Pardon Me

Abstract: This piece was written as the final assignment for a Canadian historical fiction course. In writing a prospectus for a historical fiction novel using a Canadian event, students were encouraged to write from a perspective unique from their own. While the assignment called only for a sample of a novel, Grace McGuirk acknowledges that were she to pursue it as a complete project, she would consult with the appropriate communities.

I can hear Louie on the tree outside. Momma told me Louie is a finch, but I like to think he’s my friend. I took a liking to him last year because he comes to sing each morning. Momma says I shouldn’t sleep with the window open and that she pays good money to keep the house warm, but I leave it open anyway, just a crack. Besides leaving my window open to listen to Louie, I like to feel the morning air. I once heard my teacher describe November air as being “crisp.” I quite like that description. My school is called St. Stephen’s, and it’s far from my favourite place. They make us wear school uniforms, and they’re the most uncomfortable thing I have ever put on my body. My Momma says my uniform makes me look professional, but I don’t think there’s anything very professional about St. Stephens. I’d much rather stay home in bed than go to school today, but Momma would never allow it. I once tried to fool her into thinking I was sick. I’ll never do that again.

The crisp air, which I was just enjoying, now feels a bit cool on my nose; another reason to stay in bed. Though, I remember now that it’s a Friday, and Fridays make going to school less miserable. I finally sit up in bed, stretch, and swing my legs over the side. I sit for a moment, just to listen, but I notice that the house is quiet; this is a clear sign that Momma is in a bad mood. Every day I wake up to the sound of the radio, or if it’s not the radio, then it’s the television. When Momma’s in a good mood, she likes to dance around in the morning. I usually find her with her bonnet on, robe tied, and slippers shuffling in the kitchen. I always pretend to be embarrassed by Momma’s dancing, though I always join in with a grin on my face. Thankfully, she’s a better dancer than she is a singer. I enjoy spending the mornings with my Momma. She is the kindest person I know. She’s also pretty good at making pancakes, so it’s funny that I can’t smell them.

Feeling hungry, I rise to find my school uniform and run a pick through my hair. As I finish in the bathroom, I hear Momma hang up the phone. I am on the stairs and quickly near the bottom, walking into the kitchen as Momma reaches for the radio. The lack of background music makes it much quieter. It’s not often that Momma hides things from me, and when she does, she swears it’s in my best interest, so I know something is very wrong. Noticing the concern in my face, she gives me a weak smile and motions for me to sit at the table. I do, though not without looking around the kitchen for some hint as to what is going on.

We both pull out a chair and sit beside one another. “Momma,” I say, “Has something happened? Is it Grandma?”

“No, baby, it’s not Grandma, Grandma’s fine. But Lena,” Momma says, “there is something I need to tell you. Do you remember Mrs. Desmond?”

The truth is, I don’t know Mrs. Desmond very well, but I do know that she went to school with Momma. I’ve been introduced to her a few times before, so we’re usually friendly and say hello in passing. Though now I haven’t seen Mrs. Desmond for quite some time, and I may not for a while longer.

Now, weeks after Mrs. Desmond’s arrest, I still see her photo and name in the newspapers: “Mrs. Viola Desmond, 32-year-old Negro Halifax beautician, arrested and fined $20.” For the first time in a long time, Momma’s without a smile on her face; this scares me. Momma told me that people with Black skin, like her and me, are treated differently. She says Mrs. Desmond’s incident at the Roseland Theatre is an issue of racial segregation and racist white folk. I don’t exactly understand racial segregation, but I figure that’s why I never have classes with white girls.

Since Momma told me what happened, I’ve wondered, what if it was Momma’s picture in those newspapers? One day I might open the front door to see a copy of the Clarion sitting on the front porch, with the top story reading: “Ms. Thelma Sutton, 33-year-old Negro Halifax seamstress, arrested and fined.”

The thought of this makes my cheeks wet with tears. I find Momma on the porch in her rocking chair and I climb atop her knee to sit for a while. She rubs my back and hums softly as she usually does. Almost as if she’s reading my mind, Momma tells me that Mrs. Desmond and I will both be okay.

I climb the stairs with the warmth of Momma’s hand still lingering on my back. Before getting ready for bed, I stand looking in the mirror for a long while. I can’t see anything wrong with my skin color, so I can’t quite figure out why anyone else does. When I was small, Grandma told me that our skin was beautiful. All three of us share the same Black skin, Grandma, Momma, and me. We don’t see Grandma very often anymore, not since we moved back to Nova Scotia. We lived with her in Toronto for the first five years of my life while Momma found her bearings as a single mother; that’s what she told me. Once Momma found another job in Halifax, we came back to start our life here. I think of Grandma all the time. Leaving my place in front of the mirror, I make my way to the window. I’m sure to be quiet enough that Momma can’t hear. I lift the window open to my liking and crawl into bed. I fall asleep thinking of Mrs. Desmond.

Most of St. Stephen’s is more or less unbothered by Mrs. Desmond’s arrest. The white teachers don’t seem to care about Mrs. Desmond, and if they do care to speak of her, they only speak of her as a criminal. I often hear white boys and girls repeating their awful words at school. They call her a thief and a criminal, and say things like, “Black folk like Viola Desmond shouldn’t stick their noses where they don’t belong.” I know it sure makes me feel bad, but Momma told me that you preach what you learn, so I guess that’s what white kids are being taught. I don’t understand why things are the way they are. I can’t see how she deserves any of this for just wanting to see a movie.

The other Black students don’t say too much about Mrs. Desmond, though it’s not for lack of knowledge. While most of us may not read about Mrs. Desmond ourselves, our parents have shared her story. As Momma told me, Mrs. Desmond was taken to court and charged for refusing to pay the one-cent difference between the upstairs and downstairs tickets. She said they called it tax evasion. People know about this, but it’s fear that keeps a lot of Black folk from talking about it. Every Black person in Halifax is devastated, and most are angry. As I think about this, standing in a yard full of students who look just like me, separated by a fence from those who don’t, I realize that I, too, feel angry.

Besides Momma, Ruth is the only person who listens when I speak of Mrs. Desmond. Since the third grade, Ruth has been my best friend. She and I do everything together, when we see each other, that is. Ruth goes to St. Catherine’s, another elementary school in Halifax. Mrs. Chandler, Ruth’s mother, is a client at Momma’s shop, so Ruth and I became friends after running into each other so many times. The only regret I have about our friendship is that I don’t get to see her as often as I’d like to. I have a few friends at St. Stephen’s, but none like Ruth.

Most evenings, we call each other on the phone and talk for much longer than we should. Ruth’s daddy almost always hangs up the phone in a huff. He says we can’t have that much to talk about if we speak to each other every day, but Mr. Chandler doesn’t understand how much a couple of twelve-year-old girls like to gossip.

Our most recent conversations have been about Mrs. Desmond and being Black. She tells me what students and teachers are saying at her school, and I tell her the same about St. Stephens. Ruth tells me that Mrs. Chandler has been talking about the importance of community during times like this. I hear similar things from my own Momma. Apparently, the NSAACP, the Nova Scotia Association for the Advancement of Coloured People, has created a Viola Desmond Court Fund. I’ve never heard of this group before now. However, knowing that they’re looking to help Mrs. Desmond leads me to believe that they’re good people. As Ruth tells me about their plans for the Viola Desmond Court Fund, I grab the nearest pen and paper and write down the details the best I can.

Eventually, Mr. Chandler says goodbye on Ruth’s behalf and hangs up the phone. I go to find Momma in the kitchen. By now, she’s acting more like the Momma I have always known. Our dancing has finally resumed; this is something I missed from our morning routine, though I can still see the worry in Momma’s eyes. Seeing me, she smiles and tells me supper will soon be ready. I take a seat at the table and pull the scribbled paper from my pocket.

Mustering my words, I draw Momma’s attention from the stovetop to where I sit at the table. “Momma, what’s an appeal trial?”

Realizing that I’m asking about Mrs. Desmond’s recently announced appeal, she places a lid on the pot she was stirring, wipes her hands on a tea towel, and comes to stand by my side. With a reassuring smile, she explains that it means Mrs. Desmond will fight her conviction. Mrs. Desmond knows her arrest was due to racial discrimination, and as Momma says, she’s “ready to put an end to it.” I can feel the pride Momma put into that statement.

Now sitting at the table, she informs me that Mrs. Desmond’s trial is to take place on the 27th of December, though, already knowing this, I interrupt her and hand over the paper from earlier. I explain to Momma what Ruth told me over the phone. The NSAACP will hold a public meeting on the 22nd of December to collect donations. Looking at the calendar, I see that the meeting is just over two weeks away. I wait for her to give some sort of reaction to what I’ve just told her, though I realize she may not understand that I’m trying to ask a question.

I know Momma has a hard time paying bills as is, but donating to Mrs. Desmond feels important. As I offer to raise some money of my own, Momma meets me with another warm smile. Despite our money problems, Momma says she is happy to donate to the Viola Desmond Court Fund. Mrs. Desmond needs community.

I’m excited to take these steps in helping Mrs. Desmond. The only obstacle is deciding where to start. I’ve never had a real job before, so I don’t have any money to start with. Sometimes I help Momma out at her shop, but she doesn’t pay me. I’ve never really participated in a fundraiser either, but Ruth has, so she’s offered to help. I suppose it would be a lot of work to raise the money on my own. I told Momma that Ruth would help, and I think she told Mrs. Chandler too. They both gave us an idea of where to start. Ruth is walking dogs in the evening and I’m babysitting the Charleston kids after school. On Sundays, we both sell blueberry muffins at the church, using Grandma’s recipe. I spoke to Grandma this morning, and she says she’s very proud of us. To Ruth and I, this is a lot of work, but it’s slight when compared to the work that Mrs. Desmond is doing. As Grandma says, what we’re helping Mrs. Desmond do is something to be proud of. For us to be proud of.

Talk of Mrs. Desmond never really slowed amongst the Black folk of Halifax. Her photos still appear in the Clarion and you can hear her name every time you turn on the radio. As the appeal trial quickly approaches, talk of Mrs. Desmond intensifies. There’s even a low murmur of Mrs. Desmond lining the halls of St. Stephen’s.

It’s now the 22nd of December, the morning of the NSAACP meeting. I call Ruth early and tell her to come over with her money. A few hours later, I can see her daddy’s car turning up the end of the street, so I take my jar of money and meet her in the doorway. Collectively, Ruth and I raised $25 to donate to Mrs. Desmond. Together we feel quite pleased with the outcome. Here, at the meeting, a spark lights inside me. Mrs. Desmond has lit a spark in all of us, and just like her, we are ready.