We all must abide by the rules, but some of us must follow more than others. Robby can be a deliveryman but not a clerk. Mrs. English would never have promoted me to milliner, justas Mr. Payne will never promote Old Gin to head groom. Like Sweet Potato and her twisted leg, we have been born with a defect—the defect of not being white. Only, unlike in Sweet Potato’s case, there is no correcting it. There is only correcting the vision of those who view it as a defect, though not even a war and Reconstruction have been able to do that.
Miss Sweetie has gone sour.
I stretch my legs, which I can no longer feel. Too much sitting and thinking creates stagnation in the brain, and stagnation leads to despair. I hop on the balls of my feet and make my breathing effortless.
Then I grab my pen.
THE CUSTOM-ARY
Not to be confused with its more common cousin, the yellow-plumed canary, the custom-ary is a species whose characteristics vary from bird to bird. Some knock about in their cages without reason or purpose (such as the custom of knocking wood to ward off bad luck), while others exhibit more sensible patterns of behavior (such as the custom of driving on the right side of the road). A good number of customs cling stubbornly to their withered branches, though they should’ve been set free of their cages long ago (such as the custom of wearing crinoline slips).
Finally, there are those that are more cuckoo than customary. For example, the custom of women ridingsidesaddle when, from an anatomy standpoint, that honor should go to men. Or the custom of not hiring coloreds for clerks and agents when we trust them to manage our households, even to tuck our children into bed. It is time to release these customs into the wild blue yonder before they push the others out of the nest, as cuckoos are known to do.
Readers, what customs would you set free?
Respectfully,
Miss Sweetie
There. Sometimes a point is best made by approaching it from a different angle, like how Merritt and I slung the jumping fish from the river rather than catching them head-on. But will theFocusprint something so... provocative? Definitely not with Mr. Bell at the helm. But Nathan is different from his father. He had pushed his father to print the editorial criticizing streetcar segregation. He’s not the kind of man who stands out in a room, but he is the kind who stands up for his beliefs.
My ears perk up at a mention of Miss Sweetie by Mrs. Bell.
“The bicycle article was perfect. Made me wish I were younger. I would like to meet this woman.”
I suck in my breath and silently implore Nathan to divest his mother of this notion.
“I don’t think that’s wise,” he says after a considerable pause. “She made it clear she wishes to be anonymous, and if we press her, she might quit, and she’s already working for free.”
“I suppose you’re right. How old did you say she was?”
“I couldn’t tell, Mother. Her face was covered.”
“Well, what did her voice sound like?”
“Like a regular voice.”
I shall need to thrash my voice up a bit, maybe even smoke a few cigarettes like Mrs. English does, chased by some meat pies and plenty of beer.
“Not again, Nathan. You’re a reporter. Give me a better description than that.”
I press my ear closer and will my heartbeat to pipe down.
“To be honest, it sounded like she was nursing a cold, phlegmy.”
“Phlegmy?”
“Yes. Now, that’s a word that doesn’t care what anyone thinks. All those letters trying to prop up the ‘leg’ in the middle.”
“Nathan.”
“Without the cold, I imagine her voice would be clear and forthright like a good ginger ale—the kind of voice that gives good advice.”
“So she’s bossy.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“Why do you think she wants to be anonymous? Maybe she has a controlling husband.”
