Nanny

My first personal encounter with the effects of racism was when I was four years old. I spent each day at a home nursery where a young black woman I called “Nanny” worked for Mrs. French, the lady who owned the home. Nanny was a large, heavy set woman with big round eyes. She had a beautiful smile and a fun, hardy laugh. 

I adored Nanny and followed her everywhere, sometimes to her great aggravation. I didn’t mind when she would grow frustrated, sigh loudly and shake a spoon at me. “Child, you drive me crazy!” she’d say. That would please me all the more. Giggling, I would run up to her and hug her big leg. That would make her chase me to my great delight. I’d yip gleefully as she thundered behind me. 

Sometimes Nanny would let me sit on the couch with her instead of making me play outside with the other kids. Despite her getting annoyed with me, I knew she loved me. I didn’t always feel loved at home with my own family. I wanted to be by her side every moment when I was there.

One day, I told Nanny I wanted to come live with her at her house. I whispered a secret to her about something going on at my house that I didn’t like. Frightened by what I had said, she suddenly jerked me up by my arm. “Don’t you ever say that again, never, you hear me?” she scolded in a low whisper. She tried to push me away but I wouldn’t budge. She snapped at me to go outside and play with the other kids but I refused. I didn’t understand what I had done or why she was so mad at me. 

I started throwing a fit that only escalated into a full blown tantrum when both Nanny and Mrs. French tried to calm me down. Mrs. French hurried to the phone. I heard her frantically urging my mother to come pick me up. When my mother arrived I could see by her worried expression that she was confused, trying to make sense of what had happened. I was still yelling and crying so she gave up trying to talk to Mrs. French. My mother grabbed a hold of the back of my shirt and backed out the door, dragging me while I was kicking and screaming. Nanny looked terrified and distraught when I glared at her and shouted, “You’re just a N….!” I was heartbroken and crying, looking in her eyes. 

As we were pulling out of the driveway I looked toward the front of the house. I saw Nanny rush to every window, locking eyes with me. Her eyes were open wide as were mine. It felt like she was channeling a message to me, telling me she loved me but couldn’t help me. I felt an energy shooting straight from her heart to mine. I knew at that moment I would never see Nanny again. 

I can still feel the heartbreak as I sit here writing about this nearly 60 years later. Perhaps it is Nanny, whose face I have never forgotten, that has kept my heart open all these years as I try to understand racism and my own white fragility. I still love her. I wonder if she remembers me, remembers the day I called her such an awful name. Did she cry that day? I'm sure she did.