“My Grand-Daddy was a gambling man,” my friend said to me yesterday as we were packing her fresh eggs into boxes. We had been talking about drunks. The weekend kind who had a drink and went to sleep. My friend does not drink. But it was a natural jump to gambling.
“He had gambled all he had that one day so he bet his hat.” She says.
I laugh.. I love her old family stories.
“… bet his hat.” I say. “Mercy!”
“They kilt him for that hat. He lost the hand but he would not give up the hat. Would’nt hand it over. Would’nt do it. So they kilt him.”
“They shot him?” I say. Laughter swallowed in horror.
“I reckon so.” She says.
We both sit quiet trying to make sense of such an action in our heads. Shooting a black man for his hat. Our laughter still in the air above us. Watching.
A breeze wafts the scent of rain through the window, then is gone.
She shifts in her seat at my long table, the chair creaks, a gambling chair, she turns one of the eggs we had been packing. She absently measures it and wipes it, inspects it as she thinks. Our breaths in the same timing. Our hands cleaning eggs in the same rhythm as we sit. She moves forward in the chair and looks at me. Her hands still. Her eyes black and shiny with decision.
“I came here, to Chicago when I was 14 years old.” she says. “From Mississippi. Me and my family. They say folks is racist down there in the South, maybe so but I tell you they will always nod and say howdy. Everyone does. Black or white. They will always say g’mornin’. How are ya. Whether they knows you or not. Every time”.
“Up here”, she nods North towards the big city. “The white folks, they see you on the street and pull themselves to the side”. Unconsciously she pulls her skirts closer to her knees, her shoulders tucking in, imitating those white folks, her voice softening from the hurt. “They won’t look at you. Like you are not even there. Their eyes go to the side. Or they look at the ground”. She pauses. Looking at the floor. Not for effect, just to find the next words. I can see the words running in behind her eyes, whole stories of them. Her racing brain choosing and discarding. Sorting. How much to tell me. Her eyes chasing dust across my floor. Then she lets them go – those words. She shrugs. Relaxing her body into my kitchen chair again. Looking back at me again. “Took me a long time to get used to that. I cut you and then cut me, our blood will be just red, just the same. Bleed the same.”
We sit for a moment. Our eyes seeing our blood and each other. Just the same. From different cultures, different looks, different accents. But bleed the same. Hurt the same. Love the same.
I reach across and touch her arm. After a moment she nods, answering her own invisible question, then reaches up and touches my hand. My strong farm-worn white hand on her black arm covered in that strong black hand of hers seemed as natural as breath to us – she is my oldest friend out here. She hugged me the first time we saw each other. She moves about me like a mother about a child. She tells me if my face is dirty or my hair is a mess or if I need to get those cobwebs. And where are your shoes girl. She tells me to Set a Spell when I visit her front porch with the rocking chairs. And not often enough either, she says. She worries about me being alone out here – a foreigner who does not understand how this country is.
“There’s trouble coming, Cecilia. Things that were kept under..” She pauses again. Then, I can see her folding it all back away again. All her thoughts. These important words. This dreadful history. Cutting the words off. We never talk like this, she and I. Our friendship too young. Feeling our way. Usually we happily talk of gardens and food and changing the beds and getting the clothes in off the line if it looks like rain or the house in the country they are renovating for their retirement.
Be careful she is thinking to me. Be careful I am thinking to her. My friend.
” Well, I’ll be glad when we are out of the city for good”. She says.
“Down here with me.” I say.
“I’ll teach you how to cook.” she says.
We both laugh.
She pats my hand. Pat, pat. And leans forward to pack the last egg, allowing my hand to fall naturally back to help her close the lid of the egg box.
“Well.” she says gathering herself up. She is the only woman I know who can gather herself up with such grace and consideration. She is almost old fashioned in the way she moves her body in its proper order. Reassembling in seconds. Ankles, knees, elbows, fingers. She stands. She picks up the box of eggs and her bag and turns to the door. The conversation is over.
“Time to be getting on. You got chores. Them hogs ain’t going to feed themselves, Cecilia. And it looks to me like you are late getting John’s dinner on the cooker.”
The door clicks behind us as we leave the kitchen. Our drifting voices parting with the usual called goodbyes. Dogs, cats and pigs joining in the chorus as we descend the steps and fade and part.
Be careful my friend – up there in the big city.
Love celi
The Kitchen's Garden 
78 responses to “My friend said to me …”
She’s definitely right about politeness in the South, I was really impressed by Southern courtesy 🙂
Chilling words. And I get that feeling too. Outward politeness (or lack of it) covers a multitude of private inner feelings.
She’s right about the courtesy, and she’s right about trouble coming, my gut tells me. What a wonderful friend you have, very wise, very gracious. We should all have friends like that…
‘There’s trouble coming . . . . things that were kept under . . . ‘ . . . . methinks many of us have a sense of that . . . .
Yes, so sadly I agree with you. And the trouble begets fear which begets more separation, and divisiveness and hate and it seems to go on and on.
I look at things happening in Australia at the moment . . . ignorance and fear beget the trouble, as does living in the past not hearing, not looking, refusing to think . . .
J & D > Brilliant. There’s a lot more writing you’ll be doing one day, Celi. More than writing a blog. Right now, you’re just pacing up and down, gathering energy, gathering materials, gathering … yourself. Yup, gathering yourself up.
Oh I love this post Celi. It tells us so much about you. Thanks for sharing.
Indeed, there is trouble coming.
Your friend sounds like a beautiful person.
Thanks for that conversation and scene. Calming.
Your friend sounds like someone I would like, and I could listen to for hours, a treasure. Sometimes I think people like that are few and far between. I really hope that trouble isn’t coming, though that is probably wishful thinking. Keep safe, both of you.
Profound and thoughtful, C.
I was riveted by this piece. Such truths are hard to hear. I hope she makes it safely to you and out of the city. Frightening times. Sometimes I feel like what has been uncovered in some has festered too long, like a boil ready to pop. And when it pops there is a lot of pus and bad stuff getting on everyone no matter who you are. How will this mess be cleaned? Makes me think of Wai and how you have persisted against all odds. It is what we must do.
Blessings to you both for being friends and listening in stillness. Faye in Canada
Faye, the comparison to Wai seems so appropriate. And we must, somehow, come together to clean it up. That trouble is coming, or is already here, as expressed by Celi’s wonderful friend in this post, and others here in the Fellowship of the Farmy is true. I guess I’ve been in a dream world, living and teaching in diverse communities overseas, thinking that as a human race we were becoming somehow more open, loving, tolerant and accepting. This horrific political situation in the US, and the similar situations in other countries, and struggles worldwide have made me doubt all of my previous….hopes, as I see now that is all they are, hopes. I’m trying so hard these days to think positively, be grateful for each day, and still kindling the hope that we can unite and move forward with loving hearts.
Somehow I missed in my reply to you (DianeandJack) and it wound up farther down the page with TheDailyCure, so here’s my second attempt: As my GranMa said so often, “Hope for the best, but be prepared for the worst”, so don’t lose hope, as we all must work “for the best” together, for there is strength in numbers and love will win out if we only stand – as Celi and her friend were – hand in hand, together; to treat others as we wish to be treated; turn back darkness with light.
This may be one of my favorite posts you’ve ever written.
I think many view racism in the purist form – KKK, Neo-Nazi’s, blatant discrimination based purely on the color of someone’s skin. However, the subtle racism your friend has experienced in the north is still racism. Not looking at someone because of the color of their skin. Not speaking to them because of the color of their skin. Viewing yourself as better than another person based on the color of their skin.
If we want things to change, we must do so by changing ourselves first. We must accept each person as a person regardless of the pigment of their skin. We must sit down and have conversation with other people. We need to hear their stories and gain more understanding. We must show compassion.
Trouble is already here. How much worse it will get is the question. Ultimately, it depends on how many of us are willing to stand up and say “enough” and fight to make sure that each person is treaty equally in this country and in this world.
Thank you for sharing. Hopefully your post will help open eyes and dialog.
J > There’s a great deal of other forms of bigotry/prejudice/discrimination than just according to race. Thinking only of the things we can’t change about ourselves: Colour of skin, colour of hair (redheads – especially males – will know this is true), gender, disability, country or place of birth, caste or social class (not easy to shake off) … … and that’s before we get to things like politics, religion, education. And though not often talked of, whites too can be the subject of racist and other descriminatory attitudes: try moving from one district of an English northern mill-town to another, and you’ll be sure to find out how true that is. We all need to learn to see through superficial differences, and – quite simply – love one another. ‘Black Lives Matter’ is a movement that divides. Your writing, Celi, is the writing that brings people together. So, too, is the farm.
Yes I agree. Most of us, when we hear of racism, automatically think of black people. But here in NZ there are not a lot of black people, and racism is targeted mostly at Asians. It is a sad truth that some people will always feel the need to feel superior to someone else, and therefore are unwilling to open themselves to learning about different cultures and different customs. Instead of seeing people as themselves, not a skin colour or race.
J & D > And in Scotland it’s the English! Pathetic, isn’t it!
Beautiful.