The Negro Washerwoman

[nattyreb]

i was trying to find an appropriate place to say a few words on my Mom-mom and to perhaps educate the young'uns up here to some herstory that many of you may not even be aware of, that of the "negro" washerwoman.

My Mom-mom took in wash from a white family in addition to many other daily chores that she performed for them. She had a wringer-type washer, for those who have never seen one, it has an electric roller at the top and soapy water in a tub at the bottom. The clothes are washed out in the tub and then fed through the roller/wringer and repeated until clean. This wringer was responsible for many injuries/mutilations to our Sista-Mothas. They are then rinsed, fed through the wringer again, and then hung out on the line. Once dried, they are starched, ironed and piled high in wicker clothes baskets for delivery to the white family. Mom-mom would carry the basket, sometimes on her head, or put it in a wheelbarrow and wheel it up there, always bringing back a fresh load of dirty drawers, etc. from their house.

She'd cook entire meals for them that we could smell but not taste; altho she would always leave a little bit for us to eat later on. This family's children would come to Mom-mom's and call her by her first name, something that always deeply infuriated me. i thoroughly scolded them at her funeral, as they, now adults, were attempting to embrace me and share in my grief, but again referring to her by her first name. i put them in tears.

She spent her entire life in the service of others, her biggest regret being that she had never had a home of her own, having lived since her marriage to Pop-pop in her mother-in-law's home. She could cook the ish out of anything when there was seemingly nothing to cook (yea, we ate muskrats many a day!). Most of the times she fell asleep sitting up with her sewing basket in her lap, stitching up something or another. She loved her usher's uniform from church more than anything with a string of pearls (her's was always the whitest). She was the total caregiver of Pop-pop, a double amputee from diabetes, who would bang on the wall with his cane when he needed food, the bedpan, or whatever. She never had a speck of dirt anywhere in the house at anytime. Everyone at all was welcome there, even the "crazy lady" of the neighborhood and the rip-off insurance cracka could be found there eating her molasses cakes and drinking coffee.

One time a bee got caught up in my front plait and was stinging the hell out of my forehead. She pulled my plait apart until she could grab that bee and stomped it. i was pouting that no one was paying any attention to my forehead cuz Mom-mom was swelling up. Stupidly at the time i didn't realize that Mom-mom was allergic to bees and had actually known that a bee sting could mean death to her.

She would send me outside to get a switch from the tree and would switch at my legs until i hollered out, after which she would get upset and could hardly ever continue. She would just send me upstairs and throw the switch outside, i would feel real bad cuz she would be so upset.

The only other times she allowed me to see her upset was when we imported the violence of our household into her house, either via tales of my father and the visible scars/bruises, or when he would barge in there drunk as a skunk and itching for a fight. She could back him down with her LOUD VOICE, a voice she never, ever otherwise used.

She was a queen, period.

A great swart cheek and the gleam of tears,
The flutter of hopes and the shadow of fears,
And all day long the rub and scrub
With only a breath betwixt tub and tub.
Fool! Thou hast toiled for fifty years
And what hast thou now but thy dusty tears?
In silence she rubbed ... But her face I had seen,
Where the light of her soul fell shining and clean.
--Otto Leland Bohannon

Please check this out: http://www.nathanielturner.com/negrowasherwoman.htm