Southern Roots

In April of 1968, Dr. King was killed in Memphis.  I was finishing 10th grade at Central High in Memphis, and Jack was preparing for highschool graduation. Both of our parents graduated from Central and at least one grandparent had.  So, I guess you could say we had legacy - deep South, white, the 60's..  I remember the great bands and great parties of highschool. Desegregation of the schools had started when I was in elementary; I've blocked the images of police guarding and escorting little black kids into my school.  The iconic pictures were from Mississippi and Arkansas, but it happened at Rozelle Elementary, my elementary, in Memphis too.. I've been searching and reading the stories recently, trying to make sense out of it all.

When I was little, we ate at home every meal except for Sunday after church. We'd frequently go to Bill and Jim's but usually we'd just go to the drive-thru at Jack Pirtle's Fried Chicken, where we'd order a tub of their finest. I remember waiting in line in the back seat watching the other line of cars. Those cars were older and more dilapidated than ours and black families sat in them, dressed in their Sunday best, waiting for their food.  I remember looking into the eyes of the little black girls my age in their frilly Sunday school dresses just like mine sitting in the back seat of their parents' cars. I read the "Colored" sign above their take-out window and wondered what kind of fried chicken colored people might eat - assuming the food had to be different since there was a different line and a different window.

I appreciate the naivete of childhood, yet, it's too easy to let it all go and not dig into the deep pervasive racism of our history.  Memphis' ugly history didn't start with King's assassination..

As a pre-schooler, I remember going to Overton Park in the summertime with my family. Though I yearned to swim in the big pool with Susan and Jack, my older siblings, I was tethered to the wading pool with Mom and little Jerry.  Mom promised me that NEXT summer, I'd be old enough to swim in the big pool. But, I never got to swim in the big pool at Overton Park, because the Memphis public pools were drained and closed to circumvent the enforcement of desegregation of public facilities.  Our family ended up joining a private club so that we could still swim during the hot summers.

Those incredible highschool parties and bands were courtesy of the highschool sororities and fraternities which sponsored all the dances.  Now I know that Memphis public schools stopped holding dances, sock hops, and even proms after there was forced integration. So private highschool sororities and fraternities sprang up and hosted some stellar parties. I even got tear-gassed at one in 1968. Evidently the police were called by the facility because there were black and white kids partying together, and the police broke it up with tear gas.

What perplexes me now is that, even though I lived through it, I didn't get it. 

Fair Warning

"Shoe-throw-Mommy's-face" was Jackson's first 4 word sentence.  He was standing to my right as I loaded the dishwasher.  I heard the words, turned to face him, and WHAM, got clobbered in the face by his hurled shoe.

Foo-Foo

Imagine being 2 years old, in possession of enormous curiosity, and managing the chaos of 20th century East Dallas and the joy of la vida Grothe.  That's exactly where Elena found herself in the summer of 1981.

She was born to be an investigative journalist, Randy said;  she did ask ALOT of questions.  Prior to this time, I held considerable pride in my ability to communicate with children;  this was something I had education and expertise in.  But when Elena hyper-focused on an issue beyond her range, Randy was far more adept than I at heading her off and bringing her back to the here-and-now of being 2. The combination of her natural proclivity toward investigation and my misguided belief that all children's questions deserved to be answered in a manner they could understand inevitably led us into dicey territory.  Randy would frequently return from work to find us mired in a never-ending Q & A dealing with impossible topics that puzzled great minds - other great minds.

The other essential detail to appreciate in this story is that Elena, at age 2, had an urgent physiological need for an afternoon nap, a full-blown, 2-hour afternoon nap.  Our days were planned accordingly.

Rather, most of our days were planned accordingly...

During August of '81, I had weekly appointments with Dr. Leib over at St. Paul Hospital to manage this pregnancy situation I was also dealing with.  So one hot afternoon, I buckled Elena into her car seat for the trek to St. Paul.  By the time we hit Fitzhugh she was sucking away on her thumb and drifting into slumber.  Clearly, there would be hell to pay if I allowed her to fall asleep now in the car and not be able to complete her nap, so I launched into the daunting task of keeping her awake with an arsenal of oral diversions.

'Little Bunny Foo-Foo Hoppin' Through the Forest...', we sang.

'The People on the Bus Go Up and Down...', we sang.

'Wise Men Say, Only Fools Rush In, But I can't help falling in love with you..', we sang.

'Memory - All Alone in the Moonlight...', we sang.

I'd become desperate and we were just turning onto Harry Hines; Elena was fading fast. So, in that crucial and desperate moment, I said, "Look, Elena, on your left is Parkland Memorial Hospital where they took President Kennedy when he was shot!"

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I was slammed with panic and remorse. Out popped her thumb.."Why'd they shoot President Kennedy?" she asked. (Why'd dey shoot Pwesident Dennedy?) I was beating myself up for general and pervasive maternal ineptitude and feared I was ruining her life.  Asking myself  WWRD  (what would Randy do?),  I replied... "No, no - I meant that's the summer home of Santa's elves."

"Who shot Pwesident Dennedy?" she persisted. Now she was fully awake and had morphed into her investigative mode and there was no turning back. "Lee Harvey Oswald" I muttered before launching into 'Little Bunny Foo-Foo' for the umpteenth time.

By the time we got into St. Paul, she was asking about motives and theories.  I was faced, in this awkward and public situation, with all my failures as a mother.  I knew that Randy would know how to deflect and redirect her, but it would be more than a decade before cell phones.  I was reduced to asking her to keep her voice to a whisper as we sat in the waiting room.  I told her that there were books written about all this and that we could read them later, when she was a little older.  I tried to redirect her to 'Green Eggs and Ham'. As a young mother, you'll never face a more vigilant and judgmental crowd than those surrounding you in your obstetrician's waiting room.

Her questions continued all afternoon and evening up until her bedtime. Then, in the wee hours of the next morning, Randy and I were awakened when our precious 2 year old stood by our bedside asking,

"Mommy, what did the Wawwen Weport say?"