Catfish Alley Read Free Page B

They are so particular these days. Sometimes
it seems like saying "colored people" like my parents did was easier.
My parents may have been poor, but they were careful to teach me never to say
"nigger." I'm proud of that. Although people do still use that word
around here; even the black people use it. That, I really don't understand.
    "It
doesn't much matter to me whether you call me black or African-American,"
Grace says. "I would rather you just call me Grace. And it does sound like
you could use some help. Tell me, Mrs. Reeves ..." She leans forward and
looks over her glasses at me. "Why are you doing this? What reason do you
have for adding the history of black people to your tour of all those fine old
homes?"
    I
did not expect Grace's question and assumed she would be pleased to have her
people represented. Louisa Humboldt should be out here doing this blasted
interview!
    "Since
I'm the director of the tour," I say, "the committee thought I should
be the one to talk to you so that when we take the idea to the city planning
people for a vote, I am able to answer all of their questions."
    "I
see. And what do you think about this idea?"
    What
difference does that make? Here I was thinking I would be the one asking the
questions. Just when I was cooling off, I'm starting to perspire again. I hear
a big thump outside and wonder if big black Walter comes in the house. I was so
sure Grace would be happy to help. I thought maybe she would suggest one of
their black churches, or maybe that nice house over on Third Street. I heard it
was owned by a black doctor at one point. We could add an extra half hour to
the end of the home tour for the handful of people who wanted to see a couple
of places that represented black people from the area who made something of
themselves. That would make everyone happy. I like that idea. I also like the
idea of restoring Riverview.
    "I
thought this might be a good thing for the community. This way your people
won't feel left out." That didn't sound right. Somehow, it seems like
everything I say is coming out wrong.
    Grace
doesn't speak for quite a while. I sip my coffee and eat another cookie — they
are so good — and try not to talk. I always talk too much when other people are
quiet.
    Finally,
she says, "I'll help you, but I have a condition or two."
    Oh,
no! What conditions is this old black woman going to insist upon? What have I
gotten myself into?
    "What
conditions, Miss Clark?"
    "I
want you to be my driver and my scribe."
    "I'm
sorry, Miss Clark. I don't understand."
    "I
want you to drive me around to the places that I think should be on this
African-American tour and I want you to write down the stories I tell
you."
    "Well,
I can certainly drive you. I think I have an afternoon free next week." I
reach for my planner. Although I don't relish the thought of driving her
around, I would rather do that than be trapped in her car with Walter at the
wheel. "But I'm no writer. We have a retired English teacher on the
committee. Wouldn't it be better if you had her help you with the
stories?"
    "No.
Those are my conditions. You find one morning a week and we'll go out and look
at some places. I get around better in the morning before I get too tired, and
I'm fond of my afternoon nap these days. Then, during the week, you can write
down the stories. You're going to need some stories that people can read so
they understand the history, aren't you?"
    "Well,
yes, that's true ... but, really, I'm not a writer...."
    "That's
all right. You'll do just fine."
    She
has such kind eyes.
    I
don't see how I could possibly have time for this, with all of my committee
meetings and church responsibilities. On the other hand, how hard can it be? A
couple of landmark signs and a paragraph or two about the history. Besides, I
can get someone to edit it. And if I leave without agreeing to do this, how
would that look?
    "All
right. I can do that. When would you like to get started?"
    "How
about next Tuesday morning?