She wasn't remotely unkind, but by that stage of her life, new tricks - particularly new words and new ideas - didn't come easily to her. Even when she got it, it just didn't stick. My brother and I were no childhood civil rights crusaders by any stretch of the imagination. A deep aversion to anything "old-fashioned" helped fuel our horror. We tried with little success, to have her use "colored" exclusively. That should give an idea of the time frame. What's more when it came to Granny, we were often embarassed by her standard responses of "well, that's fine" and "I swanee" to any remark she didn't understand, up to and including verbal news of someone's demise.
By the time we knew her, she didn't do much of anything except crochet and make yeast rolls. More and more, her culinary efforts ended up with a flaming iron skillet being tossed out the back door. So when he retired, my grandfather took over everything. He cooked, he cleaned, and still found time to keep minnows for pond fishing.
When he passed away, something had to be done, and that's how we came to know Angie. Angie was from Germany and had worked as a stewardess, now known as an air flight attendant. That's how she met my uncle who worked out arrangements for her to come over and stay with my grandmother. Angie was just few years older than I was, so we became good friends. She was pretty and lots of fun, but she never wanted to do much of anything. Soon she confided that she was in love. Not a passing thing, but deeply in love. He was an American, and that's why she had come to Virginia in the first place, to make it easier to see him. I was a little surprised because Angie wasn't given to drama or romantic inclinations in general. Soon it became clear that her love was not being reciprocated, she was being taken for a ride and she was in serious denial. She waited by the phone and he didn't call. She explained that he travelled a lot and couldn't always get to a phone. I would come by on weekends and try to figure out something fun for us to do, but usually she didn't want to leave the phone. Finally, she confided that the guy was black and he had something to do with James Brown's band.
That certainly explained a little bit of her secretiveness on this issue; this was in the early 70's. By that time, Brown wasn't as popular among white kids as he had been. Just a guess, but try listening to old Poco, James Gang or Allman Brothers for an hour or so then make a quick switch to James. Tell me that's not a buzz buster. Still, you had to live under a rock - or be Granny - not to know who James Brown was.
Finally, Angie and I planned a trip to the beach. We had fun at first playing with a little raft on the waves. But in spite of, or maybe because of, the attention from some very hot guys, and in spite of her youth and beauty, the tears began. We set off in search of a phone booth. Actually, she set off and I followed. In an era where girls didn't call guys very much, she wanted to talk with the one man she really cared about. And that's exactly what she did. As she made the call, I walked a little distance away, and waited. I was a little surprised that she was able to reach him, less surprised to see her obvious distress. Then I heard her yell out something like, "But, Jimmy, I love you!" It was painful enough to hear someone usually so composed and self-assured in such a state. But worse, though I don't remember what name Angie had used with me, it definitely wasn't Jimmy. Maybe something like Chris.
In that moment I knew Angie was in love with James Brown. She had made it abundantly clear that it wasn't James Brown himself that she cared about, and I had taken her at her word. So now I knew she had lied to me anyway. Not only was I shocked at the news, I felt betrayed by my friend. I don't remember all the details of our conversation on the ride home. But almost like a mantra, she kept repeating that it was different in Germany, race wasn't such a problem there, and I kept saying that right or wrong this wasn't Germany. No doubt my explanations were poor, but I do know that the trials and tribulations of a woman living with an elderly Southerner at the same time she was broken hearted over the godfather of soul was way too much. Too much for me anyway. All I could do was try to be supportive of a friend, but really I didn't know how.
I wasn't around for the fireworks, but not long after that, James Brown came to town for a show. Somehow Angie arrived at the venue with my 10 year old sister in tow, in retrospect a desperate move because it sure wasn't Disney on Ice. Maybe they took a cab, but when it was over, James Brown drove them back to Granny's in a limo, stopping on the way at a 7-11 to get my sister some gum (maybe it was lifesavers). Granny must have seen the car lights or felt the door slam, because she came downstairs to ask if they had a good time. Faced with the hardest working man in show business, she said nothing, and turned to ascend the stairs. She called her daughter next door to let her know there was a "nigra man in the living room."
Enter my stepmom within seconds, concerned about her own elderly mother as well as her 10 year old child. Politely (at least) she let James Brown know that he had to leave, Angie became hysterical, begging him not to go as she watched her hopes rapidly crumbling before her own eyes, my sister piped up with, "But he's nice, he bought me some gum!" James Brown did leave, trying to reassure Angie on his way out the door with, "It's alright, I understand."
But Angie definitely did not understand, and she wasn't the only one. Broken hearts and clashing cultures are not a good combination. That night didn't spell the death of Jim Crow in our family, but there was at least a deadly wound. Someone dear to me has a joke about stories ending with "and they were never the same again." That applies here. There were debates, tears, hurtful words, this one not speaking with that one then realigning against someone else. I found excuses to avoid visiting any family at all on the weekends.
Angie returned to Germany, though not immediately, and she did correspond with my stepmom for several years. And I have no idea if she ever saw James Brown again.
I can only imagine how many Angies James Brown left in his wake. We'll hear much about him over the next few days, that's for sure. Good and bad. I just wanted to share this "member when" story, one that my sister always ends with, "he really was a nice guy."
* Angie's name has been changed.
** A little postscript - the George Jones diary was untimely half-spoof, but I've been seriously listening to James Brown off and on all year long. I think the accolades and the comparisons will fall short. For a fair comparison, I'd pick Pablo Picasso for sheer depth of impact. The legacy of other prominent musicians can be traced easily enough down through their musical descendants, but like Picasso, James Brown's work resulted in a major phase transition.
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But Brown's third story is the one that is so often omitted, and that's the story of his early years. That he survived them is a near miracle. Several years ago a photo of the house where he was born was on the net, but I can't find it now. It really was a one-room shack. He was abandoned by his mother, lived for awhile in a brothel.
From what little I've read about it, he pretty much raised himself from a very young age under very trying conditions. Deprivation is no contest, but I really can't think of any well-known American who came up harder than Brown. This isn't just a story about coming up from a tough neighborhood, it's a story about coming up in conditions that were at times a mere a step or two away from feral. People who succeed out of tough neighborhoods often brag about it, but people who have known hunger don't talk about it very much.
I don't bring this up to excuse his criminal behavior. I just don't think his story is complete without this piece.