When I Was a Child I Thought as a Child

Abstract

Papa used to sit up late at night before an inlaid, rosewood writing desk with King Solomon's Book of Numerology lying open face down in his lap. Each night he would fall asleep this way dreaming of our fates. Asleep across the room in the big canopied bed, my mother, Mariah as I later came to call her, would lie with her back to Papa, and the sheet drawn up over her curly dyed-blonde head. She too was grateful, and therefore had learned to sleep with the lights on and to live in a kind of harmony with this deeply superstitious man (he was twenty-six years her senior), who wore around his neck and ankles good luck charms to ward off evil spirits. I can see Papa now cigar ashes spilt all down the front of his blue silk bathrobe. is peering at me over the gold metal of his wire-rimmed glasses. His broad face is set in a fierce expression, his chin trembles, Mind you never forget that you should be grateful for everything. he repeats, as he waves his thick-fingered hand indicating our entire surroundings and the light catches the glint of gold from his diamond and sapphire Masonic ring. know, he would say, arching his eyebrows, threatening me, He giveth and taketh away too. You don't want to forget that. Everything Papa said was like religion to me. The truth of what he said was in evidence all around us. The ornately carved antique furniture like the Eighteenth Century French writing-desk, the Empire styled canopied bed, the Oriental rugs on the floors, even the floors themselves, parquet, and the walls of this top floor apartment of a ten-story building; all of this property and the two other apartment buildings next to it, also our Pierce Arrow car, were all a part of Papa's inheritance from Mrs. Beth Middleton, the rich white woman for whom he had worked as a chauffeur for thirty-three years. Papa's wealth, taking him by surprise, had descended upon his life, an avalanche of fortune. It was both a terrifying and glorious experience that left Papa awed by what he pereceived as the magic of God's power. Even in 1935 it was unthinkable that a Negro, particularly an uneducated one such as Papa, could own so much property where he did. The three buildings we owned, which were adjoined by a large courtyard, made up a complex known as The Carlton Apartments. Situated at the corner of 21st and S Streets Northwest, Washington, D.C., they were one block west of Connecticut Avenue, just a few blocks away from the edge of old Georgetown. With its tree-lined streets, its cobbled sidewalks, and tall hedges bordering the front yards of these old elegant houses, this was one of the city's finest old residen-