Read it to us …

We meet every two weeks at the local public library, and in the quiet meeting room which is reserved for us, we take turns reading our latest offerings to each other. We may make suggestions or ask for clarification from the writer, but primarily, we’re simply supportive. Each of them is a good writer, as I’m a good poet, so there’s not a lot of criticism necessary.
I’m not writing this to read to the group. I’m writing this for myself, hoping to gain a deeper understanding of all of these women and to know what life has been like for them. I’ve always been a curious person. My mother used to tell me that I was born with a double dose of curiosity and that led me into trouble many times as a child. On the occasion that I was caught going through her dresser drawers just to see what was in them, and incidentally, being disappointed that the things in there were so ordinary, Mama said that I should probably be a detective when I grew up because I never gave up looking. Much of my early childhood instruction was about people’s right to privacy, and the difference between being curious and being snoopy. She taught it well, and I’ve never been accused of prying.
Because of my age and my circumstances (widowed, live alone, and don’t drive anymore), I don’t encounter much to pique my curiosity these days, which is rather boring, but something came up during the last writer’s meeting. Marybeth—who is the most productive writer among us—said she hadn’t written anything because she was totally upset after learning that her parents are divorcing. She didn’t offer any details; simply saying that she couldn’t talk about it. So of course, that was like a red flag to me.
My thoughts have continued to return to her since that day, and I’ve come to realize that although I’ve been a part of this group for almost seven years, I only know the most basic things about each of them. I’d like to know a great deal more. I wonder what I can find out by paying close attention to what they offer freely about themselves. I’m too old to start breaking Mama’s rules at this late date.
Since this is a form of writing that I seldom use, I’ll try to get into it by writing about myself. If I were starting a poem about myself, my first rough draft would say:
Ordinary/ not common/the difference being the striving/ the God-awful striving; and it would go on from there.
I would never allow anyone to see or hear those few lines. I have claimed to be a good poet, and the first draft is never good. This time, the words will stay as they are; I’m going to try to tell my story in prose.
To begin, my name is Elaine Johnson. I’m a black woman of eighty-two years. They tell me my dark eyes are still pretty. My hair is cut very short and mostly grey; I’m neither fat nor thin. I’ve always been a tall woman (5’9”) and certainly, I was a tall child. The young man who checks my height and weight when I go to the clinic says that I’ve lost about an inch and a quarter, but I refuse to believe that. I do not care to be diminished.
I guess that last sentence makes it clear that I’m prideful. Well, I was brought up to have a lot of pride. That is not an excuse; it is simply a fact. My parents were middle-class blacks and we lived in a nice house in a nice neighborhood. My father was college educated, which was uncommon in that generation, and my mother was a high school graduate. Also fairly rare for black women at that time. Dad owned a small grocery store in Kokomo, Indiana where we lived. He paid a butcher a good wage, and insisted on paying Mom who was the store’s cashier. Among the other dozens of things he did, Dad also took care of the produce. The only other employee was a young man who sacked the groceries and stocked shelves. Both of my parents took a lot of pride in that store knowing that their meat was of the highest quality, their produce the freshest that any store could obtain, and that their customers would be charged fair prices and treated honestly.
On Sunday and Monday, when the store was closed—Dad always joked, saying, “Gotta give those other stores a chance,” they worked on our house and our yard. All our neighbors recognized that our house and yard was the best-kept in the block.
I was their only child, but I was not spoiled. No sirree! I had regular daily chores to do, and there was never any question about the fact that I was expected to bring home good grades.
Here’s a little aside: Writing prose is a great deal of fun. I couldn’t work “No Sirree” into a poem no matter how hard I would try.
On the majority of evenings, after dinner Mom and I would slip into the kitchen and do the dishes quickly while Dad settled into his easy chair. Mom and I would join him in the living room, side by side on the couch, and the three of us would talk for about thirty minutes. If I was having any problems, we would discuss them first, but otherwise, the conversation was about morals, ethics, and the right way to live. I learned so much from these conversations. Yes, we attended church every week, but any “goodness” that I can claim came mostly from my parents.
These conversations started when I was in elementary school with topics like not hurting other people’s feelings—cheating on tests hurts no one but you—imagine how you’d feel if someone told a lie about you—respecting all grown-ups, including janitors—and miscellaneous related subjects. I was invited to share my opinions, but the underlying themes were always decency and honorable behavior.
In the last few years before I entered high school, Mother told me privately about the physical changes that happen when a girl enters puberty, but the three-way talks resumed when I began my freshman school year. The two topics for the next two years were the importance of winning scholarships and sex. Dad was an important part of the sex conversations as he explained the male viewpoint. After two years, there was no need to repeat all of these things, but each of us knew we could request a meeting if the need arose.
I won an “all-expense-paid” scholarship to a good school, but never used it. It hurt to turn it down, but I did so for a greater happiness because I was going to marry Lester.