IINot Poor, Just Broke"

IINot Poor, JustBroke"

DICK GREGORY

Like a lot o( hlack kids, we neverwould have made it without our i\:lomma.When there was no fath,lCk to go with thebeans, no socks to go with the shoes, nohope to go with tomorrow, she'd smile andsay: "\X!e ain't poor, wc'rc just broke."Poor is a state o( mind vou never grow outof, but heing hroke is just a temporarv con­dition. She alw,lyS had a hig smilc, C\'Cnwhen her legs and ket swelled (rom highblood pressure and she collapsed aeross thetable with sug,lr diahetes. You have to smiletwenty-four hours a dav, Momma wouldsay. If vou walk through life showing the~. ~ ~

aggrav,llion vou've gonc through, peoplewill feel sorry (or you, ,md they'll neverrespect VOll. She taught us that m,ln has twoways out in li(e-lauohino or ervin o.

~ ~,;--, I t>

There's more hope in laughing. A m,m canfall down the st<lirs and lie there in suchpain and horror that his own wife will coj­lapse and faint at the sight. But if he can justhold back his pain for a minute she mightbe able to collect herself and call the doctor.It might mean the difference between his

Dic!::. Gregory lIells 0/ his own

experiences 0/ c~rou.)ing lip poor

lind hillel::.. Wlhllt hardships does

he/ICC) flow docs his motherhelp hlm;J

livin o to laUGh aoain or dvin" there on th,~ h tJ .. t1

spot.

So vou laugh, so you smile. Once ,month the big gray relief truck would pulup in front of our house and Momma wouIefllSll that big smile and stretch out helhands. "\X!ho else you know in this neigh­borhood gets this kind of service?" \'Cecould all feel proud when the neighbors,folks who weren't on relief, folks who hadDaddies in their houses, would come by theback porch for some of those hundredpounds of potatoes, for some sugar andnour and salty fish. \X/e'd stand out there Onthe back porch and hand out the food likewe were in charge of helping poor people,and then we'd take the food they broughtus In return.

Momma came home one hor summer davand found we'd been evicted, thrown outinto the streetcar zone with all our orange­crate chairs and secondhand lamps. SheHashed that big smile and dried our tearsand brought some penny Kool-Aid. Wlestood out there and sold drinks to thirsty

Peo,)le comin(r off the streetcar and wet b ,

thought nobody knew we were kickedout-figured they thought we wanted to bethere. Momma went off to talk the landlordinto letting us back in on credit.

But I wonder about my Momma some­

times, and all the other black mothers whogot up at 6 A.M. to go to the white man'shouse with sacks over their shoes because itwas so wet and cold. I wonder how theymade it. They worked very hard for theman, they made his breakfast and theyscrubbed his tloors and they diapered hisbabies. Thev didn't have too much time leftfor us.

I wonder about my Momma, who walkedout of a white woman's clean house at mid­night and came back to her own where thelights had been out for three months, andthe pipes were frozen and the wind came inthrough the cracks. She'd have to makedeals with the rats: leave some food out forthem sO they wouldn't gnaw on the doors orbite the babies. The roaches, they were justlike part of the family.

I wonder how she felt telling those whitekids she took care of to wash their handsbefore thev ate and to brush their teethafter they ate. She could never tell her ownkids because there wasn't soap or waterback home.

I wonder how Momma felt when wecame home from school with a list of vita­mins and pills and cod liver oils the schoolnurse said we had to have. Momma wouldcry all night, and then go out and spendmost of the rent money for pills. A week

386 NONFICTION

later, the white man would come for hiseighteen dollars rent and Momma wouldplead with him to wait until tomorrow. Shehad lost her pocketbook. The relief checkwas coming. The white folks had somemoney for her. Tomorrow. I'd be hiding inthe coal closet bec1Llse there was only sup­posed to be two kids in the nat, and I couldhear the rent man curse my l\lomma andcall her a liar. When he finally went away,Momma put the sacks on her shoes andwent off to the rich folks' house to dress therich white kids so their mother could takethem to a special baby doctor.

Momma had to tab: us to Homer G.Phillips, the free hospital for blacks. We'dstand in line and wait for hours, smiling andUncle Tomming every time a doctor or anurse passed by. \X/e'd feel good when oneof them smiled back and didn't look ,It us asthough we were dirty and had no right com­ing down there. All the doctors and nursesat Homer G. Phillips were black, too.

I remember one time when a doctor inwhite walked up and said: "\X/hat's wrongwith him)" as if he didn't believe th,lt any­thing was.

Nlomma looked at nK' ,md looked ,It himand shook her head. "I sure don·t know,Doctor, but he cried all night long. Held hisstomach. "

"Bring him in and get his damned clothesoff. "

I was so mad at the way he was talking to

my Nlomma that I bit down hard on thethermometer. It broke in my mouth. Thedoctor slapped me across the face.

"Both of you go and stand in the back of

the line ,1nd wait your turn."

My Momm,l had to say: ''I'm sorry, Doc­

tor," and go to the back of the line. She had

five other kids at home and she never knew

when she'd h,lve to bring another down to

the City Hospit'll.

Those rich while folks Momma was so

proud or. She'd sit around with the other

women and they'd lalk about how good

their white folks were. Thev'd lie about how

rich they were, what nice parties they gave,

what good clothes they WOI'(:. And how the~'

were going lO be remembered in their white

folks' wills. The next morning the white

lady would say, "\'(!e're going on vacation

for two months, Lucille, we won't be need­

ing you until we gel back." Two-month

vacation without pay.

I wonder how my Momm,l st,lyed so

good and beautiful in her soul when she

worked seven days a week on swollen legs

and feet, how she kept teaching us to smile

and laugh whcn the housc W,1S dark and

cold and she never kncw when onc of her

hunarv kids was ooino to ask aboutb ~ 0 0

Daddy.

I wonder how she kept from teaching us

hate when the social worker came around.

She was a nasty woman with a pinched face

who said: "We have reason to suspect you

are workin u Miss Greuorv and vou can beo' b -,' -,'

sure I'm going to check on you. We don't

stand for welfare cheaters."

Momma, a welfare cheater. A criminal

who couldn't stand to see her kids go hun­

gry, or grow up in slums and end up mug-

ging people in dark corners. I guess the sys

tem didn't want her to get off relief, the wa~

it kept sending social workers around to bt

sure Momma wasn't trying to make thing:

better.

I remember how that social worker

would poke around the house, wrinkling

her nose at lhe coal dust on the chilly lino­

leum floor, shaking her head at the bugs

crawling over the dirty dishes in the sink.

M v Momma would have to stand there and

make like she was too lazy to keep her own

house clean. She could never let on that she

spent all day cleaning another woman's

house for two dollars and carfare. She

would have to follow that nasty woman

around those drafty three rooms, keeping

her fingers crossed that the telephone hid­

den in the closet wou/dn't ring. Welfare

cases weren't supposed to have tele­

phones.

But Momma figured that some day the

Gregory kids were going to get off North

Taylor Street and into a world where they

would have to compete with kids who grew

up with telephones in their houses. She

didn't want us to be at ,1 disadvantage. She

couldn't explain that while she was out

spoon-feeding somebody else's kids, she

was worrying about her own kids, that she

could rest her mind by picking up the tele­

phone and calling us-to find out if we had

bread for our baloney or baloney for our

bread, to see if any of us had gotten run

over by the streetcar while we played in the

gutter, to make sure the house hadn't burnt

down from the papers and magazlDes we

Rag in Window, 1959.ALICE f\JEEL. (ollcct,u" 01 ArthurM Elullow,), New YOlk Cily Cuurtcsy

of Rohl'rl Mille! G,dlt'ry. r"-JC'vv York

stuffed in the stove when there W,\S nomoney for coal.

But sometimes when she called therewould be no answer. Home was a place tobe only when all other places were closed.

I never learned hate at home, or shame. Ihad to go to school for that. I was about

388 NONFICTION

seven years old when I got my first big les­son. I was in love with a little girl namedHelene Tucker, a light-complected little girlwith pigtails ,md nice manners. She wasalways clean and she was smart in school. Ithink I went to school then mostly to look ather. I brushed my hair <md even got me a

little old handkerchief. It W,lS a lady's hand­

kerchief. but 1didn't want Helene to see me

wipe my nose on my haneJ. The pipes were

frozen again, there W,lS no water in the

house, hut I washed my socks and shin

even' night. I'd get a pot, and go over to

Mister Ben's grocerv store, and stick my pot

down into his soda machine. Scoop out

somc chopped icc. 13v evening the icc

melted to \\',!ler for w'lshing. I got sick ,1 lot

that winter beclUse the fire would go out at

niaht before the clothes were drv. In theb ~

morning I'd put them on, wet or dry,

beclLIse they were the only clothes I had.

Everybody's got a Helene Tucker, ,1 s~'m­

bol of everything vou W'lnt. I loved her for

her goodness, her cblllness, her popularity.

She'd walk down my street ,1nd my brothers

and sisters wou lel yell, "11 ere comes Hel­ene," and I'd rub IllV tennis sne,lkers on the

back of m\' pants and wish my hair wasn't

so nappy and the white folks' shirt fit me

better. I'd run out on the street. If I knew

my place and didn't comc too close, she'd

wink at me ,1nd say hello. That was a good

feeling. Sometimcs I'd follow her all the

way home, and shovel the snow off her w,llk

and try to make friends with her Momma

and her aunts. I'd drop money on her stoop

late at night on Ill\' way back from shining

shoes at the taverns. And she had a Daddy,

and he had a good job. He was a paper

hanger.

I guess I would have gotten over Helene

by summertime, but something happened

in that classroom that made her face hang in

front of me for the next twenty-two years.

fSki_

When I played the drums in high school it

was for Helene and when I broke track

records in college it was for Helene and

when I started standing behind micro­

phones and heard applause I wished Hel­

ene could hear it, too. It wasn't until I was

twenty-nine years old and married and

making money that I finally got her out of

my system. Helene was sitting in that class­

room when I learned to be ashamed of

mvself.

It was on a Thursday. I was sitting in the

back of the room, in a seat with a chalk

circle drawn around it. The idiot's scat, the

troublem,lker's seat.

The teacher thought I was stupid.

Couldn't spell, couldn't read, couldn't do

arithmetic. Just stupid. Teachers were

never interested in findiner out that voub _

couldn't concentrate because you were so

hungry, because you hadn't had any break­

fast. All you could think about was noon­

time, would it ever come? Maybe you could

sneak into the cloakroom and steal a bit of

some kid's lunch out of a coat pocket. A bit

of something. Paste. You can't really make

a meal out of the paste, or put it on bread

for a sandwich, but sometimes I'd scoop a

few spoonfuls out of the paste jar in the

back of the room. Pregnant people get

strange tastes. I was pregnant with poverty.

Pregnant with dirt and pregnant with smells

that made people turn away, pregnant with

cold and pregnant with shoes that wefe

never bought [or me, pregnant with five

other people in my bed and no Daddy in

the next room, and pregnant with hunger.

IJaste doesn't taste too bad when you'rehungry,

The teacher thought I was a trouble­

maker, All she saw from the front of the

room was a little black boy who squirmed in

his idiot's seat and made noises and poked

the kids around him, I guess she couldn't

see a kid who made noises because he

wanted someone to know he was there.

It was on a Thursday, the day before the

black payday. The eagle always flew on Fri­

day. The teacher was asking each student

how much his father would give to the'

Community Chest. On Friday night, each

kid would get the money [rom his father,

and on Monday he would bring it to the

school. I decided I was going to buy me a

Daddy right then. I had money in my

pocket from shining shoes and selling pa­

pers, and whatever Helene Tucker pledged

for her Daddy I was going to top it. And I'd

hand the money right in. I wasn't going to

wait until Monday to buy me a Daddy.

"Helene Tucker?"

"My Daddy said he'd give me two dollars

and fifty cents."

"That's very nice, Helene. Very, verynice indeed."

That made me feel pretty good. It

wouldn't take too much to top that. I had

almost three dollars in dimes and quarters

in my pocket. I stuck my hand in my pocket

and held onto the money, waiting for her to

call my name. But the teacher closed the

book after she called on everybody else in

the class.

I stood up and raised my hancl.

390 NONFICTION

"What is it now;'>"

"You forgot me."

She turned toward the blackboard. "Idon't have time to be playing with you,Richard."

"My Daddy said he'd ... "

"Sit down, Richard, you're disturbing theclass."

"My Daddy said he'd give ... fifteen dol.lars."

She turned around and looked mad. "\'<Ieare collecting this money for you and your

kind, Richard Gregory. If your Daddy can

give fifteen dollars you have no businessbeing on relief."

"I got it right now, I got it right now, my

Daddy gave it to me to turn in today, my

Daddy said ... "

"And furthermore," she said, looking

right at me, her nostrils getting big and her

lips getting thin and her eyes opening wide,

"we know you don't have a Daddy."

Helene Tucker turned around, her eyes

full of tears. She felt sorry for me. Then I

couldn't see her too well because I was cry-

mg, too.

"Sit down, Richard."

And I always thought the teacher kind of. ,

liked me. She always picked me to wash the

blackboard on Friday, aher school. That

was a big thrill, it made me feel important.

If I didn't wash it, come lVlonday the school

might not function right.

"Where are you going, Richard?"

I walked out of school that day, and for a

long time I didn't go back very often. There

was shame there.

-------_....Now then: was shame ever~'\\'here. It

seemed like the whole world had beeninside thal cLtssroolll, everyone h,ld heardwhat the te,lcher had s,lid, ever~'one h<1dturned around <1nd t"elt sorry for Ille. Therewas sh,lllle in going to the \'\forthy BoysAnnu,l! Christm<1s Dinner for you <1nd yourkind, beclLise everybody knew wh,l[ a wor­thy boy was. \\lIl\' couldn'l they just call itthe !30\'S Annu<11 Dinner, why'c.l they haveto give it ,I n<1I11(':) There was sh,lllle in \\'C,lr­ing the brown ,md or<1l1ge <1nd while pLJidmackin,l\\' the welLlIT g,lve to 3,000 hoys.Wh/d it h,lve to be the same for ever"hod"so when \'ou w,lIked down the street thepeople could see vou were on relief) It wasa nice warlll mackin,l\\' ,1nd it had <1 hood,and III I.' i\lomm,1 bCll Ille ,Ind called Ille ,Ilittle rat \\'hen she found out I stuffed it inthe bottom of a p<1il full of garbage W,I~' overon Cotl<1ge Street. There W,lS sh<1llle in run­ning O\'Cr to Mister Ben's at til(: end of theday and asking for his rotten peaches, therewas sh,lme in ,lsking ivlrs. Simmons lor ,1

spoonful of sugar, there was shame in run­ning out to meet the relief truck. I hatedthat truck, full of food for you and \'Ourkind. I ran into the house and hid when itcame. And then I started to sneak throughalleys, to take the long way home so thepeople going into White's Eat Shopwouldn't see me. Yeah, the whole \\"()rldheard the teacher that day, we at! know \OU

don't have a Daddy.It lasted for a while, this kind of numh­

ness. I spent a lot of time feeling sorn formyself. And then one (L1Y I met this ok! der-

eIict in a restaurant. I'd been out hustling alldav shininn shoes sellin n. newsoapers and

.1 t'1 I t':! t ,

I had goo-gobs of money in my pocker.Bought me a bowl of chili for fiteen cents,and a cheeseburger for fifteen cents, and aPepsi for five cents, and a piece of chocolatecake for ten cents. That W,lS a good meal. I\\',lS e,lling when this old guy came in. I lovederelicts because they never hurt anyonebut themselves.

lie sat down al the counter and orderedt\\'entv-six cents worth of food. He ate itlike he re,llly enjoyed it. When the owner,"'lister \Xlilliallls, asked him to pay thecheck, the old guy didn't lie or go throughhis pocket like he suddenly found ,1 hole.

He just said: "Don't have no money."The O\\'lll'!' veiled: "\Xlhv do vou come in. ..

here ,1nd cat my food if you don't have nom011ev? That food costs me mone\".". -

l\lister \Xfilliams jumped over the counterand knocked the derelict off his stool andbeat him over the hecld with a pop bottle.Then he stepped back and watched theman bleed. Then he kicked him. And hekicked him again.

I looked at the derelict with blood allo\"er his face and I went over. "Leave himalone, Mister \\filliams. I'll pay the twenty­six cents."

The old man got up, slowly, pulling him­self up to the stool, then up to the counter,holding 011 for a minute until his legsstopped shaking so bad. He looked at mewith pure hate. "Keep your twenty-sixcents. You don't have to pay, not now. I justfinished paying for it."

He st<uted to walk out, and as he passedme, he reached down and touched myshoulder. "Thanks, sonny, but it's too latenow. Why didn't you pay it before?"

I was pretty sick about that. I waited toolong to help another man.

I remember a white lady who came to ourdoor once around Thanksgiving time. Shewore a wooly, green bonnet around herhead, and she smiled a lot.

"Is your mother home, little boy)""No, she ain't.""May I come in?""\'Vhat do you want, ma'am?"She didn't stop smiling once, but she

sighed a little when she bent down andlifted up a big yellow basket. The kind I sawaround church that were called Baskets forthe Needv.

"This is for you.""What's in there?"

"All sorts of good things," she said, slllil··ing. "There's candy and potatoes ,llld clkeand cranberry sauce and" -she made afunny little face at me by wrinkling up hernose- "and a great big fat turkey forThanksgiving dinner."

"Is it cooked)"

"A big fat juicy turkey, all plucked cleanfor you.... "

"Is it cooked?""No, it's not. .. "

"\'Ve ain't got nothing In the house tocook it with, lady."

I slammed the door in her bce. Wouldn'tthat be something, to have a turkey like thatin the house with no way to cook it? No g,lS,

392 NONrICTION

,.no electricity, no coal, just a big fat jUicyraw turkev.

I remember Mister Ben, the grocery.store man, a round little white man withfunny little tufts of white hair on his headand a sad look in his eyes. His face was kindof gray-colored, and the skin was loose andshook when he talked.

"Momma want a loaf of bread, MisterBen, fresh bread."

"Right away, Richard," he'd say and getthe bread he bought thn.:e d,lys old from thebakeries downtown. It was the only kind hehad for his credit-book customers. Hedropped it on the counter. Clunk.

I'd hand him the credit book, that greentablet with the picture of the snuff can on it,to write down how much we owed him.He'd lick the tip of that stubby pencil hekept behind his e'lr. Six cents.

"How you like school, Richard?""I Iike school fi ne, Mister Ben.""Cood boy, you study, get sm'lrt."I'd run home to l\ilomma and tell her that

the bread wasn't fresh bread, it was stalebread. She'd flash the big smile.

"Oh, that t\ilister Ben, he knew I was fix­into m,lke toast."

The peaches were rotten and the breadwasn't fresh and sometimes the butter wasgreen, hut when it Clme down to the nitty­gritty you could always go to t\ilister Ben.Before a .I ewish holi<.LlY he'd take all thefood th,tt was going to spoil while the storewas shut· and bring it over to our house.Before Christmas he'd send over some meateven though he knew it was gOing on the

tablet and he might never see his money.

\\'lhen the push came to the shove and every

hungry belly in the house was beginning to

eat on itself, Moml1l,1 could go to Mister

Ben and alw,lys get enough for dinner.

But I can remember three days in a row 1went into Mister Ben's and asked him for a

penny Mr. GoodlxH from the window.

Three days in a row he said: "Out, aLIt, or

I'll tell your Momma you been begging."

One night I threw a brick through his

window and took it.

The next day I went into Mister Ben's to

get some bread for Momma and his skin

was shaking and I heard him tell a lady, "I

c<m't understand why should anybody

break my window for a penny piece of can­

dy, a lousy piece of candy, all they got to do

is ask, that's all, and I give."

"Not Poor, Just Bm/,e" 393

English 10Personal Narrative

"Not Poor, Just Broke" QuestionsDirections: Answer each of the following questions on separate paper. Make sure youuse complete sentences and that you include specific details from the story in yourresponses.

Comprehension1. Dick Gregory wrote, "Home was a place to be only when all other places were

closed." What did he mean by this? What did he lack at home?

2. Dick Gregory's mother saw a difference between being poor and being broke.How did she explain the difference? Explain whether you agree or disagree withher opinion.

3. What advice did Dick Gregory's mother give her children? Did she seem tofollow this advice herself? Explain.

4. In several cases, Gregory's mother had to act in ways she despised in order tosurvive. Explain one situation.

5. What did Helene Tucker represent to Dick Gregory? How does her crying affecthim?

Understanding Purpose in Autobiographical Writing6. In writing an autobiography, an author selects events in his or her life to tell

about. These events are chosen to suit a specific purpose. Review the events DickGregory tells about in "Not Poor, Just Broke." What do you think his purpose wasin writing his autobiography? What effect do you think Gregory wanted it to haveon his readers?

7. What do you think a good thesis statement would be for "Not Poor, Just Broke?"This may be a line already in the story, or one that you make up for it. Remember,a thesis statement is only ONE sentence long and it conveys the general feeling oridea of the entire story.

(EXTRA CREDIT) Making Inferences about Character8. Find the passages in "Not Poor, Just Broke" that tell about the following:

a. his mother's jobb. her response to the relief truckc. her actions when her family is evictedd. her reasons for having a telephone

What does each of the above reveal about the character ofDick Gregory'smother?