Back in the Day, They Didn't Seek Closure
Our elders simply moved on when met with racism and tragedy. That's why it's so tough, yet so important, to get them to open up now about the past.
The main message from The Grace of Silence, the new memoir from Michele Norris of NPR, is that all of us can be black historians -- and that we need to hop to it with all deliberate speed. The takeaway points in the book are memorable in themselves -- but even more interesting in where they point us.
First, the facts. Norris' grandmother spent years during the late '40s and early '50s doing an advertising gig for Quaker Oats as a traveling Aunt Jemima ("Happifyin' Aunt Jemima pancakes sho' sets folks singin'!"). Unlike the ads, her grandmother made sure to speak proper English, and as Norris notes, "Grandma Ione seems to be throwing off more attitude in the picture than is expected from Aunt Jemima." It's true, and in fact, the set-jawed facial expression shown in a newspaper clip is exactly the one that Gretha Boston used in her portrayal of the Mammy character Queenie in the revival of Show Boat in 1995. But Grandma Ione was already there in the late '40s.
Then, around the same time, Norris' father was shot by a policeman in Birmingham, Ala., who didn't feel like letting him take an elevator to a party. But what strikes Norris is that neither Grandma Ione nor her father had any interest in talking about these things. It was the past; life was what you made of it -- namely, life was now.
This is not uncommon among black people who experienced life under Jim Crow, and it can puzzle us moderns. What to them are personal memories are, to us, one step removed as black history. We want to know where we came from, and for many of us, the abuse and the tragedy are a key part of that. Plus, the educated American operates under a common understanding that we are to "deal with" unpleasantness in our past rather than "repress" it, and then seek something called closure.
This kind of thinking is so deeply imprinted on our psyches that it seems more common sense than a paradigm. Yet it would have seemed alien to many of our grandparents -- whatever their color. As Malcolm Gladwell pointed out not too long ago, not all soldiers who witness hideous things amid battle come out with post-traumatic stress syndrome, and many have done quite well under an assumption that the best coping strategy is simply to move on.
This approach, that of the Man in the Gray Flannel Suit to his wartime service, is one that quite a few black people who lived through the Bad Old Days have adopted. "Girl, stop pestering me about details," a cousin of Norris' father complained when she asked about the shooting. "Stuff like that used to happen, but we never really dwelled on it. We moved on, and so should you."
Moved on. That is, they didn't let their lives be defined by abuse from others. It sounds so sensible, and yet it can throw us today when we see it face to face. Remember how perplexed so many were when Strom Thurmond's black love child seemed so, well, serene about the whole business?
I think of my grandfather, who could easily have passed for white. He was the product of a relationship between a white shopkeeper and a black assistant, but it was quite clear whenever conversation neared the topic that no one of his generation had any interest in dwelling on it. The idea that Grandpa was supposed to shout the story to the heavens to provide America a lesson about its roots in racism would have sounded to him like science fiction.