"The Help" movie

teriwtt
Wed, 27 Jul 2011 16:23:16 +0000

I am so, so hesitant to see the movie, because, as others said, I don’t want them to have screwed it up.

After I read the book, I was just heartbroken. I, also, grew up in the south in the 60s. I remember a black maid that used to come to our house, but I don’t know how many days a week, maybe just one or two. Her name was Jean, and she even came to my baby shower for my oldest kid. It would absolutely kill me if I ever found out my mom did not let Jean use the bathrooms in the house… at least I KNOW we didn’t have a separate black bathroom. This house that we lived in until I was 12, was very, very small. In fact, I remember being in a crib in my parents room until I was 2 1/2 and my oldest brother left for college. So I could never quite figure out why my mom had help. But I guess having three boys in the house created a lot of laundry! I don’t remember at what point Jean stopped coming, but I don’t ever remember her being at our newer, larger house. At that point, though, I was the only one left at home with my parents, so maybe it was easier for my mom.

One story that distinctly stands out to me, though, that has haunted me for much of my life, dealt with my grandmother. She lived in Lake Charles, Louisiana, but would come to visit for a few days a few times a year. She had a third-grade education and had my dad at 18. Some guy who we all thought was our grandfather (although he died before I was born) married her to ‘make things proper’, but as the story was told years later (neither my mom or dad ever spoke of any of this - my oldest brother learned about it from my grandmother directly) it appears as if, every time he looked at my dad, he was reminded of the man my grandmother had gotten pregnant by, making for a miserable relationship between he and my dad. Anyway, this was my grandmother’s experience and she was a very typical uneducated, but bigoted person. During the summer time, I occasionally would leave a note for our mailman (who walked door to door - no mailboxes at the street) to ring the doorbell when he got to our house, and I’d bring him a glass of cold water, or lemonade. He was always so, so appreciative and sincere, and it made me feel good. One day when my grandmother was visiting (my mom was out running errands) and she saw me talking to the black mailman at the door, she freaked out. She told me to come inside, then laid into me about how I shouldn’t be opening the door to black men, that who knows what he might do. So she attached shame to what I thought was a good deed, something that made me feel good. I’ll have to say from that day on, I lost a lot of respect for my grandmother, something to this day, one of my brothers feels like was cruel of me to do.

So I definitely have an infinity toward the stories of how black people were trying to transition to a more accepting world during the 60s. And I don’t know how I’d like it if I feel I’m being manipulated by a movie, just for ratings!