetting and that is this: I want you to know exactly who Grandmommy was to me.
“Remember how you said your grandfather Googled me and how he said wasn’t surprised at where I was or what I was doing because he always knew ‘that one was going to be somebody’?
“Well, I owe it all to Grandmommy. She’s the one I have lived my total life in opposition to. Without her, I probably would’ve never made it this far. Grandmommy is the one who put a face to what I was up against as a poor, black Southern girl determined to make it in the world.
“If it hadn’t been for your Grandmommy, a mother who made it clear how far she was willing to go to step in the face of a black child to show me exactly what I could never hope to be; if it hadn’t been for that day she used the phone to pound me into submission, to show me where she intended to keep me and my kind forever; I might have lost sight of what I had to do to finally put Grandmommy in her place.
“So, the next time you visit Grandmommy’s grave, give her a message for me: Tell her Dr. Singley said, ‘Thank you.’”
Dr. Singley, thank you for putting words–eloquent words–to my unease about The Help. I came away from it disappointed that the promised unheard narratives had once again been stolen from us. It is a joy to “meet” your mother through your writing about her.
Wow. That’s really all I can say. This is one of the most superbly written narratives I’ve ever read and it perfectly expresses how I’ve felt many times. I have not seen The Help film because I get tired of the “look at the ‘godly and heroic’ folk who saved poor us” message of movies like that, The Blindside and To Kill a Mockingbird. This article rips the sheet off the head of those responsible for the emotional and mental demeaning of generations of Black and I am grateful that you shared it.
Thanks, Lorna.
I hear you, BUT I hafta also say I absolutely do not put ‘the help’ and the other Gallant White Savior(ette) books and movies in the same category as To Kill a Mockingbird, the book or the movie. My husband and I watched TKM again recently and we were amazed to find it resonated as powerfully with us now as it did when we first saw it as kids. Ironically, I first read TKM as a Readers Digest Condensed Book when I was 12 or 13 and TKM‘s Atticus Finch (as well as “Perry Mason”) had a lot to do with me deciding to become a lawyer.
Beyond that, Harper Lee was a real Southern writer who apparently endured the agony of creation that real writers know so well. Unlike Stockett (who gets a nod for at least having enough sense to shamelessly crib off Lee’s work, however slovenly it turned out), Lee worked hard to portray a nuanced, vivid portrayal of the politics, power, and history of her time. Nor did she parade around, post-publication, as a clueless ditz, publicly feigning innocence and Oh-My-Goodness-Yall wonder.
Lee also never published anything else after To Kill a Mockingbird. We should be so lucky that Stockett would be a tad less full of guile and, instead, bite off that noble piece of Harper Lee’s legacy until she (Stockett) decides to get real about writing or her own motivation.
Best,
Bernestine
[...] Sniffing Dirty Laundry: A True Story from “the Help’s” Daughter “If it hadn’t been for your Grandmommy, a mother who made it clear how far she was willing to go to step in the face of a black child to show me exactly what I could never hope to be; if it hadn’t been for that day she used the phone to pound me into submission, to show me where she intended to keep me and my kind forever; I might have lost sight of what I had to do to finally put Grandmommy in her place. [...]
My wife and I saw The Help yesterday, and after reading your post, I have to say I disagree with Dr. Singley’s premise. It wasn’t another “white person saves black people” movie at all. In fact, I came away thinking exactly the opposite. (In stark contrast to The Blindside, which I thought was every kind of condescending and patronizing — I left that movie feeling very uncomfortable, and I still can’t understand why it won so many awards.)
In scene after scene of The Help we saw images of strong black women and flawed white women — even with the main example of the “good” white family. Only one white character stood out as saintly; the rest were sinners. For the blacks portrayed, it was the exact opposite. And in the end, I distinctly noticed how the credit for writing the anonymous book in the story seemed to go to the black character, not the white one.
The only drawback in the movie for me came after we left the theater when I asked my wife if it was based on a true story, and she revealed to me that it’s not so much a memoir as a novel. Having not read the book, I think the movie is in the running for best picture, best lead actress, and best supporting actress (for the black women, maybe for the white women).
Maybe I haven’t spent enough time in the South, or maybe Dr. Singley has too much history there, but I felt like this post wasn’t so much a review of the movie as it was of her pent-up frustrations from her youth. Her feelings are valid, yes, but in retelling them she missed the basic story of the movie: black women standing strong against the oppression of selfish white women. I’m surprised so many others didn’t see it that way, either.
It was a noble movie, but not for the white characters. In The Help, the black women were the heroes.
Jon,
I’m not answering for Dr. Singley, but I’ve been following the comments on her post and felt the need to respond to yours.
First of all, the post wasn’t meant to be a review of the movie or the book. (I’m not sure where you got that from.) You say that she missed the basic story of the movie, but you really missed the basic reason why she and so many other people (especially Black women) are critical of this movie and movies like this. Martha Southgate said it best:
Another thing about your comment that bothered me a little was this:
My issue with this is isn’t really tied with The Help, but in Hollywood with general: If we aren’t being portrayed as Jezebels or mammies, then we’re being portrayed as “Strong Black Women”. Why can’t we be flawed, vulnerable, sensitive, neurotic, or romantic on-screen?
One other thing: Please don’t view this as merely being a southern thing. There was – and still is – covert and overt racism in other parts of the country. Your White privilege may have prevented you from noticing, but it does exist. (I know you don’t identify as White in your post, but your comment about not being able to understand racism because you haven’t spent enough time in the South has blown your cover.)
Angel,
Not only did you just speak for me, you did so thoroughly and beautifully. Thank you so much for that.
Warm regards,
Bernestine
Angel, it’s true, the original post was not a movie review (my fault, my poorly constructed thought), but the note at the very top of the page dismissed the film as a “travesty” before even seeing it, and the discussion in the comments has somewhat revolved around The Help and other “similar” movies. So I just added my two cents.
I stand by my assertion that The Help was a better movie than some people around here give it credit for. The realities are: Hollywood is a town run by rich white men; the movie was produced by a rich white man (who also made The Color Purple, lest we forget); and movies and novels are about telling stories. Could it have been a different story? Sure. But it’s what we got, and it effectively sheds light on a piece of our country’s history. Was every situation like the ones in the movie? No, and Dr. Singley provides a wonderful different perspective with her articles. But let’s not dismiss the movie out of hand simply because it’s not “Exactly The Story I Would Have Told.”
Some commenters seem to be worked up about the fact that it’s yet another “Black-Woman-Whut-Raised-Me” story, but they missed the part about the black women protagonists being the heroes *despite* the white woman, not because of her. Isn’t that the kind of story we want told? As for flaws, vulnerability, sensitivity, etc., did you miss the parts about the chocolate pie? The stolen ring? The loss of a son?
On a different note: Angel, your comment felt a little condescending toward me. I am well aware of the racism towards blacks, Mexicans, and others in this country, but if you ask me, “white privilege” is as racist and presumptive a remark as any. You’ve never seen me, but from a couple of lines of text you discerned my skin color and my general understanding of racial issues. From where I sit, that’s the very definition of prejudice, stereotype, and irony. Don’t judge me by the color of my skin.
There’s a term in the law that I love: Res ipsa loquitur. (The thing speaks for itself.)
In this instance, your words tell exactly who you are. Stevie Wonder wouldn’t have had any trouble seeing that. Your words. Your attitude. Judging you.
“White privilege” is neither racist nor presumptive; it’s a fact. It’s also clearly a term you don’t understand, most likely because you don’t accept that it paints a reality where you’re privileged by default. Becoming defensive is a classic response from white folks not used to having their systemically, historically embedded, privileged position called out. So you’re not alone.
That said, perhaps you can relate to this piece by a white guy writing personally, honestly, and thoughtfully about what apparently confuses you:
http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/deeply-embarrassed-white-people-talk-awkwardly-about-race/Content?oid=9747101
The primer on it all, though, is Peggy McIntosh’s piece, written in 1988, that’s still as brilliant now as it was then: “White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack,” http://www.nymbp.org/reference/WhitePrivilege.pdf.
If you’re interested…
Jon, white privilege exists. The fact that you consider it to be a racist term is, ironically, a sign of white privilege. Please follow the above link and do a little reading. I’m not going to waste Dr. Singley’s space in order to teach you about systemic racism. People of Color have had to learn about it the hard way; it’s not going to hurt you to do a little reading.
I will tell you that one of the effects of white privilege is not having your story heard. Many Black women and men have done much better jobs telling their stories about the Jim Crow era, yet a white woman’s story about Black women’s struggles gets top billing.
I will also tell you that a sign of white privilege is for a white man to see nothing wrong with telling a Black woman that a white woman’s story about racism “effectively sheds light on a piece of our country’s history”. After all, what would I know? I just have to deal with racism everyday of my life, but you know better, don’t you?
Yes, I still believe that you are a white man because no POC would be this clueless about racism. And if my tone is condescending, well…Deal with it. I don’t have the “privilege” of “white skin” (see what I did there?) to ask that I be treated with kid gloves with regards to racism.
One other thing:
I’ve never seen the movie. I’ve never read the book. I will never do either unless it’s for a class assignment or for a large sum of money. And I feel guiltless in saying that both versions of The Help are complete and utter crap. My mother and grandmothers have, at some time in their lives, “cleaned house” for wealthy White women. I find it insulting that the story being told by a White bystander is getting more publicity and respect than the stories told by those who have actually lived it. It is a disgrace that the story of the “White Savior” continues to persist in this day and age. It’s tired, it’s racist, and it needs to be put to rest…permanently!
[...] true story from “the help” [...]
I found the comments by Jon interesting, as they echo the sentiment of many other moviegoers (and even those who love the novel). Whether or not he knows it, there were similar movies created by white writers in the past, with race as a tantalizing addition, and a hint at a “sisterhood” of sorts between a black maid and white lead protag.
The problem is, over time and changing attitudes (and deeper critique) the formulas that brought the author initial fame and accolades, also wind up being revealed as overly melodramatic as well as unrealistic.
For instance Jon stated the movie had “black women standing strong against the oppression of selfish white women.”
Books like Showboat, Imitation of Life, Quality (which became the movie Pinky) as well as The Help aren’t so much about “Strong black women” but a protagonist white moviegoers can bond/identify with because they bond with a minority character who’s a martyr imo.
In Showboat, Julie was the martyr. In Imitation of Life, Delilah/Annie was the martyr. In The Help, Aibileen is the martyr.
Ultimately these martyr minority characters make a sacrifice without hesitation or strings attached, and bind to the lead white character so quickly, becoming devoted in record time, that they can only be considered stereotypes of the saintly variety.
Some moviegoers never question why Aibileen, a relatively still young woman in her fifties is living alone. “Strong black women” aka Mammy’s usually do, as well as attend church and then work to instill “strength” and “love” into the white kids they look after. They always have a smile, are amiable as that’s the criteria for the docile Mammy character. The other Mammy prototype is the sassy variety who gets the laughs. And in The Help, Minny plays standup comedian in the kitchen, as if the maids were having a good old time about it all.
Black people didn’t just go to church. We went out to dinner (as we did own our own establishments like restaurants, bars, stores, etc.) we went dancing, in short, we tried to live a full life even with the constraints of segregation. But that’s not what you’ll see in the movie of The Help.
It’s the same old same old. Black people singing in church. Black people cracking jokes. Black people enraptured over food (Minny in the book and the movie just loving her some food) into this mix is the “Strong black woman” so strong in fact, writers can’t pair her with a black male, because the black male poses a problem. Thus they either have to be omitted, or emasculated or worse yet, turned into the black brute stereotype, known these days as the “Thug.”
Leroy, Minny’s abusive husband is a holdover from the book yet it’s the rare moviegoer and even reader of the novel who’ll note that Minny’s supposed to be an abused woman. How many women go through years of abuse, yet act as jovial as Minny does? Because the character is supposed to provide comedy, the abuse storyline is quickly forgotten.
Kathryn Stockett wrote the black men paired with the maids as so vile, there was no way to introduce all of them into the movie. It was hinted at that Clyde, Aibileen’s estranged spouse carried a venereal disease (Pg 24 of the novel Minny tells Aibileen “Week after Clyde left you, Cocoa wake up to her cootchie spoilt as a rotten oyster”) which is quite a nasty connotation.
And it’s one that bigots used during segregation as an excuse to block integration.
This was such a prevaling slur, that even black children were supposed to be carriers of venereal diseases, that’s how immoral African Americans were thought to be. So while the movie and the novel has Hilly Holbrook as the Cruella DeVille of the Jackson, with her ditzy gal pals following her commands, it wasn’t white women playing bridge who kept the wheels of segregation turning. It was their partners. Males who believed in segregation to the letter and it enforced it by passing laws, making threats and physical assaults to keep blacks subservient.
That Kathryn Stockett would try to rehibilitate 1960s Jackson by painting the males as simply going along to get along, while their wives appear to run things is another bad fantasy and imo intentional white washing.
I doubt if Dreamworks and Steven Spielberg would bankroll a film that showed the Holocaust as anything but the horror that it was. No “Sassy” Jewish maids or Nazi housewives giggling and hugging a concentration camp worker.
But Americans have never seen segregation as anything akin to what occurred in Germany. We don’t like to see ourselves as the villains. And that’s probably why The Help is a film that many can feel comfortable with.
The problem is, Ole Miss wasn’t graduating liberals in 1962, so for Skeeter to be as perky about hanging with the maids after a lifetime of benefiting and never questioning segregation is truly a fantasy.
Jon also stated “As for flaws, vulnerability, sensitivity, etc., did you miss the parts about the chocolate pie? The stolen ring? The loss of a son?”
In Jackson, Mississippi during that time period, there’s no way Minny would have gotten away with creating a pie like that. And living to talk about it.
That’s also another reason why there’s such disagreement over the novel and the movie. While the film makers have edited out much of what was offensive about the novel, they couldn’t get rid of everything. The pie was a major laugh out loud twist for some readers.
But the sad reality was that African Americans could be lynched, assaulted, run off of town, have their home firebombed, etc. for even less.
Exactly why did Yule May have to steal? But more important, why did Kathryn Stockett have to create another character to embody the demeaning myths bigots used during segregation? Again, the notion that blacks had a tendency to steal was used as an excuse to block our upward mobility, and the fight for equality.
That Aibileen’s son was killed off is in line with the Mammy myth. For these caricatures (the docile, loyal kind) have to be alone so that they can lavish most of their attention and affection on the protags who really count in the story.
It’s not their tale. It’s the Skeeters, the Mae Mobley’s, the Celia Footes.
Aibileen and Minny and Constantine are just side players, like Julie (Showboat) and Delilah and Annie (Both versions of Imitation of Life).
Sorry about this post being so long
I didn’t go into the civil rights movement, or how Stockett chose to make the maid’s book of even greater importance imo than the very real freedom movement which had the real Jackson MS a focal point worldwide.
Onyx,
There’s no such thing as a post being too long when it does what yours just did.
Thank you (and Angel) for giving Jon the benefit of the doubt and taking the time to respond to him as though he’s seriously interested in dialogue and not simply trying to assert dominance by repeating cliches and atavistic opinions.
Folks who stumble into this discussion are lucky to be here and luckier still that you and many thoughtful others are willing to help people educate themselves about a topic where their growth potential is immeasurable.
For the folks who come to rant and rule, however, they’ll get chewed up and spit out here. And there will be no apologies for that.
Warm regards,
Bernestine
Onyx, there’s a whole lot of American history that we’re not going to sort out here. My comment about the pie, ring, etc. was in response to another commenter who claimed there was no depth of character for the black roles (a claim she made without seeing the movie). I simply pointed out that there was. I agree that in reality the consequences might have been harsher back then, and I thought so when I saw the movie, but I gave it a pass because the two subplots were wrapped up well enough for a fictionalized story (which it was). BTW, the scene about the ring did not appear to me at all to come from a “tendency to steal,” as you stated, rather out of the character’s desperation and luck. In fact, the thought that “blacks had a tendency to steal” had never crossed my mind in my life until you mentioned it in your comment.
I was hopeful that the movie was based on a true story, which it supposedly was at least in part (from the real Abilene). Unfortunately, the book sounds like it was more of a novel, written by a white woman who allegedly stole the stories from the life of the real Abilene. And in contrast to the movie, the novelist allegedly didn’t compensate her with anything more than a signed copy of the book. If this is the case, it’s probably the greatest irony and tragedy of the whole thing.
What I still don’t understand is why it’s such a horrible thing to show a white woman and a black woman becoming friends. Isn’t that exactly the kind of thing this country needs to see more of? Why the urge to push away from all things white? Or dismiss all white people as “Saviors,” “privileged,” etc. (I’m fully aware that white people are treated differently, but the tone of Angel’s comment toward me was not to enlighten, rather to inflict.) These are the kinds of words, when used as pejoratives, that give people the impression they’re not welcome simply because they’re white. Am I missing something, or didn’t Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. want us to work together, not push each other away by calling names? I don’t expect special treatment, but seriously, respect runs both ways.
So that nobody misunderstands, I never tried to hide my being white. I just didn’t think it was relevant. Quite frankly, I was surprised when I was pounced upon for it, as if to say, “Gotcha! We knew you were white all along! Anyone could see that! Now we know everything we need to know about you and your mindset.” But my comments are not, and shouldn’t be, invalidated simply because of my skin color. I know I’m supposed to feel awkward or embarrassed because I’m white (I read the linked articles), but I’m not willing to play that game. Because of this, some will wave their hands and insist I don’t count or I don’t get it or I’m in denial or something. Hogwash.
I recognize and have personally witnessed racism. I know all about the disparities in economy, housing, health care, education, etc. My son was the only white boy in his class last year. My little girl went to school with other girls who had “chocolate” skin and pretty braids that she wanted, too. Where we live, where I work, and where we go to church are full of East-Asians, Liberians, Mexicans, Native Americans, Indians, and yes even white people, too, all of whom I try to befriend and help because I try to be a genuine, kind, charitable person to all.
I don’t care what color anyone’s skin is. I judge people by the way they dress, speak, and behave. I’ve seen plenty of stupid, rude, unkempt people, and I tend to avoid them regardless of race; I choose to associate with people who are polite, intelligent, and put together. In my experience, the color of someone’s skin has nothing to do with their behavior. My friends, co-workers, and fellow congregants are every color under the sun, but it doesn’t matter a bit to me — or to them.
Unfortunately, a couple people here didn’t take the time to learn any of this. They seemed to think my perspective was less important than my white-ness. So congratulations, you proved yourself to be presumptive, intolerant, and dismissive. And that’s toward the guy who’s trying every day to be on your side, to cross the divide. Sure, maybe I don’t understand some things with the same depth that others do. I didn’t grow up in Mississippi in the 60′s (not many did). But my racial experiences are just fine, thank you, even if they aren’t good enough for you. Trying to convince me I’m part of the problem is not the solution.
It’s really unfortunate, too, because I did enjoy Dr. Singely’s perspective in the original post and in the memoirs of her time at school in Wisconsin. Both were insightful. What I didn’t enjoy so much was the scolding from those who judged me not by the content of my character, but by the color of my skin.
Jon, I don’t know why I’m bothering to post this since it’s obvious you don’t actually read the posts anyway. For example, you said:
If you had actually read what I wrote, you would’ve seen that “my issue with this is isn’t really tied with The Help, but with Hollywood in general.” Also, if you had read the posts here, you would have seen that the criticism about the movie isn’t about “a white woman and a black woman becoming friends.” No one said anything close to this on this blog, in Dr. Singley’s original post, or in any other criticism of the movie anywhere.
Usually, I don’t do this because, contrary to what you believe, it is *NOT* my job to “enlighten” you about racism. However, in the hopes that future commenters will learn from your mistakes, I will point out everything that is wrong with your comment. I just hope Dr. Singley will forgive me if I step out of bounds.
::snicker::
Wow, I reeeaaally don’t know anything about how that feels. Oh, wait…
Did you really have the nerve to bring up Dr. King in a conversation of racism with a group of Black women? Is that supposed to legitimize your position just because you can toss his name aroudn like that?
Yes, you did. But I’ll get to that in a moment.
I’ll get to this in a moment, also.
No, you didn’t. Otherwise you would know that 1) being White in a conversation about racism is VERY relevant, and 2) you would know that none of those links are about feeling guilt over being White. In fact, I hate the term “White guilt” because not only should you not feel guilty over something you had no control over, but it also diminishes the role White privilege has in our society.
So, reading all the material makes your views on racism more valid than a Black woman’s who’s lived it all of her life?
What, are we candy bars now?
“Everyone wants to be Black until the police show up.” – D.L. Hughley
I really hope that one of my White friends isn’t telling somebody that they aren’t racist just because they know me.
That’s sweet sentiment, but “colorblindess” is not going to end racism. Recognizing that because of the foundation of racist institutions of the past – including but not limited to, slavery, Jim Crow laws, segregation laws, voting laws, census laws, and genocide – you as a White person are born with a privilege that a person of Black, Native American, Chicano, and Asian heritage does not have, will. You may not “see color,” but believe me, whenever they leave their homes in the morning they are made well aware of the color of their skin. Which brings me to your earlier comments about not feeling it was necessary to reveal that you were White.
But before I continue I want to make one thing very clear: This is not about you being a White man who happened to like the movie. Other White commenters have also stated that they enjoyed the movie. What they did and what you didn’t do was recognize that because the story was being told by a White woman (the author) from the POV of a White woman (Skeeter), that it wasn’t the whole story. They respected the fact that, while it was a good tale and the characters were excellently played in the movie, one should be mindful of the historical significance of what is and isn’t being shown. You, on the other hand, refuse to consider why anyone would argue differently from you even though you admit that your only knowledge of racism is second-hand. Then when we didn’t acquiesce and we called you on your White privilege, you became dismissive, condescending, and downright rude.
Yes, Jon, you are part of the problem and will continue to be so until you educate yourself about your own white privilege and stop blaming other people for your own ignorance.
Angel H.,
Thanks again SO much. Actually, you do know exactly why you keep responding b/c you just said it: “In the hopes that future commenters will learn.”
People who wrap themselves in the “I don’t see race” narrative walk around in a state of determined oblivion that blinds them to just how tiresome that refrain can be to hear, much less to respond to. So how would they have any concept of what an act of generosity, thoughtfulness and…dare I say it?…love it is when someone like you continues to engage with them, point by point?
That’s why I keep expressing my gratitude to you and all the others who don’t just throw up your hands in frustration and walk away. You care enough to keep talking back because you never know when/where the crack will come that lets the light in.
So take my word for it: your posts definitely make a difference, one that begins but certainly doesn’t end with me.
Warm regards,
Bernestine
What I am getting from all this conversation is that there is a great deal of denial on some people’s part. I found the book to well written, validity notwithstanding. I enjoyed the book. However, the first thing I did when purchasing the book was to see what the author looked like. This way I can read the book with a little emotional/mental advantage. I know that White America would love to pretend that these things happened, and in most cases not so glamorously, to the ones they deemed unimportant. I was taught long ago that we live in a white patriarchal society. Which means the hierarchy is White Men, White Women, Black Men, then Black Women. The one thing I would have loved to have noted in the book was how Miss Skeeter had that “curly” hair. That would have been an excellent something put in that book. However, we gloss over what makes us uncomfortable and sugar coat that which is unpleasant. I don’t subscribe to that school of thought, however it is necessary in some cases where children are involved. I would like to share a story with you about a White man who claims that he “loves” Black women. When I first met him, I thought he was a decent man. He seemed to be kind and generous. But one day, he decided that it was a mandate that because we went out a couple of times that he was entitled to having sex with me. So, I when I told him no, in a not so kind way, he left a message on my voicemail, because I refused to even acknowledge him anyfurther, and said, “That’s what your problem is! You’re Black and you’re bitter!” Well, I acknowledged that message and told him, “I don’t see being Black being a problem.” So, I told him that I would never forgive him for that statement. So, he comes by my work area and he notices that I am reading the book and he said that he had gone to see the movie and how he enjoyed it. I looked at him and said, “Really? Now do you understand why I will NEVER forgive you for what you said to me?” He had the unmitigated gall to say, “Oh, you need to let that go.” Denial. For a man that claims to “love” Black women, he sure doesn’t respect them. So, having said that, I believe that this country is wallowing in their own ignorance and they are more accepting of what they see on TV and at the movies, but they will totally dismiss anything that is showing them in a very good light. Bottom line, I am glad you posted this because WE ALL NEED TO KNOW THE TRUTH! Even some of us don’t know. I only have a glimpse of the times because I have been blessed with grandparents, one of whom is still alive at 98, that are more than willing to share their stories. She is NOT ashamed, she is a proud woman who had to endure the unfair and unequal practices in the south.
“Which means the hierarchy is White Men, White Women, Black Men, then Black Women.”
There are more colours in the world than those. Try Red. See how Natives (Americans call them Indians still) feel about being at the bottom of the list…forgotten again. Or maybe check to see how Asians are doing with bullying? But again…there’s only black and white. Whatever.
Patti,
Your point is well taken so you get no argument from me.
In my book, When Race Becomes Real: Black and White Writers Confront Their Personal Histories, I acknowledged the limitations of my book and my experiences when I wrote this in the Introduction:
Given the desperate state of affairs on many (most?) reservations across this country despite the double-edged sword of the casino earnings windfalls, and, for example, the latest brouhaha with the Cherokees deciding to erase their centuries-old kinship with enslaved Africans and their descendants, there’s plenty to be said if there are folks who’ll say it.
So, if you care to take your comment beyond “Whatever,” I’d be thrilled to hear what you have to say.
I totally get that, but back then the contention was between Blacks and Whites. No disrespect to any other race.
And now for word from the real life, living, breathing Ms. Abileen Cooper: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2033369/Her-family-hired-maid-12-years-stole-life-Disney-movie.html
We’re a group of volunteers and opening a new scheme in our community. Your website provided us with valuable info to work on. You have done an impressive job and our entire community will be grateful to you.
I appreciated not only the book, The Help, but also Dr. Singley’s comments and the statement issued by the Black Women Historians. No one piece of writing be it fiction or non fiction, can express all sides. Nor can any writing, by the very act of writing, be completely impartial. There is always an author and with an author, there is a point of view. It is only by considering many points of view that we readers can come up with some assessment of the truth, but then that truth is unique to the individual reader anyway.
I am white, but do not look particularly white. I have always been that dark skinned “exotic woman”. I am Canadian and segregation was long over when I moved to south Florida. In the days of the novel, we Canadians marched with Dr. King and were honestly amazed that civil rights were an issue to a country that called itself the best in the world. In my adult life, I have worked proudly in the black community in America and am proud of having been accepted, though I am white.
So I got something out of The Help, whether Ms. Singley thought it was valid or not. The white women in the novel had no clue, and obviously the woman who call Ms Singley doesn’t either. But, as MS Singley says, the road to becoming a Doctor was possible for her because of great societal changes and civil rights. The real loser here, is the white woman on the phone who hasn’t got it yer.
Ms. Stockton does and I admire her novel. In spite of its flaws, it HAS reached many people and given them an awful glimpse of the way things were. Perhaps it will take a dozen more novels like The Help to educate the caller,but you can’t blame one novel because it only tells part of the story. That it tells the story at all, in the author’s viewpoint, is enough/
[...] I did, however, have other problems with the book (major book spoilers ahead, so read no further if you don’t wish to be spoiled). The first problem has to do with the romanticizing of the black nanny/white charge relationship. The dynamic between Aibileen and “Baby Girl” Mae Moebly, as well as the dynamic between Skeeter and her nanny Constantine, was so sanitized that it made Scarlett O’Hara and Mammy look gritty and realistic in comparison. There were only two of these relationships in the book and both of them had these black maids loving these white children as much as they loved their actual children. I’m sure those types of relationships occasionally existed, but I would’ve liked to see a third character, say, resent the hell out of the white kid who took time away from their own kids, or at least not embody the perfect black mother stereotype and treat the raising of these white children like the job it was. For more on this topic, I highly recommend reading Sniffing Dirty Laundry: A True Story from The Help’s Daughter. [...]
[...] thanks to a thoughtful young woman who sees their humanity. Others feel it does little more than whitewash a terrible system that all but forced women of color into servitude, while at the same time [...]
[...] Help, this statement by The Association of Black Women Historians, and this scathing reaction by Bernestine Singley on her blog, Before [...]
Dr. Stingley,
Thank you.
Thank you, Dr. Singey, for your beautifully written essay. It reminds me of my mother, who as a young woman helped her mother clean houses, not for racist white Southerners, but racist northern Jews (yes, Jews can be racist, and some are quite good at it). She NEVER talked about her employers with affection or nostalgia, she told me stories of being paid in old clothing when they did not have any food, of having to put up with unwanted sexual advances, of hearing her employers talk in a derogtory fashion about black people. What is ironic is that these Jewish people employed black domestics because white women refused to work for them.
My mother is a devout Christian, like many elderly black women, and though she had never said it, I truly think she hated these people.
I refuse to see this movie, read the book, or buy any products based on it, including the HSN products “inspired” by the film (What the . . .)
MST,
“HSN products ‘inspired’ by the film.” Really?! I had no idea and might actually be forced to go check this out.
I wonder if they’re selling any maid dolls with smiles turned upside down?
But this is great news, right? Now Stockett can break off a piece of change for Ms. Abileen Cooper for jacking her story.
Seriously, though, would you consider sharing “Sniffing Dirty Laundry” with your mother? I’d love to know what, if anything, it triggers for her.
Warm regards,
Bernestine
Dr. Singley:
I guess I’m about as white as a white person can be and I wish I could say to you what only exists in a dimension beyond mere words to express the amount of respect I have for you and your Mama. We will not meet this side of glory but I promise to seek you out in “OUR” Father’s Kingdom and maybe there I’ll find the words. But for now about the movie, “The Help” please forgive me that it matters not to me the issue of whose story this really is: What does matter to me is the impact that that wonderful woman “Abilene” had on me when she took a child, yes it was a white child, and said:
“You is kind, You is smart, You is important.”
Whether or not she said it to that white child or not is not what impacted me. What impacted me was that if she said it to the white child, how many more wonderful, wonderful, loving, beyond my imagination, words she said to her own family. To you. Oh God, please, please let that be true for me cause no one ever, EVER said anything like that to me as a child and as an adult trying to make peace with my childhood or lack thereof, I imagine that actress, with a smile probably not as beautiful as your mama’s, saying it to me and you know what, if I keep it up, maybe one day I’ll believe it.
And in closing, my inner child would like to say to the Wedding Princess and Edith(cause she truly defines the word ignorant and doesn’t deserve recognition of Grandmommy or Mrs. Anything), “I think you are a bunch of big Poo Poo Faces!” And as an adult, Dee would like to add, “Vengeance is MINE saith the Lord!” and enjoy your Southern eternity. I hear it’s quite hot.
Dee,
Your closing made me laugh out loud.
About “You is kind…,” etc., perhaps because that ain’t how my Mama spoke, I couldn’t get past noticing how the only folks who had trouble with subject-verb agreement and word endings in Stockett’s fantasy world were all black domestics while the white bigots they slaved away for didn’t seem to be equally verbally compromised. White and black southerners enunciate pretty much the same, but Stockett would need to be able to hear herself, her mama, and her grandma to realize that.
Still, you make a good point about the book’s impact on you. I’m glad for that.
And, yes, precisely as you imagine, my Mama said “many more wonderful, wonderful, loving beyond [your] imagination, words” to me, my sister, and every other child she came in contact with. I still marvel at that even today.
Best,
Bernestine
Thanks for being a white person who “gets it.”
I don’t know if she would want to see it. I remember once we were driving down the street and we saw an older, heavyset black woman coming out of a house in a wealthy white neighborhood. She was carrying a bucket and looked like she might have been one of the “help” and I saw tears fill my mother’s eyes. She has just so many painful memories of that time in her life I really don’t want to bring it up.
I mentioned that my grandmother worked as a domestic all her life and of course, her “folks” didn’t pay into social security for her. When she died she was destitute and because she had neglected her health for so long, she had “sugar” so badly that she went blind and had to have both legs amputated below the knee. People ask me “oh why didn’t she save her money?” and the answer is — she didn’t have enough money to EAT half the time, let alone save.
These “folks” offered my mother a “lovely position” taking care of their children and her own room, wow! She turned them down and went on with her life. Today she has been married for fifty years, has four children all college grads, four grands, and one great-grand. She is also an administrator at a nonprofit.
I am not ashamed that my mother and grandmother worked as domestics. They were “the help” so I didn’t have to be.
MST,
I absolutely understand why you wouldn’t want to take your mom back to that place of pain.
That said, isn’t it amazing how often what your grandmother was able to do for your mom and other descendants is also the real & rest of the story of the legacy of most domestic workers? If I haven’t already mentioned it, check out the Facebook page A’Lelia Bundles (journalist, author, & great-granddaughter of Madame CJ Walker) created to give space to those “rest of the story” narratives:
My mother was never ashamed of what she did for a living. And funny enough, she always told my sister and me exactly what you just wrote: “I do this so you don’t have to.”
And here we are!
Best,
Bernestine
Yes, DOCTOR Singley, here we are. I am going to send the link to this page to my daughter, a recent Spelman alum and second generation college grad!
Big ups to Spelman!!!
My favorite young lawyer is a Spelman grad who wrangled special permission for me to hood her when she graduated from UF law school 31 yrs after I did. And Dr. Beverly Daniel Tatum, Spelman’s President, wrote a great personal essay about race for my book When Race Becomes Real: Black and White Writers Confront Their Personal Histories.
May your Grandma’s tribe continue to prosper and increase!
Yes, I did have the chance to meet Dr. Tatum. She is a wonderful leader and truly an inspiration. Mrs. Obama gave the commencement speech and she was also wonderful. It was truly a remarkable day.
I forgot to mention that my daughter is engaged to a Morehouse man
I can’t tell you how much I appreciate having read this today. I am a First Nations woman, and unfortunately at my current place of employment, I often have to hear from people who want me to know just how /inspiring/ they find Indians to be. Not, of course, those modern, political, uppity Indians, and certainly not the victims of the residential school legacy who are out on the streets, displaced and ill. No, they’re inspired by the Indians who were invented by white people for white people, to fulfill some sort of Peter Pan fantasy for them, and that they expect me to enable this fantasy for them is far more insulting than if they’d just gotten it over with and called me a dirty Indian.
Sam,
One of the hardest–yet most rewarding–things these days is to refuse to co-sign the fantasies many white folks still use to try to prop up their feelings of supremacy. The more practice you get in interrupting their narratives, though, the easier it gets. And it is fascinating how people of color can be so “inferior” on one hand and yet so “superior”–noble Indians, ample black bosoms as confession booths, etc.–on the other.
Just keep looking to & educating the next generation. Ignorance is curable if we’re persistent!
Best,
Bernestine
I guess you’r talking about the “noble savages” like Pochantas?” Could you please elaborate?
Yes, Pocahontas being among the most popular in a long line.
Thank you! This is absolutely phenomenal. I watched The Help, and I totally hated it. Part of my hate has to do with race, and part of it with my history. Some background (I apologize in advance for rambling).
I’m African, I’m male, and I grew up middle class to upper middle class in an urban setting. We had a maid, and she stayed in the ‘servants quarters’, an attached building, and she got to go home one weekend a month (for a day and a half) to where her family was (essentially a 4-8 hour bus ride. And of course, she couldn’t have family living with her). And over christmas she got a 2 week break. And she wasn’t paid very well. She did all the cooking, washing, cleaning etc. Growing up, I was fond of the maids (over the course of my life, from when I was born to when I was 17, we had 4 maids), because they raised me, and I believed the myth that we considered them part of the family. Now, our family treated the maid relatively well compared to other families (not saying much), other maids got sexually assaulted by the man/men in the house, and when the wife found out, often times the maid was blamed and fired.
When I came to the U.S, I went through a period of poverty that totally changed me (prior to that, I’d never known poverty, and I now joke I would have made a perfect Republican while back home, it’s easy to believe in bootstraps and all when they’re provided by your parents). Another sea change was facing racism (I wasn’t totally unfamiliar with racism, I’m of the generation that was born within a decade of my home country gaining independence, and there is still racism based on race, but I grew up in a country where every person I dealt with, all the institutions I dealt with, looked like me (government, doctors, dentists, teachers, police etc). Being black in the U.S was the first time I wasn’t in the majority. But my experiences made me re-cast my life experience, and I love some aspects of my culture, but I hate with a burning passion some aspects of it (the classism and treatment of domestic help). So when I went to see “The Help”, I was very qualified to spot the mythology/bull. I have no doubt that the maids who raised me were neglecting their families, and their children for the sake of our family, and for the sake of earning a living. It was a terrible sacrifice. It’s somewhat forgivable to be 7 or 9 and not realize this, it’s pretty unforgivable to be a grown adult and not realize this.
In the U.S, it’s very easy to be a white person and never have to confront their privilege (or get all huffy and take umbrage when it’s pointed out to you, of all the people who’ve accused you of being too harsh, they all seem to be concerned with the Princesses’s feelings but none seem concerned with your feelings or your mothers (or even your feelings when you were a child and how princess’s Grandmommy treated you).
We have a saying in swahili “Asiyefundishwa na mamake atafundishwa na dunia”. It translates to “He/She who is not taught by their mother will be taught by the world”. Essentially, it’s a privilege to never have needed to learn something. You were the world teaching princess a lesson that she should have learnt upon coming to adulthood had she not been blind to her privilege and U.S’s racial history.
Anyway, there’s my rambling, this post went way over what I’d intended.
And one last thing, if I didn’t hate this book/movie enough, behold the Home Shopping Network
http://www.hsn.com/the-help/_c-he_xc.aspx
Where for a small price, you can get to relive those fabulous times!
Anyway, I ordered your book (“When race gets real”) and it’s slotted right behind “When and where I enter” and “Grant’s Memoir’s”. I’ve been on a kick for the last couple of years reading American history.
Baiskeli,
Feel free to “ramble” here anytime when you ramble like this. Thanks for bringing such an insightful perspective.
“They all seem to be concerned with the Princesses’s feelings but none seem concerned with your feelings or your mothers (or even your feelings when you were a child and how princess’s Grandmommy treated you).”
Exactly! It’s been fascinating to notice how easily my accusers completely ignored Grandmommy’s foot on the neck of a 14-yr old in their rush to take up for Princess, now a Grandma herself and, therefore, somebody who should’ve known better than to bring her fantasy to me for affirmation.
“We have a saying in swahili ‘Asiyefundishwa na mamake atafundishwa na dunia.’ It translates to ‘He/She who is not taught by their mother will be taught by the world.’” Essentially, it’s a privilege to never have needed to learn something. You were the world teaching princess a lesson that she should have learnt upon coming to adulthood had she not been blind to her privilege and U.S’s racial history.”
When you crossed cultures and temporarily shifted classes, you did what smart, thinking, thoughtful people do, in the face of new information: you learned to see things differently, including your life up to that point. If the Wedding Princess loved my mother a fraction of what she professed, after our conversation, Princess will be telling her story differently from now on. One can certainly hope.
In the meantime, thanks for the adage. I’ll be using that…in Swahili!
Warm regards,
Bernestine
Thanks for your perspective, very interesting. We must not forget that in many Middle Eastern, Asian, African, and Latin American nations upper class families often have domestic workers that are treated very poorly, so it’s just not a North American thing.
MST,
You’re absolutely correct.
Since I’m an American from the South, which was the setting for ‘the help,’ that’s why my focus in “Sniffing Dirty Laundry” is what it is. Racial domination/subjugation–i.e., white supremacy–is only one manifestation of humans abusing each other. Class, gender, religion, sexual orientation, etc., are other common examples.
The beauty of Baiskeli’s post, as far as I’m concerned, is that he brings his own personal experiences that shed more light on how privilege and subjugation/domination work in other cultures and how it can shift as circumstances change. In the US, because the uncompensated labor of enslaved Africans is what built the wealth of this country, race and class remain inextricably and structurally linked, there ain’t all that much “shifting” going on among the subjugated masses centuries later.
Most importantly, though, Baiskeli demonstrates how even one born to privilege and trained to be blind to exploitation of others, can still learn to see inequities and injustice that benefit them and can choose to lead a life informed by those revelations. To me, that’s extremely heartening.
Best,
Bernestine
Nikk Finney’s acceptance speech on winning the National Book Award for Poetry I hope you can access this – brought tears to mi ojos. How is SF, NM?
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/jacketcopy/2011/11/national-book-awards-2011-video.html
I am a white woman. I am very aware of my white priviledge. I address my question to black women: On this day in 2011, what do you want from me?
Well, K.,
Speaking only for this black woman:
1) On this day in 2011, I address my question to you: What do you want from yourself?
2) Read the 260 generously, thoughtfully posted comments that preceded yours on this page.
3) Mosey over to http://www.bernestinesingley.com/blog.htm?post=605300 & read everything else on the “Whites Only” page.
4) Find a white woman (or man) who’s answered your question for themselves. Listen. Learn.
5) Pretend “black women” (yup, all of us & therefore any random one of us) have $1M that belongs to you, but you can’t get it until you do your own work & answer your own question for yourself.
6) Use your question as a Google search term.
Just for starters…
I can’t speak for anyone — don’t assume I’m not intelligent, on welfare, or someone’s “baby momma” because I’m black. Don’t say “hey girl” or assume I speak “ebonics,” because I don’t. In other words, treat me as an individual.
To Mrs. Singly, to answer your question as to what I want for myself, my answer is to do unto others as I would have them do unto me. It is called the Golden Rule. I have tried my best to live by that rule for 75 years.
I have read all the comments you suggested including hundreds of hours of Internet posts on the subject. However it seems that trying to live and let live and trying to live by the Rule is not enough for some black people. I do not undertand the anger that seems to be directed at everyone and everything. I did not choose to be born with white skin any more than black people chose to be born with black skin. That is why I asked the question. I am at peace but I thank you for your reply.
Kindest regards.
K.,
You’re welcome.
Dr. Singley, please excuse my error in the spelling of your name and the misuse of your title. K.
I would still like an answer to my question.
I withdraw my question. You have already answered it.
K.
K, I was just reading Passages from An Exploratory Conversation on Money, Race, and Class and it instantly brought to mind you & your question:
“Things are structured in a way to support the privileged upper few, and…that creates a kind of lock-down on power that is really hard to break, and…quite frankly, they are not going to break it—that you really have to do yourself. When you have all these major kinds of systems and policies that kind of push you down and there are limits to what you may be able to do, there has to be personal responsibility in terms of what you do.
“I have gotten to this point where I have personal pain. I’m feeling it even more because I grew up in the ’60s and there was Black Power and the sense that things were going to change, people could vote, and you felt this sense of hopefulness and pride. I saw people connect with each other, and I feel like I’ve just seen everything go downhill from there at a time when I thought everything was going to go up.”
—CJ
“People that have been treated unfairly have a right to be angry when interacting with people who think that the system is fair. It’s part of the reality of the system we live in, that there’s understandable anger from people who have been treated unfairly on the basis of their race or class or other—or of gender or other identities that—because our system claims to be fair. It’s not, and there are people on the short end of it.”
—Eric
In CJ’s quote, you replace “upper class” with “white folks” & the statement is equally valid.
Perhaps food for further thought…
-K,
Every now and then I still come across something that reminds me again of the question you asked me & “black women” a couple of months ago–i.e., “What do you want from me?”
I went to a party last night, met some new friends, one of whom suggested I check out work being done by one of her friends. My online research this morning eventually led me to this short video by Prof. Joy DeGruy, which is her wonderful, clear answer to the question you posed: http://world-trust.org/a-simple-trip-to-the-grocery-store/.
I hope you get a chance to watch it and spread it around.
Warm regards,
Bernestine
Well, “The Help” has been nominated for a bunch of Golden Globes, including best picture and best actress nods for Viola Davis and the other woman who played one of the maids (I’m sorry, I forgot her name). I’m not surprised. Same _____, different century.
MST,
Indeed.
I take great comfort, though, in knowing that there’s a wealth of information that stands in opposition to that kind of throwback acclaim and that we–you, others who’ve posted here, and I–have had a hand in creating content that adds to that. Our small contribution has definitely swelled the pool.
I feel good about that. I hope you do, too!
Bernestine
That’s true, Dr. Singley, but there are black female CEO’s, surgeons, scientists, soldiers, FBI agents, composers, etc. It irritates me that in this day and age, we are STILL seen by Hollywood as being “suitable” for a only few roles: hootchie momma, maids, and BFF to some white heroine (which, in my opinion, is basically being a “post modern” mammy), and of course maids. Just venting here — I guess everything old is new again
Sorry for being tardy in posting this, MST. I thought it was already up!
Look Dr., I get that the girl was a bit misconstrued about what truly happened, but did you have to completely DESTROY her because she was excited to finally find you? You’re basically pissed because she went to all this trouble to contact you, and instead of appreciating her enthusiasm for both you and your family while you educated her about the truth, you took it personally and disavowed her integrity. I too am in the process of obtaining my PhD, only I was always taught to evaluate a senario logically as well as hollistically, and certainly without emotion.
I get that your grandmother suffered, and I get that the woman’s ancestors are the ones who caused this suffering. But the woman on the other end of the phone didn’t cause any suffering to you, and reactions like yours are the reason that their is still ignorance about these types of occurences; if you would have treated her like an actual human being, she, as well as those who read your passage, would accept your ideas with more consideration. If anyone expects there to be less prejudice about race, gender, sexuality, or anything of the like, we need to stop thinking we know so much more than others and start evaluating the issues at large, WITHOUT a biased opinion.
Bryn Giant,
“I too am in the process of obtaining my PhD, only I was always taught to evaluate a senario logically as well as hollistically, and certainly without emotion.”
Hmmm…maybe you could read the piece again so you can get a bit more practice at this skill you seek to hone during your PhD-gaining process. Examine it for all your many assumptions like the notion, for instance, that I “DESTROYED” Wedding Princess. A bit over-the-top, don’t you think? Especially since there’s not a shred of evidence–”holistically”–to support your conclusion. One could even say your emotional response blinded you to what’s there and have you adding stuff that’s not.
Read it again, this time “without emotion.”
Btw, Wedding Princess and I exchanged letters and photos after the phone conversation. In a beautifully written narrative, she made it clear that because of my mother’s influence, she’s chosen to rise above Grandmommy’s entrenched racism.
So, nope, your conclusion was not “logical” because the fact is I didn’t “DESTROY” her.
If you turn that piercing PhD-in-training gaze on this piece again, I’m also certain you won’t find any any references to my grandmother.
Good luck with your studies and learning to overcome biased opinions!
Exactly what emotional input is affecting me while evaluating your piece?
Bryn Giant,
Keep working with it. You’ll eventually get it…or not.
Dr. Singley,
There are a staggering number of comments attached to your provocative piece, so I apologize in advance if I am reinventing in the wheel with any of my thoughts or perceptions.
While I think you raised some salient points, I have a couple of bones of contention with the content and spirit of what you wrote. First of all, as a child of Sicilian heritage, I wasn’t raised to call anyone by their surnames, with the exception of people such as clergy, schoolteachers, etc. Friends, neighbors, colleagues, and social acquaintances of my parents and grandparents were known to me almost exclusively by their first names. What you perceive as an example of a disrespectful slight may, in fact, be more indicative in some cases of a difference in racial and familial culture.
I hope you won’t disregard what I have to say with a dismissive wave of the hand when I reveal that my grandparents had a black housemaid in their employ for the first 12 years of my life. I hate to be on the side of the incorrigible princess, but I can relate to much of what she said about your mother being a mentor and friend to her when the rest of her family was too screwed up to properly care for her.
While I’m certain that many domestic workers dislike, or even loathe, their employers to this very day, it seems very myopic to assume that maids of any race, during any time period, would inherently be too consumed with their duties to have an affection or fondness for the children in the household.
Call it a stereotype if you will, but it’s fact. My grandparent’s housemaid, Ms. Shirley Jackson, had been left by her alcoholic husband two years before she entered our lives. She had three sons: one went to prison, one was an addict who was murdered by his girlfriend during an alleged argument over drugs, and the third had joined the military and moved to Germany. I’ve often wondered if she could have been home more with her boys how their lives may have played out differently. Although I am eternally grateful for the time we spent together, I am deeply regretful that it was likely at the expense of her own children.
She passed away a few years ago, but we remained very close until she departed the earth. We spent a great deal of time together, but our favorite tradition was dining together every year on Christmas Eve.
I have never doubted the power of hatred, injustice, and equality for one second of my conscious life. White privilege has been bestowed upon me through no good deed or doing of my own, and unlike Stockett, I would never profess to have a profound understanding of what it feels like to be on the other side of racial inequity. That said, I believe it is love, and not resentment, which ultimately brings about fundamentally positive change in human beings. The indisputable ugliness of the situation notwithstanding, one of the beautiful things that came from our acquaintance was that I grew up to be significantly less bigoted, hateful, and stereo-typical in my thinking than my predecessors. I hope and pray that my children and grandchildren will be even more loving and kind in their thoughts and actions towards others than I could ever hope to be. It doesn’t make anything that happened in the past acceptable; it’s only a tiny glimmer of hope that future generations will be less likely to repeat the sins of their mothers and fathers.
Ari Scott,
You’re quite right: Your sentiments parallel ones shared by many others in the “staggering number of comments” generated by “Sniffing Dirty Laundry.” So I hope you’ll take the time to browse them because I can tell from what you’ve written, many of the thoughtful, richly textured posts will resonate strongly with you and your recollection of your experiences. They could also prove quite educational for you, especially with regards to this:
Many white folks’ responses to “Sniffing Dirty Laundry” go directly to your point. Ironically, though, if you read them, they’ll highlight for you your own confusion about the “difference in racial & familial culture” of the time and place about which I (& Stockett, sorta kinda) wrote. It happens to be one with which I’m extremely familiar both through my own lived experiences and as they’ve been thoroughly researched and documented by others. Only someone who’s completely ignorant about that cultural, racist practice (of addressing grown black folks by their first names) would dare write the line you did. Well, if not ignorant, then breathtakingly arrogant.
Nor are you alone in expressing this sentiment:
There are so many posts in this vein, I’ve given them their own name: I call it the She-Did-Too-Love-Me category. While I certainly understand your need–in fact, apparently the desperate need of many (most?) white kids who loved their black housekeepers–to believe this, only Ms. Shirley Jackson could tell me what she really felt about you. Actually, I’m pretty sure her children could tell me, too.
A large part of the security of the financial transaction between your grandparents and Mrs. Jackson depended on her keeping them happy. If you were part of that household, that would’ve included telling you what you wanted to hear or at least treating you kindly. Of course, just as I can’t speak for Mrs. Jackson, neither can you. So, what I am saying is this: if you want to rise above the cliched, romanticized narrative of “The Black Housekeeper Whut Loved Me” and be honest with yourself, you can’t help but consider the likelihood that Ms. Jackson’s relationship with you was fueled way more by money than by love. And why not? After all, her love for you wasn’t going to pay her rent or buy food for her children.
All of which reminds me to point you back to “Sniffing Dirty Laundry” where you’ll see I didn’t have to “assume” anything about my mother’s feelings about the children in the houses she cleaned. My mother, who was brutally frank & extremely articulate, was, brutally frank and crystal clear about that: she didn’t love those children. It’s been astonishing how, more than anything else, it is this part that struck home for so many of you who grew up as “those children.”
It is, it seems, exceedingly distressing for you to consider a narrative that runs counter to the one you’ve cherished all your life. Alas, that is one of the serious downsides of searching for one’s deeper truths.
Again, though, don’t take my word for it. You’ll find quite a few of the children and grandchildren of black housekeepers who posted here. I doubt you’ll be surprised that I don’t recall a single one of them posting anything about how much their mother or grandmother loved the kids in the houses they cleaned.
Best,
Bernestine
[...] I’m tired of watching people of privilege bite off poor people’s lives in an attempt to flesh out their own busted narratives. The way I see it, Booker’s hungry game is as likely to help hungry people as Katheryn Stockett’s “The Help” helped the real help. [...]