Wild Blue Ponders

ALBERTA’S KITCHEN The outside door to the kitchen opened and in walked Pewee followed by a man who may not have been the devil, but in the eyes of more than a few here in east Alabama came as close as a mere mortal could. It was the Black Muslim, Samuel Houston. Alberta had never heard of a Black Muslim. That was about to change. Pewee did the introductions. “Big Sam, meet Shorty Spooner.” Houston extended his hand and looked for Shorty’s eyes. Shorty’s eyes remained aimed at his coffee cup and his butt remained glued to his seat at the table. He offered a somewhat reluctant hand to the man Pewee had at last persuaded him to meet. “What’s a Black Muslim?” Shorty had no time for small talk. Fine by him. Samuel Houston took an immediate liking to Shorty. No threatening eyeball confrontations; no foolish questions about personal wants, needs or feelings. Nothing but business. Fair enough. A straight question deserved a straight answer. Samuel Houston took the pulpit. “I am a Black Muslim and this is what I believe.” He walked to the far side of the room away from the heat of the stove and took a stance facing his small but interested congregation. “The white race has been put on this earth for no other reason than to make life miserable for the black race. For the sake of his honor the black man must fight with every ounce of his strength to turn this around. The black man must make life miserable for the white man no matter what.” “Black Muslims believe, and I believe, the white race has invented the idea that a white savior named Jesus Christ was sent down to Earth by a white God named Jehovah, and that this Christ came with a set of rules that only bring misery and degradation to the black man. Alberta the cook didn’t believe that, and what’s more she could hardly believe that such sacrilege was being spouted in her kitchen. “Now hold on there preacher man. Alberta don’ allow no blasphemy in her kitchen. The Lord Jesus Christ is present in this room,” she pointed to a crucifix hanging on the wall. “He is the hope of the world, and anyone who say different got to be the devil or the devil’s helper.” She picked up a large iron skillet from the stove top and took a threatening step toward Samuel Houston. Houston backed away, his hands crossed in front of his face in mock alarm. “Don’t hit me, Mammy. I’m here to help you.” Alberta was indignant. “Who says ah need any help? And who gives you the right to call me Mammy? Mah name is Alberta. A fine Christian name. Christ is mah savior, you hear dat, mister?” “I know, I know,” Houston was backed into a corner, scrambling for a way out of the mess he had created without receiving a cracked head from the infuriated Alberta. “A fine Christian name. Alberta,” Houston agreed. “A fine Christian name. Well now, Miz Alberta, If you don’t need any help, can I ask you to help me? I can use a lot of help.” “Ah do believe that, preacher man,” Alberta lowered her skillet. Helping was something she liked to do; even if it came for a man who only moments before had defiled her kitchen with words straight out of the devil’s handbook. Helping was what Christians did. “Somewhere along the line you has lost yore way, you sorry sucker. The path of righteousness is straight and narrow, and you has stumbled into a deep and dangerous ditch.” “Miz Alberta,” Houston began his comeback with a proper tone of respect. “Miz Alberta,” he repeated after he noted a softening around her eyes. “May I tell you about a man that millions of your black sisters and brothers believe is . . .” he started to say, as holy as Jesus Christ, but hesitated in deference to the iron skillet Alberta continued to hold by her side. He sighed deeply and sank wearily into a chair at the table. Houston cleared his throat and began again. “Miz Alberta, I do need your help. I need you to help me understand why in this sanctified world, you and me and all our black brothers and sisters must be treated like pigs in a barnyard by people whose only claim to superiority is the color of their skin. Why is that, Miz Alberta?” Alberta knew very well what Samuel Houston was talking about, but she had carved a niche for herself in this white-dominated society, and she had no interest in any activities that might upset her hard-earned success. She would happily sit in the back of the bus if nobody took the trouble to interfere with her business interests. “Now look here, Mister. Ah don’t know what barnyards you been messin’ around in, but nobody been treatin’ me like a pig. Ah mind mah own business and pay proper reverence to mah white-skinned Lord, Jesus Christ. And dat’s da name of dat game.” Houston’s barnyard just got a bit more slippery. “What would you say, Miz Alberta, if I told you there was also a black-skinned Lord?” Alberta sniffed, “Huh.” But her curiosity was piqued. Houston saw her interest. “His name is Elijah Mohammed, he is alive today, and he gets his orders straight from the mouth of God Almighty.” “Who say God got a mouth?” Alberta had done some thinking about the concept of God. She had decided that the idea of man being created in God’s image was wrong. She was a long way from settling on what form, if any, God actually took, but she knew it was not anything like man. In this view she was far ahead of Sam Houston and anyone else in the room.