The Help

I read The Help back in the Spring before school ended.  I loved the book.  I thought it felt real and solid, a risky mixture of views from 'both sides of the tracks' from Civil Rights era Jackson, Mississippi.  Kathryn Stockett played it safe at times, but the story felt right.

Thanks to my parents and their anniversary present to us, Isaac and I finally got to see the movie on Saturday night.  Now, remember, I'm a book connoisseur.  It's rare that I enjoy a movie anywhere near as I much as I do the novel.  Saturday night, however, I was in for a treat.  Each of the characters was played lovingly (though not always loveable) by the actors, as if they knew that the telling of accurate history was at stake.  I appreciate their efforts.

As we walked out of the theater, Isaac told me the movie was awesome.  From him, that's a compliment of the highest order.  I didn't marry a movie buff, much to my chagrin at times.  He then began asking me questions.  Was it really like that back then?  Did those laws really exist?  Was writing that book really illegal for Skeeter? Yes, Honey.

I'll never pretend to understand what it was like to grow up in the Deep South prior to post-Civil Rights era, for either side, but I got the crash course of my life this summer, and I feel like I at least know the facts, even if I don't fully comprehend the emotions.  Then, my own memories come to play. 

See, my grandparents had a black maid before I was born and for many years into my childhood.  I think I was a preteen when Annie finally retired, and she would come for visits until my grandparents moved to Texas 5 1/2 years ago.  I wish I had some photos of Annie on digital files, but I don't.  I need to dig through old albums at my mom's and see what I can find.

How do I describe Annie?  How does anyone describe an enigma of life?  Annie was bubbly, happy, and full of wisdom.  After I turned 4 and we moved to Texas, I'd spend weeks at a time back in Kentucky with my grandparents.  If I was there, at least one of my grandparents was with me, but often, Annie was there too.  Annie played with me, talked to me while I ate, taught me how to clean properly, and didn't mind my incessant chatter and baby dolls scattered everywhere.  I will NEVER flip a pancake more than once, thanks to Annie's fussing at me that I would ruin the fluffiness the one time I did flip a pancake a second time.  Phew!  We loved Annie, and I never thought twice about her color or my color or why she worked for my grandparents.  It just was.

Reading The Help brought back many memories of my days with Annie.  Things were different in Kentucky, especially by the mid-to-late 90s when Annie retired, but it still makes me wonder about her life when she was younger.  I questioned how she was treated when she first became a maid decades ago.  I wish I knew what she had dreamed of being when she was a little girl.  I'm sure her options weren't like what they were for a white little girl.  I wish I knew if she still wanted to be a maid even after society had changed when she came to work for my grandparents.  I mean, she did her work cheerfully, but is that what she really wanted?  Now, unlike Minnie and Abilene, my grandparents knew Annie's family members-what was happening with them, how things were, and all that good stuff.  They had conversations about each others' lives.  It was more like family than it might have been 20 years prior, but I still wonder.  Would friendships have ever formed past the color boundary had an employment not been established first?

While I'm glad I don't have to live through the Civil Rights movement, the effects of hatred and racism are still felt nearly 2 generations later.  When will we ever see each other through God's eyes?  In the meantime, I'm grateful for the Skeeters of our world who seek out the truth and the Minnies and Abilenes who are willing to tell it!