The Color of Water by James McBride Page B

eldest sibling was the king or queen and you could not defy him or her, because you were a slave. When the eldest left for college, the next ascended to the throne. The king/queen system gave us a sense of order, rank, and self. It gave the older ones the sense that they were in charge, when in actuality it was Mommy who ruled the world. It also harked back to her own traditional Orthodox upbringing where the home was run by one dominating figure with strict rules and regulations. Despite the orchestrated chaos of our home, we always ate meals ata certain time, always did homework at a certain time, and always went to bed at a certain time. Mommy also aligned herself with any relative or friend who had any interest in any of her children and would send us off to stay with whatever relative promised to straighten us out, and many did. The extended black family was Mommy’s hole card, and she played it as often as the times demanded because her family was not available to her. As I grew older, it occurred to me at some point that we had some relatives we had never seen. “How come we don’t have any aunts and uncles on your side?” I asked her one day.
    â€œI had a brother who died and my sister…I don’t know where she is,” she said.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWe got separated.”
    â€œHow’s that?”
    â€œI’m removed from my family.”
    â€œRemoved?”
    â€œRemoved. Dead.”
    â€œWho’s dead?’
    â€œI’m dead. They’re dead too by now probably. What’s the difference? They didn’t want me to marry on the black side.”
    â€œBut if you’re black already, how can they be mad at you?”
    Boom
. I had her. But she ignored it. “Don’t ask me any more questions.”
    My stepfather, a potential source of information about her background, was not helpful. “Oh, your mama, you mind her,” he grunted when I asked him. He loved her. He seemed to have no problem with her being white, which I found odd, since she was clearly so different from him. Whereas he was largely easygoing and open-minded about most worldly matters, she was suspicious, strict, and inaccessible. Whenever she stepped out of the house with us, she went into a sort of mental zone where her attention span went no farther than the five kids trailing her and the tightly balled fist in which she held her small bit of money, which she always counted to the last penny. She had absolutely no interest in a world that seemed incredibly agitated by our presence. The stares and remarks, the glances and cackles that we heard as we walked about the world went right over her head, but not over mine. By age ten, I was coming into my own feelings about myself and my own impending manhood, and going out with Mommy, which had been a privilege and an honor at age five, had become a dreaded event. I had reached a point where I was ashamed of her and didn’t want the world to see my white mother. When I went out with my friends, I’d avoid telling her where we were playing because I didn’t want her coming to the park to fetch me. I grew secretive, cautious, passive, angry, and fearful, alwaysafraid that the baddest cat on the block would call her a “honky,” in which case I’d have to respond and get my ass kicked. “Come and let’s walk to the store,” she said one afternoon.
    â€œI can go by myself,” I said. The intent was to hide my white mom and go it alone.
    â€œOkay,” she said. She didn’t seem bothered by my newfound independence. Relieved, I set off to a neighborhood grocery store. The store owner was a gruff white man who, like many of the whites in St. Albans, was on his way out as we blacks began to move in. He did not seem to like black children and he certainly took no particular liking to or interest in me. When I got home, Mommy placed the quart of milk he sold me on the table, opened it up, and the