photo by Jane Bell Goldstein
Hamburgers to Go
by Margaret Liddell
Mom holds our hands, one child on each side of her, swinging her arms. I’m excited to be going on an errand with her. This uptown is very different from Detroit. No streetcars clanging and rumbling along tracks, no giant skyscrapers touching the sky. The clock tower on the Ross County Courthouse at Main and Paint Streets is the tallest structure in town. In 1951, Chillicothe folks go uptown to try on black leather shoes, look at new spring dresses in Schachne’s window, and buy underwear at J.C. Penny’s. No one rushes. People amble along and say hi to each other. It seems like a friendly place.
At the phone company on East Main Street, Mom orders a phone, fills out forms, and pays a deposit. We leave and walk to Paint Street to head home. Across the alley from Saint Mary’s Catholic Church, we spot a place that looks like a diner where they sell hamburgers real cheap.
“Let’s stop for some hamburgers.” Mom smiles at us. It’s a perfect thing to do on a warm sunny day in this new Chillicothe town.
My four-year-old brother and I troop behind her into a white-tiled, squat building with blue canvas awnings surrounding the windows, daring sunshine to disturb customers sitting inside. A string bean woman in a starched pink uniform waits behind a Formica counter. A question mark forms on the wrinkles and creases of her face while Mom looks at the menu: breakfast, lunch, sandwiches, pie and ice cream.
“Can I help you?” her Ohio Valley twang slides out from thin red lips.
“Three hamburgers,” Mom says nonchalantly.
We sit on the stools at the counter waiting. A few minutes later, the waitress with a hairnet covering her tired straggly hair puts a paper sack on the counter.
“Here’s your burgers.”
“But I didn’t order anything to go,” Mom replies in her agitated voice.
“Well, you can’t eat here. You’re colored.”
You can’t eat here. You’re colored. My mother shoots off fireworks like it’s the Fourth of July. Tiny streams of sweat pop out on her forehead; her eyes scream with rage. Injustice rips through the small diner and smacks Alice Hodgen in the face. I look over at Mom’s anger and don’t quite understand what’s going on.
“What the hell are you talking about? My children want to sit down and eat a damn hamburger!”
With one swooping motion of her arm, Mom sweeps everything off the counter. Straws, utensils and a white bag tumble through the air and land on the black and white checkered floor. Glass containers of sugar, salt and pepper bounce off red Naugahyde stools. A couple of white customers sipping coffee at the counter dodge the flying objects and stare at Mom with disbelief. The waitress stands speechless. Her silence says get out!
Without looking back, Mom grabs our hands. As we push through the heavy glass door, the bells of Saint Mary’s Church begin their chime to signal God’s presence in Chillicothe.
My brother and I trail behind trying to keep up with Mom’s fury as she strides down Paint Street wondering out loud if she made the right decision to move here.
At the phone company on East Main Street, Mom orders a phone, fills out forms, and pays a deposit. We leave and walk to Paint Street to head home. Across the alley from Saint Mary’s Catholic Church, we spot a place that looks like a diner where they sell hamburgers real cheap.
“Let’s stop for some hamburgers.” Mom smiles at us. It’s a perfect thing to do on a warm sunny day in this new Chillicothe town.
My four-year-old brother and I troop behind her into a white-tiled, squat building with blue canvas awnings surrounding the windows, daring sunshine to disturb customers sitting inside. A string bean woman in a starched pink uniform waits behind a Formica counter. A question mark forms on the wrinkles and creases of her face while Mom looks at the menu: breakfast, lunch, sandwiches, pie and ice cream.
“Can I help you?” her Ohio Valley twang slides out from thin red lips.
“Three hamburgers,” Mom says nonchalantly.
We sit on the stools at the counter waiting. A few minutes later, the waitress with a hairnet covering her tired straggly hair puts a paper sack on the counter.
“Here’s your burgers.”
“But I didn’t order anything to go,” Mom replies in her agitated voice.
“Well, you can’t eat here. You’re colored.”
You can’t eat here. You’re colored. My mother shoots off fireworks like it’s the Fourth of July. Tiny streams of sweat pop out on her forehead; her eyes scream with rage. Injustice rips through the small diner and smacks Alice Hodgen in the face. I look over at Mom’s anger and don’t quite understand what’s going on.
“What the hell are you talking about? My children want to sit down and eat a damn hamburger!”
With one swooping motion of her arm, Mom sweeps everything off the counter. Straws, utensils and a white bag tumble through the air and land on the black and white checkered floor. Glass containers of sugar, salt and pepper bounce off red Naugahyde stools. A couple of white customers sipping coffee at the counter dodge the flying objects and stare at Mom with disbelief. The waitress stands speechless. Her silence says get out!
Without looking back, Mom grabs our hands. As we push through the heavy glass door, the bells of Saint Mary’s Church begin their chime to signal God’s presence in Chillicothe.
My brother and I trail behind trying to keep up with Mom’s fury as she strides down Paint Street wondering out loud if she made the right decision to move here.