I was born in Selma, Alabama, 1953. At least, I grew up in Selma. Every day except Sunday we sat on the stoop; on Sunday we went to church. Church wasn’t nothing too exciting. Mama seemed to like it. I preferred sitting on the stoop with Granny B and old Max Bob. The walk to church was the worst part. Mama carried me on her back in a burlap sack till I was old ‘nuff to walk. Granny B sat in her rolling chair, my sister, Bee, pushed her. Sometimes my Mama’s sister would come along with us. Max Bob never came to church. He just sat on that stoop, looking over the rooftops at the A.M.E. bell towers that rose high above our little black neighborhood. Church, it was boring. The stoop, now it was as lively as a chicken coop come feedin’ time. As far as I was concerned, everything that ever happened in Selma, Alabama happened on my grandmama’s stoop.
Elvira Knights is her name. 63 West Road. Selma, Alabama. 1987. It wasn’t called “West Road” when I lived there. Come to think of it, I don’t think our street even had a name. But things were different now. I wasn’t in the Alabama I had known as a kid. I drove into town in my four-door, white, 1986 Cadillac Coupe de Ville with red leather seats and a fully adjustable fm radio. I took a right at the A &P, drove through what is now called historic Selma. Hopped on Citizen’s Parkway and headed north till the shiny black pavement turned into the gravel and dirt roads that my feet had come to know so well on those long Sunday morning walks to church so long ago. The magnolia leafs crunched under my feet as I stepped out of my Coupe de Ville. The house was different. The shingles on the roof were green. The wood paneled walls were painted white. Bang Bang. The door opened. I stood on one side of the screen, looking in at the house in which I had been raised. Mrs. Knights came to the door.
No comments:
Post a Comment