My grandparents had big aspirations. They had reinvented themselves, my grandfather shrugging off his immigrant Irish background to become a much more refined Scot. They had lost their humble Minnesota beginnings and lived a life of privilege. But my grandfather, a devout Catholic, was never truly content with his wealth and there was always an underlying air of fear -- fear that he didn't deserve his riches.
My grandparents had a grand house in Greenwich, Conn., and our holiday meals were always formal affairs, with a multitude of dishes served to us by the live-in couple David and Ethelyne, who wore uniforms and served us out of sterling silver dishes.
Our meals were served elegantly. The conversation was light, interesting and very proper. Table manners had to be scrupulously adhered to. My grandmother had a little bell she would ring when it was time for the next course, and David and Ethelyne would come in and clear plates and serve the next dish efficiently and gracefully.
For a child, these were exhausting affairs. You always had to look out for the dirty look, which mom tended more toward with each glass of the copious wine. I could never wait until the dinner, with each portion kept carefully modest, would end and I could escape to the kitchen and hang out with David and Ethelyne.
Because I was a child, they felt no reservations about sliding into their natural black patois from the carefully modulated and unfailingly polite tones they used with my grandparents. David would laugh and dance and tickle Ethelyne, who would giggle, and gesture reprovingly at me, over picking at the turkey. And David would make some kind of inclusive statement like "Oh she doesn't mind" or something and I would laugh -- real belly laughs, as they went back and forth, and feel a sense of inclusion.
David and Ethelyne lived in the half-finished attic (it was kind of summer house-y, exposed lumber walls) with their two children, who were both born while they worked for my grandparents, Dennis and Denise, who I dubbed Niecy after a girl in my class. I had found out -- because I had asked, I was always asking questions -- that my grandparents gave David and Ethelyne a home in exchange for their work. I was incensed. I accused them of being "slaveholders." It was so unbelievably unfair to me that these people had to live in the unfinished attic, while my grandparents lived in their elegantly appointed, tastefully decorated, antiques-filled home below.
Eventually David and Ethelyne also decided that this wasn't the way they wanted to raise their children and they moved out. I had heard that Dennis got some awful disease and my grandfather made sure they had money to pay for treatments. My grandfather always made sure the people he hired in his home were taken care of. He gave the young Filipino grandson of the couple who lived with him and helped care for him at the end of his life the same amount of money as he gave his grandchildren. I say that totally without rancor -- it was HIS money -- but as an illustration of my grandfather's egalitarian impulses toward the end of his life.
By then the guilt of his money had become overwhelming and my grandfather ended up giving most of it to the church. He was very defensive about this when I last saw him. But, hey it was his money to do with as he pleased. By this time I had discovered real poverty first-hand and was even more cynical about my grandfather's infatuation with "the poor." There is absolutely nothing noble about poverty. It is ugly and demeaning.
Eventually I was too old to be dismissed from the table, besides we did our own cleaning and serving after David and Ethelyne left. And there was no fun kitchen where I could sneak turkey bits. Holidays lost a lot of their luster.
But one of the things that always intrigued me was the dichotomy that David and Ethelyne had. In front of my grandparents they spoke one way and when they were in private they had an entire different way of speaking and moving. They laughed. David would do his George Jefferson walk with the dip, way before it was on TV. I always felt so comfortable and happy when I was around David and Ethelyne, much to my grandmother's chagrin.
Later I noticed the same thing when I worked with a bunch of black journalists at the Dayton Daily news. Blacks are hugely under-represented in the newspaper business, as are other minorities. But in Dayton there was a pretty good-sized group of blacks there, which was good seeing as there is a very large black population on Dayton.
I never felt any tension with my black colleagues and never even would have noticed a difference, except for one thing: When they would get together, they would slip into the black patios, the easy drawl that they reserved just for each other. The minute anyone of another race would approach, the speech would slip back into the educated modulations they all used professionally.
It's not one of those things where I can start using a black-ish drawl when I approach, as I've seen many idiots do. I'm not black and it would look like a silly affectation and it's insulting. But I was always so hurt by it. I always felt excludedl.
I've never known how to even approach this with any black people I know without sounding stupid. It's the same exclusion, although this is more subtle, as the ban on any white people using the "n-word," while blacks call each other that whenever they want.
Frankly, I think that giving any word such extraordinary power is ridiculous and just begs for abuse. That's why I'm very much against the whole "retard" movement, trying to get that classified as "hate speech." There should be no such thing as hate speech. Giving up that much power by allowing yourself to be devastated by certain words uttered by any ignorant moron is just stupid.
But back to the black speech dichotomy. Here's my question. Do the Obamas, when they get alone with their friends behind closed doors, do they slip into the easy black drawl, and if I came in the room would they all stop?
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