Cousins
I am working on my annual report this week. So a chapter from Asia Minor. My brother will appreciate this one. Dee says hello.
My brother James worked an internship for a politically well-connected nonprofit while in college. Every now and then as part of his duties he would take some visiting dignitary on a tour of downtown Atlanta. The tour he gave depended somewhat on the race of the visitor. Everyone got to see Coca Cola headquarters and he would tell them tales of the firm’s legendary chairman Robert “The Cigar” Woodruff. How Mr. Woodruff demanded Atlanta’s hotels integrate early because he wanted his Brazilian bottler to have the same amenities as his Chattanooga bottler. How he insisted the downtown business community attend a dinner celebrating Martin Luther King, Jr. helping Atlanta earn the moniker The City too Busy to Hate. This was a feel-good story anyone could enjoy.
Although Margaret Mitchell, affectionately known as Miss Margaret in our house, contributed a portion of her Gone with The Wind winnings to the cause of developing Black doctors, most Black people didn’t want to hear about her. They were upset about those petticoats Hattie McDaniel shuffled and grinned in during a famous, or should I say infamous scene from the movie version. James would dutifully point out the statue of Miss Margaret to white visitors while driving right past her without so much as a whisper to the black ones. And he would brag to white visitors about how Maynard Jackson led the charge to save the Fox Theater, one of Atlanta’s great landmarks.
He would tell them the Fox was in such a state of disrepair there were mumblings about tearing it down. Atlanta’s symbol is The Phoenix, the mythical bird who jumps into a fire every fire hundred years and rises from its ashes. This made the bird immortal. James would crack to his black visitors this made William Tecumseh Sherman Atlanta’s patron saint.
White visitors didn’t get that version of the story. It’s what I guess college professors nowadays call code switching. Back in the day we just called it keeping white folks out our business and considered it a display of uncommon sense. Funny the way how you look at something can make it feel either oppressive or freeing.
Black visitors would get the Leah Thomas perspective on the Fox. She thought Mayor Jackson was out of his mind. She wanted him to burn that camp down, her words not mine. Guess she was still mad about being forced to sit in the colored section while she attended Spelman. James and I didn’t get it until we sat up there once. You might as well of been on the dark side of the moon. The people on the stage looked like ants- Black ants.
There is no bathroom on that level. James, the comedian of the family asked Momma once what did ya’ll do use a chamber pot. That didn’t go over well. She shot him that Black Momma death stare. You know the one. You’re over somebody’s house with her as a child and you cut the fool. She looks right through you. You know to behave without being told. Even as old as he was James calmed down and changed the subject. Daddy chuckled and shook his head saying boy you ought to know better.
Kessler’s and Robley’s, two Atlanta institutions were still in business when James showed an African visitor around. Kessler’s, a department store down on a corner off MLK and Robley’s the go to hat shop for Kangols and other head topping finery. They were always fun stops on what James fondly referred to as the African Diaspora version of the tour.
James was asked to show an African member of the diplomatic community around once. He took his guest by Rich’s downtown. They ate a brownie. Boy those brownies were make you want to slap your momma good. I’m kidding Momma. Leah Thomas hears me she might want to go to work.
This was a special treat only the most special guests got to enjoy. James told me he liked the guy. He was charming and well read. The conversation was exhilarating.
The African told James he seemed reasonably intelligent. James asked him what you mean? The guy cracked back American Blacks are ignorant. James taken aback tried to argue with him. The African didn’t want to hear it. They toured and debated for a while.
They parked the car and walked for a stretch. One of the colorful locals walked up to them and told James’ guest man those are some sharp boots you have on. Where’d you get them from? The guest responded, “Thank you. They are snakeskin. I bought them in Somalia.”
The brother looked at him a puzzled expression on his face. “Somalia, oh yeah I know where that is. Down there by Robley’s.” The African stared at James. See my point written all over his face. After that, every time James tried to argue the guy was wrong in what he was saying about American Blacks the guest would crack back oh yeah down there by Robley’s.” James said by the time they finished he was saying American Blacks are ignorant too. James was kidding. Or I think he was kidding.
It’s funny how you lump people together in these large groups. Africans, Asians, Latinos, whatever: it’s not a good description. Adrienne, you remember you told me once American Blacks and Africans are houses in the same neighborhood not rooms in the same house. That we are cousins not brothers and sisters and since we grew up in different households, we see the world through different cultures. I think about that when we visit Qi and Tien.
Like I told you Dee loves to hang with Auntie Qi. She’s crazy about Uncle Tien too. It gives her a chance to breathe in some China and even a little Vietnam. I thought about James one Saturday we were over there hanging out. Qi told us they were at Temple the Sunday before. A slight giggle eased through her as she told us a Vietnamese woman was leading a fan dance. Dee’s face lit up. She loves Asian fan dances.
Jennifer glanced at me. Qi giggled some more, and her voice went small. “I got up on the stage with several other women. We were doing a dance to celebrate a great Vietnamese victory. The Vietnamese woman stopped the dance and said who let this Chinese woman up here. Get her off.”
Tien sighed. “Qi you should mention she was celebrating a great Vietnamese victory over the Chinese. She’s an old woman. She brought those old ways with her. Don’t be hurt. But you didn’t belong on the stage. Not at that moment.”
“Wow Uncle Tien, she shouldn’t treat Auntie Qi like that. She didn’t do anything to her.”
Tien smiled at Dee. “Abigail, I know you feel Asia in your spirit, but you are in America. The old woman lived a very long time in Vietnam. My people feel great anger towards Chinese. We have fought each other many times. It’s not so bad here. And even in Vietnam you see Vietnamese and Chinese couples. It’s like seeing a black and white couple here. People fall in love, but many people frown upon it.”
Qi cut in. “I don’t feel that way about the Vietnamese. It is why I didn’t think twice about getting on the stage. I didn’t mean to steal her moment. I only wanted to dance with my fan.”
My baby Dee got up came around the table stood behind Qi and wrapped her arms around her. Jennifer pressed her fingertips against her lips as Qi put her hand on Dee’s arm. Then Dee reached over and put her arm around Tien too. He isn’t big on public shows of affection, but he let Dee do her thing. “I’m glad we’re in America so you can love each other all you want.” My baby girl has a way.
On the ride home Jennifer tossed Dee a bouquet. “Dee, I’m proud of you, eh. Auntie Qi’s feelings were hurt. I know it’s hard to tell but they were.”
“Hey mommy you are Chinese. You can read her feelings.”
“Look young un, she is an honorary black person after all this time. You go find somebody else to be Chinese with you,” I cracked.
Dee giggles. “Dad Dee, mommy can be both.”
Jennifer swivels her head from side to side. “You two.”
“Hey mommy, why don’t you paint a picture of Uncle Tien and Auntie Qi. I bet they would both like that.”
Jennifer turned and looked over the backseat at Dee sitting behind me. “Dee, I think that’s a good idea. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of that. Tell you what. You call and ask her.”
Dee whipped out her phone and turned into one of the thumb people. Moments later Qi texted her a reply. “Auntie Qi says yes mommy! I want to watch.”
“You can baby.”
“Mommy, can I ask you something?”
“As long it’s not what my tattoo stands for.”
“Ah mommy!”
“Hey Dee, I’ll give you a hint. When you get yours it will say BABG,” I say.
“Watch yourself. eh!”
“Yes, Mrs. Hon Thomas or should I say Mrs. JHT. Follow me Dee and you’ll figure it out.”
“Dee Daddy is about to get in trouble, eh?”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble Daddy. Mommy can I come to New York for your opening?”
Jennifer turned to me. “You want to tell her, or you want me to do it?” We laugh. It’s an old joke between the two of us. Another one of Short Boy’s ribald fables.
“Ya’ll are mean,” Dee pouts.
Jennifer reaches over the seat for Dee’s hand. Dee reaches out to her. They’re special together. My girls. “You can go. I talked to Grandma Hon. Her and grandpa are coming to visit after we get back. They’re going to spend a month with us.”
“Yaay,” Dee yells swinging her hands side to side above her head palms stretched.
Dee’s excited. She’s going to her first Jennifer Hon exhibit opening at a gallery in New York no less. A chance to see Chinatown. An opportunity to gawk at mommy’s paintings on a gallery wall. Jennifer is going to display a painting named September. Dee loves it and a portrait of America Jennifer calls 1929.
“Thank you, mommy.”
“You’re welcome baby.”
“You sound like Grandma Leah. Hey mommy, you should paint a picture of the three of us. A family portrait.”
“Hey Jen, that does sound like a good idea.”
“You two. Let me think about it.”
“Come on mommy. I’ll take a selfie of us when we get home. You can call it The American Dream.”
“Well Miss Abigail Hadiya Thomas. You talked me into it. But we’ll call it Our Family. Let me figure out an angle. You make that selfie a good one.”