Warm Brown Hand

Warm Brown Hand

by

Amy Hughes Hinerman

While searching through a box from the attic, I discovered my old diary. I must have been about 10 when I used it. I knew the key to open it was nowhere to be found, and lacking patience, I took some scissors to the latch. It opened. Each day was assigned to a small space with five lines to fill.

         I glanced at statements like “Mom and Dad are so weird!” or, “Cindy is so mean!” (whoever Cindy was.) There were several days where I wrote about not having any friends or how I hated school. Most of the days were filled with what I did that day — went to school, came home, played tetherball in the back yard, watched TV, went to bed. Then, there were no entries for many pages. After flipping for a bit, I came upon one that took up several pages, written in fat, purple print, and I read:

         April 7, 1968

         Dear Diary,

         I haven’t written for a while. Sorry! The last few days have been super strange. This might be kind of long, but I must get it all out and this is super important, I guess. Here goes!  

It all started on Thursday when Mom and Dad ran to the TV, because a black man had been shot with a gun. People on TV were crying, and my Mom and Dad were yelling, and grabbing the phone and yelling over that too. It was BIG NEWS. He died.  A lot of people are upset, like everyone. I heard he talked a lot about people getting along, no matter if they were black or white. They told us in school on Friday that he was a hero that way. I thought that everyone did get along okay for the most part, but I must’ve been wrong.

         This morning, Mom told me to put on a dress because we were going to church. Well, you know I don’t like church. I’m always bored to death. Plus, I try to avoid Mom’s friends that tell me all that junk about becoming a young lady, and men cracking the dumbest jokes and then laughing their heads off.

         I figured out that we were not going to our church, but some other church. We were traveling into a part of town we never go. It was the kind of neighborhood where people were poor, stuff was junky, and people hung around more on the sidewalk, maybe waiting for something like a bus. We went to a huge church that looked way older than our usual church, like something from Europe. Dad wore his dressy clothes that Mom must’ve put on his wooden clothes stand in the hall for him to wear, whatever that thing is called. He frowned a lot, pushing me by my shoulder a little into the church. A super wrinkly black man, who I guess worked there, walked us to a pew right smack in the middle.

         The place was packed. There were lots of ladies with hats with little veils and things. Some of them were dabbing their eyes with hankies, the men too.  I thought maybe it was a funeral for someone I didn’t know. Dad finally told me it was for that man on TV who had been killed. He called it a “celebration,” which was weird, it didn’t look like one to me.

         Here’s the strangest part of this whole thing: we were the only white people in the whole building! This had to be Dad’s idea. He always has the weird ones, like telling us we were going to the finest restaurant in town and winding up at Pete’s fish n’ chips drive-through.  I felt like an alien and just wanted to leave. We started out right away with singing, and I thought oh boy, here we go…boring.

         I wanted to stand between Mom and Dad, but Mom moved me to the side, next to a big lady. She was wearing a turquoise hat and was squishing in way too close. I tried not to look at her, and I was a little mad at Mom. The lady stood way over in my space, and she sang so loudly, I swear she was the loudest one in there.

         Here’s another strange part: suddenly, there was a new thing we were supposed to do. I had to give the lady my hand from the opposite side, crossing it in front of me to hold hers, and crossing my other arm over to Mom’s side to hold her hand. Sort of a self-hug. I thought maybe everyone needed that, I don’t know. Holding the lady’s hand made me feel stupid. We sang a song about overcoming something that must have been one of those soul songs. Everyone started swaying back and forth in their rows. It was fun, especially for church, it was almost like a party.

         While holding the lady’s hand, I noticed that she was not at all shy about it. She didn’t really look at me, I mean right at me, but her hand held on good and warm. I think she might have liked me a little.  And when the song ended (and this is what I keep thinking about), she gave my hand a little squeeze before she let go.

         I know this stuff is important, somehow. I wish I was grown up already. Here’s what I think though: I think everything will be okay.

         ‘Nite Diary!

         I closed the small book.

         Now, I remember that day, although I had forgotten it. I remember being in the back seat of the car, being driven to a place that I never would have picked to go, for a reason I didn’t quite understand, to be with people I didn’t know anything about. I held the hand of a stranger whose eyes I never looked into, yet felt something for.  I remember that warm brown hand like it was yesterday.

         Mom and Dad are both gone now. I swelled inside with sorrow, but also with gratitude for their wisdom. They showed me the power of love without saying a word. Little did I know how impactful, how powerful, “weird” could be.