“Nothing does. I’ve tried everything. They think they’re too good for this work. That’s why I call them sorry. They don’t see the value of an honest living.”
“Why do you call them bitches?”
She let the question sit there for a minute. “To see if you’re paying attention,” she said finally. “And to see whether or not you’d agree with me.”
“I always pay attention,” I said, “and I never call women bitches. I don’t care how sorry they are.”
She just looked at me and I looked right back. I wasn’t working for her yet so I had nothing to lose.
“Good,” she said. “I don’t either. I hate that word.”
She got up slowly and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window that let her gaze out at her employees going about their assignments. She turned back to me. “Can I tell you a story?”
“Certainly,” I said, wondering how many more tests I’d have to pass before she fed me.
“Most people,” Ezola said slowly, “have heard the story of how I once got fired for organizing maids.”
I nodded.
“What they haven’t heard is
why
I started doing it.”
All the stories focused on shorter hours, higher pay, more humane treatment. Classic labor-movement goals. Seemed pretty clear to me.
“I don’t mean the obvious reasons.” In spite of her earlier statement about not having time to read my mind, Ezola was doing a pretty good job of it. “I mean why would I, a poor, colored woman working as a Buckhead maid, suddenly think about doing something like that? What made me do it?”
The history of black female activism is littered with tired feet, sore backs, one too many demands from the mistress or master of the house, one too many off days canceled at the last minute, one too many boxes of old clothes instead of a raise in pay.
“It was a book,” she said, and her tone was almost reverent. “One book that changed everything for me. And do you know what book that was?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine.
“It was
Native Son
by Richard Wright.”
My surprise was total. Wright’s tragic novel from 1940 chronicles the fate of Bigger Thomas, a hapless black kid born into the most wretched poverty who accidentally smothers the drunken daughter of his wealthy white employers and then, in a panic, burns her body in the furnace. His arrest and conviction become a cause cél'ebre, galvanizing or polarizing the book’s white characters, depending on their political persuasions.
“I don’t understand,” I said, honestly confused by what she had found in the grim pages of the novel that sparked her own activism.
“You’ve read the book?”
I nodded. “In college.”
“You remember it?”
“Pretty well.”
“Well enough to answer a question for me?”
Ezola needed to change her name to SAT.
“I’ll do my best,” I said. “It’s been a while.”
“It’s an easy question,” she said. “Why did Bigger kill that woman?”
If you remember the book at all, you remember that. “He was afraid of being discovered in a white girl’s bedroom,” I said, trying to remember the character’s name.
“Mary,” said Ezola, still effortlessly reading my mind.
“Yes, Mary. She was drunk and he had carried her upstairs. . . .”
The scene came back to me, piece by piece. Mary’s drunken staggering. Bigger’s rising panic.
“He was afraid of being discovered.”
“But why did you assume I was talking about Mary?”
Slowly, another scene swirled out of my memory, but dimly. Not nearly as clear as Mary’s death scene. There was a woman in this one, too, but who was she? What was her name?
“There was another woman,” I said, wishing I could call up more details, but try as I might, she remained a mystery.
“Bessie,” Ezola said softly. “That other woman’s name was Bessie, and she was a colored woman, just like us, who helped Bigger out of the goodness of her heart and got bashed in the head for her trouble.”
Now I remembered. After he killed
“Why do you call them bitches?”
She let the question sit there for a minute. “To see if you’re paying attention,” she said finally. “And to see whether or not you’d agree with me.”
“I always pay attention,” I said, “and I never call women bitches. I don’t care how sorry they are.”
She just looked at me and I looked right back. I wasn’t working for her yet so I had nothing to lose.
“Good,” she said. “I don’t either. I hate that word.”
She got up slowly and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window that let her gaze out at her employees going about their assignments. She turned back to me. “Can I tell you a story?”
“Certainly,” I said, wondering how many more tests I’d have to pass before she fed me.
“Most people,” Ezola said slowly, “have heard the story of how I once got fired for organizing maids.”
I nodded.
“What they haven’t heard is
why
I started doing it.”
All the stories focused on shorter hours, higher pay, more humane treatment. Classic labor-movement goals. Seemed pretty clear to me.
“I don’t mean the obvious reasons.” In spite of her earlier statement about not having time to read my mind, Ezola was doing a pretty good job of it. “I mean why would I, a poor, colored woman working as a Buckhead maid, suddenly think about doing something like that? What made me do it?”
The history of black female activism is littered with tired feet, sore backs, one too many demands from the mistress or master of the house, one too many off days canceled at the last minute, one too many boxes of old clothes instead of a raise in pay.
“It was a book,” she said, and her tone was almost reverent. “One book that changed everything for me. And do you know what book that was?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine.
“It was
Native Son
by Richard Wright.”
My surprise was total. Wright’s tragic novel from 1940 chronicles the fate of Bigger Thomas, a hapless black kid born into the most wretched poverty who accidentally smothers the drunken daughter of his wealthy white employers and then, in a panic, burns her body in the furnace. His arrest and conviction become a cause cél'ebre, galvanizing or polarizing the book’s white characters, depending on their political persuasions.
“I don’t understand,” I said, honestly confused by what she had found in the grim pages of the novel that sparked her own activism.
“You’ve read the book?”
I nodded. “In college.”
“You remember it?”
“Pretty well.”
“Well enough to answer a question for me?”
Ezola needed to change her name to SAT.
“I’ll do my best,” I said. “It’s been a while.”
“It’s an easy question,” she said. “Why did Bigger kill that woman?”
If you remember the book at all, you remember that. “He was afraid of being discovered in a white girl’s bedroom,” I said, trying to remember the character’s name.
“Mary,” said Ezola, still effortlessly reading my mind.
“Yes, Mary. She was drunk and he had carried her upstairs. . . .”
The scene came back to me, piece by piece. Mary’s drunken staggering. Bigger’s rising panic.
“He was afraid of being discovered.”
“But why did you assume I was talking about Mary?”
Slowly, another scene swirled out of my memory, but dimly. Not nearly as clear as Mary’s death scene. There was a woman in this one, too, but who was she? What was her name?
“There was another woman,” I said, wishing I could call up more details, but try as I might, she remained a mystery.
“Bessie,” Ezola said softly. “That other woman’s name was Bessie, and she was a colored woman, just like us, who helped Bigger out of the goodness of her heart and got bashed in the head for her trouble.”
Now I remembered. After he killed
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