Storymania - From Backbay Chronicles-Mama And The Po-Lice by Pauline A White

From Backbay Chronicles-Mama And The Po-Lice
Pauline A White

“ MAMMA AND THE PO-LICE “
BY PAULINE ANNETTE WHITE

Great Uncle John was getting on in age by the time I was eight or nine years old. He was my Grams’ oldest, and only, living brother. They were very close, having married a sister and brother themselves. My Grandpa had died when I was only five, and Uncle John was my idea of how a grandfather should look. I remembered him as this extremely tall man, lean and with big hands. He had the gentlest smile I’ve ever seen.
I think that Grams knew that her brother was dying that winter. Two weeks before Christmas, she suggested that the family go South for the holidays. This was something new in our house. We, or rather I, spent every summer in Virginia with the rest of the family coming down in the first week of August for Revival Week and vacation time. Then, together, we would all come back to Brooklyn just before school began its fall session again.
The idea of a winter vacation in the south suited me fine. My cousins always wrote to me about their sleigh and sled rides. They skated on ponds, and all that other cool stuff that you only saw in the movie ‘White Christmas’. Although my mother played Nat ‘King’ Cole’s song every year as a tradition, I had never, ever tasted a chestnut in my life. Of course, we did have Rockefeller Center and Central Park here in the north, but somehow it wasn’t the same. I was excited, ready to leave by December 20th.
My parents must have had some time that year. They had to buy gifts for all the cousins; not counting my things. I had given them my list in October, so that they would have plenty of time for everything on it. Now, they had to keep it all away from my very prying eyes some way, until we reached Virginia. They did it. I could not find anything of any significance in that house. Grams seemed preoccupied while we were getting ready for the trip. She appeared frenzied; as if she was in a hurry all the time. I think, now, that she wanted to get there before my Uncle John died without her being present at his bedside.
We had a Pontiac that year. My mother loved those cars. She bought a new one every few years, always a Pontiac. This time our car was a two-toned green one with the largest trunk ever. Good thing it was huge, because all of the stuff we carried with us filled it to the brim. Presents and suitcases were jammed into it, situated at all angles. As usual, the car was taken to the garage mechanic, cleaned and checked out, then declared fit for the road trip.
On Christmas Eve morning, we set off for the Jersey Turnpike and Route 13 to Virginia. I took a nap early on, because I didn’t want to be asleep later when we arrived at the Chesapeake Ferry. That ride across the Bay was the highlight of the trip for me. I never could get over the fact that the ferry carried all of those buses, cars and trailers for one hour and forty-five minutes. Gory, as only a child can be, I half wanted us to sink so that my Daddy could rescue everyone and Mamma could bring them all back to life with her nursing skills.
As always, I was entrusted with the road map, though I never had been called upon to read any of it. Mamma knew the way by heart. Daddy sat up front with her, in case she became tired of driving; although she never, ever did.
We all were dresses warmly, in good winter wear. Mamma had on her mink coat and Grams wore her fox fur. My father, always dapper and elegant, had a Chesterfield coat over his three-piece suit. I, the little black princess, was wearing my new rabbit fur jacket with a muff and hat to match. We looked every bit the part of an upper-middle class black family on holiday.
All along the turnpike, there were patches of ice that gave Mamma some concern. She drove very slowly most of the time. Large tractor trailers sped past us, shaking us side to side, as they went. We bought soft drinks from a Howard Johnson half way to the Delaware state line.
Delaware was a funny place. My mother always seemed to get nervous when we reached there. Glances of concern would pass between her and my father from time to time. Grams paid more attention to me, asking questions and pointing out sights of interest to keep me occupied.
There were signs and giant posters all along the turnpike. Coca-Cola and Camels cigarettes were the most repetitive. One of my friend’s brothers told us once that the police on motorcycles always waited for unsuspecting drivers back behind those signs. They would race out, just to give the motorist a speeding ticket.
I was thirsty again, and I asked Mamma could we stop again to get drinks. She said that she didn’t want to stop because we were behind schedule. I couldn’t have anything else to drink until we reached Virginia. I caught the ‘look’ passed between her and Daddy that time.
There were beginning to be little signs of the approaching South, now. I had seen small, hand-made posters awhile back stating road side inns for WHITES ONLY and COLORED HERE. Even on our ferry ride, the bathrooms were designated to coloreds and whites. None of it made any sense to me because if we drowned, the water would certainly take everybody down. I didn’t believe that God would have a section of Heaven for WHITES ONLY and COLORED HERE. Mamma frowned at the signs, and seemed to clench the steering wheel tighter whenever we passed one. I saw Daddy shake his head many times that day. Grams, as always, was just her usual self, having lived in the South for years before coming to stay with her eldest daughter in New York. I guess, to her, it had been a way of life for so long that it didn’t matter any more. I, the little genius, began to count the posters until Mamma told me to stop it. Her voice was a little harsh, unusual for her. She was always so soft-spoken when dealing with me. I sat back, leaning against my grandmother’s shoulder, miffed and chastised, but puzzled at my mother’s attitude. I must have dozed off, because we stopped suddenly later on and it woke me up.
We were in front of a huge sign poster. A white lady and a white man were smiling at each other over cans of Coca-Cola. They looked as if that soda was the best thing they had ever tasted. Then, to my right, I saw them. Two uniformed policeman; both white. One of them was old; with white hair and a very red face. I remember wondering where he had been to get so tanned because it had been cold and cloudy for days, according to Gram the Weatherwoman. The other officer was smaller, younger and had an expression of surprise on his face. The big one asked Mamma to roll down her window all the way, then wanted to see her license. While he looked at it, the young one walked to the back of our car and seemed to study the plate numbers. He took out a pad and pencil, wrote something down, then returned to his partner’s side. The big one whispered into the others’ ear, and they turned away from us, backing off. My father said a curse, real low, and my mother said something like ‘Oh, Lord’. Grams just sat there, staring ahead, with her arm around me.
When the older cop came back to the car, he asked my mother for some more identification. She did the wrong thing, then. At the time, I didn’t know any better. But, now, on reflection, I see that that was the catalyst that began our troubles. Mamma was a nurse, in a big hospital in Queens. She headed an entire floor there. She made much more money than either of those two policemen, even back then. Daddy owned and operated his own Dry cleaning service. We were certainly not rich people by any standards, black or white, but we were not begging, either. A shiny, new car, fur coats and a trunk full of expensive gifts must have really been offensive to these two southern officers. Added to the fact that they were tired, cold and angry for getting Christmas Eve duty anyway, they were ready for a fight. We were a personal affront to their white race sitting there, all cozy and RICH (to their way of thinking, anyway ).
The cards that my mother produced were credit cards for stores in Manhattan and downtown Brooklyn. Also, she gave them her employee’s card-and a membership card for the NAACP. Well, one look at the South’s worst enemy’s membership card, and the mess hit the fan.
My mother was a pioneer. She had always been involved with things concerning her people. I’ve always wondered what her role would have been, had she lived long enough to participate in the demonstrations for Civil Rights in the ‘60’s. I, myself, as a teenager, did as much as I could do as my part. It would have been something, side by side with her, marching and singing for freedom. I do believe that her spirit was with me in those southern jails and on those dusty roads as I traveled with one group or other to the various sites that changed the world.
Mamma had a sense of humor; irony and sarcasm mixed together. She gave those two ‘good old boys’ that card on purpose, I think. At any rate, their response was truly southern and definitely white.
They asked my mother and father to step out of the car, first. As they both stood against the doors in front, the older officer took Mamma’s key ring out of her hand and opened the trunk again. One of them emitted a slight gasp when they viewed all of the beautifully wrapped packages inside. It was a virtual treasure trove. They had Daddy take out the gifts and suitcases, one at a time, placing them on the ground by the car. My father did this, but his face was so hard and his left eye was twitching. The cops searched everything; slowly going through the boxes and suitcases while my parents stood by watching them. Daddy’s garment bags were opened, and his suits and ties touched and fondled by the two policemen, lovingly. The thinner one kept shaking his head, as if in wonder, at each new thing. Cashmeres, the finest wools, silks and satins just made those two men angrier and angrier. They kept looking under the clothes, for price tags. In their bigoted minds, the only way a bunch of coloreds could have anything near this finery was if they had stolen it. Grams sat with me and smirked once in awhile. My mother finally tired of this game and asked if they were being charged with any crime. Fatso said that she had been speeding. A lie of the highest magnitude. When she began to protest, Daddy touched her arm, giving a small shake to his head at the same time. Her shoulders slumped, but the fire remained in her eyes. The younger one began to write up the ticket, as the older man stared at my parents for a minute. Then he seemed to think of something else, pulling the thin cop by the arm a few feet away from my mother and father. A feverish whispering began. My parents glanced at each other. I sat up, leaning to the left to see better. My Grams grabbed my shoulder blade tightly.
The two policemen came back to the car. The heavy one mentioned a judge in town. He started in on a spiel about having to work on the biggest night of the year, and now needing to wake up the local judge for this mess. The judge would be upset, and probably throw everyone in jail until after the holidays were over. Where would my grandmother and I stay until then? There were no accommodations in this town for coloreds. We all seemed to be a nice family of ‘Nigras’, and he didn’t see the necessity of spoiling all of our holidays. Maybe, just maybe, something could be worked out between them all. Any suggestions? Of course, my parents knew exactly what could be ‘worked out’ alright. Mamma was staring at the two as if they were aliens from Mars. Daddy was trying hard to hold himself in check. Gram still smirked and I was just dumbfounded at the entire situation.
The funny thing was, when the fat one mentioned ‘working something out’ the thin one gave him a surprised look. I think that he was too new to the force to be corrupted yet. This smacked of bribery and graft to him. Now, when the other cop turned his back for a second, this one gave my mother a sidelong look, then turned his head slowly around, looking over his shoulder. Mamma didn’t catch his look, but my Daddy did. He, too looked in that direction, and there was the white dividing line which separated Delaware from Virginia!! We were only about eight yards away from it. Mamma was frowning, a sure sign of her intense thinking. Daddy’s head was bobbing up and down at the thin officer like one of those dolls people put up on their dashboards. Mamma still hadn’t seen what was going on between Daddy and the cop. She was so mad right then, she wasn’t trying to see any old skinny white boy making eye movements. Daddy was trying to get her attention before the other one turned around again. He must have been counting up his share in his mind, ‘cause he was taking a long time with his back turned on us all. He did have a little piece of paper and a pencil nub in his hands, figuring furiously, I guess.
Finally, Daddy just up and jabbed my mother in the ribs; hard. She almost let out a yelp of pain, but for some odd reason, she didn’t. What she did do was turn to my father with the wrath of a woman in those dark eyes. Daddy didn’t care; he had her attention finally. He quietly slipped his set of car keys out of his pocket and gave them to Mamma. Pointing at the white line down the road, he made a motion for her to get in the car and start it up. The skinny officer was nodding his head at her, too. Mamma was never a fool; she slid into the front seat as quick as lightning, cranked up the car and shot forward, passing the other cop as he figured furiously on his paper. Now, when he turned around, my mother was shooting right past his dazzled eyes. She had the most glorious smile on her face. My beautiful, black Mamma. That man actually tried to grab the front of the car, which only made Mamma put more pedal to the metal. ZOOOOOOOM!!! Grams and I both fell backwards, and finally my grandmother showed some emotion. She let out a whoop!! that made me jerk upright from the sound of it. I broke out in a laugh, joined by my mother and my Grams. To be such a big, out of shape white man, that old policeman could move his butt. He leaped forward, almost getting hit by the side front fender in the process, , but my mother swerved ahead and to the right. She kept on going, until she was well over the white line down the middle of the road. There was a large Welcome to Virginia sign sitting there, stuck on a stick in the dirt by the side of the roadway. Having had the presence of mind to put all of our presents and luggage back into the car while the old officer was busy calculating our money for us, my Daddy ran up on the passenger side of the car, jumping in and slamming the door-hard. We were off, then, waving ‘good-bye’ to the thin little cop, as he waved back to us. His partner, having run out of breath early, was the last thing that I saw as we turned the corner up ahead of us. He was bent almost in two, with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
We tried to take the whole adventure seriously. We didn’t know if that old cop was going to call out reinforcements, or not. Now, in Virginia, we heeded the speed limits almost to the point of crawling along the road. After about ten miles into Norfolk proper my mother broke the silence by starting to sing a hymn. We all joined in; and before long we were laughing and singing all the way up to Uncle John’s front door.
That policeman didn’t bother to call anyone on us. He would have had too much to explain, if he had. His poor partner was going to hear it from him though. I silently whispered, “ Merry Christmas, Mister Po-liceman” before my cousins came running out of the front door. I wondered what the other cop was going to get for Christmas. I hoped it was a lump of coal. Black coal.

THE END