A Lesson in a Quilt

Barack Obama at the Virginia Beach Convention Center in February 2008


On the eve of an historic presidential inauguration and on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I sit in amazement- and thanksgiving- for the great strides our nation has made regarding prejudice and racism. Yes, there's still much to be done, but the election of our country's first African-American president is most certainly a step in the right direction and confirmation of the thawing of prejudices.

The story printed below is one I wrote a couple of years ago when was a guest columnist for our daily newspaper. Due to a lack of space, it was one of my few submissions that did not publish. It's a true story that is very near and dear to my heart; and while it's a bit lengthy, I hope you enjoy it and find your own meaning in it.



The faded patchwork quilt that covers my reading table holds one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned.

Crafted by the hands of the only grandmother figure I’ve ever known, it features an array of colorful squares that perfectly fit together to form one big rectangle of many patterns. Fortunately, the lesson that lies within the stitching of the squares is a lesson I learned at an early age, and I credit the quilt’s maker with having shaped my attitude toward humanity.

She told me that the quilt represented the world and that all the little squares were the different people who live here.

Miss Gladys became my first care provider and teacher when I was two years old and my mother returned to work. It was the early 1960s, and day care options were limited in our small, predominantly white southern town. Most working mothers either left their children with grandparents, or they hired someone to keep house and maintain a watchful eye on the youngsters.

My mother didn’t want a housekeeper. Even after a long day at work, she preferred to cook her own meals and to clean our house. She never entertained the idea of having a cleaning lady or a cook. She simply wanted a good provider and teacher for her daughter, and she found both in Miss Gladys, an African American minister’s widow.

The hundreds of days I spent with this somewhat simple woman left me with permanently etched life lessons, lessons that I hoped I’ve instilled in my own children. I still have the many books she read to me. The worn copy of The Princess and the Pea bears my name written in her handwriting. She read Bible stories aloud, and attempted to teach my young mind what they meant. The black baby doll she presented to me when I was four years old found a home with all my white dolls, and I named her Gladys. She was my favorite doll, and I wrapped her in the brightly colored patchwork quilt.

I’ll never forget one hot summer afternoon when our garbage collector and his crew came by on their weekly pick up schedule. Miss Gladys opened a pack of cookies my mother had bought, made some instant lemonade; and we all sat under the big shade tree in my front yard, munching vanilla crème cookies and chugging the cold, sweet beverage. Mine was the only white face in the group. Having a snack under a tree with these men whom I’d only seen riding on a garbage truck was, in my young mind, a pretty cool thing.

My earliest memory of pure pride stems from a particular Sunday when my father and I accompanied Miss Gladys to church. She’d invited him to speak about his experiences as a prisoner of war; and as he spoke from the pulpit, I proudly stood next to my surrogate grandmother, holding her hand. She joyfully introduced me to all her friends, referring to me as her “baby.” I recall her and her fellow congregants clapping their hands to the music and seemingly having a grand time. It was a very different experience from the style of worship in my own church; and to this day, I have a deep affection for African-American spirituals.

When I started grade school, Miss Gladys retired. I visited her quite often, but as I grew older and started spending more time with my friends, my visits dwindled to yearly Christmas callings. She always made a big deal out of the presents I gave her, making me feel as though I had chosen the one gift she wanted more than anything. She often asked me if I still had my quilt.

As a young mother, I allowed each of my sons to use the little quilt as he wished. Sometimes it served as a place for playing with Legos. Other times it was a cover for the toy box. And it was always a special cloth for teaching my sons about the wonderful diversity of the human race and how we all fit together.

Several years ago, I saw Miss Gladys for the last time. She had fallen and broken a hip and had ended up in a nursing home. The years had taken their toll on her once keen mind, and she was lying in bed with her eyes shut when my sons and I stepped quietly into her room. I spoke to her, never mentioning my name, but simply telling her that one of her biggest fans was by her bed. Her daughter finally asked, “Don’t you know who that is?” The lady who had been my first teacher took a large gulp of air, swallowed, and said, “Why, that’s my baby, Amy.”

Two months later, at age 102, she departed this life.

I’ve often wondered about the trials and prejudices she endured in her century of living. I feel pretty confident that she handled whatever came her way with dignity and grace, but I’m sure there was much heartache on her journey of being a black woman who looked beyond skin color. I think of her every day of my life, but more so during this month that celebrates her heritage.

The saber arch that put the finishing touch on my son’s wedding last May was a beautiful blending of mixed heritages, much like the multi-colored squares in my quilt. The six army officers who formed the passageway for the newlyweds were African American, Caucasian, and Hispanic, all friends of the groom. The best man was a young black man who had been Jamie’s best friend in high school.

A colleague who viewed a photo of this event remarked, “You’ve raised that boy right.”

Hopefully, I did raise him right.

After all, I had a wonderful early teacher who demonstrated on a daily basis—and through the making of a quilt-- that we are so much more than the color of our skin.