I’ve always loved swimming pools. I love the clear blue water that fills them and reflects kaleidoscopic beams of sunlight in its ripples. When I was little, my ultimate fantasy was having a swimming pool. Throughout my childhood I had the same recurring dream about them. A swimming pool would magically appear in our front yard, on the strip of grass that grew between the sidewalk and the street. I would run to its edge and dive in, but I was never able to penetrate the surface of the water. I’d lie there on top and struggle to go deeper, into the water, but with no success. I’d wake up tired and frustrated.
The summer I was seven years old, my parents packed up our yellow Chevrolet Bel Air and drove us across country to visit relatives in Mississippi. Both my mother and father grew up in Canton; a small town out in the country, near Jackson, the state capital. They had escaped in the forties and moved to Berkeley. And for that alone, I will forever be grateful.
Cars didn’t have air conditioning in those days. If it was hot, you opened the windows. Speeding down the highway in the South, we’d get all varieties of strange insects whizzing through the open windows past our faces and smacking into the inside back window. My sister and I would scream, become hysterical and hustle to crawl into the front seat. Agitated by all the commotion, my father would stop the car and Mommy would pull that ever-present tissue out of her bra, get in the backseat and squish the buggy guts out of the stunned whatever it was. That was the routine.
We’d drive for hours at a time in the thick Mississippi heat. My sister and I would sit in the back seat playing cards, singing songs, and fighting. It was the typical sibling battle over space, which usually ended after my parents started yelling and the invisible boundary line dividing the seat was drawn. But no child can resist the temptation of a forbidden zone. Tiny toes teased and trespassed that line, causing more hysterics and even more yelling from the front seat.
As the sun set, the long day of driving would start to wear on my father. He’d squirm in his seat and rub at his neck. My mother watched carefully and provided emotional driving support by engaging him in meaningless conversation and offering things to drink. Then she suggested we stop at a motel. That word ‘motel’ was all I needed to hear. I jumped into action and began scanning the landscape for the perfect motel for us to stop at. That meant, swimming pool! I didn’t care about phones, TV’s, or how much it cost. I just wanted a motel that had a big cement hole with lots of pretty blue chlorinated water.
We came upon a motel with a flashing vacancy sign, beneath it were those words “swimming pool.” My father pulled off the road and into their driveway. I was eager to run and see the pool, but my mother held me back and said we needed to wait. My father got out and stretched, a big man stretch. The back of his shirt was all wet with perspiration. I could tell he was also going to be a lot happier once he got into that swimming pool too.
I turned away, anxious, straining to see behind the white fence that separated me from my pool. I imagined I’d be splashing in that water very soon. I’d dive in, like I’d learned in swimming class, swim underwater for a while looking for treasure on the bottom, come back up for air and go back down again. The car door opened. My father got in and started the engine. He gave my mother a somber look then turned to us, “They’ve got no vacancies,” he said. Then he added with a smile, “They forgot to turn their sign off.” We pulled out onto the empty Mississippi highway and continued down the road. I looked back at the motel and saw that the sign still flashed “vacancy.” Those silly people, I thought, they still had forgotten to turn it off.
We stopped at a few more motels with no luck. My sister and I searched even harder now for neon motel signs with the words ‘vacancy’ and ‘swimming pool’. When we’d spot one, we’d scream, “Daddy, there’s one! There’s a motel with a swimming pool!” He’d slow down a bit, then just keep driving and say, “Oops, you didn’t tell me in time.”
We stared out into the darkness toward the sides of the road; me watching the right side, my sister watching the left. I pressed my face against the cool glass, fogging it with my breath, drawing smiles, then wiping them off with my hand. We’d see those magic words again and shout, “Daddy, over there! There’s a motel with a swimming pool!” But now he didn’t even slow down. He’d just repeat, “Oh! You didn’t tell me in time. You’ve got to tell me earlier.” The sky got blacker and my sister and I tired of looking for motels and not being fast enough to tell my father. .
As we drove further into the night, Daddy suddenly became enthusiastic. He turned to us and told us he had a great idea. We were going to camp out. My mother agreed it would be fun. My sister asked if we’d sleep in a tent and make a campfire, but he said no. We were going to do a different kind of camping. He pulled the car over onto the graveled shoulder of the road and stopped.
This is where we were going to camp, here, in the car. It seemed strange but I was too tired to question it. My mother rummaged through the brown paper bag at her feet that she filled at every grocery stop and pulled out small cans of Vienna sausages. She opened them, placed one of the pale stunted pieces of meat onto a saltine cracker and handed it to me. I hated Vienna sausages, they smelled awful and the texture was suspiciously un-meaty. But we were camping, this was camping food, so I ate it. We laughed and ate our Vienna sausage camping dinner and when we were finished, they didn’t even make us brush our teeth.
I laid down next to my sister in the back seat. The imaginary boundary line was for the moment forgotten. My mother covered us with my father’s green wool army blanket and I stared at the stars through the back seat window. “Can we stay at a motel with a swimming pool tomorrow?” I asked. My father answered yes, as long as we’d tell him in time to stop. I believed him. I promised myself to try harder to see a motel in time.
As my mother and father whispered in the front seat, I began to drift off. I gazed up once more and saw a shooting star. Star light, star bright… I made a wish. Stars were magic. So I knew for sure that we’d be staying somewhere with a swimming pool really soon.
But, we never did stay in a motel with a swimming pool.
It was Mississippi, in the 1950’s, and we were Black.
No one would let us stay in their motel.
And all the hurt, rage and frustration my parents felt, they kept inside.
They had grown up in this world and wanted their children to know something better.
They shielded us from the prejudice by making a game and an adventure out of it.
They allowed us to believe there was hope, when there was none.
They protected our spirit.
And for that, I will always love them.
The summer I was seven years old, my parents packed up our yellow Chevrolet Bel Air and drove us across country to visit relatives in Mississippi. Both my mother and father grew up in Canton; a small town out in the country, near Jackson, the state capital. They had escaped in the forties and moved to Berkeley. And for that alone, I will forever be grateful.
Cars didn’t have air conditioning in those days. If it was hot, you opened the windows. Speeding down the highway in the South, we’d get all varieties of strange insects whizzing through the open windows past our faces and smacking into the inside back window. My sister and I would scream, become hysterical and hustle to crawl into the front seat. Agitated by all the commotion, my father would stop the car and Mommy would pull that ever-present tissue out of her bra, get in the backseat and squish the buggy guts out of the stunned whatever it was. That was the routine.
We’d drive for hours at a time in the thick Mississippi heat. My sister and I would sit in the back seat playing cards, singing songs, and fighting. It was the typical sibling battle over space, which usually ended after my parents started yelling and the invisible boundary line dividing the seat was drawn. But no child can resist the temptation of a forbidden zone. Tiny toes teased and trespassed that line, causing more hysterics and even more yelling from the front seat.
As the sun set, the long day of driving would start to wear on my father. He’d squirm in his seat and rub at his neck. My mother watched carefully and provided emotional driving support by engaging him in meaningless conversation and offering things to drink. Then she suggested we stop at a motel. That word ‘motel’ was all I needed to hear. I jumped into action and began scanning the landscape for the perfect motel for us to stop at. That meant, swimming pool! I didn’t care about phones, TV’s, or how much it cost. I just wanted a motel that had a big cement hole with lots of pretty blue chlorinated water.
We came upon a motel with a flashing vacancy sign, beneath it were those words “swimming pool.” My father pulled off the road and into their driveway. I was eager to run and see the pool, but my mother held me back and said we needed to wait. My father got out and stretched, a big man stretch. The back of his shirt was all wet with perspiration. I could tell he was also going to be a lot happier once he got into that swimming pool too.
I turned away, anxious, straining to see behind the white fence that separated me from my pool. I imagined I’d be splashing in that water very soon. I’d dive in, like I’d learned in swimming class, swim underwater for a while looking for treasure on the bottom, come back up for air and go back down again. The car door opened. My father got in and started the engine. He gave my mother a somber look then turned to us, “They’ve got no vacancies,” he said. Then he added with a smile, “They forgot to turn their sign off.” We pulled out onto the empty Mississippi highway and continued down the road. I looked back at the motel and saw that the sign still flashed “vacancy.” Those silly people, I thought, they still had forgotten to turn it off.
We stopped at a few more motels with no luck. My sister and I searched even harder now for neon motel signs with the words ‘vacancy’ and ‘swimming pool’. When we’d spot one, we’d scream, “Daddy, there’s one! There’s a motel with a swimming pool!” He’d slow down a bit, then just keep driving and say, “Oops, you didn’t tell me in time.”
We stared out into the darkness toward the sides of the road; me watching the right side, my sister watching the left. I pressed my face against the cool glass, fogging it with my breath, drawing smiles, then wiping them off with my hand. We’d see those magic words again and shout, “Daddy, over there! There’s a motel with a swimming pool!” But now he didn’t even slow down. He’d just repeat, “Oh! You didn’t tell me in time. You’ve got to tell me earlier.” The sky got blacker and my sister and I tired of looking for motels and not being fast enough to tell my father. .
As we drove further into the night, Daddy suddenly became enthusiastic. He turned to us and told us he had a great idea. We were going to camp out. My mother agreed it would be fun. My sister asked if we’d sleep in a tent and make a campfire, but he said no. We were going to do a different kind of camping. He pulled the car over onto the graveled shoulder of the road and stopped.
This is where we were going to camp, here, in the car. It seemed strange but I was too tired to question it. My mother rummaged through the brown paper bag at her feet that she filled at every grocery stop and pulled out small cans of Vienna sausages. She opened them, placed one of the pale stunted pieces of meat onto a saltine cracker and handed it to me. I hated Vienna sausages, they smelled awful and the texture was suspiciously un-meaty. But we were camping, this was camping food, so I ate it. We laughed and ate our Vienna sausage camping dinner and when we were finished, they didn’t even make us brush our teeth.
I laid down next to my sister in the back seat. The imaginary boundary line was for the moment forgotten. My mother covered us with my father’s green wool army blanket and I stared at the stars through the back seat window. “Can we stay at a motel with a swimming pool tomorrow?” I asked. My father answered yes, as long as we’d tell him in time to stop. I believed him. I promised myself to try harder to see a motel in time.
As my mother and father whispered in the front seat, I began to drift off. I gazed up once more and saw a shooting star. Star light, star bright… I made a wish. Stars were magic. So I knew for sure that we’d be staying somewhere with a swimming pool really soon.
But, we never did stay in a motel with a swimming pool.
It was Mississippi, in the 1950’s, and we were Black.
No one would let us stay in their motel.
And all the hurt, rage and frustration my parents felt, they kept inside.
They had grown up in this world and wanted their children to know something better.
They shielded us from the prejudice by making a game and an adventure out of it.
They allowed us to believe there was hope, when there was none.
They protected our spirit.
And for that, I will always love them.
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