For Me The Help Meant Love

The old black woman stood at the kitchen sink, hands submerged in soapy dishwater.  Stacks of used plates lay on the counter, surrounded by wadded cocktail napkins and glasses of partially drank punch.  She took her time with the dishes, cleaning them slowly, wiping at unseen specks, except when the hostess walked into the kitchen.  She then hurried through a few dishes and resumed to her previous pace when the hostess left.  Even though the lady told her she could go on home, the black woman continued, insisting, "There's too many dishes to leave for you."

Two hours after the party ended, the front door opened and young voices filtered down the hall.  Two teenage girls came giggling into the room.  They stopped, looked at the old woman, and ran to hug her.

Smiling, the woman dried her hands.  She didn't need to stay any longer.  She could leave.  She had seen the girls.

I wrote the above paragraphs as an assignment in my high school Creative Writing class years ago.  I'd forgotten it until I read The Help by Kathryn Stockett.  The old woman I wrote about was Bessie Stevens.  She wasn't our maid, but she helped care for the four of us as well as many other kids in the Clemson area.  Bessie worked for Clemson University, and in the evenings, she took care of children.  When Mom and Dad went out of town for several days, Bessie stayed with us.

I'll never forget her laugh.  It filled the house with such joy.  It was impossible to be upset or mad when she was there.  I remember forcing myself to stay awake until Mom and Dad came home on the evenings Bessie took care of us.  If I succeeded, I then begged to ride with Dad as he took Bessie home.  Something about curling up in the backseat while returning her home safely, gave me a secure and cozy feeling.

When we got older, we didn't see Bessie very often.  She came to our weddings, and we might run into her at some catered event.  The story I wrote in high school actually happened.  She insisted that Mom needed her help, but once my younger sister and I returned home that evening, Bessie announced she was ready to go home.

I sent Bessie a Christmas card every year well into my adult life, until one year, her granddaughter returned it with the news that Bessie was gone.  I still miss her.

I can't explain the love that forms between families and the black women that worked for them, but it's strong.  I don't doubt that the uglier accounts in The Help happened in parts of the South, but I'm  thankful I didn't live in a household that disrespected the women who gave so much of their love and care to our lives.