Jumping Rope in Mayberry
“Miss Mary Mack Mack Mack
All dressed in black black back
With silver buttons buttons buttons
All down her back back back”
Emma Lee and I jumped rope, over and over and over, repeating that silly rhyme. In the 1940s, Emma Lee was my friend from Central School from Kindergarten to fourth grade. I was fascinated with the tiny braids that stuck straight out on her head, while my two pigtails hung limply. I gasped and felt damp and breathless as I jumped, but Emma Lee seemed tireless. Up and down she whipped the rope through the air, her dark-skinned face gleaming, her skinny bare legs moving faster and faster.
“One, two, three, four, go on home and close the door.
Five, six, seven, eight, pick up sticks and lay them straight.”
After my family moved to another school district, Emma Lee became a fading memory. I did not even think about why she was not in my graduating class at the only high school in my the town. As my son often tells me, I grew up in f###### Mayberry — a sweet hometown where I blossomed, enjoyed enduring friendships, lived a comfortable life with loving parents and excelled at school before heading off to college.
A few years ago, feeling nostalgic, I decided to surprise Emma Lee by getting in touch. Surely with social media, I would be able to find her. I did not find Emma, but I did find a relative of hers in our small, midwestern town on Facebook and contacted her. After checking with Emma Lee, she gave me her phone number
I excitedly dialed Emma’s phone number and greeted her warmly, saying, “This is Franny Lieber, and I have great memories of jumping rope and playing Red Rover with you at Central School.”
There was a long silence, and finally Emma said, “I am sorry, but I do not remember you. What made you call me after all these years, Franny?”
I went on and on about how wonderful it was to grow up in our lovely little town in the 1940s and 50s, and how she came to mind when I was relishing my trip down memory lane.
Emma Lee was silent.
I continued to babble about my rose colored memories.
Emma Lee remained silent.
I told her I wondered where she went to high school because I had lost track of her. Still Emma Lee did not speak.
Softly, I said, “Emma, you did not have the same kind of childhood I had, did you?”
“No, Franny,” she replied. “We lived in a shack in ‘The Patch.’ My daddy beat us, and I dropped out of school when I was 14 because I became pregnant. You are correct. I did not have the same kind of childhood you did.”
Dear God! How could I have been so wrapped up in my own memories and so absolutely clueless about her experiences. Did I not understand that being Black often meant living in grinding poverty and relenting discrimination? My heart pounded, knowing what an incredible blunder I had made. I apologized profusely, wanting only to get off the phone so I could have a good cry.
Emma Lee was gracious and kind and assured me that after all the heartache, she had a good life, going back to school and getting a nursing degree. She raised her family, worked hard and was now retired and enjoying her great-grandchildren.
I realize now that Emma Lee was just my playground friend. We played Red Rover, jumped rope and chased each other around the schoolyard. I never invited her over for cookies and milk after school or included her in my birthday celebrations. My parents taught me everyone was equal and all should be treated with dignity, yet I only invited my white schoolmates home or to parties. Nor was I ever invited to Emma’s home.
Why did that not seem strange to me?
Indiana is a basketball-crazy state, and when I was in high school, we had two outstanding Black basketball players on The Red Devils, our high school team. In addition, our star identical twin cheerleaders were Black. They were symbols of our lack of discrimination. Or so I believed. I still did not invite any of these classmates for cookies and milk or parties.
Recently, I read a story about “The Patch,” where Emma Lee spent her childhood, related by one of the Black basketball players who grew up near Emma’s family. He wrote that the shacks in “The Patch” were crammed so closely together that many of them had addresses like 801–1/4. These flimsy houses were surrounded by crusty dirt that turned into muddy goo when it rained. Grass could not survive because the sun did not reach through the chockablock jigsaw of houses.
He continued his story with the experiences he had while traveling with the team to various conference playoffs in southern Indiana, where they often had to sleep on the bus because no one would allow the Black players to stay in the host town hotels. In solidarity, he said the white boys joined them in spending the nights on the bus. When the cheerleading squad stopped in small towns on their way to support the team, they were refused service in restaurants because of the two Black cheerleaders.
As I write this, it still hurts me to think that I was so unaware of the conditions in which my friend Emma Lee lived. I understand why she does not remember me. I continue to feel shame and embarrassment over my thoughtless phone call. I hope she has forgiven me. I doubt I will ever forgive myself.