March is
Women's History Month. We all hear the usual stories about
trailblazing women who made history doing something considered
remarkable for her time. This has been a tumultuous time for women
these last few years. Along with all of the protests, marches and
cries for equality, justice and respect, much of our own personal
history has been lost in the shuffle.
I think
about the woman my mother and grandmother raised me to be – Strong,
independent, unwavering, faithful, giving and resilient. They taught
me to have my own; to survive and hopefully to not have to worry
about where my meals will come from when I'm 80. Thus, I fine-tune my
craft on a daily basis, padding my nest, and keeping my eagle eyes
clear. In all of this, I am always of the opinion that we get by
giving, and if possible, never lose sight of love, human kindness and
trust. Yes, these qualities still exist.
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| "Aunt Mattie Whitfield," by Stacey Torres |
My Aunt
Mattie was not my real aunt. She was a very close family friend - an
unlikely friendship that began when my mother was in a deadly car
accident in 1949, traveling from Lincoln University in Jefferson
City, MO to Wilberforce University in Ohio. She and several students
were traveling together when they were involved in the collision on
U.S. 40 between Knightstown, IN and New Castle, IN.
When the ambulance arrived, they refused to take my mother, the lone survivor, to the hospital because she was black. As she lay bleeding on the street, a local funeral home offered to transport her to the (Henry County) hospital in their hearse. Because her family lived a great distance away in Canada, my mother was alone in a hospital in a small town where she knew no one -- and where she ultimately knew from experience, that the color of her skin would alienate her further.
It was then that she met Mattie Whitfield, an older local African American woman who sometimes went to the hospital to volunteer. She would sit with patients, read to them or pray with them. It was just something she liked to do. Upon learning there was a young black girl there with no family, she immediately took it upon herself to take my mother under her wing. In time, she came to love and care for her until she was healed, and the family could get to Indiana. At the time, my grandfather worked as a porter for the Canadian National and Canadian Pacific Railroads. They governed when he could take time off and when he and the family could travel by rail outside of Canada. There were no other options.
When my mother was well enough to leave the hospital, Mattie and her husband, Herbie, took her home with them where they cared for her further. They lived in a small white house on South 16th Street by the railroad tracks. Finally, the family (my grandparents, two aunts and an uncle) arrived from Canada, and they were embraced by the Whitfields as well. All of them lived together in their 2-bedroom home for an additional 6 weeks while Mom continued to recover. They all worked together to give her their own form of old fashioned natural “physical therapy” that included salves, massages, prayer and careful exercise.
This is what strong, clear-thinking giving women did for each other. I say “women,” because even though Uncle Herbie was crucial in opening his home too, knowing the woman that Mrs. Whitfield was, she would have reached out and cared for my mother – or anyone – whether she knew them or not. Because that's the quality of humanity she possessed. She had no fear, no boundaries, no limits; just an abundance of love, compassion and patience. During this time, in that cramped love-filled house, they all became “family,” bridging the gap between Indiana and Canada. Mattie became "Aunt Mattie," and she was a very integral part of our lives for the next 20 years. But, that's another story and another painting altogether.
When the ambulance arrived, they refused to take my mother, the lone survivor, to the hospital because she was black. As she lay bleeding on the street, a local funeral home offered to transport her to the (Henry County) hospital in their hearse. Because her family lived a great distance away in Canada, my mother was alone in a hospital in a small town where she knew no one -- and where she ultimately knew from experience, that the color of her skin would alienate her further.
It was then that she met Mattie Whitfield, an older local African American woman who sometimes went to the hospital to volunteer. She would sit with patients, read to them or pray with them. It was just something she liked to do. Upon learning there was a young black girl there with no family, she immediately took it upon herself to take my mother under her wing. In time, she came to love and care for her until she was healed, and the family could get to Indiana. At the time, my grandfather worked as a porter for the Canadian National and Canadian Pacific Railroads. They governed when he could take time off and when he and the family could travel by rail outside of Canada. There were no other options.
When my mother was well enough to leave the hospital, Mattie and her husband, Herbie, took her home with them where they cared for her further. They lived in a small white house on South 16th Street by the railroad tracks. Finally, the family (my grandparents, two aunts and an uncle) arrived from Canada, and they were embraced by the Whitfields as well. All of them lived together in their 2-bedroom home for an additional 6 weeks while Mom continued to recover. They all worked together to give her their own form of old fashioned natural “physical therapy” that included salves, massages, prayer and careful exercise.
This is what strong, clear-thinking giving women did for each other. I say “women,” because even though Uncle Herbie was crucial in opening his home too, knowing the woman that Mrs. Whitfield was, she would have reached out and cared for my mother – or anyone – whether she knew them or not. Because that's the quality of humanity she possessed. She had no fear, no boundaries, no limits; just an abundance of love, compassion and patience. During this time, in that cramped love-filled house, they all became “family,” bridging the gap between Indiana and Canada. Mattie became "Aunt Mattie," and she was a very integral part of our lives for the next 20 years. But, that's another story and another painting altogether.
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| At my parents' wedding (Queens, NY) in 1952, Aunt Mattie is seen in the distance - She was an honored guest. |
First published in The Courier-Times, March 2017
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I would love to hear from you regarding this post. Please feel free to leave your comments. All the best, Anastasia a/k/a Stacey