Stories from my heart/Rita Adair
Lady Red and my mom
       Our whole family was so excited in 1960 when my father was asked to work for WWF,as a professional
wrestler. He was given the name Sailor Art Thomas and we were all off to live in Queens, New York. With a
family of five children and a wife who embraced the idea of New York City, we were on our way. At home in
Madison, Wisconsin, we were comfortable and blessed to have a large extended family and many friends.
During the ‘60s being an interracial couple with five children was challenging enough. From my heart, I am
filled with stories of the adventures I gained and the desire to share.
      Queens, New York was very different fromn Baird Street in Madison. Baird Street was full of diverse
families, grass front yards, children playing in the streets, parents talking, and everyone knowing each other.
Baird Street had trees that touched each other, creating what seemed like a dome covering us. It gave us the
shade needed on hot summer days and carried a blanket of snow over our heads in the winter. This new
block in the Queens had very few trees, very little grass and trash pilled high. The smells were of hot grease,
hot combs and dry air, and everyone keeping to themselves on front stoops. I missed Baird Street, my friends,
riding my bike, walking the tracks to Franklin School, stopping at Ms. Jenkins’ for candy and everybody
knowing who I was. In Queens, nobody knew me. I sat on the front stoop and watched people walk by our flat
all day long. I couldn’t leave the yard and my bike was left in Wisconsin. So, my play was limited to my closest
sibling, in my house and the stoop.
But there was one neighbor who stopped by most days and said hello to me. I called her Lady Red, because she wore red often. But she told me
to address her as Ms. B. She was the age of my mother and always gave me a piece of hard candy. I enjoyed our talks about New York City and
Motown music, her sweet perfume smells, fancy clothes and gloves. Back home, no one wore gloves, furs, seamed stockings and hats, except
at church and funerals. Ms. B made me want something more — to be a lady when I grow up.
        One Friday evening, I was watching Lady Red’s house. A man came up onto her porch and was banging on the door. I knew that she was
home, because she answered the door for the other man who came to visit earlier. The next thing I knew, Lady Red opened the door and told him
to go away. He dropped to his knees and starting crying. She told him to stand up and be a man … then went back inside and slammed the door.
I never told my dad or mom about Ms. B’s house, our conversations or the hard candy. I wasn’t allowed to talk to strangers and be in adult folks’
business. I didn’t understand what really happened on the porch that evening, but the next day, she came to our house and knocked on the door. I
remember wanting to hide, because she might tell my mother about our talks and the candy. Instead, she apologized for the scene on her porch
and asked my mother if she could talk with me.
        Ms. B. told me that men would say and do things, just to be in your company. Never let a man decide whose company you keep or his tears
change your mind. She told me to always be a lady, wear red as often as I like and hold my head up high. As she was talking to me I could feel
my head rising higher and the smile on my face getting larger. I now knew all I had to know about being a lady. Then, Ms. B told my mother that
she didn’t have any White girl friends in New York, and my White mother told her she didn’t have any White girlfriends in New York either. They
laughed and everyday I sat in the kitchen with lady Red and my mother listening to their stories.
Rita Adair