QUEEN SMITH

Queen knocked on the back door of the ugly house on General Lee Street. She was ten years old. It was 1956 in Gilly, Arkansas, and the child was about to become a servant.

The home belonged to the Starks, who were white and the richest people in town. They also owned land farmed by black sharecroppers (including Queen’s father) and the general store where the sharecroppers bought goods on credit. Queen would be working after school and on Saturday to help pay off her family’s crushing debt to the couple.

Mrs. Stark opened the door and looked coldly down at her new maid. “You’re awful small,” she said. “What’s your name, girl?”

“I am Queen Elizabeth Smith,” Queen replied proudly. She spoke better English than most of the townfolk. Aunt Maybelle, the college graduate who had mostly raised her, had always insisted on proper grammar and good diction.

“Whatever possessed your mama to give you such a highfaluting name?” asked Mrs. Stark.

Queen said, “Maybe because it sounded pretty.”

“Well, that name ain’t fitting for someone like you. I’m going to call you Lizzie,” Mrs. Stark declared. She was doing what cruel mistresses have often done to prove their power over servants, black or white. They strip away the underling’s name and force him to accept an unwanted one.

In fact, Queen knew why she bore the name of a British monarch. It was the reason some black parents call their offspring Sir, Precious, or Duke - an attempt to make bigots address the person with respect.

For weeks the two females waged an undeclared war over the name change. Queen, to keep her job, could not refuse outright to be Lizzie. But she had a plan. Whenever Mrs. Stark shouted “Lizzie,” to assign yet another chore, Queen did not answer. The woman would then yell “Lizzie” repeatedly at rising decibels. At that point Queen would act confused and say, “Where is that Lizzie girl at, ma’am?”

It was clear to Mrs. Stark that Queen was either toying with her or plain dumb. Since no adult would work for such low wages, the woman did not want to fire the child. Thus, despite suspecting that her employee was laughing at her, Mrs. Stark chose to perceive stupidity. She surrendered, thereafter calling Queen “girl.”

In another clash of wills, the child “forgot” some days how to perform a familiar task. She would do it wrong, forcing her annoyed boss to explain the procedure thrice.

However, Queen lost a different battle. Her employer overworked her, and the girl could not prevent this. If she could not finish her duties by quitting time, Mrs. Stark kept her late without extra pay. Because of the long hours, the child reported to school tired the next day.

Before becoming a housecleaner, Queen could play with her best friend in the afternoon. Unlike their chums, who had siblings, they did not have to rush home from their black school to babysit younger kids. The two would cuddle their dolls, invent games, and share secrets.

Queen missed those days. Through a window of the ugly house, she frequently spied on white children at play. She envied their toys and sports and freedom. Sometimes the girl, while her boss was out, joined the white kids in a jump-rope contest. The fun ended when one of the parents betrayed her to Mrs. Stark.

In 1962 the world’s first Walmart opened in Arkansas. Five years later, there were twenty-four of them in the state. The Starks, upset that the chain was stealing customers from their store, grew meaner.

Queen worked six sessions a week for the couple, with some pay raises, until her 1964 graduation from high school. (Throughout that period, Mr. Stark, often home, ignored her completely.) She never saw the money. Her years of labor, which paid off the rest of her father’s debt to the landowners, left jagged memories.

The teenager rebelled on her last day as a maid. Angered by all the indignities she had endured, she turned sassy. “Next time you see me,” the girl said grandly to her mistress, “call me Queen.” Then she threw her apron into the garbage pail, stalked out, and slammed the door.

Her father, fearing reprisals for such acts in 1960s Arkansas, punished her for the insolence. He also made his daughter apologize to the furious Starks. It cemented her decision to attend college and pursue adventures out of state. That night she vowed never to see the ugly house again.

                                                                                           * * *

Just before Queen left for Howard University, her aunt pulled her aside. “Go spread your wings, honey. Don’t come home except for visits,” Maybelle said. “I rode back to mother you after your mama died birthing you. I swore to myself I would only stay a year, but I’m still here. Remember, never return to this God-forsaken town to live.”

In college Queen tried to make up for the tedious years. She partied and had fun. Although she was a little wild, she took her studies seriously. To become a teacher, Queen signed up for education classes.

One morning there was a lecture on the Montessori movement. The professor explained that preschools in this category emphasize the role of play in child development. “They believe that a child can learn about nurturing by playing with a doll, about gravity by playing with a ball, and about social skills by playing with a friend,” he said. “According to Maria Montessori, play is the work of the child.”

“Maria must be referring to white kids,” Queen thought bitterly. “In the South, the work of a black child is overwork.” Like many of the students, she, before turning five, had helped relatives toil in the cotton fields. Yet Queen loved the idea of opening a play-centered preschool for black, burdened youngsters.

A month before graduation, she received depressing news. Her father and her aunt could not attend the ceremony due to problems with the spring planting.

Three weeks later, a distant cousin phoned. “It’s my Christian duty to tell you the truth about Maybelle and your pa not coming,” she said. “He had a stroke working in the sun. She’s got to stay home to tend to him, though she’s ailing.”

Queen had finished her courses and had found a teaching job in Washington. It was scheduled to start days after her graduation. Instead, she made the weary bus journey home.

When she arrived, she found her father semi-paralyzed and her aunt sick. Since he could no longer farm, they were facing eviction from their sharecropper home, which was owned by the Starks.

“Why did you lie to me and hide my dad’s stroke and your illness from me?” she asked her aunt.

“Because I knew you would drop out of college and sacrifice your future to rescue us,” Maybelle responded. “I couldn’t let that happen. I’ll be fine soon, and I don’t want you stuck forever in Gilly.”

“I can’t leave till things improve,” Queen said. “Given Pa’s progress, he probably won’t need assistance full time for more than six months. By then you’ll feel well again.”

Despite moving home, Queen kept her oath to avoid the ugly house. She always detoured around General Lee Street if she had errands in the area. Nonetheless, she occasionally spotted her former employers. They deemed her “uppity” and pretended not to know her. The Starks resented, among other things, that their black ex-maid had surpassed them by earning a college degree.

Yet Queen rarely thought about them. Life was busy after her return to Gilly. She relocated with her family to an apartment, nursed her aunt back to health, and helped care for her father until his death in 1974. For years Queen supported the three of them (including by running her aunt’s small business while the woman was sick). She also worked odd jobs and eventually became an English teacher at the poorer high school.

However, there were also joyful times during the 1960s and 1970s. Queen and her black friends knew how to make merry. Just as she had been the jump-rope champion in grade school, she became the best dancer in town. This was partly what made her popular. Whether the latest fad was the twist, loco-motion, hustle, disco, or electric slide, she was the star on Saturday nights.

One of the men courting her was Amos McNair. He was kind and steady and the opposite of the “bad boys” Queen had dated in college. A high-school graduate, he was ten years older than her and worked at Walmart.

Maybelle warned her not to marry Amos. “He loves you deeply,” the woman said. “But he is a small-town man with small-town ambitions. If the wedding occurs, you will never escape Gilly.”

“Don’t fret, dear aunt,” Queen replied. “He promised that we would move to California as soon as the time is right.”

“The time will never be right,” Maybelle said sadly.

In 1976 Queen married Amos anyway. They meant to have a large family, but the children never came. The couple decided to remain in Gilly for a while because Amos’s elderly parents needed help with their farmstead.

Around 1984, rumors spread that the Starks were in trouble. The harsh, destitute life of their sharecroppers had forced most of them to leave Arkansas. This reduced the earnings from the couple’s acres and general store. The store closed, a casualty of the rise of Walmart and the decline of the sharecropper system. According to gossip, the Starks were going broke.

That year Queen’s sweet mother-in-law and beloved aunt passed away. However, the McNairs postponed their plan to head west since Amos’s pappy had cancer.

Two years later, on Queen’s fortieth birthday, Amos handed her a small box. “This is what you wished for from childhood,” he said happily. “I reckon it’s your dream come true.”

Queen opened the gift - and recoiled in horror. Inside was a photo of the ugly house on General Lee Street!

                                                                                            * * *

Amos had gone deeply into debt to buy the dwelling. Because the Starks did not want blacks - and especially Queen - to own it, they had marked up the price to him. His purchase of the deteriorating property for above its worth had locked him and his wife into staying put in their hometown.

For a month Queen was lost in a dark pit. Once again the Starks were involved in ruining her life, this time forever. Despite learning that they were bankrupt and living in a crummy apartment, she found no comfort. “I’m going to spend the rest of my days in Gilly cleaning my hideous home,” she thought. It also hurt that her husband understood her so little. She felt trapped and hopeless.

Then something shifted. “I am Queen Elizabeth Smith McNair,” she told herself proudly. “I’ll determine my own fate - or at least half of it.” She had a goal. Though the house was a nightmare, it could become the set for her fondest dream. For decades she had wanted to open a loving preschool for black children.

She began painting a sign that would hang over the door of the ugly house on General Lee Street. When Queen finished, she smiled. The sign read, “Play is the work of EVERY child.”

Renée Henning is an attorney and an international author. Her written work has appeared in her book Mystery and the Adopted Child and in other publications in North America (e.g., Spadina Literary Review), South America (Salto Al Día), Europe (e.g., Oslo Times), Asia (e.g., ActiveMuse), Africa (e.g., Modern Ghana), and Oceania (e.g., Freelance). One of her short stories was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.