The Help

It was a hot Sunday summer afternoon, sometime in 1972, around the same time Mom cut up all of Tim's photos and started telling me that my siblings and I were going to be placed in a county home. Mom was bothered about something and suddenly gathered us kids into the car to go for a Sunday ride. She drove south on a freeway, then exited into a neighborhood I did not recognize. This place was not Mission Hills.   The streets were made up of tiny wood-sided houses. Some had a few boarded up windows.  Most had no lawns, just dirt yards with overflowing garbage cans and trash piled up in the driveways.A couple of mothers were sitting on dilapidated porch steps in bathrobes and wearing pink fluffy slippers, holding bottles for their babies.  Kids were playing ball in the street, and men were leaning under the hoods of their cars. 

As we drove slowly past, our brand new blue Volvo obviously drew their attention, because they just stopped and looked at us as we went past. We drove down several streets, all with the same scene being playing out.  Then Mom turned down another street and drove onto a packed dirt driveway all the way past the tiny white cottage, and parked near the back door.  She had obviously been to this house before.  There were no kids playing on this street,  and no one was sitting out on the porch.  It was a little old house, but it was neat, with no trash piled up outside, and all its windows were intact. Although there was no grass, there was a tiny bit of color from a small window box that was filled with geranium-like flowers. I asked Mom where we were and she just told me to be quiet and keep the little kids in the car.

She went to the back porch and knocked on the door.  An elderly black woman answered.  She was wearing a white dress and a blue apron.  Her hair was grey and she wore little cat glasses with a chain hanging from each side. Mom started talking to the lady quietly.  I sat in the car, feeling very confused.  Then Mom started talking faster and louder, and I heard her saying, "Please, Mrs. Nash, please, you have to help me.  I can't do this anymore and I need you to come back!"

The old woman, who had been just standing on her back stoop and listening patiently, started shaking her head.  I heard her say, "I am sorry, Mrs. Warriner, I just can't come to work for you anymore.  I am a very old woman and cannot work anymore.  I am so sorry, but I just can't help you."

Mom kept trying to bargain with her about what her duties would be if she came back.  But the woman was adamant and finally said, "Please, Mrs. Warriner, I can't do this anymore, please go away and don't ask me again.  Please, Please!" She then went back inside and left Mom standing on her back porch, flustered and upset.

After getting back in the car, Mom silently backed out of the driveway to the street, and headed for the freeway. I waited for what I thought was a safe amount of time before asking the obvious question, "Who was that lady?"

All Mom said was, "That was Mrs. Nash.  She was Darwin's nanny when he was little.  She helped me take care of him and she did some housework too.  I wanted her to come back and help me with you kids, but I guess she doesn't want to work anymore."

I was stunned and didn't know what to say.  The reason why I was stunned is because of the shocking and horrible racism I witnessed over the years, most of it displayed by Mom.  She did not like African-American people at all and would honk her car horn at any black person who dared to be seen in Mission Hills. It was embarrassing to be in the car with her when she would try to intimidate and frighten them. She had no problem shouting out the N word at them.  Based on her bad behavior, I could not imagine Mom allowing any African-American person in our house.  It just didn't make any kind of sense to me.  We never spoke of Mrs. Nash again.  That is my only knowledge of this person.  But Lynda knows much, much more.

Here is Lynda's memory of when Mom used hired help on Eagle Street:

" We often had ladies come in and do housework in the 50s.  We had many Mexican women, but none of them stayed for too long. Mrs. Nash stayed with us for quite a while.  Now keep in mind that I was between the ages of 5 and 9 when Mrs. Nash was working at our house.  So it was about 1953 to 1956 or so. She didn't seem old when I knew her.  She was tall and heavy set.  Mom wouldn't allow her to use the front door, so she arrived through our side door, which opened into a tiny room with laundry tubs and then into the kitchen.  Mom loved having a cleaning lady.  She called Mrs. Nash "Nanny."

Mrs. Nash made us breakfast.  Most of the time she made pancakes but sometimes she made some kind of hot mush cereal.  It was probably grits, but we didn't call it that. Then she cleaned the house, did the laundry, and took care of us little kids.  She was very fond of little Darwin, who was a toddler at the time.  She combed my hair and fixed my clothes. Sometimes Mrs. Nash would tell us stories and sing us songs that we never heard before or since. I was so young I can't recall particulars, but looking back, I am sure they were passed down through her family.  I think Mom could see that she had a way with us, and it kind of bothered her.  Mom wouldn't let us eat lunch with her.  Mom would shoo us outside and Mrs. Nash would eat her lunch alone.

Mrs. Nash worked very hard to keep the house clean.  Mom always insisted that she get on her hands and knees to scrub the floors.  Mrs. Nash washed the walls and windows too.  Our house was spotless during this time.  Even though she worked hard, Mom was not very nice to her.  She yelled at her and I think sometimes she didn't pay her what she was owed.  I remember Mrs. Nash needed bus fare to get back home, and Mom didn't want to give it to her.

There were a few times that Mrs. Nash was very sick but she still came to Eagle Street and spent the day taking care of little Darwin, Skip and Me, and cleaning the house.  And Mom still treated her badly.  One time, Mrs. Nash had to bring her little girl with her.  I was excited to have a girl my age in the house to play with, but Mom told me not to touch or go near the girl.

Tim picked up on Mom's racism and cruelty.  He was very disrespectful to Mrs. Nash, and told Mom he wanted to get his own maid when he grew up.  He would accuse Mrs. Nash of not doing her job.  For instance, after she made up our beds, Tim messed them up and then told Mom that Mrs. Nash didn't make the beds.  Skippy never let him get away with it, and he told Mom that Tim was lying, that he messed up the beds after Mrs. Nash fixed them.  Tim didn't get in trouble for lying, but Skippy got beat up by Tim for ratting him out.

Mrs. Nash started coming over less and less and soon was not coming at all.  Mom drove us down to her house a couple of times to try to convince her to come back.  She lived in a very bad part of town, somewhere close to National City.  Mom tried to butter her up, using us kids to get to her heart.  Especially little Darwin.  She told her how much Darwin missed her.  But, on her turf, our former nanny was tougher than she was when she was on Eagle Street.  My last memory of Mrs. Nash was of her walking over to the car, looking in the back seat where we were sitting, and telling us she loved us and would always remember us.  I don't have one bad memory of that lady.  She had dignity and class, and a great deal of patience.

When I think of Mrs. Nash today, I recall a very kind and badly treated woman.  I wish I had been mature enough, when I got older, to look her up and say thank you to her."


I am so glad Lynda shared the story of Mrs. Nash.  This is one of many shameful dramas that was witnessed by the walls of 4071 Eagle Street.