So you laugh， so you smile. Once a month the big gray relief truck would pull up in front of our house and Momma would flash that big smile and stretch out her hands.“Who else you know in this neighborhood gets this kind of service？” And we could all feel proud when the neighbors， who weren’t on relief， and who had Daddies in their houses，would come by the back porch for some of those hundred pounds of potatoes， for some sugar and flour and salty fish. We‘d stand out there on the back porch and hand out the food like we were in charge of helping poor people，and then were in charge of helping poor people，and then we’d take the food they brought us in return.
And Momma came home one hot summer day and found we‘d been evictedevict， thrown out into the streetcar zone with all our orange cratecrate chairs and secondhand lamps She flashed that big smile and dried our tears and bought some penny Kool-Aid， We stood out there and sold drinks to thirsty people coming off the street-car，and we thought nobody knew we were kicked out-figured they thought we wanted to be thereAnd Momma went off to persuade the landlord into letting us back in on credit.
But I wonder about my Momma sometimes， and all the other Negro mothers who got up at 6 a.m. to go to the white man’s house with sacks over their shoes because it was so wet and cold，I wonder how they made it. They worked very hard for the man，they made his breakfast and they scrubbedscrub his floors and they diapered his babies.They didn‘t have too much time for us.
I wonder about my Momma， who walked out of a white woman’s clean house at midnight and came back to her own where the lights had been out for three months，and the pipes were frozen and the wind came in through the cracks. She‘d have to make deals with the rats：leave some food out for them so they wouldn’t gnawgnaw on the doors or bite the babies.The roaches， they were just like part of the family.
I wonder how she felt telling those white kids she took care of to brush their teeth after they ate，to wash their bands after they fed. She could never tell her own kids because there wasn‘t soap or water back home.
I wonder how my Momma felt when we came from school with a list of vitaminsvitamin and pills and cod liver oil the school nurse said we had to have. Momma would cry all night，and then go out and spend most of the rent money for pills. A week later， the white man would come for his eighteen dollars rent and Momma would plead with him to wait until tomorrow. She had lost her pocketbook. The relief check was comingThe white folks had some money for her. Tomorrow. I’d be hiding in the coal cote because there was only supposed to be two kids in the flat，and I could hear the rent man curse my Momma and call her a liar. And when he finally went away，Momma put the sacks on her shoes and went off to the rich white folks‘ house to dress the rich white kids so their mother could take them to a special baby doctor.
Momma had to take us to Homer G.Phillips，the free hospital， the city hospital for Negroes. We’d stand on line and wait for hours，smiling as Uncle Tom every time a doctor or a nurse passed byWe‘d feel good when one of them smiled back and didn’t look at us as though we were dirty and had no right coming down there.All the doctors and nurses at Homer G.Phillips were Negroes，tooI remember one time when a doctor in white walked up and said：“What‘s wrong with him？”as if he didn’t believe that anything was.
Momma looked at me and looked at him and shook her head“I sure don‘t know，Doctor，but he cried all night long.Held his stomach.”
“Bring him in and get his damned clothes off”
I was so mad the way he was talking to my Momma that I bit down too hard on the thermometerthermometer.It broke in my mouth. The doctor slapped me cross my face.
“Both of you go stand in the back of the line and wait your turn.”
My Momma had to say：“I’m sorry，Doctor，” and to the back of the line. She had five other kids at home and she never knew when she‘d have to bring another down to the City Hospital.
And those rich white folks Momma was so proud of She’d sit around with the other women and they‘d talk about how good their white folds wereThey’d lie about how rich they were， what nice parties they gave， what good clothes they wore. And how they were going to be remembered in their white folks‘ willsThe next morning the white lady would say：“We’re going on vacation for two months， Lucille，we won‘t be needing you until we get back.” Damm.Two months’ vacation without payI wonder how my Momma stayed so good and beautiful in her soul when she worked seven days a week on swollen legs and feet，how she kept teaching us to smile and laugh when the house was dark and cold and she never knew when one of her hungry kids was going to ask about Daddy.
