This is autobiographical about how I came to appreciate and love black women. I grew up in south Texas with all the bias and prejudice that could be taught to a kid. I attended a large public university during the 1960s in the days before student loans. I was a commuter student because I couldn't afford to live in the dorms or apartments. My parents told me I could live at home if I went to college but they couldn't pay for my education so I held down several part-time jobs and took course loads of 19-21 semester hours just to graduate from college before the military draft grabbed me without any choices. One of the jobs I had held since I was nine was mowing lawns. I kept my lawn mowing gear in the trunk of my car along with a change of clothes and an empty gas can. I needed to be ready to make a few dollars when the opportunity presented itself.
As usual between classes at the university I was in the student union building basement checking the employment opportunities for any short-term employment that gave me the flexible schedule I needed to study. I ran my fingers down the 3"X5" index cards pinned to the bulletin board and pulled the one looking for someone to mow a lawn for a sociology professor. The card listed the office hours, office locale and telephone number to contact. I looked at my watch I had an hour to catch P.C. Wright, PhD., in the office to follow up on this lawn mowing job. I always wore tan chino slacks, Weejuns and a blue oxford cloth button-down collar shirt -- I guess I looked like a typical white frat boy -- I wasn't I couldn't afford the dues, the booze and the sorority girls. I worked, studied and went to class -- I slept when I could -- at nineteen I was ten feet tall and bullet-proof. I no longer had time to lift weights or run like I did in high school -- my part-time jobs kept me in good condition. I got to the Liberal Arts building and sprinted up the stairs to office 214D, the name plate on the door listed, 'Phylissia C. Wright, Ph.D.' "Okay," I shrugged, "I didn't expect a woman but that's okay money is money." I knocked on the door and in a moment it opened, "Yes may I help you?"
"Yes ma'am, I'm Steven Edwards responding to this ad for someone to mow a lawn," I explained.
"First of all Mister (with emphasis) Edwards I am not ma'am I am Doctor (with emphasis) Wright and you will address me as such," her tone was inciting and caustic.
I held up my hand, "I beg your pardon - my parents raised me to respect anyone that I don't know personally with sir or ma'am especially individuals who have earned titles such as doctor or reverend or attorney and I don't know you but I will tell you this I won't work for someone I don't respect and you just made my list. I came looking to mow a lawn not to be chastised for being respectful and courteous. I don't need this kind of headache to cut one lawn -- here's your card ma'am you'll probably want to repost it. Good afternoon ma'am." I turned and walked away.
In a fast second I head the clicking of heels on the concrete hallway as they echoed louder coming toward me. "Great I need this like I need a third eye," I thought. Then I hear, "Mr. Edwards...Mr. Edwards...please wait a minute."
I stopped and turned around and watched Dr. Wright managing to 'run' to where I had stopped. Her skirt was tight and the heels weren't made for running and she really wasn't accustomed to chasing down anyone with her attitude. As she got closer I could see that she was clearly upset -- I guessed correctly my words stung her into reality of her behavior and bias toward me. She was a bit breathless, "Mr. Edwards please forgive me...I...uh...I jumped to a conclusion...I never expected to see a white boy...uh man answering my job card." This was an awkward moment. She was vulnerable because her academic position dictated that she be open to any circumstance in social norms, mores and customs and our exchange shattered that perception of openness.
"You're forgiven ma'am. Is that all? If so I need to get to the library ma'am."
She shocked me as she extended her hand, "I am sorry for my rudeness and I do need someone to mow my lawn. I just bought this little house and the grass is almost knee deep - would you be willing to come look at it and see if it is a job that you could do?"
Her apology and softened attitude caused me to rethink her situation and it also caused me to look at her in a kinder light. No doubt she was intelligent. She was the first black woman I ever shook hands with. She was tall -- 5'8", from what I could tell very well proportioned, her hair was piled up on her head, her skin was flawless, her nails long and manicured no polish, her lipstick if there was any blended with her skin tone. It's funny what we notice when we're not being attacked. "Yes ma'am I'd be happy to come take a look at your lawn," I smiled politely to her, "when would be a good time?"
"Well this afternoon or Saturday morning -- is either time okay?"
I nodded, "Yes ma'am, what time this afternoon?"
She looked at her watch, "I have office hours for another thirty minutes if you're free after that Mr. Edwards you could follow me to my house."
I agreed, "Okay. Where are you parked and what color and make of car do you drive?" We worked out the details and within a half hour I was driving to the faculty lot to follow Dr. Wright to her home. She was driving a fire engine red Triumph TR-6 convertible with the top down, Ray-Ban horn-rimmed sunglasses and driving gloves. 'Nice. At least she has good taste in cars and how to drive them.' We traveled to the acceptable section of the fashionable Heights section where professional blacks lived in middle class comfort. I surveyed her lawn as I pulled in -- it was a disaster -- really overgrown.
"Are you scared by this jungle Mr. Edwards?" she smiled and it did her face a good turn -- she went from being shrewish to gorgeous with one smile.
"No doc. I've handled worse I can assure you. Let me walk around and look this job over and I'll give you a fair price." I took a careful assessment of the work to get the 'yard' under control and respectable enough to call it a 'lawn.'
Dr. Wright had gone inside to change while I walked around and then she came out onto the porch that wrapped completely around this Victorian-era bungalow. She was sitting on the porch swing as I finished. "What do you think about getting control of this mess," she asked.
I told her it would take two or three cuts otherwise a onetime cut would kill off the St. Augustine grass if too much was lopped off.
