Legacies
Black as soothing nightfall,
after white summer sunlight, Carrie
cared for the blonde granddaughter
of Mister William, delighting in her,
daily telling the child stories
of Joe DiMaggio, the way he rounded
second base like liquid light, and
later of Mickey Mantle flying too close
to the sun, but what speed, what
power in the wrists, always omitting
from the tale the Jim Crow section
of the stands from which she
watched. She helped the little girl
grow, gain footing in a swirling world,
maybe hoping the great-grandson
someday far off will take to baseball,
and to baseball games take his children,
children who might hear histories
told of Bud Fowler and Moses Fleetwood
Walker, Satchel Paige, Cool Papa Bell,
and Jack Roosevelt Robinson, even later still
attempting to understand that simple answers
cannot begin to explain complicated legacies.
Who was Carrie Turner?
This photo was taken somewhere around the year 1946, in Boonville, Missouri. The adult pictured is Carrie; the older girl is my mother, Nancy, with her cousin, Christi. Having dug itself deep inside me, I'm afraid the photograph captures all the intricacies of race in America.
Carrie loved Joe DiMaggio and the New York Yankees. She passed this love to my mother, when my mother was a girl in mid 20th century America, as her caregiver. I, myself, have always loved the Brooklyn Dodgers of that same era, and Jackie Robinson. Throughout my life, hearing stories of Carrie, I have wanted her to love Jackie, not DiMaggio. I worry now that I should not do this. I should trust Carrie to choose her own team, not mine, for her own reasons, not mine, all these decades later.
A tower of strength and pride and stability and intelligence, with a mind of her own, Carrie lived in an age rigged against her. Her options were limited due to institutional racism, yet her influence on my mother was immense in so many ways, which was passed down to me, and then on to my children. She also passed down the amazing game of baseball, whether or not she chose Jackie or Joe.