It was a temporary departure from reality—spending Sunday dinner with people who cooked with grease, knew the lyrics of 1960s R&B, greeted each other as ‘brother’ and ‘sister,’ and read books—novels, the Bible, and newspapers– daily.
The honored guest was in her mid-90s, and having achieved that millstone was worthy of the hugs and kisses she received from each guest in turn.
It was about respecting the elderly, seniority, and wisdom—an African, and formerly African American, tradition.
That’s why those of us who grew up in the shadow of Black nuclear families and Africentric culture stood up when she did.
She was an anchor of the family circle and offered a prayer for our continued blessings, the hope that none in attendance would forget where they came from, the importance of extended family, and the desire that none would step from under God’s shadow.
The prayer was followed by group hugs and thanksgiving as the aroma of greens, string beans, turkey, ham, dressing, potato salad, mashed potatoes, and various desserts overwhelmed us.
It was like a scene from a Tyler Perry movie, with a guest appearance from a ‘MaDear’ clone complete with a flowing wig, heavy makeup, and a thunderous voice.
Every family has at least one; ours was adorned in a tight dress, boobs busting out, and eyelashes extending four or five inches to catch the rain, snow, or glaring sunlight.
She kept the young folks engaged, as the seniors were served first!
Three generations followed the seniors. Only two women wore European wigs that touched their kneecaps, and while there were fake eyelashes aplenty, none were so long as to block out Monday’s solar eclipse.
Two little boys wore white shirts, both with clip-on ties. They were sharp, a reminiscence of my youth when we wore our one (Sunday) suit and Buster Brown shoes.
No ‘hoochie mama’ outfits, and I saw only one pierced navel or ‘tramp stamp.’ And that sister’s hue made it impossible to figure out what the design designated. (I have yet—for the life of me—to figure out why dark-skinned folks sport tattoos you can’t see).
Now that I think of it, there were no gold teeth—permanent or temporary—nor tattooed faces, although a couple of sisters had imprints of past relationships on their necks. Guess they have to find someone with a similar name to make the tattoo relevant.
In totality, it was a refreshing departure from the realities of the streets and made me wonder if one of the elder’s funeral possessions would be interrupted when a punk or punkette callously drove through their motorcade prossessional, or worse still, fired off their stolen pistols during the internment.
The world outside the family room where we gathered was much different than the world most of the diners were brought up in.
Back in the day, we prized clean, litter-free neighborhoods. And neighbors who involved themselves in the upbringing of the ‘village children.’
Much of the discussion among the older diners was about the ‘old community,’ when families consisted of a father, mother, and children—a nuclear concept that has become rarer and rarer in central cities around the country.
Often a grandparent who watched the children when parents worked felt safe and could be seen sitting on the porch, occasionally chastising a child for getting too loud or running across their manicured lawn.
It was about a community where people mowed their lawns anderected signs that said ‘Keep offthe grass’ (the kind you grow for beautification).
Dinner conversations focusedon those (not so) good ole days of segregated neighborhoods,schools, and churches. Was thatman seen coming out of Helen’shouse at midnight a relative or a…
It was an era when Black folks jeopardized health and welfare to cast their votes versus complaining or making excuses.
It centered around illiterate migrants from the south doing any and everything to ensure their children did not suffer from the fateassigned to the ignorant.
I grew up in a community where there were more virgins than theother way around.
An epoch where we had ‘hoes,’ and ‘bastards’ and teen pregnancy was the exception instead of therule.
It was a time when motherstaught their daughters the ‘quarter’ rule—put it between your kneesand don’t let it drop until you’re married.
It was a prehistoric period when the rare pregnant teen disappeared ‘down south’, and men were more fearful of shotgun weddings than machine gun drive-byes.
The Black population was small in the 1960s and 1970s, but the poverty rate was minuscule compared to today (two-parent household income was higher), as was home ownership, which was nonexistent in the suburbs because of housing covenants.
Rent parties were familiar and provided an example of a village as a cultural paradigm.
Most Black children, one generation removed from southern ‘speech and custom,’ spoke proper English, wrote intelligently legible script, and even learned cursive. This could be because our teachers didn’t grade on intent but instead corrected bad grammar and stopped us from saying, ‘I ain’t got no,’ using double negatives. Instead we were taught how to navigate proper subject/verb agreement.
I’m not suggesting things were better back in the day. Police were an occupying and racist army, our schools were underfunded, and the laws—from housing covenants to racial standards—would not allow Black residents to file a complaint against police if we were not property owners, which only a tiny percentage were.
‘Sundown’ rules applied not only to the suburbs but to middle-class neighborhoods in the city as well.
National celebrities—from Henry Aaron to SammyDavis, Jr.—had to stay at the preacher’s house because they weren’t allowed to get a room at downtown hotels, or in the case of Sammy, wasn’t allowedto stay at the hotel he was performing at on the lakefront.
But those racist paradigms were offset by positive,cultural, and familial paradigms—some out of necessity, or equally fruitful, out of comfort— stayed withpeople who appreciated them.
Legalized segregation meant Black doctors, nurses,lawyers, professional athletes, and entertainers wereour neighbors. Teachers visited our homes to deliverhomework, and many also served as Sunday Schoolteachers.
We were po’ versus poor, and the difference meantwe learned instead and despite.
Nonetheless, we walked with shoulders high andeyes ablaze instead of cast downward. We calledwhite men ‘mister’ instead of boss or sir. We weretaught to be Black and proud, and ‘niggeritude’ wasan evil expression, not a compliment.
I left the dinner with a smile and a tearful heart because I remembered the good as well as the bad. Thevillage died sometime during the 1970s when Daddymoved out and Uncle Sam moved in. Black unity imploded when someone told us we had reached themountaintop, only to slide back down into theswamp.
My belly was full, and my spirit rejoiced. Maybe itwas those collard greens and the sweet potato casserole.
Hotep.
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