Southern as a Second Language by Lisa Patton

Author:Lisa Patton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Chapter Fourteen

“Can we go to church with you this morning?” I asked as Kissie stood at the stove frying bacon and stirring a large pot of Cream of Wheat. Most Sundays—well, some Sundays—the girls and I tried to make it to our own Episcopal church; the one my family attended for generations and the place where we were all christened. But it was way down past the University of Memphis. Funny, in all the years I’d heard her talk about her church or the Mother Board, or “Pastor,” I’d never gone with her. The reason came down to one rather sorrowful fact: It just wasn’t done. The thought had occurred to me, on numerous occasions, that more whites and blacks should attend church together and that that might bridge some of the racial divide in Memphis. I decided right then and there to do my part.

Kissie moved her long wooden spoon through the milky mixture before answering. Without a trace of surprise or doubt, she simply turned around and said, “You better hurry, then. Church gone start at ten o’clock. I’mo fix you and the little girls some breakfast while you git everybody ready.”

“You have enough Cream of Wheat there to feed the whole neighborhood.”

“That’s right. And you could use most of it, too. You ain’t any bigger than a stalk a’ wheat.” In Kissie’s mind, thin is not “in.”

At that moment Issie ran into the kitchen, naked as a jaybird, her little head a big mess of strawberry curls. “Where are my Snow White panties?” she demanded with hands on her hips. “I want to wear them today.”

“Oooh-wee, chil’,” Kissie said, “you better git on back to your room. You not suppose to be runnin’ around here buck neckid in the winter. You’ll catch your death.”

“They’re in the dirty clothes, lovey,” I said. “You can wear them tomorrow.”

Issie stomped her foot and crossed her arms in front of her. “Nooo, I want to wear them today.”

Kissie tapped her spoon on the side of the pot and waved it toward Issie like she was going to spank her. “I mean it. Get on back there, you hear?” Issie squealed and giggled while Kissie stepped forward with the spoon, sweeping it toward her. When she tore off running back down the hall, Kissie shook her head and smiled. “That’s a sweet baby, right there,” she said, and then went straight back to stirring her pot.

I hugged her from behind and kissed her cheek, still greasy from the Vaseline she wore to bed every night. As far as Kissie was concerned, Vaseline was the best and only product ever invented. She used it as a facial moisturizer, and a balm for the soles of her feet, her elbows, her cuticles, and even her eyelashes—swearing hers were longer and fuller because of it. I remember her showing me how to avoid diaper rash by slathering Vaseline on my baby’s bottoms every time I changed their diapers. That alone made a believer out of me.

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