A Reason To Smile

To my Dear Bess:

Smile!

That’s what you always told me—smile!  No matter what happened, good or bad, we always need to smile.  I remember one hot summer day, we were in the back yard shucking corn—well; you were doing most of the shucking.  Mother had gone to visit a new baby in town and you told me that people had it all mixed up.  “We should be rejoicing when someone dies,” you said; “because all of their troubles are finally over.  But a baby is born into a world of pain, heartache and problems—that’s when we should weep.”

I didn’t know what you were talking about, Bess.  Not then, anyway.  There were a lot of things I didn’t realize back then. I never thought about the fact that you were black and I was white.  Even though we said you were like a member of our family, I know now that wasn’t true.  You didn’t sit down to eat with us like a family member would.  It never crossed my mind that it wouldn’t have been “proper.”  Even though my parents would never tolerate any racist remarks or jokes, you were still “the help.” 

You never graduated from high school because you left school to work for my grandmother. You couldn’t walk down Main Street.  You couldn’t eat in the same restaurants, drink out of the same water fountain or even ride in the same seats on the bus as white people. I’m sure I would have been welcomed at your church, but there was a man who carried a gun to our church to make sure you knew you were not welcomed there. I remember the well-worn path behind your house that led to the outhouse.  We had two indoor bathrooms at our house before you even had one.

But in spite of all of your troubles, you still loved me and cared for me like I was your own.  And in many ways, I was.  I loved you and looked up to you.  You had a way of putting everything in the right perspective.  You taught me so much about life, about forgiveness, and about faith. I remember coming down to visit you at your little house.  There were three pictures hanging on the wall:  Jesus, John F. Kennedy, and Martin Luther King, Jr.  I didn’t understand why you had those three pictures, but I do now.  Three men who believed in equality.  Three men who gave you hope.   

I remember watching Dr. King speak from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.  I was nine years old and I was watching it with you.  My small heart soared with his eloquent words of justice and equality.  I wanted his dream to become my dream.  I wanted to live in a world where people were judged by the content of their character rather than the color of their skin.  I remember you watching, but not saying much.  Seems like you knew more trouble was to come.

Five years later, I remember very well.  It was April 9, 1968 and we were watching Dr. King’s funeral service.  It was the first time I ever saw you cry and I thought about those three pictures, those three men—symbols of hope—all three dead.  You were wiping your tears with your apron.  There were still dishes to be washed. 

I called you right before you died and remember what you told me?  You told me to smile, because you were going to that glorious place where there would be no trouble, no more killings, and no more pain. I tried to smile, but it was hard to because of the tears.

I’m writing to let you know that, while I know you always smile in heaven, we have a reason to smile here.  Last month our City Council voted to name a major street, Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard.  I’ve been an advocate for the name change, just as I was for the adoption of the MLK holiday in our county a number of years back.  And not just because it was the right thing to do.  It’s because of you Bess.  Because I can still see you wiping away your tears with your apron as they buried Martin Luther King.  I want you to know that Dr. King’s legacy did not die that day—and it never will. I have tried to live my life working for his dream.  When I take a stand for equality and justice that some may not like, I think of you.  And I think I see you smiling. And there are no more dishes to do.