The Help and the Average Homo
To "the kind, smart and important" gay kids everywhere
1959: New Orleans, Louisiana; My sister and I sat in her ample lap in the front yard every weekday afternoon as we waited for our mother to come home from work. Out of a small plastic bottle she kept in her big blousy apron, she poured tiny little "nuggets" of peppermints into our toddler hands—they resembled "peppermint confetti." These nuggets had begun as the regular round ones from the cylindrical wrapper, but she'd take a knife and cut each of them into eight to ten tiny little pieces and then store them in the bottle. She always put them under her tongue to freshen her breath. She never said the actual words Aibileen said to her white children to have them echo it: "I am kind. I am smart and I am important."—but she was as kind to us as any relative or neighbor.
Her name was Nola, and given the city where we lived, you'll think that fictitious, but neither it—nor this story—are. My sister and I were strolling down this bittersweet memory lane a few years ago—how Nola's cooking (the best red beans ever) and cleaning (she moved rugs and furniture) had always ended with us three in the front yard at 3:15 p.m. to await mama's arrival—and those sweet nuggets that appeared out of Nola's apron.
"Do you think she chopped them up so small to stretch her supply and save money?" As soon as my sister said it, we both realized that we'd probably taken food out of her mouth. Tears welled up in both of our eyes and we thought briefly about how we'd ever track her down. (Our parents are long gone, and who knows a last name?) But, we owed Nola so much more than peppermint confetti.
The years of experience had brought an equal dose of perspective and guilt. We cried buckets when Rosa Parks sat down, Jane Pittman sipped water and when Hoke drove Miss Daisy. For so many reasons, The Help is the hardest thing in the world to get through—painful beyond words. Knowing that the systematic inhumanity to mankind took place in our lifetime is hard to swallow. My mother was never a sorority bitch, and dad was the kindest human being I have ever known. Nola was never subjected to the cruelty of those women in The Help. But the fact remains: she was our maid.
And then I wondered out loud if she'd welcome my partner, Charles. My sister said she wouldn't be so sure. The gays being at loggerheads with some African American preachers might encumber a happy reunion. Was Nola being subjected to weekly sermons about gays going straight to hell?
But the fact of the matter was, and always will be, that my tiny little hand into which she poured the peppermint was the same hand that would immediately and involuntarily land on my hip. It feels pretty helpless when you're that different. Could Nola cope with my now being honest about it? Would the help help me understand myself better? Near as we can guess, she's bound to be in her late eighties. Would we find her alone and in despair?
"Now you say you're lonely
You cry the whole night through
Well you can cry me a river
Cry me a river
I cried a river over you"
Once I went into first grade, Nola left our employ, and I became a latchkey sissy. Between first and twelfth grade, I had a deep dark closet of despair where I would stay, alone and frightened for a dozen years.
At least—despite all their heinous trials and tribulations —the help and their offspring had each other. Where was I ever going to find another one like me?
That hand on my hip graduated to slipping on mother's slingback pumps and wrapping her scarves around my head like Grace Kelly—in hiding, of course. I was also sneaking into my sister's room to play with her pep squad pom poms. (I was busted twice by my sister, and can still to this day feel my heart race when I think about the shame I associated with it.) By puberty, it was excruciatingly painful to watch Bonanza during the Sunday night family ritual. Michael Landon—"Little Joe" Cartwright—was disarmingly handsome. I had really big problems with Little Joe. No matter how much I begged and pleaded with whomever was up there to stop these feelings, I couldn't right the cart. Shame, combined with the threat of violence against you teaches you to live very very small. There was literally only one phrase that kept me sane in my self imposed single cell prison:
"And this above all—to thine own self be true." —William Shakespeare
JFK, LBJ, and many others came to the aid of our African American brothers and sisters. Ironically, it is America’s first African American president who comes to the aid of the LGBT community, step by weary step, toward equality.
This week we unveil the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial near that of Abraham Lincoln in the nation's capital. Nola should rest better now. Some day, next to MLK we will erect a memorial to MILK.
Who put the "I" in MLK? Harvey did. Just as sure as Nola put peppermints in the hand of a kind, smart, and important gay kid in 1959.
Brent Mundt resides in Washington, DC, but lives in Rehoboth Beach.