Our Girl’s Day Out was delightful as we attended a matinee showing of “The Secret Life of Bees” this past Saturday here in Charleston. Given the afternoon forecast of clearing skies, we thought that a matinee would be less crowded since the movie had opened the week before. With beautiful weather bursting through the clouds after torrential rains the day before, we thought that the last place anyone would want to be on a Saturday was indoors. We could not have been more mistaken. As my daughter, partner, and I shared popcorn, the theater gradually filled to our amazement and delight. The only seats unfilled were three seats in the very front row. Amid whispered voices, it became apparent that most had just heard the news about the tragedy of grievous loss for Jennifer Hudson. This afternoon audience, equally Caucasian and African-American, consisted predominantly of women between the ages of 40 to 60-plus, although a few husbands gave up watching college football games to accompany their wives (BRAVO!). As the movie progressed, the audience remained quiet and enraptured, the silence being broken only by the trickling of tears and sniffling as the pathos being played out on the big screen unfolded. However, there was a rumble of chuckles during the classic scene wherein all three very determined women (Rosaleen, August, & June) stood in the doorway and confronted T. Ray Owens in protective defense of the child they all loved unconditionally.

Although Dakota Fanning & Queen Latifah were superb in the leading roles, Sophie Okonedo in the role of May certainly deserves an Oscar nod. Her portrayal of May was undoubtedly exactly as Sue Monk Kidd had written it. The nuanced performance of May’s emotional fragility and extreme & overwhelming sensitivity and her inability to survive in a world where the tragedy of senseless loss was unfathomable to her is certainly an Oscar-deserving performance.

Each of the other strong female roles served as a composite character that reached into my heart each time they were on the screen. From the quiet dignity and graceful strength of August, to the independent spirit and strong will of June, and to the resilience, determination and commitment of Rosaleen (aka “July”), I realized once again that I had had my own personal Boatwright sisters embodied by one dear sweet childhood caregiver and friend. As I sat there re-experiencing all the emotions I felt while reading the book a few years ago, memories of my own upbringing in the heart of Georgia during the 1950’s & 1960’s as the expression “civil rights” permeated my childhood came cascading over me. I was 15 when LBJ signed the Civil Rights bill, at which time I was quite naïve about and not entirely sure “what all the fuss was about” as it was simply common sense to me. My earliest memories were contrary to what most of my peers experienced. My mother was one of the original “working moms” by necessity (the only one in our neighborhood), so I was essentially raised by our beloved Christine, an African-American woman who took care of my older sister, me, and ultimately, my baby brother. Back then, she simply referred to herself as our maid, but she was always considered a part of our family. When we lived in subsidized government housing, Christine lived across the highway in segregated government housing. She walked to work except in bad weather when my father drove over and picked her up. Christine was the first person I saw every weekday morning when I woke up to the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen as she prepared a hot breakfast for my sister and me before she walked my sister to school with me tagging along. Then every afternoon, Christine and I walked back to the edge of the school yard and waited there to walk my sister home. Eventually we were able to move out of government housing, so my father would pick Christine up at 6:45AM every weekday morning as she remained in the “projects”. Christine had significant problems with asthma and occasionally would ask my father to drive her to the ER to get her “breathing shot” on the way back to our house. On those days, Christine would still fix our meals (the only time we ever had a cold breakfast of cereal), but spent the rest of the day simply trying to breathe by leaning over the ironing board to help ease her respiratory effort as she was determined to make sure we were watched over. I remember trying very hard to be on my best behavior whenever Christine was having a “bad breathing day.” On the days she was simply too ill to leave home, she would send her adult daughter, Daisy Mae, to take care of us. Her nickname for me was “Sweet Pea” as I was small enough to fit into a shoe box when I was born. I was a bit of a tomboy, but Christine always reminded me that I was a young lady first and should “sit & act like one.” My father always insisted that we respond to her with “Yes, Ma’am” or “No, Ma’am”, and she made sure that we always showed respect to any adult when addressing them, irrespective of gender or race.

Although my father was not without his ‘redneck’ ways at times, he was always very protective of Christine. The “N” word was never used in our home. When she was finally able to move out of the projects, my father helped her get a rental home. From the beginning, he had insisted on paying into Social Security for her for as long as she took care of us. As a result, after she “retired”, she was able to draw on Social Security that otherwise would have eluded her. When my parents moved “out to the country” and had a one-acre vegetable garden, my father would drive into town to bring Christine to our house to share in the bounty. We sat in the family room shelling peas and shucking corn while trading “remember when” stories about our escapades as children and how she always knew what we were up to despite our best fabrications to the contrary– a veritable Norman Rockwell painting! When I got married in 1970, Christine was escorted by my brother to the family pews and seated directly behind my mother. When my father unexpectedly died, Christine was there to mourn with the family. Who would have ever imagined that she would have outlived my father? The last time I saw Christine was the day she spent with us on my first trip home after my daughter was born. My brother had driven into town to bring Christine to our house for dinner. Of course, the first thing she said as I handed her my 4-month-old daughter to hold was: “Oh, my Lord, let me hug that new little Sweet Pea!” And, you guessed it, the name stuck throughout my daughter’s childhood. And now that I am a new grandmother, I can’t help but smile with an occasional tear when I hear my daughter automatically calling my 3-month old grandson “my little Sweet Pea”….some traditions are just too good not to pass on. From "The Secret Life of Bees" to “The Secret Life of Sweet Peas!”

what a cool posting!! Thanks for it all, and the story of your own family. How special!!!

See you soon, on the ship! Ett

Mint Julep...you are one special lady. Thank you for sharing the movie and part of your life. I will be thinking of you on the Birthday Bash. In the near future I hope to see you and your wonderful partner at another fanastic concert by Suede. How about the 3rd of January 2009 in PTown?