face her because that cake had lured me in again. “Rule Number Three: when you’re cooking white people’s food, you taste it with a different spoon. You put that spoon to your mouth, think nobody’s looking, put it back in the pot, might as well throw it out.
“Rule Number Four: You use the same cup, same fork, same plate every day. Keep it in a separate cupboard and tell that white woman that’s the one you’ll use from here on out.
“Rule Number Five: you eat in the kitchen.
“Rule Number Six: you don’t hit on her children. White people like to do their own spanking.”
“Rule Number Seven: this is the last one, Minny. Are you listening to me? No sass-mouthing.”
“Mama, I know how—”
“Oh, I hear you when you think I can’t, muttering about having to clean the stovepipe, about the last little piece of chicken left for poor Minny. You sass a white woman in the morning, you’ll be sassing out on the street in the afternoon.”
I saw the way my mama acted when Miss Woodra brought her home, all Yes Ma’aming, No Ma’aming, I sure do thank you Ma’aming. Why I got to be like that? I know how to stand up to people.
“Now come here and give your mama a hug on your birthday—Lord, you are heavy as a house, Minny.”
“I ain’t eaten all day, when can I have my cake?”
“Don’t say ain’t, you speak properly now. I didn’t raise you to talk like a mule.”
First day at my White Lady’s house, I ate my ham sandwich in the kitchen, put my plate up in my spot in the cupboard. When that little brat stole my pocketbook and hid it in the oven, I didn’t whoop her on the behind.
But when the White Lady said: “Now I want you to be sure and handwash all the clothes first, then put them in the electric machine to finish up.”
I said: “Why I got to handwash when the power washer gone do the job? That’s the biggest waste a time I ever heard of.”
That White Lady smiled at me, and five minutes later, I was out on the street.
WORKING FOR Miss CELIA, I’ll get to see my kids off to Spann Elementary in the morning and still get home in the evening with time to myself. I haven’t had a nap since Kindra was born in 1957, but with these hours—eight to three—I could have one every day if that was my idea of a fine time. Since no bus goes all the way out to Miss Celia’s, I have to take Leroy’s car.
“You ain’t taking my car every day, woman, what if I get the day shift and need to—”
“She paying me seventy dollars cash every Friday, Leroy.”
“Maybe I take Sugar’s bike.”
On Tuesday, the day after the interview, I park the car down the street from Miss Celia’s house, around a curve so you can’t see it. I walk fast on the empty road and up the drive. No other cars come by.
“I’m here, Miss Celia.” I stick my head in her bedroom that first morning and there she is, propped up on the covers with her makeup perfect and her tight Friday-night clothes on even though it’s Tuesday, reading the trash in the Hollywood Digest like it’s the Holy B.
“Good morning, Minny! It’s real good to see you,” she says, and I bristle, hearing a white lady being so friendly.
I look around the bedroom, sizing up the job. It’s big, with cream-colored carpet, a yellow king canopy bed, two fat yellow chairs. And it’s neat, with no clothes on the floor. The spread’s made up underneath her. The blanket on the chair’s folded nice. But I watch, I look. I can feel it. Something’s wrong.
“When can we get to our first cooking lesson?” she asks. “Can we start today?”
“I reckon in a few days, after you go to the store and pick up what we need.”
She thinks about this a second, says, “Maybe you ought to go, Minny, since you know what to buy and all.”
I look at her. Most white women like to do their own shopping. “Alright, I go in the morning, then.”
I spot a small pink shag rug she’s put on top of the carpet next to the bathroom door. Kind
“Rule Number Four: You use the same cup, same fork, same plate every day. Keep it in a separate cupboard and tell that white woman that’s the one you’ll use from here on out.
“Rule Number Five: you eat in the kitchen.
“Rule Number Six: you don’t hit on her children. White people like to do their own spanking.”
“Rule Number Seven: this is the last one, Minny. Are you listening to me? No sass-mouthing.”
“Mama, I know how—”
“Oh, I hear you when you think I can’t, muttering about having to clean the stovepipe, about the last little piece of chicken left for poor Minny. You sass a white woman in the morning, you’ll be sassing out on the street in the afternoon.”
I saw the way my mama acted when Miss Woodra brought her home, all Yes Ma’aming, No Ma’aming, I sure do thank you Ma’aming. Why I got to be like that? I know how to stand up to people.
“Now come here and give your mama a hug on your birthday—Lord, you are heavy as a house, Minny.”
“I ain’t eaten all day, when can I have my cake?”
“Don’t say ain’t, you speak properly now. I didn’t raise you to talk like a mule.”
First day at my White Lady’s house, I ate my ham sandwich in the kitchen, put my plate up in my spot in the cupboard. When that little brat stole my pocketbook and hid it in the oven, I didn’t whoop her on the behind.
But when the White Lady said: “Now I want you to be sure and handwash all the clothes first, then put them in the electric machine to finish up.”
I said: “Why I got to handwash when the power washer gone do the job? That’s the biggest waste a time I ever heard of.”
That White Lady smiled at me, and five minutes later, I was out on the street.
WORKING FOR Miss CELIA, I’ll get to see my kids off to Spann Elementary in the morning and still get home in the evening with time to myself. I haven’t had a nap since Kindra was born in 1957, but with these hours—eight to three—I could have one every day if that was my idea of a fine time. Since no bus goes all the way out to Miss Celia’s, I have to take Leroy’s car.
“You ain’t taking my car every day, woman, what if I get the day shift and need to—”
“She paying me seventy dollars cash every Friday, Leroy.”
“Maybe I take Sugar’s bike.”
On Tuesday, the day after the interview, I park the car down the street from Miss Celia’s house, around a curve so you can’t see it. I walk fast on the empty road and up the drive. No other cars come by.
“I’m here, Miss Celia.” I stick my head in her bedroom that first morning and there she is, propped up on the covers with her makeup perfect and her tight Friday-night clothes on even though it’s Tuesday, reading the trash in the Hollywood Digest like it’s the Holy B.
“Good morning, Minny! It’s real good to see you,” she says, and I bristle, hearing a white lady being so friendly.
I look around the bedroom, sizing up the job. It’s big, with cream-colored carpet, a yellow king canopy bed, two fat yellow chairs. And it’s neat, with no clothes on the floor. The spread’s made up underneath her. The blanket on the chair’s folded nice. But I watch, I look. I can feel it. Something’s wrong.
“When can we get to our first cooking lesson?” she asks. “Can we start today?”
“I reckon in a few days, after you go to the store and pick up what we need.”
She thinks about this a second, says, “Maybe you ought to go, Minny, since you know what to buy and all.”
I look at her. Most white women like to do their own shopping. “Alright, I go in the morning, then.”
I spot a small pink shag rug she’s put on top of the carpet next to the bathroom door. Kind
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