mirror. It used to be my momma’s room, and her old doll cradle and rocking horse were still there in the corner. Grandmother would brush my hair each night and wrap it in curlers and it was at these times that she would tell me about my mother.
“Your momma was so beautiful, and so smart!” she’d say. “She was the smartest one in her classes. She always wanted to be a schoolteacher, you know. She’d take her little dolls and her stuffed animals and she’d line them up and pretend to teach them their letters and numbers. It was just so cute! She would have been a good teacher.”
I wanted to be smart like my momma, and so when Grandmother put me in school, I worked very hard. I went to the local Catholic school, and my little friends would meet me in front of my house and we’d walk there together, all dressed in our starched white blouses, plaid skirts and knee socks. Gladys made a lunch for me every day, and I’d carry my little lunch pail and books in my arms. At school I learned how to read and write English. We weren’t allowed to speak French. There was one other little girl who spoke French like me, and sometimes she’d whisper to me across the aisle. I tried not to answer her, but it was just so good to be able to speak freely the language that I knew best. One day Sister Margaret caught us and gave us three sharp raps across our knuckles. After that, I never spoke it in school again.
My grandmother was proud of me. She called me Amy Lee, which was the name my mother gave me. She told me my father didn’t know how to spell it, and so he wrote “Amelee” on my birth certificate, “but that’s not your real name,” she said, “your real name came from your momma, not your father. Don’t you forget that!” I got the feeling that Grandmother did not like my father much.
Grandmother always took me with her to visit friends, and they all said that I was the prettiest little girl they had ever seen. I took dance classes, ballet and tap. Grandmother said that my momma was a wonderful dancer and showed me her toe shoes that she kept in the closet on the top shelf. I held them in my hands, the pink silk worn in several places, and thought of my mother whirling and twirling across the stage. I didn’t understand why my beautiful, smart, talented mother decided to leave Lafayette and live way out in the country with my father.
“Grandmother,” I asked one night while she was brushing my hair, “how did my momma meet my papa?”
Grandmother stopped brushing my hair for a moment. Her lips pursed as though she had eaten something sour. Then she sighed a great sigh.
“Well, I guess you would ask that eventually. Honey, your grandfather, my late husband, was an oilman. He worked mostly in Jennings at the oil field there, managing the men. He would go for several days at a time, sometimes the whole week, and come home on the weekends. Your momma and I used to visit him from time to time, you know, bring him fresh clothes if he needed them, maybe a basket of cookies and cake.
Your grandfather was so proud of your momma! He used to love to show her off and tell everyone that she was going to go to college and be a schoolteacher. She was the apple of his eye! She loved to visit him.
There were a lot of men who worked for your grandfather. Most of them were poor folk, Cajuns like your daddy who came to Jennings to get some work. Well, one day your momma was visiting your grandfather and your daddy started talking to her. He was older than her and he would flatter her and say sweet things to her, and she, being so young, thought that she was in love.
When your grandfather found out, my goodness he was mad! He told your momma she could never see that boy again, and she wasn’t allowed to go and visit him at the field anymore. It was the harshest that your grandfather had ever been with her.
“Your momma was so beautiful, and so smart!” she’d say. “She was the smartest one in her classes. She always wanted to be a schoolteacher, you know. She’d take her little dolls and her stuffed animals and she’d line them up and pretend to teach them their letters and numbers. It was just so cute! She would have been a good teacher.”
I wanted to be smart like my momma, and so when Grandmother put me in school, I worked very hard. I went to the local Catholic school, and my little friends would meet me in front of my house and we’d walk there together, all dressed in our starched white blouses, plaid skirts and knee socks. Gladys made a lunch for me every day, and I’d carry my little lunch pail and books in my arms. At school I learned how to read and write English. We weren’t allowed to speak French. There was one other little girl who spoke French like me, and sometimes she’d whisper to me across the aisle. I tried not to answer her, but it was just so good to be able to speak freely the language that I knew best. One day Sister Margaret caught us and gave us three sharp raps across our knuckles. After that, I never spoke it in school again.
My grandmother was proud of me. She called me Amy Lee, which was the name my mother gave me. She told me my father didn’t know how to spell it, and so he wrote “Amelee” on my birth certificate, “but that’s not your real name,” she said, “your real name came from your momma, not your father. Don’t you forget that!” I got the feeling that Grandmother did not like my father much.
Grandmother always took me with her to visit friends, and they all said that I was the prettiest little girl they had ever seen. I took dance classes, ballet and tap. Grandmother said that my momma was a wonderful dancer and showed me her toe shoes that she kept in the closet on the top shelf. I held them in my hands, the pink silk worn in several places, and thought of my mother whirling and twirling across the stage. I didn’t understand why my beautiful, smart, talented mother decided to leave Lafayette and live way out in the country with my father.
“Grandmother,” I asked one night while she was brushing my hair, “how did my momma meet my papa?”
Grandmother stopped brushing my hair for a moment. Her lips pursed as though she had eaten something sour. Then she sighed a great sigh.
“Well, I guess you would ask that eventually. Honey, your grandfather, my late husband, was an oilman. He worked mostly in Jennings at the oil field there, managing the men. He would go for several days at a time, sometimes the whole week, and come home on the weekends. Your momma and I used to visit him from time to time, you know, bring him fresh clothes if he needed them, maybe a basket of cookies and cake.
Your grandfather was so proud of your momma! He used to love to show her off and tell everyone that she was going to go to college and be a schoolteacher. She was the apple of his eye! She loved to visit him.
There were a lot of men who worked for your grandfather. Most of them were poor folk, Cajuns like your daddy who came to Jennings to get some work. Well, one day your momma was visiting your grandfather and your daddy started talking to her. He was older than her and he would flatter her and say sweet things to her, and she, being so young, thought that she was in love.
When your grandfather found out, my goodness he was mad! He told your momma she could never see that boy again, and she wasn’t allowed to go and visit him at the field anymore. It was the harshest that your grandfather had ever been with her.
Similar Books
