Living in Black History Today (Sigh)

I thought it was black history. I had heard about it and read about it, but I had never seen it myself. I accepted it as part of black mythology. Then, Saturday, Jan. 31, in Fresno, Calif., I saw it happen: the acting out of a quaint American custom. It was one of the most stunning moments in my life. Literally. One of those times you always wonder, “What would you do if. . .?”

My husband, Harold, and I were sitting opposite each other at a round table, chatting easily at the close of a women’s civic-group luncheon at which I had spoken about race, identity, prejudice and reconciliation. The presentation had been well-received. There were lines of people waiting to talk to us or have one of our books signed. Most were white women, older than 40.

As usual, I was trying to listen and make note of everything happening around me. A sweet-looking, elderly white woman, maybe somewhere between 80 and 90, yet spry in her gait, approached Harold. Her graying hair was tightly curled as if she had just been to the beauty parlor. She wore a cardigan sweater, a dark, flowered print dress and pearls. Her thick-heeled shoes made her right in style.

With our book in her hand, she said to Harold, “I wonder if I can ask a big favor of you?” He looked up, smiling, no doubt thinking this woman was about his own mother’s age. A generous sort with a compassionate soul, Harold has a deep empathy for elderly people. I glanced up from my own transaction, wondering what the lady wanted.

Sweetly, she asked, “I have always wanted to touch a black man’s hair. Would you mind?” In the line behind her, several women flushed. One put her hand to her mouth.

At first, I could not believe what I had heard. I held my breath. Time stopped. Harold and I were both utterly still, as in a freeze frame. The luncheon discussion had been such an exhilarating interlude; how quickly the mood had darkened. My thoughts splintered like mirrored pieces in a kaleidoscope, each reflecting a different aspect of the same thing. A crazy, unfathomable pattern. I was not conscious of being angry. I was incredulous. I didn’t know how Harold felt.

For the record, and for those who are curious, most of my husband’s hair is as soft as cotton candy, crinkled. His mother told me that, when he was 1 year old, his head was full of silky ringlets, no doubt a gene carry-over from his Scottish grandfather. When he was 3, all his hair fell out because of a skin disorder. As it grew back, in a contest for dominance, his African American genes prevailed. His hair curled tightly all over, with the exception of about a two-inch band at the nape of his neck, which is still silky. We call that part his “Scottish” hair.

Harold, a one-time Southerner, was too far away for me to touch his arm or nudge his knee. He looked at the woman, his mouth open. Then he looked at me, his eyebrows arched higher than usual. I returned his gaze with a “stay calm, be kind” look that I hoped he would get. But he did not need any looks from me. His mother had raised him well.

“Sure, go ahead,” he said, as he returned to his autographing task. Daintily the patter put her hand on the top, back and side of his head. Satisfied, she said, “My, it feels like a fresh perm. My brother-in-law had hair like that, and I always wanted to touch it, too.”

I wondered why she never had. I wondered why her brother-in-law had hair “like that.” Oblivious but satisfied, she moved on after Harold signed her copy of the book.

From the time I was little, I had both heard and read that, in the South, it had been customary for white folks to rub the heads of little black boys “for good luck.” I have no way of knowing, but I do not believe luck was the woman’s motivation. My sense is it was more of a naivete, a gentle curiosity, if you will. Maybe even a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

The luncheon guest assessed, correctly, that this tall, brown, well-dressed man, sitting with dignity before her, was a benign presence who would not cut her down with mean words or a withering, dismissive glance. She obviously had no idea of how her insidious request and her intrusive action could be perceived as demeaning, insulting and insensitive. She had no idea of the wellspring of pain she had patted into. She had no idea of the generations who had been ill used by similar actions. She had no idea that not all black hair feels alike. She had no idea.

Later, on the way back to Los Angeles, Harold and I talked about it in the car. I asked him how he felt. “More surprised than anything else,” he said evenly. “She didn’t mean any harm.”

Though he appeared untroubled, I wondered if that was the extent of his feelings. I also wondered what the woman felt. What did she tell her friends and family about the encounter? And what were their reactions? Were they embarrassed for her, annoyed, equally curious?

The next day, I called my sister and one of my daughters to tell them what had happened. I could hear them suck in their breaths over the phone. They, too, had trouble absorbing it. I did not tell my mother, who had left the South some 60 years ago, because I knew she would swear. She adores her son-in-law.

Once again I felt sorrow that so much of the gulf waits to be filled.

On the other hand, in some ways that kind of open curiosity is a positive sign. When one tries to understand something, one moves on a continuum away from rejection and possibly hatred. If touching my husband’s hair could teach one elderly woman a life’s lesson in tolerance, then it’s OK, I guess.

I wouldn’t advise everyone who wonders about the texture of black hair to act on their curiosity though. Kindness might not always be their host. As William Faulkner said, the past is not dead. It’s not even past.