out of this house in fifteen years is because I do not want to see or be
seen by a nigger." Mom and Dad had always forbidden us to use that
word. It was much worse than any curse word, they told us. But since
Erma was my grandmother, I never said anything when she used it.
Erma kept stirring the beans. "Keep this up and people are going to think
you're a nigger lover," she said.
She gave me a serious look, as if imparting a meaningful life lesson I
should ponder and absorb. She unscrewed the cap from her bottle of
hooch and took a long, contemplative swallow.
As I watched her drinking, I felt this pressure building in my chest and I
had to let it out. "You're not supposed to use that word," I said.
Erma's face went slack with astonishment.
"Mom says they're just like us," I continued. "except they have different
complexions."
Erma glared at me. I thought she was going to backhand me, but instead
she said, "You ungrateful little shit. I'll be damned if you're eating my
food tonight. Get your worthless ass down to the basement."
Lori gave me a hug when she heard I'd told off Erma. Mom was upset,
though. "We may not agree with all of Erma's views," she said, "but we
have to remember that as long as we're her guests, we have to be polite."
That didn't seem like Mom. She and Dad happily railed against anyone
they disliked or disrespected: Standard Oil executives, J. Edgar Hoover,
and especially snobs and racists. They'd always encouraged us to be
outspoken about our opinions. Now we were supposed to bite our
tongues. But she was right; Erma would boot us. Situations like these, I
realized, were what turned people into hypocrites.