Black Like Me

Black Like Me

I’ve just learned the amazing story of John Howard Griffin. He wrote Black Like Me now in its 50th anniversary edition.

Black Like Me written by Griffin

John Howard Griffin wrote Black Like Me

My sister Beth and I were in our hotel room at Mohegan Sun last week. We were talking about racism, as we do fairly often. She said, “If you’ve never experienced it or seen it close-up, it’s harder to be aware.”

She asked if I had read Black Like Me. I either had never heard of him or forgotten completely; she filled me in on his story. I googled for more.

He was a white man who became black for a few months to feel first-hand the experience of black people.

He was born in 1920. At the age of 15 he went to Paris where he studied music. During the 2nd World War he began helping Jews escape and was caught.

He became blind for several years. But after he turned to Thomas Aquinas and Catholicism, his sight returned inexplicably.

I remember reading Tim Wise’s White Like Me and understanding that his title was a reference to another work. But I didn’t realize what that work was.

I ordered Black Like Me when I got back to Westport. It is on my table and next on my “to read” list.

Did you know about him?

More Money for Health Care

FG To Increase Health Budget In 2017 – Udoma

With both sons and two grandchildren in the country, I was pleased to read that the Nigerian government will increase funding for health care next year. I hope the oil price allows this to actually take place.

The Minister made the statement when he received Dr. Moeti of WHO, the first woman to be WHO’s Regional Director in Africa. He “praised her for fighting against diseases such as AIDS in Africa.”

Health care in Africa is a huge area of need. There is plenty of talent, but with poor funding and infrastructure the talented people have difficulty working effectively.

Intensive Writing Workshop

Marcelle Soviero

Marcelle Soviero, my teacher and editor

I signed up for this summer’s “Writing Intensive” taught by Marcelle Soviero. I was in her classes through my memoir writing process. She was also my editor. She is a skillful, wise teacher.

We have class every morning this week from 9 to noon.

It’s intense all right! Today she spoke about pacing. Then she read a segment from The Glass Castle to illustrate her points. Next she had us read what we had written for class today with our major “hot spot.”

We then had to describe the pacing and whether or how it served the author’s purpose. Then we worked on her form of an outline – a timeline of the three major sections, or acts, of our story.

Tomorrow evening Westport Writers Workshop is holding an authors’ reading for our class members. Seven of us will read, each between 700 and 750 words. Come if you’re nearby. It’s at Sugar + Olives, 21 1/2 Lois Street, Norwalk, at 7 pm. The event is free. Food and drink will be available for purchase.

I have my piece done, and you’re getting the first half ahead of time! If you have comments or questions let me know so I can fix it before tomorrow evening!

The “Female Son”

“Nno, nwunyem, welcome, my wife!” Mgbokwuocha’s booming voice and strong arms surrounded me as I climbed out of the car, stiff after seven hours on the road.

“Kedu? Kedu maka ndi be gi? Thank you. How are you? How is your family?” I said to her.

Our family of five had come in two cars for the Christmas holidays in 1989 – my husband Clem and I with the driver and cook in one, the children with Chinaku, the oldest, driving the other.

African goats

African Dwarf Goats like we have in Nanka

The late afternoon air was tinted with the reddish dust of Harmattan. I caught the aroma of the bitter-leaf soup cooking in Mgbokwuocha’s compound. As I looked in that direction I was reminded of the snake that had curled up in the cement block wall separating our compounds twenty-one years earlier.

On the other side of our compound I heard the goats in their sheds near Obele’s house and saw the ixora bushes Clem’s brother Geoffrey had planted along the wall. I loved their small star-shaped reddish flowers and shiny green leaves. The orange tree that he’d planted near the generator house was now 25 feet tall, but I’d never tasted one orange; they didn’t ripen at Christmas time.

Papa’s room over the gate had shreds of torn curtain hanging in the window. Two palms, one with coconuts and one with palm fruits, grew beyond the orange tree, nearer the gate. There were patches of grass on the red earth where the sweeping has been neglected.

The serenity of the village relaxed me after the hectic drive.

Mgbokwuocha was my husband’s second cousin. I came to know her during 1967-68, the year I lived in the village. Our daughters both turned one during that year. They often stood and laughed together at the railing in front of our house. We fed one of her sons during the civil war when food was scarce, and I’d assisted at the birth of her child during that year. After the war she always came to welcome me with enthusiasm.

Mgbokwuocha’s father was called Nwafor. His first wife did not conceive, so she brought her younger sister into the marriage to have children, a practice called nnochi. The sister gave birth to three daughters and a son.

Land is precious among the Igbos. It is passed from father to son.  But the father contracted leprosy. He lost interest in who would inherit and was only concerned with having a befitting burial. So he promised a portion of his land to someone who would perform his burial and left other matters to Mgbokwuocha’s mother.

How do you think the land was preserved?

 

Author: Catherine Onyemelukwe

Author, blogger, speaker. Born in New York, grew up in mid west United States, lived in Nigeria for 24 years, back in U.S. since 1986. Advocate for racial justice.

2 Comments