I'm from the South. Texas, specifically. We have a set of social expectations there. They're called manners. How many times in my childhood did I hear a Cowboy utter, "Y'all need to learn some Texas manners." This was a phrase that often left me thinking that I should find a scene of gentleman, sitting in quiet repose at a long table, festooned delicately with blue denim, white lace, prairie sage, and little cups of tea, that the men would drink from with pinkie extended. But, that never happened. I guess teaching someone Texas Manners involved grabbing another man by the face and slamming it into a wall while rhythmically yelling, 'I told y'all not to swear in front of the ladies.' Apparently getting someones sweat, blood, saliva and sometimes teeth all over the ladies was acceptable.
Where I come from men are clear on how to treat ladies. They hold the door for ladies. They let ladies go first in line. They take their hats off when they speak to ladies and when they were inside of a building. Once I saw a man smack the cowboy hat right off his son's head while the boy was speaking to my mother. And a good gentleman would never tolerate any injustice in the world. The expectations are clear for men.
They're also quite clear for ladies. We, too are taught to defend the oppressed and abused. To stand for the ones who can not speak, or dare not. We are well-dressed. We never leave home without our complexions clean and our make-up done. We dress well and our hair is coiffed. We speak quietly and gently, and only when appropriate. A Lady knows when to speak and when not. We write thank you notes...always. We smile when greeting someone. We walk with confidence and we never, under any circumstance, cry in front of a man.
I remember a teacher told me in first grade, 'Simply being born a woman, does not make one a lady.' That was back when I thought my name was 'child-behave.'
Rene' Carson knew how to behave. She was so perfect...her beautiful blond hair styled and bowed. Her fingernails were so beautiful and long. Rene read quietly and genteelly under the small elm tree on the playground. She and her friends were so well-behaved. I, on the other hand, played Matchbox cars with the boys under the cottonwood on the other side of the playground. I never had pretty fingernails. Or perfect hair. I never really quite got the subtleties of being a lady. And I was never genteel. Or quiet. But, I knew injustice when I saw it.
I grew up in a barrio. A Mexican ghetto. My sister and I were the only white girls in a brown neighborhood. It was pivotal in many ways. I would never have known the weak spots of a pinata if not for the education that I gained in The Barrio. The Barrio was a place of grand inequality and mistreatment. My sister defended the rights and liberties of many a Mexican in the sandbox in Glenwood Park.
My mother used to take us up the the Heights. That was the black ghetto on the north side of Amarillo. A place that once again, our skin defined us and the injustice was rife. But, she wanted us to see everyone and experience all things. She wanted us to know that there is pain in the world and that we must never be the inflicter of any pain.
Her friend was a preacher in a Gospel church in The Heights. Oh, how we loved to attend and listen to him preach the Spirit! As faithful little Mormon girls, it was a departure from the normal quiet reverent piety to which I was accustomed. We were taught that the Spirit comes when we are quiet and serene...still and focused To make loud noises or shouts of acclamation would deter the Spirit from coming to you. But, as a six year old little girl, I knew what I saw and I saw those people in Mr. Gibson's Gospel church feeling the Spirit. And I knew for a little while, they must feel gathered and free from the injustice of the world.
My recollection of the all the details in the room are fuzzy after 30 years. I remember climbing an old stairwell on the outside back wall of a building, just off the alley. The paint peeling...the stairs moaned under my tiny weight. The screen door creaked in a perfect ambiance.My mother used to take us up the the Heights. That was the black ghetto on the north side of Amarillo. A place that once again, our skin defined us and the injustice was rife. But, she wanted us to see everyone and experience all things. She wanted us to know that there is pain in the world and that we must never be the inflicter of any pain.
Her friend was a preacher in a Gospel church in The Heights. Oh, how we loved to attend and listen to him preach the Spirit! As faithful little Mormon girls, it was a departure from the normal quiet reverent piety to which I was accustomed. We were taught that the Spirit comes when we are quiet and serene...still and focused To make loud noises or shouts of acclamation would deter the Spirit from coming to you. But, as a six year old little girl, I knew what I saw and I saw those people in Mr. Gibson's Gospel church feeling the Spirit. And I knew for a little while, they must feel gathered and free from the injustice of the world.
And, I remember that Mrs. Gibson sat near the door. She was the preacher's wife. And a good one. She scooped me up in her enormous black arms and squeezed me in to her bosom...yes...she had a bosom..a large one. And she smelled of lilacs. She was wearing a white polyester dress that had black accents with polka-dots at the cuffs and the collar. And she had a white hat perched perfectly and beautifully on her head. Like a little lid that should screw on and off. On her hands were little white gloves with a single black button. And the smile that graced her face...and the world...was simply angelic. She was, to my little mind, the most captivating person I had ever seen. She told me that my spot was with her. I would sit with her for the preachin'. I was content with this thought as my mother and sister found seats amongst the others. I sat down on the floor next to Mrs. Gibson...Indian style in my little blue sundress and black Mary Jane's...like a lady.
After a few more minutes of greeting people Mrs. Gibson took my hand and we began walking down the aisle lined with rusty metal folding chairs. And then the oddest thing happened. Through the happy conversation of Sunday morning worshippers an electric guitar began pealing out a rather rigorous rendition of Amazing Grace. Mrs Gibson dropped my hand and began dancing in the aisle. I was stunned...and she seeing this turned and addressed my plaintive countenance.
"Dance with me, child. Come on...dance child! Feel the Spirit" She grabbed both my hands in an attemp to show me how to properly do so. I, however, remaind steadfastly ground in immoblity.
My hesitancy lay in the fact that I was stuck at a crossroads....right there in Mr Gibson's Gospel church with electric guitars and drums and tambourines was a fork in my young life. Should I let lose and gyrate myself into frenzied feeling of rapture and spiritual bliss or behave by walking sweetly and genteelly down the aisle? Again she spoke to me.
"You don't have to be quiet to be reverent....You don't have to be right...you just have to be heard, girl."
And there it was. The dichotomy established. Did you see it?
I'll explain.
I can be a good girl, a lady...I can have manners and etiquette and honor my parents with my good behavior.
But, a Lady still needs to be heard.
Sometimes being heard means grabbing a guy by the face and telling him to quit swearing in front of the ladies. Sometimes it means kicking open a door and laying a little bit of smack down on the bad guys before the time bomb goes off.
Other times, most other times, it means sitting quietly or waiting for your turn or addressing the little girl in the aisle...explaining how it is or rather how it should be.
Sometimes manners have to be transcended and boundaries crossed. I believe it was Rosa Parks who set the standard. When we sit quietly by and say nothing in the name of good manners...well, that's just the same as saying you're OK with injustice. We can never be OK with injustice.
All that is necessary for evil to triumph is that good men do nothing. Edmund Burke, Rosa Parks and my sweet Mrs Gibson would want you to behave, be polite and state your perspective...and if that doesn't work, I believe you're allowed to slam someones face into a wall.
And in case you're wondering...I let lose. And I danced like no other little white girl had ever danced in the aisles of Mr Gibson's Gospel Church.
