My Black Hair
“Well! It looks like everyone here has black . . .”
In an instant, Peggy Hanna froze. Was her four-year-old daughter about to commit a racial faux pax in front of our Black friends?”
“ . . . HAIR like me!”
Mom let out a sigh of relief as Fanny’s children burst out laughing in amusement. They were gathered on the couch to greet her, Terry ( my oldest brother) and I who were arriving with Christmas presents. Mrs. Givens, we knew her as Fannie, was my Mom’s assistant with child care and housekeeping. In her soft-spoken gentle voice, she would comfort me when Mom left the house after lunch. Her work added to the Minister’s income of her husband.
With Fannie’s help, Mom could manage 4 children, including baby Phillip with Down Syndrome and still help Dad in the grocery store during the afternoons. Make no mistake. Unlike the popular film, The Help, Fannie worked WITH Mom, washing windows, changing sheets, etc., not FOR her as in other homes where we might find a Black sister down on her knees, scrubbing some floor while the lady of the house stood over her. No, Mom was never better than any other. She needed help and was grateful for it.
Later in life, after hearing my reports of cross-burnings in Louisville, she recalled a story I had never heard. I see how we may not always have words for some stories until later. The first day on the job, after Mom and Fannie had washed all the windows, they took a break for lunch. Sandwiches on plates, Mom lead the way.
She placed her plate on the table and pulled up a chair. “We’ll eat at the dining room table today.”
Fannie, setting her plate on the counter, stayed back in the kitchen.
“Fannie, come on and sit down.”
“Oh no, Miss Hanna, I’m fine.”
“(Pulling out the other chair) No Fannie, come right here . . .” (Plenty good room!!??)
“I’m just fine, Miss Hanna. You go on.”
“No, Fannie, you’ve got to come in.”
“Really, Miss Hanna, I’m good right here.”
Pushing herself away from the table and standing up, Mom was locked down, “Fannie, I won’t eat then. I can’t eat unless you come and join me.”
Who does this? I never asked Mom if she knew whether it was illegal for a Black woman in 1955 to eat with a White woman, even in New Mexico. But Fannie knew for sure and Mom couldn’t bare the thought, especially in her own home. Even if Fannie knew, I don’t believe Mom thought of herself as remarkable. Only with my reports of cross-burnings did she place herself in a larger context. And so, Fannie came to the dining room table from then on. Both women crossed the color line that day out of trust, love, respect and the reciprocal gifts they gave each other.
At that moment, the two mothers became soul sisters.
Even before this, Mom broke the color line. In 1948, it was illegal to marry a half-Japanese man. Denied a marriage license in Jackson, WY, they prevailed in Ogden, UT with the help of a clerk who looked the other way. Across America, the land of the free often required a hard look for a home of the brave. Nevertheless, while we were blessed to have Fanny, Dad’s store was gaining ground and everyone kept their heads above water. It was a shock when Fanny suddenly died after only a couple of years with us. Left behind were her husband and ten children, but the bond between these mothers continued.
A few years later, Fannie’s daughter, Patsy, reached out. She wanted to go into nursing. Could my Mom cosign on her school loan? The loan happened and Patsy graduated with her nursing degree from UNM. During the first year of payments, the Bank contacted Mom about a late payment. She called Patsy to offer a lesson in the role of the co-signer. After that, Patsy was never late again.
Looking back, I remember Mom telling the story to highlight how trustworthy Patsy was. Although she was talking to me, I could sense her pride in Patsy, as though she was defending Patsy to the world. Her underlying message was, “See? When you give someone a chance and think the best of them, they succeed.” (Fannie, we know you were listening! Maybe Mom was also asking, “Fanny, did I do right by you?”)
And what about the little four-year-old with black! hair? She had already accounted for her family’s hair. Besides Irish, English and Swedish, she had the darkest hair, just like Dad! Now, she was in good company with Fannie’s family. For her, it was hair that captured her imagination. She felt connected. I remember taking presents, walking through the front door and everyone laughing at me as though I was the star of the show. In the end, I didn’t remember my punchline, but Mom wouldn’t let me forget and loved to tell the story. Knowing her, she was probably a bit proud that I didn’t care about skin color. It was her way of bragging on her children.
Even at four-years-old, children are reviewing how they belong and how they fit into their environment. I’ve often wondered about my affinity for people of color. There were very few Japanese near us at the time, but as I got older, is this why I had a crush on a shoshone basketball player and went to the senior prom with a Dine’ (Navajo) boy? Was this Peggy Hanna’s influence, guiding me to have the same attachment to people of color that she had as a red-headed Irish Mormon woman? For the 26 years she was in Albuquerque, she embraced every type of person and culture that made our city such a beautiful tapestry. Consequently, Fannie, I’ll never forget you. R.I.P.
