My first weekend in the Delta, was quite the adventure. Slow motion, yet my reality came so fast – I am a young black woman living in the upper class.
Since my arrival, I have realized that this backyard that I am graced to see each day – is maintained by a black man. These fresh flowers laid before me, were cut by a black man. This bike I purchased will not see the hands of a black person, yet was carried out and lifted by the hands of a black man. The woman who occupies this land, who oversees my bed, is a white woman.
This woman, 87 years in age – our existence couldn’t be more polar. The expression on her face, when my boss and I arrived at her home for the first time, was priceless. Her attention left the man who was on her doorstep, and instead was drawn toward the two black women approaching her driveway. She had no idea who either of us were despite our call a few minutes prior to our arrival – a date and time that was set weeks before. What wasn’t knowingly set, was that I was black and she was white – I of course was prepared. My notion of going into a racially segregated community, where race is separated by railroad tracks, informed my understanding of who would have the privilege to live closer to the university. What I didn’t consider, was the comfort of my boss – a black woman who has grown up in this segregated area and era. This era ongoing, discomfort unknowing. I received my key, and paid my summer rent in full.
Our interactions the first day-or-so reflected that of a school-yard vibe – she was feeling me out as was I.
I had a good night’s sleep, my first night in Ms. Blakeman’s guesthouse. Unknown to what I could wake up to, I slept and have slept with a light on throughout each night. Early Saturday morning, after having breakfast with my mentor from Michigan, and the women I will be working with in the Delta – I decided to venture out for a bike. Once I returned home, I pulled it out of my car and out comes Ms. Blakeman.
“Well, I see you went and got you a bike.” she says unenthused.
“Yes ma’am, I ended up getting one – Im pretty excited!” I replied.
“Well we’re going to have to find someplace for you to leave it because I cant have it in the way of my garden. I need to be able to get to my flowers so it cant stay here.”
“Ok I understand Ms. Blakeman. I bought a bike lock, so I’m sure I can find another place that is out of your way. I am sorry if this is an inconvenience.” inwardly thinking if I am an inconvenience.
As we ventured around her plethora of land, we finally decided on a spot to park my bike. Out of her way, and in my space of the carport. Once we agreed, we started on our own ways. Her to her house, and me toward the guesthouse. I thank her, and she proceeds to ask me, before she makes it up the last stair in to her home, if I attend church.
Caught off guard, I stutter a little, replying yes.
She proceeds to ask me if I’d like to join her for church the next day and I smilingly tell her I’d love to. She asks what type of church I normally attend and I let her know that the last church I attended in Michigan was a non-denominational Christian church, but was raised Baptist – asserting that my grandmother is Catholic. She let me know that she attends a Presbyterian church, and automatically I picture myself being the only black person in sight.
Despite my thoughts, we agreed to attend both Sunday school and service the next day. I was instructed to be ready before 10.
The next morning I rise at 830, to make sure that I was fully dressed and had a bowl of cereal way before 10 – I wanted to make sure she didn’t have a reason to leave me behind. I ring her doorbell at 945 and I see her decked out in jewels and a nice pink jacket with white pants. As she gathers the rest of her things I let her know that she looks very pretty today, and she thanked me – caught off guard by my charm.
We get in to her car, and she drives literally 1 block down the street to this church – referred to by most local blacks as the castle. As we enter the castle, my stomach kinda sinks – I am the only person of color in the entire building. But to my surprise, Ms. Blakeman introduces me to every single person she knew, which sounded a little like this:
“Nancy, I’d like you to meet Christina Monroe. She is a student at the University of Michigan, getting her Masters in Social Work and she will be working at Delta State with youth this summer. She is staying in my guesthouse.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. I had only told her once about the work that I am doing here, and there was no formal application process – she made me feel special, she made me feel as though she was proud grandmother.
Sunday school started and Ms. Blakeman made sure to introduce me to her entire class. To my surprise, this small setting of about 15 people included call and response, with unpredictable moments, a place where voice, motion and community were displayed – a vast minority, an anomaly of what was ahead.
Service started shortly after Sunday school. As I walked and sat amongst the congregation, that reportedly showed out in smaller numbers, I was the only non-white person out of 150 people present.
No clapping, head nods, shouts, or amens. You could hear a pin drop amongst the silent yawns and restless movement. My discomfort drew from the mechanical nature of the service. The only with a visible piercing and tattoo, my comfort drew from Ms. Blakeman. The choir, decked out in uniformed robes, reminded me of my choral days in middle and high school. Their sound was followed by melodies and lyrics written on pages rather than a spirit or gut feeling. No head nods, call and response, or sway – everything was followed by the program and service was over by 1230.
There wasn’t a moment that I felt uncomfortable, except that initial moment I entered the church. I felt like it was just me and Ms. Blakeman, an older woman who wanted company and a younger woman who sought the company of someone. Our day didn’t end at church, and instead extended to lunch with her life-long friend. She didn’t allow me to get into the backseat when her friend got in the car, she wanted me to stay in the front – her actions spoke more than words.
Lunch consisted of a couple awkward moments where folks would stare as they sit in their segregated tables, and ours, sprinkled with me. Silence and chatter, I took on much of a listener as they shared updates on weddings, funerals, love interests in the church and their gardens. We wrapped up lunch and Ms. Blakeman took me on a tour – me sitting in the front and her friend in the back.
I asked her if cemeteries were still segregated, and she remarked “Well honey, everything is pretty much still segregated.”
My thoughts, our words, the car – silenced. We were the exception on that day, our worlds just ended up that way.
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