Florence's Legacy (standard:drama, 2003 words)
Author: ak	Added: Jul 02 2003	Views/Reads: 3636/2433	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
On her 102nd birthday, an African American woman shares her life secrets with a young stranger. Her remarkable history empowers the young man to strive for heights he had not imagined.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“Vicki, my daughter lives in Paris, She is a professor at the Sorbonne,
and Thomas is an engineer in Hanover, he married a German model,” They 
want to fly out with their children to see me,” Florence thought a 
moment.  “I know I am probably never going to see them again, but, I 
don't want them to go through the expense of the trip.” 

“They are extravagant enough already,” Florence said with pride. 
“Thomas sends me money every month.  “He knows my teacher's pension is 
pretty paltry, and he knows his dad's estate was nothing but unpaid 
bills,” she said with a hint of veiled sarcasm.  “Not his fault, it was 
the system that got us both, not his fault at all,” she said the later 
with tones of deep love and respect. 

“My husband has been dead for 20 years, he died when I was 81, and I
still think of him with love,” she reached for her water as she 
informed me of the latter. 

“So you are 101?” I asked incredulously. 

“To be precise, I'm 101 ½, tomorrow is my birthday, can I hear my
letters now?” she asked quietly. 

Dear Mother, 

My mind is made up; I am coming soon, I have booked a flight for the
10th.  I will be there soon.” Love, Thomas 

“Typical of an engineer,” Florence responded quickly, she went on, “ He
is lacking on literary skills,  although I tried to encourage him to 
write.  My grandchildren have the gift,” as after informing me of the 
latter, she indicated to a huge stack of letters near her bed. 

”Those are from Sarah and Marissa, my two grandchildren.  They live in
Germany too and are school teachers like I once was. And my grand 
children, well, the pendulum swung back, both girls are doctors and the 
only things they write are prescriptions,” Florence sighed heavily. 

“Do you mind my asking a personal question,” I interjected. Without
waiting for an answer I continued, “Why do both your children live 
abroad?” 

Florence's face became serious, “They hated the racism here. I guess I
learned to live with it, but they knew that even a black with the 
finest mind and education still earned less respect and income than the 
average white.” 

“My perspective was different.  My parents had been slaves, and I lived
under Jim Crow laws.  But I fought them; I didn't choose to be an 
expatriate, although at times it was an appealing notion.  Instead, 
even before the Civil Rights movement, I marched, picketed, wrote 
letters, and got arrested at least a dozen times.  I never wanted to 
sit in the back of the bus; it was just too crowded there.” 

Florence stated firmly,” When I became the first African American female
teacher in Alabama, I made it a point that the girls I taught aspired 
to be more than what society told them was acceptable.  From the 
letters I have gotten through the years, I guess some of them succeeded 
despite the system.  That and my children, grandchildren, and great 
grandchildren, is my legacy.” 

The last remark left me momentarily speechless.  I could visualize this
energetic woman in front of a class room.  I could see her cajoling, 
coaching, and encouraging her students to study and learn. 

“Oh, the second letter Mike, can you read that to me?”  “Diabetes has
robbed me of most of my vision, and the arthritis has made it hard to 
open letters.” She delivered this bit of information bereft of any self 
pity, and knowing of her infirmities did not diminish my sense of her 
intact inner fortitude. 

“Sure, sure,” I fumbled to open the letter from France. 

Dear Mama, 

How are you?  I know that the doctors are amazed you survived the last
stroke, but we all knew you would pull through.  My plane for Los 
Angeles leaves on the 19th and I should be there for your birthday on 
the 20th. All my love, Vicki. 

“Well, Mike, you will meet my family tomorrow,” declared Florence with a
hint of pride.  “You will like my grandson, Vicki's son is an athlete 
like you, and he rides in the Tour de France.” 

I was about to say,” Great,” but the rumble of the lunch cart obscured
my words.  Two attendants brought in our lunch trays.  Florence's was 
piled with meat loaf, a baked potato, a carton of milk, and a dish of 
green Jell-O. I had a similar unappetizing mixture. 

Neither one of us had much interest in our fare. 

“Florence, what if I call a buddy of mine and get him to get us
something good to eat? What would you like? It would be my treat,” I 
added. 

“Spinach salad and a roll, sounds good,” Florence reported back
promptly.  “Don't be surprised, did you think I got to be 101 by eating 
fried chicken and grits?” 

“Got it,” I was ashamed at my unintentional prejudice; I had been ready
to ask Paul to stop by KFC. 

“Done deal, Florence.” I stopped myself from calling her “Flo,” knowing
instantly that was the wrong thing to do. 

Florence had fallen asleep, and I my leg was beginning to hurt.  The
plaster cast chaffed my skin, and had kept me awake all night.  A nap 
was a good idea. 

By 4 o'clock Paul arrived with a salad and roll for my new friend and a
veggie burger for me. He had another appointment so he left us after 
some small talk. 

I buzzed Gene and asked to be put in a wheelchair so that I could help
Florence eat.  He immediately obliged, and apologized again for not 
having time to feed her. 

Florence continued to tell me about her parents and her life.  Her
stories of lynched relative and friends, African American's homes and 
churches burnt to cinders, and relentless prejudice transfixed me. 

The flight of the first commercial airplane, the start of the World War
I, the inescapable poverty of the Great Depression, the horrors of 
World War II, and the irrationality of the Cold War loomed vividly in 
front of me as she placed herself in their context.  It was like 
opening the pages of an illustrated history book.  I had never been so 
mesmerized by the words of another, and I would never again be. 

That night I had a series of phantom like dreams about Florence's
amazing life.  In those dreams I saw her as a young girl, quiet, 
competent, smart, and strong. 

Early the next morning we were awakened by a team of doctors and
residents, armed with clip boards and pens, who were briskly conducting 
Grand Rounds.  My orthopedic surgeon told me that I had at least 
another week in the hospital. Following that, I would need a month of 
physical therapy.  They estimated I could be back on a bike in 3 
months. 

Florence's prognosis for recovery was less definitive. All her major
organs were failing, and her cardiologist knew it was not medical 
science, but her unique blend of tenacity, intellect, and sheer will 
kept her alive.  All her doctor could do was continue to monitor her 
and keep her hydrated and comfortable.  Some EKGs and tests were 
scheduled, and her doctor left. 

I sensed she needed strength to make it to through today, her 102nd
birthday.  I vowed to let her get some rest. I just had to ask one more 
question. 

“Happy Birthday, Florence, what gift can I give you?” “I will get you
anything you ask.” I promised. 

“Just promise you will make this a better world.  That is all I want,
just tell me you will be the best you can be, and you will encourage 
others to do the same.  Say you will set the highest personal 
standards, and that you will live up to those standards. Promise me you 
will always be kind to those in need. That is all I want for my 
birthday.” 

My friend added one more sad request, “Mike, tell my family, when they
arrive, how much they meant to me. Let them know their love kept me 
alive. Please tell them they are my legacy of learning and love.” 

Before I could promise Florence I would carry out her words, before I
could tell her I too would endeavor to become part of her legacy, my 
friend left me for good. 

“Happy birthday Florence,” I said tearfully, and braced myself for the
challenge of fulfilling the promises I had made. 


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