Why I feel part black on the inside
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I feel like I’m part black on the inside. That sounds crazy coming from a 56-year-old white man, but an unusually lucky turn of events on a recent trip to Washington, DC reminded me yet again why I’ve long felt this way.
In the 1970s when I was between the ages of about eight and 18 our family in Atlanta employed an African American housekeeper named Shirley Louise Walker. During those tumultuous years of my life (I was a gay child growing up in the Bible Belt in the 1970s), Shirley was my best friend and my rock. You may think that it was a maternal thing, like something out of The Help but it wasn’t. Shirley was like my sassy, protective, fun and kinda dirty older sister.
She had a very full life of her own with six sons (she had her first at age 14) and a grandmother who thankfully looked after them while Shirley worked as a maid (as we said in those days). At one time she had a husband, but he was out of the picture. She was an attractive woman with many friends and a busy social life. I know that because I would listen intently to her salacious phone conversations while ironing in the den when my mother was out of earshot.
Shirley worked at our house three days a week — Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays — and would occasionally spend the night with us when my parents went out of town. Since the outside world was not a very fun or friendly place for me, I’d spend hours with Shirley, laughing and talking while she smoked her Kool Filter King cigarettes, ironed and drank iced tea. We’d talk about school, her boys, our friends.
We’d cuss and discuss sex, food (ask me about “Shirley Fried Chicken!”), Al Green, Marvin, Aretha, Gladys, WAOK radio, Coretta Scott King, what was in the National Enquirer magazine, riding the bus, her wig, the other maids on our street, or Shirley Chisholm’s run for president. We’d spend a few dollars each week to play the “numbers game,” which was an illegal lottery popular on the black south side of Atlanta — we each won $46 dollars once because we played a number that I dreamt about. She knew that was a sign!
When she stayed weekends, one of the highlights was watching Soul Train together when it came on television Saturday afternoons. I’d try to match the moves of some of the show’s famous line dancers, and Shirley’d look at me and say, “You got soul baby, I can tell. You black on the inside,” then she’d clap her hands and break into a few funky moves of her own.
Around this time in the 1970s, racial labeling was making the shift from negro to black, causing consternation on both sides of the issue. I still laugh to myself remembering one of our conversations about that. Shirley said, “I don’t know why I’m supposed to be calling myself black. I ain’t black, I’m ebony. And you ain’t white. You pink!”
Although we never talked much about what was going on in my head as I entered adolescence, Shirley had an inkling. She was the first person ever to ask if I was gay — one day when I was 14, out of the blue in the middle of one of our chats, she asked, “Chris, is you a sissy?” I’ll never forget those words. I was dumbstruck. I did not know what to say, and was horrified that someone — anyone — might somehow know what was going on in my head, even if it was Shirley. I did not talk to her for about a month after that.
She knew she’d hit a nerve, but in her quiet way, she did not say anything to anyone or to me. She wouldn’t press the issue. But I could tell she was upset by the way she’d give me long, sad looks knowing she’d been frozen out. Eventually, I could not resist getting back on the fun ship with her, so as the shock of that question wore off, we resumed our good times and fell back into our routines like watching Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman on TV at 11 pm — she from her house, me from ours, then calling each other to review and laugh again at all the funny parts. I still have Shirley’s telephone number memorized by heart. (I think of all the numbers I’ve forgotten over the years, but that one sticks.)
In 1974 when I was away at summer sailing camp in North Carolina, being bullied and bashed by older boys, whom did I call on rainy days when camp counselors would take us into Morehead City for a movie? Shirley! Although I never told her what was going on, she knew I was distressed and we’d talk and talk as I shoved quarters into the pay phone — I never even saw or cared much about the movies.
By the time I turned 15, my mom started allowing me (with my learner’s permit) to drive Shirley to the nearby MARTA bus stop at the end of the day. On the days that she worked, I could hardly wait to get home from school for a chance to take her to the bus all by myself in Mom’s big Chevrolet Caprice station wagon. Once we got in the car, she’d reach into her enormous pocketbook and extract two pieces of Doublemint gum — one for her and another for me. Then she’d pull out a full-size bottle of Jergens lotion, squeeze a dab out, and then slowly rub it in all over her hands and arms up to her elbows. (“Shirley has the most beautiful skin of any woman I know,” my mother used to say.) She’d also pull out her 15-cent bus fare and the latest issue of Jet magazine to read on the way home. To this day, the smell of Jergens and Doublemint, Niagara starch and sweat reminds me of Shirley — I can smell it as I type this.
Our friendship was super strong but also kind of a secret. I did not talk much about it to my family, and they did not talk to me much about it, but everyone knew that Chris and Shirley were two peas in a pod. (If my parents only knew some of the things we talked about, they would have separated us long before!)
Time went on, and I grew up, turning into a pimply-faced, awkward teenager, band geek and closet case, but Shirley was always there as my friend and protector. I knew I could always count on her especially when I was living in fear that somehow, someway, someone would figure out what was going on in my head. Shirley would understand in a quiet way — she knew and I knew what was going on but we never talked about it. That was the way most Southerners dealt with homosexuality at that time. Some still do.
In April 1978, I took a four-day band trip by bus to Walt Disney World in Orlando. When I returned home my mother broke some horrible news to me: Shirley had died suddenly over the weekend. Boom. I was a mess. The clothes she’d washed and folded were still in my drawers. I owed her a phone call. It was like losing a mother, sibling and best friend at the same time. She was only 33 years old. On the inside the tears were pouring and my heart pounding for weeks, but I could not let anyone know that the death of our housekeeper could possibly hurt so much. Who would understand that?
At high school I always liked going to Miss Jenkins’ math class. That’s because she was not only a good teacher, but because she was black and reminded me of Shirley. A few days after Shirley’s funeral, I recall having a panic attack in class and asking Miss Jenkins’ permission to leave and go to the school clinic (“My stomach hurts,” I said, when it was really my heart that was broken). Over the next few months I kept my emotions on the inside and did not talk about it. I cried only in my bed at night or in the car when I drove to or from my summer job as a cook at Six Flags Over Georgia.
It took a year or so for me to shake that loss and I continued on with my life, going to high school proms, applying to colleges, going through fraternity rush in Athens, and then expanding my horizons beyond Georgia by transferring to the University of Colorado. But I never forgot Shirley, and her spirit never left my side. She ended up being my guardian angel, and I’m sure is the force that protected me from too much pain during the coming out years of my early twenties. She kept me out of harm’s way when I was backpacking or working on oilrigs and ski resorts in the Rockies where I sometimes reached out and heard from her in private séances. She kept AIDS at bay when I blossomed into a handsome young gay man with jobs in New York City, Puerto Rico and Australia, and watched the horrific deaths of many friends. She was always there. And to this day, nearly 40 years later, she’s right here beside me, making sure I’m safe and happy. And so far, she’s done a great job of it! Whenever anything mysteriously good comes my way (like Barkley, my partner and spouse of 12 years, or getting this essay published), I feel like Shirley’s up there pulling strings and making it happen.
So there’s something about having Shirley with me, inside my soul, which always makes me feel part black. Ask anyone who knows me well, and they’ll tell you about the easy way I’m able to connect with African American women. I’m not sure if that’s a Shirley thing, or a gay thing, since many of my gay male and black female friends seem to have similar bonds.
So it came as no surprise that at the end of a recent business trip to Washington, DC I was drawn to see the brand new National Museum of African American History & Culture. I knew I’d never get in because the waiting list for tickets was eight or nine months long. But on a warm sunny November day I walked there from my hotel anyway just to see what it looked like and saw the crowds around the building. I thought I’d at least try to see the gift shop. So I walked up to the fellow scanning tickets and said, “Excuse me, sir, but is it possible for me to get in and just see the gift shop?” He said, “No sir, you have to have a ticket.” And I said, “Well, okay, just thought I’d try. I’ll just have to come back next time I’m in town.” He paused, looked me up and down and said with a conspiratorial smile, “Hold on… you need a ticket for that, so here,” and reached into his coat pocket and produced one! “Here now, take this and go get in that line and come back through this gate,” he said. I did just that, he scanned my ticket, winked at me and told me to enjoy myself, and I said, “Well sir, you have just made my day- maybe even my whole trip! Thanks!”
So in I proudly walked, one of about 50 white folks among the thousands of African Americans there to witness a defining moment in their fight for equality — the opening of a spectacular museum on Washington’s National Mall that beautifully engages and tells the story of the struggles and highlights of black history in America. I could hear Shirley squealing with delight as we walked by booths and exhibitions and images about afro picks and pomade, Chuck Berry’s shiny red Cadillac Eldorado, mock prison cells, Al Green and Marvin Gaye music, videos about having light or dark skin, iron skillet cooking, freedom marches, and black entrepreneurs. Shirley was there! She got me in the door.
I helped a 60 or 70-year-old woman visiting alone who was attempting to take a selfie in front of Berry’s spectacular car, and we had a moment smiling and talking about how we both wanted to be driving around DC on a sunny day with that ragtop down. She had a big purse. And a mouthful of Doublemint gum with that unforgettable smell. I realized that if Shirley were still alive, she’d be about her age.
And I just swelled up with warm memories, internal tears and black pride and walked through the rest of that museum with my head held high knowing that Chris and Shirley were doing this together. It was her magic that got me in that door that day, and will keep me happy, safe and feeling like I’m part black on the inside for the rest of my life.
Chris McGinnis is a travel writer and consultant living in San Francisco with his spouse and a succession of black Labrador retrievers named Shirley, Louise and Walker. Email him here
© 2017 Christopher J. McGinnis
