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I wonder what freedom means to a 4-year-old. Extra cookies? Candy? More play time?
What does freedom mean to an 8-year-old? Staying up late? Being on social media or an electronic game with no parental supervision?
To a 12-year-old, perhaps freedom is going downtown or to the mall or the movies with friends — walking there — not being driven by an adult.
Freedom might be driving a car and no curfew for a 16-year-old.
At 18 years of age, feeling like an adult, freedom might mean no restrictions.
To a 24-year old, freedom might be vacation from the daily grind of work, and wishing for those younger years when afternoons meant naptime and it was okay to have snacks and a clock wasn’t anything important.
Freedom is in the eye of the beholder.
Freedom by Marsha Lanier
When I was 10, my parents bought a beautiful fixer upper in a fairly wealthy neighborhood by a lake just minutes from school and on the same road as our church. When Mom and Dad went to sign the deed, the all white businessmen there included a form that said the new owners would ensure that they would never sell to “Negroes or Jews.” My parents refused. My father was not from the South and was appalled at the inequities. My Southern mother had defied her own father (who used the N word and was descended from slave owners) by having people of color in our home for lengthy stays on a regular basis. The sale almost did not go through because the realtors and lenders insisted that this was required for all houses in this neighborhood in Nashville. They still declined to sign and purchased the home.
A few weeks after we moved into the house, my sister Jo and I were cuddled up with Mom and Dad on the sofa in the den in front of the windows which stretched from floor to ceiling and from wall to wall. We were watching TV and laughing and probably eating popcorn. The drapes were open on a lovely summer night. We heard a car speed by, then a loud pop and cracking glass. A gun blast aimed at us had pierced the window. At first we didn’t realize what was happening but Daddy shoved all of us down, cut off the lights and TV and threw his body over us.
After a few minutes of utter quiet, Mom or Dad called the police who described it as just some random violence, probably some kids making mischief.
I always accepted that version. This was years before “drive-by shooting” was a phrase and it certainly never happened in Brentwood, our segregated suburb in South Nashville.
A few more weeks went by. My brother and his friends and my sister and her friends came home with us after a Wednesday night church service. We found the police at the house. Dad and Mom had gotten there before us and found that someone had broken in to our home and completely ransacked it.
All the clothes and the drawers from each bedroom dresser and the closet had been dumped on the floor. Sheets had been ripped back. Silverware and china were dumped out of the hutch. Books tossed down from the shelves. A big sliding patio door was broken with glass shattered all over the carpet.
The TV and stereo were as is. They took nothing of value which made no sense.
Again, the police said it was likely just some local kids and explained it away saying we had probably surprised them before they got anything of value.
3 weeks later it happened again, on a Wednesday night, while we were at church our house was burglarized. This time they broke a lot of items and took some valuables.
By this time I was having night terrors and waking up screaming, crying and rushing into my parents’ room.
3 weeks later it happened again. Same pattern, only this was the first time anyone realized it was a pattern.
Each time the police came out and shrugged it off. They never caught the perpetrators and never seemed very serious about it.
My dad began to stay at home while we attended church or went out at night. He sat in the dark with a baseball bat and a shotgun just waiting. He had installed an alarm system (which was not very effective) from Radio Shack. All my uncles and older male cousins were on call.
But nothing happened when he was there.
Except sometimes very late at night, my sister and I would wake up to hear a car pulling in our driveway with the lights off. On occasion we’d see someone just standing in the carport with a lit cigarette glowing. Scared the hell out of me and we’d both go running for Daddy, who would turn on all the lights, grab the shotgun and walk a circuit around the house. By then the strangers would be gone.
My parents never stopped hosting people of color. Mom invited over the college students from Africa and other international locales who could not fly home for the holidays and they’d stay for weeks or for the entire summer. They both brought over the boys and girls from Tennesee Preparatory (residential) School, (where they volunteered), almost all of whom were African American. We’d gather at our home for picnics and canoe trips.
My parents lived in that house for 40+ years and had probably close to 20 break-ins or vandalism incidents. Far above the neighborhood average. Now that I look back on it, seems very strange that we stayed there for so long. But we loved that place.
We never once discussed that this might be racially motivated. But as an adult, I put two and two together. I think it very likely that our house was targeted because my parents were more open minded than their neighbors.
If just a tiny taste of what may have been racially motivated violence and intimidation could leave me shaking and crying, I can’t imagine what it must be like to drive, swim, worship, or vote while black.
Just like my white ancestors, I have benefited from white privilege my whole life. I have no idea what it would be like to be under constant threat from white supremacists, at home, at church, at the pool. I have no clue what it would be like to quake in my boots when a police officer stops my car or breaks down the door at my house, knowing that I could be murdered for a broken taillight and it would be swept under the rug. I have not felt a racist officer’s knee shoving my back into the ground while holding my face in the dirt. I’ve never once been afraid for my very white privileged children.
I say all this because I want to speak out in the face of the Charleston shootings, that I’m not willing to play ignorant. I’m not willing to look away and treat this as an isolated incident. It’s not. It’s our history, but it doesn’t have to be our future.
I also grew up in a suburb of Nashville. You show vividly many of the darker, memorable, aspects of the city’s past. I appreciate the resolve you expressed in your last sentence.
Phoebe sat in the window seat of the bedroom she shared with her young daughter and considered her situation. It had changed so dramatically in such a short time.
She was out of debt. She had won custody of little Ruth. She was doing something she loved and getting paid for it. For a moment, she felt like spreading her arms and gliding through the window, over the backyard pool and up into the sky.
Had it happened too fast? Would it all disappear? Was she truly free or was it an illusion, a relative state compared to the cage she’d felt herself inhabiting since–well, since she’d become pregnant.
She looked down at her daughter, thinking that Ruth was worth any amount of time in a cage, but it was true that becoming a mother had taken almost all her choices away for a while. And now she had them back. Sort of.
Phoebe had never wanted children, didn’t even like them much. Oh, she was as charmed as anyone by a confiding smile, a sloppy kiss, a grubby little hug. But a little of that went a long way.
With Ruth, she expected her feelings to change, but they didn’t. At least not the way they seemed to for other people. The first time she held Ruth, she was not transformed, transported, transfixed with joy. She was terrified. It had taken years before she realized that, at some point, life without Ruth had become unthinkable. It was hard to remember now, but when she forced herself to be honest, the trapped feelings came flooding back and she could feel the terror at the back of her throat.
She wasn’t proud of herself. She wished she’d been the selfless, loving, patient mother she herself had craved. Ruth was five now and Phoebe felt she was just beginning to get the hang of the whole parenting thing. It still required all her concentration and strength.
Ruth seemed oblivious but Phoebe suspected that, at some level, she was not. She wondered how safe Ruth really felt, whether she had complete trust in her mother or not.
Well. The soaring feeling of freedom had pretty much dissipated now and Phoebe was glad she had not tried flying.
With that thought, she glanced out the window again, and Ruth stirred and woke. Phoebe smiled down at her. Ruth’s fat little hands reached out for her stuffed rabbit, and when she found it, Phoebe’s heart contracted when she could see Ruth’s little body relax. She reached out her own hand for Ruth and stroked her hair gently. Ruth climbed into her lap, dragging Rabbit behind her.
marcyt, What gentle and honest writing about uneasy subjects. . . custody, debt and the difficulties of early motherhood. I like these characters and enjoy your warm embrace of them. Thank you for sharing this story.
Visits with Martha
It was the spring of 1969, my mother worked in a small storefront by the railroad tracks. Preparing taxes in Donelson, TN was hardly bustling business early in the season. Momma found herself with many quiet hours on her hands until the day a spunky ten year old began visiting. Her name was Martha and she told lively stories about her family and her life. She sang songs, assured Mom, “When I grow up I’m gonna be as famous as Diana Ross”. But she didn’t just talk on and on about herself. She also wanted to know about my mother. Where was she from? What did she like? What were the names of her husband, her daughters? Quickly their friendship grew, color-blind to obvious differences.
One day Mom asked my sister and I, “Would you girls like Martha to come over for a visit?
“Sure we would, Momma”. We were curious and excited to meet someone new.
One week later Martha was at our doorstep, ready for fun. We showed her our favorite climbing tree and the best hiding spots for hide and seek. We chased each other, playing tag in the backyard – all the while laughing and chattering the way young girls do. Gradually I began to notice two things. Our usual buddies, who always came to meet new friends, were not showing up. Also, when I looked towards nearby homes there were neighbors peering through their windows, with expressions as fierce as dark gray clouds before a thunderstorm. Quietly I herded the younger girls inside inside to play with board games instead.
Two weeks later we visited Martha’s house by the railroad tracks. Her mother welcomed us into their home with freshly baked cookies and ice cold lemonade. There weren’t many toys, but Martha had a perfectly good ball to kick around. Most exciting was Martha’s flattened penny collection. She and her momma would place the coins on the empty railroad tracks, then pick up squashed treasures after the locomotives passed. At eleven years old I was aware of both the sameness in our lives and the differences. The difference between living in a quiet suburban house and a home that shook with each passing train.
Tensions ran high in Davidson County in 1969. After Martin Luther King’s assassination the previous year there had been riots, and 8:00 curfews. This year the newspapers reported the Supreme Court was close to making a major decision — whether public school children should be bussed out of their neighborhoods, across town to different schools, in order to achieve full integration. No one knew what to expect next.
What was often lost among the clamor of headlines, shouts of extreme positions, was a simple fact. In the face of uncertainty and rapid changes there were also many people of good will sincerely trying to make sense of difficult situations. This is embodied for me by these two mothers who took a chance. They taught their daughters that true freedom is knowing your own mind and listening to your conscience. They taught us that it is possible for ordinary people to express courage through small but meaningful actions.
Oh, PamH, gorgeous, beautiful writing about “every-day” people, tenderly told. There is nothing ordinary about these two young mothers, who taught their daughters to look beyond the exterior and see the rich interior of their lives. I enjoy your gentle telling of this time in our history. I love “ice cold lemonade” and “weren’t many toys, but Martha had a perfectly good ball to kick around.” You make these children and their mothers come alive with your vivid writing. Thank you for posting. This is a story that will linger in my mind.
How I long to be free,
Just me,
Just me.
Not who you want me to be,
Just me,
Just me.
Accepted
and loved
unconditionally.
Hello James Seamarsh, I absolutely love this. Rhymes nicely and with an important message. I can relate. Love how you wrote about a deep subject in short verse.
Being a ‘Newbie,’ I have been devouring the writings from March 1. Marsh Lanier, Freedom to be is courageous. What amazingly courageous parents, as well as their children!
Mayt, Freedom to be honest, saying how you honestly felt about being a new mother. It was deeply felt, but not over dramatized.
Pam H – Freedom to be Real in Visits with Martha. Again, moving, yet not overly dramatized.
James Seamarsh. I liked it! Brave to say you want the freedom to ‘be Just Me.” Justinefos
Freedom To Live In WI During The Warm Months
Spending Summer & Fall in Mt. Morris Wisconsin
Since I retired my husband, David, and I have been spending ‘the warm weather months’ in Mt. Morris, Wisconsin. His family hales from here by several generations.
Forth of July week is usually hot, and the lake crowded – however, this year it is unseasonably cold. Lots of heavy rains (wish I could divert half of it to California.)
Our kitchen and dining area have large windows through which I , while I am attempting to do my writing, spend about half the daylight hours watching the Wild Birds of many kinds – busy and colorful. This time of year is when the babies have all hatched, and the front yard is like a flying three or more ringed circus. One of my favorites are the Red Bellied Woodpeckers – Black and while markings with the exception of a ‘punk’ style ‘haircut’ that, of course is bright red. It has white feathers on the side of its head to give it the shaved off look. Also red white and black are the Pileated Woodpeckers, of which we have a family. The immature members of the Pileated Woodpecker looks like someone took a handful of the left over black and white feathers and randomly stuck them in where they don’t seem to belong. In addition we have Red-winged Blackbirds, noisy and numerous. Huge Crows, small and delicate yellow Finches, loud Kingfishers, bright orange and black Orioles, and the very sophisticated looking Sir and Lady Cardinal. (I call them that, not the Author of Birds of Wisconsin) When they suffer to visit the hoi polloi, to come to a feeder filled with Sunflower seeds, their most favorite food. Even we have our royalty!
Then there are the Cranes. Yesterday on the drive home from town I was treated to two varieties; Sand Hill, & Whooping Cranes. Sand Hills can be seen and heard on a daily basis, because they are a protected species having come back from near extinction. They are most often seen in the corn fields, or on the wing. A combination of browns and blondes, they really stand out against the green of a cornfield during the growing season. At least they stand out to the practiced eye. When I first visited here for vacation, took much patient pointing and gesturing before I was able to actually recognize them. Especially in the Fall when they blend right in as if having adopted the color of dry corn stalks.
The Whooping Cranes were also in a corn field, next to the highway as if showing off, they had positioned themselves at a place where the highway does a 45 degree angle, so we had to slow down. (Note* the highways around, or between the small towns like Wautoma are strictly two lane roads.) ‘Whoopers’ are rarely seen outside of the Crane reserves. We were extremely fortunate to see them. They appeared to be a mated pair with their offspring. They have white feathers, with a red ‘mask.’ As I write this, I am still trying to convince myself that I really did identify them accurately.
Those are just a few examples of our wildlife.
©M. Justine Foster
07-02-2015
Oh Justinefos, I LOVE your writing. You have a wonderful ability to notice detail that most people (like me) would miss. Your vivid descriptions inspire me to slow down and smell the . . . I mean. . . notice my surroundings.Thank you for posting.
Thank you Marlene. Your Blog has really pressed my ignition switch! –
There is a sense being surrounded by abundant life in your writing. Love the whimsical details –woodpeckers with ‘punk style haircut’, Sir and Lady Cardinal. Sounds like you have an enviable view from your window.
Lovely comments, PamH.
Thank You, Pam. Yes, we are surrounded by life, and wonderful time to see the birds. I will be continuing their stories.
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