I Left My Back Door Open (23 page)

“That's true.”

“I know as a societal outcast I'm supposed to be grateful that you're still speaking to me,” Sharon continued. “I'm supposed to be thankful for the crumbs.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Don't be defensive.”

“I'm not. I'm just asking what you want, because I feel I've been pretty accepting.”

“That's my point—you've been reasonably supportive and pretty accepting. Well, at the risk of sounding like Oliver Twist, I want more.” Sharon looked at me earnestly with her normally laughing eyes. “You see, Dee Dee, like any courtship, Michelle and I have our ups and downs.”

“And I'm open to hearing about them,” I said, rearranging myself in the folding chair.

“I need to really feel accepted by somebody here,” Sharon said plaintively. “Most of my support is long distance. When you're in a relationship with a man, people go, rah rah. Well, I need a cheering section, too. And I have a harder row to hoe. I need at least one person in Chicago to actually be excited for me. Is that too much to ask?”

I realized that I just took for granted that people would be excited about my dating Skylar. And they were.

“No, it isn't too much to ask, especially from a best friend,” I assured her.

Sharon looked relieved and touched that I was still calling her my best friend. I was surprised to feel a lump in my throat. Sharon was still my ace.

“Dee Dee, I know you're ahead of most people in your thinking.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, you are. My family expects me to be grateful just to be tolerated. And of course they think, ‘How could she do this to Tyeesha?'”

“I'm sure they do.”

“I'm lucky that I don't have to hide on my job.” Sharon sipped her lemonade. “I can be out at Columbia. Thank goodness, I teach at the most progressive college in Chicago. It's one of the few islands of real acceptance in this city. Poor Michelle teaches in the public schools.”

“You told me. Sixth grade, right?”

“Yeah, and she'll be walking on eggshells soon. Heaven forbid that she should let something about our relationship slip out. I'm not talking about being explicit, I'm talking about just everyday things.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Like even telling a fellow teacher where she went for the weekend.”

“I get your drift. And I admit that it's a privilege that straight people take for granted.”

“To top things off”—Sharon raised her voice as if encouraged by my show of support—“Michelle came out to her son and he pitched a fit.”

“Oh no! He's ten, isn't he?”

“Yeah. He asked Michelle about me, and she came out to him. Maybe it was too soon, but sometimes you get tired of living a lie.”

“Especially in your own house,” I agreed.

“It's like at some point you feel like you're going to explode.”

“I can understand that.”

Sharon shook her head and stood up. “Now Michelle is worried that her ex-husband will find out and fight her for custody.” She sighed and looked worried.

“That's a lot of pressure.”

“Yeah, and Michelle is a devoted mother. But all of that could be brushed aside simply because she's a lesbian. There are judges in this country who would sooner give a child to a murderer or even a child molester than to a lesbian mother. It has nothing to do with the best interests of the child.”

“That's true.”

“If people really gave a damn about the children, they would work to change society so gay and lesbian families would feel accepted. I mean, couldn't an argument be made that children with attractive parents fare better?—or wealthy or educated or thin, for that matter? I mean, where do you draw the line? Why not take children away from parents who don't go to church, or to the right church?”

Sharon's Aunt Ivy walked into the room with Tyeesha. I figured they'd heard the tail end of Sharon's sermon. Sharon's aunt was a petite, brown-skinned woman with a neatly coifed perm. She was carrying a pitcher of lemonade.

“You people are holed up in here where it's nice and cool,” Ivy said, freshening our drinks.

Tyeesha announced, “They're serving the homemade ice cream now!”

“We'll get some in awhile,” Sharon answered.

“I saved room for it,” I said.

“Dee Dee, you've really lost weight.”

“Just about five pounds,” I replied. When people made so much over a modest weight loss, they made it seem like you were a beached whale before.

“Five pounds is nothing to sneeze at,” Ivy insisted. “You can really see it in your face.”

“I've lost three pounds,” Tyeesha said proudly. “We've been walking.”

“Go easy on that ice cream, if you wanna keep it off,” Ivy cautioned before turning her attention toward Sharon. “You were always good at making speeches. I always wanted you to take up the law. You would've been a terrific lawyer.”

“You heard our conversation, huh?”

“I couldn't help but hear it, the way your voice was carrying.”

“Oh, we didn't mean to disturb the peace,” I said.

“This isn't a tea party, there's no peace being disturbed,” Ivy assured me. “Sharon, I have something I want to say to you.”

“I'll go check out the ice cream,” I volunteered.

“Me, too,” T said. “But I'll just have a couple of scoops.”

“No, Dee Dee, you stay in here,” Ivy insisted. “As far as I'm concerned, you're like family. Tyeesha, I want you to hear this, too. There will be plenty of ice cream left.

“I'm from the South, so bear with me,” Ivy began as she and T pulled up a couple of chairs. “Dee Dee, I know you know what I'm talking about, because you're a Southerner.”

“I left Alabama when I was almost four,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but you spent summers there, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. Once a Southerner, always a Southerner.”

I thought of myself as a Chicagoan, but I didn't argue with Ivy. It would go against my Southern hospitality.

“I wanna tell y'all a story. It's a true story,” Ivy continued, clasping her hands in front of her. “It happened to me. It's nothing fantastic or worth writing down, but maybe it'll mean somethin' to y'all.”

And maybe it won't
, I thought.
You said yourself, it's nothing fantastic or worth writing down. And when you get finished telling us your uneventful story, all of the homemade ice cream might even be gone
. But I listened politely anyway.

“I used to be an X-ray technician,” Ivy began. “T, do you remember that? Remember when you were growing up and I used to wear a white uniform and white stockings and shoes?”

“Oh, yeah. They were always so clean and starched.”

“When I started out as a technician, it was before the days of spray starch. You used to buy a box of rock starch. Sharon and Dee Dee, y'all remember that.”

“Yeah.” Sharon nodded. “Argo Starch in that blue and white box.”

“Kids used to like to suck on starch,” I added.

“And chew on it,” Sharon said.

“We didn't have all the modern gadgets they have now,” I said in response to T's bewildered expression.

“When I was a little girl, our toys were mostly sticks and rocks,” Ivy added, causing T's jaw to drop even furthur. “Anyway, back to my story. I was a young woman in February 1967. It was a hopeful time. Progress was being made, the world was changing. Despite the fact that we were in the grip of a fierce Chicago winter. But, it was still a hopeful time. I don't remember whether the groundhog had seen his shadow or not that year,” Ivy rambled. “Six weeks never made any sense, noway. Any Chicagoan knows that an early spring means the season ticket holders don't have to dust snow off their seats on baseball's opening day.”

“I heard that.” I smiled.

“Anyway, like I said, the times were hopeful,” Ivy continued. “And I was hopeful. People were just beginning to drop the words ‘colored' and ‘Negro' by the wayside, and we were becoming black.”

“Those really were the olden days, huh?” T asked.

I chuckled. I was unaccustomed to thinking of my youth being referred to as the olden days.

“I had a secure job at a big white hospital on the near North Side,” Ivy continued. “I was bringing home a decent wage. And, although I was yet to meet the man of my dreams, I was content with the pride that my family and even the neighbors took in seeing me stepping out in my white uniform.”

“It was a different time, all right,” I said for T's benefit. “We had a sense of community then,” I explained. “Neighbors knew who you were.”

“And they cared who you were,” Sharon added.

“They were hecka nosey, huh?” T frowned.

“Yeah, but they still cared about you,” Sharon insisted. “Whatever you did reflected on the whole community, back then.”

“The entire race,” I added.

“Well, they pretty much referred to me as a nurse,” Ivy continued. “It was no point in always trying to explain to folks that I was just an X-ray technician. I once corrected my neighbor, Mrs. Lyle, who stayed up on her front porch during the summer months. After she told me how proud she was of me for becoming a nurse, I tried to tell her my job title. But she said they let me wear the nurse's uniform, so I was a nurse. From then on I was referred to by her as an X-ray nurse.”

“It's funny, all the years I worked at a black hospital on the South Side, there was nothing even resembling a psychiatry department. Some folks used to read the
Defender
just to find out how many Negroes got killed over the weekend. And don't let it be a holiday weekend. Anyway, no matter how many folks got shot or stabbed or got a faceful of hot grease or scalded by grits, they never even had a psychologist on duty.”

“That's ironic,” Sharon mumbled.

“Well, I got over there to the near North Side with the rich white folks, and lo and behold, didn't they have a whole psych wing? Just goes to show you.” Ivy took a drink from her lemonade.

“In those days, black women were too busy coping to have nervous breakdowns,” I said.

“And brothas didn't consider suicide over a lost job or a bad business decison,” Sharon pointed out.

“I just wanted to give you all a little background about that cold, clear morning that I rode the El like any other morning.”

“Okay, the suspense is killing me,” Sharon teased.

Yeah, cut to the chase, I started to say. But then I remembered that you can't rush a Southerner.

“It was early, the 6:38
A
.
M
. train, the third car,” Ivy drawled on. “I've never ridden the 6:38
A
.
M
. train and the third car since that day,” she said solemnly. “Never.”

We listened patiently, giving Ivy her propers, showing respect for our elder.

“Anyway, I sat down next to a man in an aisle seat. That time of morning the train was carrying a lot of domestics and factory workers. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a man came up from behind me and hit me with his fist as hard as he could.”

Sharon, T and I gasped and sighed in reaction, as Ivy continued her story.

“I slumped over toward the man sitting next to me and said with disbelief, ‘That man hit me.' The man sitting next to me looked at me like I was dirt.”

“Didn't anybody come to your aid?” I asked.

“I heard a woman's voice say, ‘I don't know why he hit her,'” Ivy replied. “You know how people are, especially black people,” she added. “If something bad happens to a woman, they usually find a way to twist it around and make it the woman's fault.”

“Yeah,” Sharon agreed. “As if there's ever an excuse for abuse.”

I sighed. “They probably figured he was your man, and he whupped you. And they didn't want to get involved.”

“Deep down, a lot of people hate victims,” Sharon said, narrowing her eyes. “Believe it or not, it's easier for them to identify with the perpetrator.”

Yeah, that's why so many incest victims are so reluctant to come forward
, I thought.
That's why so many of us are alone with our pain
.

“But you would think somebody would've shown a little compassion,” T said, her voice choked with emotion.

“No one even asked, ‘Dog, how do you feel?'” Ivy said, shaking her head. “Anyway, the next stop was mine, and I managed to stumble off the train. I thought for a minute that maybe it hadn't really happened. I didn't really feel anything. I just felt numb. But then I felt the pain. By the time I got to work, my face had swelled up like a melon. I told my immediate supervisor what had happened, and she was very sympathetic. Nancy was white, but she was sweet toward everyone.”

“Thank goodness, somebody showed you some compassion,” T said, sounding a little relieved.

“Just goes to show you, good and bad come in all colors,” Sharon pointed out.

“When Nancy told the big boss what had happened to me, can you believe what he said?”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Maybe if she does some work, she'll feel better.' He said that right in earshot of me.”

“He was cold,” I said.

“He was hecka cold,” Tyeesha added.

“You know how cold people can be, especially white people,” Sharon's aunt said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, definitely, back then,” I agreed. “Attitudes were just beginning to change.”

“Your boss was worse than the people on the train,” Sharon said angrily. “In fact, he was as bad as the man who hit you. He didn't show you one ounce of compassion.”

“He should've asked you if you wanted to lie down and rest,” T said.

“They should've offered you treatment,” I added. “There you were in a hospital.”