Why the Wind Needs to be Gone

Down the wind-swept doors of history, down the stereotypes of some white minds, Mammy hides and peers from the grocery aisles, dances her smile, and dances her Dixie in films like Gone to Wind or The Help. It’s time to let her go.

Back in the late 1990s, about 20 years ago, when my mother was alive and recovering in Milton Hospital from a triple-by-pass surgery, Mammy appeared, ingrained on my mother’s nurse’s tongue: “You look like Aunt Jemima.” Knowing my mother, I am sure she gleamed back, saying,

“I sure do honey,” and played the role — as nothing had happened.

That night, I got that call from her.

“Michael, I have to tell you something. I think I might have to move to a new hospital.”

“Okay, I replied,” puzzled. “What’s wrong?” I asked, but she did not want to say. She was upset and seemed a bit worried.

The next morning before I got there, driving from Randolph. She called me again. I was a bit concerned as I answered the phone.

“Yes, mom.”

“Michael, you know this nurse. You know my nurse. She called me Aunt Jemima. I didn’t want to tell you because she worked overnight, and I did not trust her.”

I told her that we could move her. I was upset and in disbelief. But, my mother was lightening and informed — told off the supervisor’s nurse, and she spoke to her doctor. It was not ordinary for my mother to turn out a place, especially if she was insulted…