windy along the river, and cold. She knew by the time she got back to the house her nose and cheeks would be red and numb. Mama would be in the kitchen making lunch or nursing the baby. She closed her eyes. Hope had been born beautiful, with Daddy’s broad forehead and Mama’s delicate hands. Over the months, as her eyes opened and changed, she became even prettier, and often Staggerlee would come downstairs in the morning to find Mama or Daddy snapping picture after picture. Some evenings she sat on the stairs, half hidden by the banister, and watched them coo over the baby. She wasn’t jealous—just curious. Had they been like this with her? Would Hope remember it? Would Hope become a good girl the way she had?
Her father had married a white woman. That’s how Sweet Gum people talked about it, talked about her mother. Not to their faces, but it got back to them. The whole family did well at hiding the sting of townspeople’s words. It was not what they whispered that stung. But how they whispered. Yes, Mama was white and that made all of them—Charlie Horse and Dotti and Battle, Hope and Staggerlee—part white. The only mixed-race family in Sweet Gum, maybe in all of Calmuth County. No, it wasn’t what people said, for that part was true. But Mama was more than “white.” She was Mama, quiet and easygoing. She kept to herself. When she smiled, her whole face brightened, and tiny dimples showed at the edge of her lips. Why was white the word that hung on people’s lips? At school, when the kids talked about her mama, they whispered the word or said, “Your mama’s white !” and it sounded loud and ugly, like something was wrong with Mama. And if something was wrong with Mama, then that meant that something was wrong with all of them.
Some evenings they would sit out on the porch laughing and carrying on and her father would say, “Staggerlee, why don’t you play us a little song?” Those nights, Staggerlee took her harmonica out of her pocket, ran her tongue over her lips, and started playing. If Dotti was home and in a decent mood, she’d sing. She had a pretty voice. Those evenings, they were not black or white or interracial. They were just a family on a porch, laughing and making music. Those nights, Staggerlee wished they could always be that.
And when people asked her what it felt like to be both black and white, she didn’t have an answer for them. Most times, she just shrugged and looked away or kicked her hiking boot against the ground and mumbled something like “fine.” Her family had never talked about it, the way they hadn’t talked about a lot of things.
Lately, she’d been thinking about God, watching old film footage of her grandparents, listening to the hymns they used to sing. They had been in show business, her father’s parents. Grandma could sing a blue streak, and her grandfather was right beside her, dancing, his candy-striped cane flying, tap shoes moving so fast they blurred. Some nights, sitting in the dark, watching old film clips of them performing on The Ed Sullivan Show , she would imagine them alive, about to finish up a show and come home.
And last Sunday morning, for the first time in her life, Staggerlee rose at dawn, put on a gray-and-blue dress, pulled the thick blue sweater Mama had knitted over her head, and walked the six miles to Sweet Gum Baptist Church. Some people smiled when they saw her, trying to hide their surprise. A few old women came up to her, asking if she was Elijah Canan’s girl. Staggerlee nodded, waved hellos, and took a seat close to the door. She was looking for God, not townspeople. Looking for answers, not questions.
Sweet Gum Baptist is a beautiful church—white walls and high, polished oak pews. On the stage, behind the preacher, there is a stained-glass window. And from the stained glass, a brown-gold Jesus looks out at the congregation. Staggerlee stared up at the glass without blinking. He looks like me , she caught herself
Her father had married a white woman. That’s how Sweet Gum people talked about it, talked about her mother. Not to their faces, but it got back to them. The whole family did well at hiding the sting of townspeople’s words. It was not what they whispered that stung. But how they whispered. Yes, Mama was white and that made all of them—Charlie Horse and Dotti and Battle, Hope and Staggerlee—part white. The only mixed-race family in Sweet Gum, maybe in all of Calmuth County. No, it wasn’t what people said, for that part was true. But Mama was more than “white.” She was Mama, quiet and easygoing. She kept to herself. When she smiled, her whole face brightened, and tiny dimples showed at the edge of her lips. Why was white the word that hung on people’s lips? At school, when the kids talked about her mama, they whispered the word or said, “Your mama’s white !” and it sounded loud and ugly, like something was wrong with Mama. And if something was wrong with Mama, then that meant that something was wrong with all of them.
Some evenings they would sit out on the porch laughing and carrying on and her father would say, “Staggerlee, why don’t you play us a little song?” Those nights, Staggerlee took her harmonica out of her pocket, ran her tongue over her lips, and started playing. If Dotti was home and in a decent mood, she’d sing. She had a pretty voice. Those evenings, they were not black or white or interracial. They were just a family on a porch, laughing and making music. Those nights, Staggerlee wished they could always be that.
And when people asked her what it felt like to be both black and white, she didn’t have an answer for them. Most times, she just shrugged and looked away or kicked her hiking boot against the ground and mumbled something like “fine.” Her family had never talked about it, the way they hadn’t talked about a lot of things.
Lately, she’d been thinking about God, watching old film footage of her grandparents, listening to the hymns they used to sing. They had been in show business, her father’s parents. Grandma could sing a blue streak, and her grandfather was right beside her, dancing, his candy-striped cane flying, tap shoes moving so fast they blurred. Some nights, sitting in the dark, watching old film clips of them performing on The Ed Sullivan Show , she would imagine them alive, about to finish up a show and come home.
And last Sunday morning, for the first time in her life, Staggerlee rose at dawn, put on a gray-and-blue dress, pulled the thick blue sweater Mama had knitted over her head, and walked the six miles to Sweet Gum Baptist Church. Some people smiled when they saw her, trying to hide their surprise. A few old women came up to her, asking if she was Elijah Canan’s girl. Staggerlee nodded, waved hellos, and took a seat close to the door. She was looking for God, not townspeople. Looking for answers, not questions.
Sweet Gum Baptist is a beautiful church—white walls and high, polished oak pews. On the stage, behind the preacher, there is a stained-glass window. And from the stained glass, a brown-gold Jesus looks out at the congregation. Staggerlee stared up at the glass without blinking. He looks like me , she caught herself
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