Imagine reading parts of your story in a book, by a woman you've never met. The idea of community shifts from geography to culture to space and time. I grew up in the shadows of iconic death. Malcolm and Martin were martyrs. Their words were etched into TV reruns. I couldn't escape their cadence. It was the same way teachers taught me. These teachers were deacons and ushers. On Sundays, I saw them in different suits. I learned how to take up collection and how to sing from them. I thought this tangible authority was limited to my little 5 mile town. It seems that many small Southern towns had streets where children safely walked. It seems that too many teachers couldn't afford department store clothing. I thought my grandmother learned to sew beyond necessity. Butterick became the next best thing to Thalhimer's or Miller and Rhodes. Being underweight might have been a blessing in disguise. I never knew how ideas became pants. I just listened to the hum of the sewing machine. All the ladies knew how to sew. Until I turned those pages, I didn't understand the limited freedoms that came with Civil Rights. How my grandmother was able to do so much more with me. Her eye for great clothing construction made discount shopping fun. I rarely shop retail. I invest in good pieces. Atlanta and Mississippi are a far cry from Virginia. I'll bet if I go down there, I'll feel almost at home. That's an eeriness. I'm not eager to drive to just about. I need the 2 blocks from my front door to the Fabric Shop. I need the comfort of running across the street and counting the cracks. I need my grandmother's guidance in the flesh and not memory. I'm not sure I like seeing myself in a different font. It stirs up what I worked to forget.
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