Re-Write part one

The Help Celia Foote

1956

My name is Celia Foote, I’m just a small town girl, nothing special, I don’t own nice clothes although I have spent most of my life between the racks of Gucci and Channel, but I will get back to that later. My father left my mother and I when his power plant started employing coloured people, our small town Bolingbrook just outside of Chicago was one of the first towns to hire coloured people to do every day white man’s jobs. This angered a lot of the small town folk, especially the white men who prided themselves on their work and providing for their family only for it to be taken away from them by the so called lazy coloured people. Everything went downhill from there; something snapped inside Momma, the only peace she found peace was when the last drops of Whiskey moisturized her lips. One afternoon I found her going through the trash outside, desperate for another drop.

Momma, what are you doing? I shouted at her as she threw bottle after bottle out of the trash and onto our lawn which was about 3 weeks over drew for a mow. The grass had a started to turn brown, the same tinge my mother’s eyes had started to go. She didn’t sleep; she didn’t do much of anything really, except curse every coloured person to come in walking distance.

‘It’s those Negros; they drove your father away. Now I have nothing! Nothing!’ She would shout, while searching for the next bottle.

I got my first black eye that day when an empty scotch bottle was sent flying at me.

‘What does it look like I’m doing? She hissed, throwing more bottles my way.

‘We ran out of Whisky! How have we run out!?’ She screamed. My hand rubbed my face as I felt the bruise start to slowly form.

‘I think there is some Gin still inside Momma’ I whispered, praying she would go inside and stop the neighbours from staring at me. Particularly Mrs Neale Hurston the coloured woman who had just moved across the street. She was a nice lady. Often gave me a muffin to eat on my way to school. Momma hated her though, said she was lazy and didn’t deserve to live in our too good town. Back then I didn’t understand how much hatred we Americans had in our hearts. It’s something that still haunts me to this day. Not long after Momma’s show in the yard she was arrested for trying to steal at the corner store, of course being a white folk she was only held for half an hour and then sent home, a full bottle of jack secured under her arm. Surprisingly at lot of people took pity on me, not what you would see these days though, In Jackson they would of stripped you down one by one until you were too ashamed to step out your own front door. In Bolingbrook they just simply patted me on the back and halved their meatloaf sandwiches with me. About two weeks later i found momma dead with a whisky bottle still in her ice cold hand.

To say I was alone after Momma died is an understatement. I had nobody. One good thing daddy left was the house, I was able to still go to school and have a roof over my head. Getting food however was a completely different story. I spent two weeks living off peoples left overs at school and the occasional loaf of bread I managed to steal. Mrs Neale Hurston was my saving grace. I didn’t care that she was a coloured woman, when she came knocking on my door with an apple pie still steaming with warmth I hugged her so hard the poor woman nearly fell head first into the thing!

‘My child, look at you, it’s like you havn't eaten in months!’ she screeched while pulling my arms apart and pinching my stomach.

I shrugged back at her, my eyes never once leaving the apple pie still placed firmly in her hands.

She laughed at my shinning eyes and sat the pie and herself down on the sofa.

‘Go grab us some plates dear, we can eat it while it’s still hot.’ She smiled.

I practically ran to the kitchen and the back before setting down and taking a bite out of the most wonderful thing I have ever tasted. (This was true, right up until Minny came into my life.)

I ate the first piece in about 3 seconds, Mrs Neale Hurston smiled and added more and more onto my plate until I had finished the whole pie. She clapped her hands together and smiled at me, her eyes shinning bright.

‘Wonderful. I have been worried about you dear. Where is your mother?’ she asked.

‘she died’ I sighed

Mrs Neale Hurston gasped and placed her hands on my shoulder, well it’s settled then, you will come stay with me. I can’t have you starving to death. She smiled a real smile, the whites of her death glowing next to the chocolate brown of her skin. To me she was beautiful and I felt a strong sense of trust I did the only thing I could think of doing. I flung my arms around her and sobbed for the first time. I sobbed for my mother and for my father but most importantly I sobbed for the love this coloured women was showing me, when all my life I had been taught to hate them.