| Biographical Non-Fiction posted August 15, 2013 | Chapters: |
...13 14 -15- 16... 
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Choices to return to work means hiring household help.
A chapter in the book Chasing the Elusive Dream
The Help
by BethShelby
Although it might appear I went back to work in 1965 for purely selfish reasons, such was not the case. I will admit escaping 24-hour-a-day toddler care was a bonus, but there were other considerations. The economy had suffered a major setback. The oil company, where my husband was employed as a draftsman, was in crisis. The drafting department employees were warned some of them would be leaving. With three children and a mortgage, we couldn't afford to lose an income.
From the beginning, Evan had a personality conflict with his immediate supervisor. My husband is a conscientious worker, but the sensitive side of his nature demands respect. His supervisor ran the department with the tact and temperament of a drill sergeant. His blunt and unrelenting criticism of the employees under him did little to make anyone feel secure. Since Evan had worked in the drafting department less time than most of the others, he was convinced the cutback would be used as an excuse let him go. I needed to find a job fast.
The employment ads offered nothing in the field of art. The only thing, which looked interesting, was an ad for a proofreader in one of the larger printing companies. I knew nothing about proofreading, but the back of the dictionary had a section on proofreading marks. I studied them and went in for an interview. I was given a galley proof to read and mark corrections. I did it with the expertise of an experienced proofreader and was hired on the spot. The next step was getting childcare for my three toddlers.
"I have the perfect solution for you," Lou Ellen, the office manager, told me. "My girls are old enough to stay by themselves. I'm going to have to let my maid go. She'll need a job. What if I send her to you?"
"A maid? I can't afford a maid. How much are you paying her?"
"Eighteen dollars a week. She is great with kids, does all my housework, and even prepares meals."
I was shocked. I'd never had household help, and I wasn't sure I wanted a stranger in my house, but it certainly sounded like an option. It would be better not having to drag the children out on frosty mornings.
"Sure, we'll give it a try and see how it works out," I told Lou Ellen.
This was Jackson, Mississippi. The time period and location was the same as the setting for the book, "The Help." One inaccuracy I've found in the book is that those maids were paid $40 per week. I find that hard to believe because the maids I came to know seemed content with half that much. Minimum wage was a dollar an hour. Maid service came under a different category, and minimum wage laws didn't apply.
Evan and I lived through the racial unrest of the sixties, and although injustices done in the name of maintaining traditional Southern values was all around us, we had our own problems and scarcely noticed what was taking place. Since our wedding, we'd not had any dealings with other races. Poverty and lack of education in most of the black community kept the races separated.
Lou Ellen's maid worked for us only a couple of weeks. She'd been offered another job paying a little more, but she had a friend who needed a job. The next week Mamie came. She was about my age and the children liked her immediately. Mamie was shy, and although I tried talking to her as I would a friend, we never seemed to get past the employer/employee stage in our relationship. She did whatever I asked, and things seemed to be working smoothly. It was great having a clean house when we came home from work.
At the printing company, when I revealed that I'd worked as an artist, I was assigned their artwork in addition to proofreading. The company was using an ad agency, but they were more than happy to turn the art and design work over to me.
I'd not been with the company but a couple of months when it was sold to another party. Changes were in the works. The new owners reorganized and over half the work force was dismissed. My fate hung in the balance. I was told to keep working, and they'd let me know when a final decision was made concerning my continued employment.
The company changed names and moved to a smaller location. I was assigned to do my work in the stripping department. There, I was trained in pre-press preparation. Now in addition to my earlier responsibilities, I worked in the darkroom stripping negatives into position on orange masking paper, and burning them onto aluminum offset plates. I learned every phase of the printing business, but was still labeled artist and proofreader. Since I was now proficient in many skills, I was able to keep my job.
In spite of his concerns, Evan kept his job as well, while many of his coworkers were left to find other employment. Just when everything seems to be going too smoothly, something is likely to change.
Mamie had continued to work for me for two years, and I had no complaints, Then one day, I came home and found Mamie in tears.
"Ms. Shelby, I can't works fo' you no mo'. Yo' son, he call me sumpin' what ain't my name."
"Mamie, what did he call you?"
"I ain't saying it. But I can't works here no more. It be sumpin' what ain't my name."
"Mamie, I'm so sorry. I'll get him to apologize, but I have to know what he called you. We don't use the "N" word around here. Surely it wasn't that. Can't you tell me?"
"No'm, I can't say it. It be sumpin' bad. You needs to get you a new maid. I ain't gonna be comin' back."
No amount of persuading would change her mind. Don was three. When I asked him, what he said to her, I got nowhere.
"What did you call her?" I pleaded. "I need to know. You've hurt her feelings."
"Nothin'" and "I don't know," was the most I could get from my son. I asked Carol who was almost five. "I didn't hear him call her anything," my daughter told me. "but I did see her shaking a sheet in his face and yelling. She said 'you thank you be white. This is white. You ain't white.'"
I never found out what was so objectionable. I could only assume he must have called her "black." That didn't seem so horrible, because it was time when the phrase, "Black is beautiful" was being used to refer the negro race. If he included the "N" word, it is possible he'd picked up from one of the kids in the neighborhood or even my dad. Dad was the Archie Bunker type who was prejudiced against all races. He was perfectly capable of using any derogatory term in his vocabulary.
I was disappointed to lose Mamie, but having a maid with the children had worked well, so I hired a new maid. Mary was a student at a nearby college. She was educated and more self-assured than Mamie had been. Mary and I did get to be friends, and we often got into interesting discussions about college courses, social issues or religion. The only problem was Mary wasn't dependable. Too many days, she called at the last minute to say something had come up, or she wasn't feeling well. I'd started using a daycare for times when Mary couldn't be there. Eventually, I ended up using them entirely. My days of dealing with 'the help' had come to an end.
As time would tell, the daycare too, had its drawbacks.
Although it might appear I went back to work in 1965 for purely selfish reasons, such was not the case. I will admit escaping 24-hour-a-day toddler care was a bonus, but there were other considerations. The economy had suffered a major setback. The oil company, where my husband was employed as a draftsman, was in crisis. The drafting department employees were warned some of them would be leaving. With three children and a mortgage, we couldn't afford to lose an income.
From the beginning, Evan had a personality conflict with his immediate supervisor. My husband is a conscientious worker, but the sensitive side of his nature demands respect. His supervisor ran the department with the tact and temperament of a drill sergeant. His blunt and unrelenting criticism of the employees under him did little to make anyone feel secure. Since Evan had worked in the drafting department less time than most of the others, he was convinced the cutback would be used as an excuse let him go. I needed to find a job fast.
The employment ads offered nothing in the field of art. The only thing, which looked interesting, was an ad for a proofreader in one of the larger printing companies. I knew nothing about proofreading, but the back of the dictionary had a section on proofreading marks. I studied them and went in for an interview. I was given a galley proof to read and mark corrections. I did it with the expertise of an experienced proofreader and was hired on the spot. The next step was getting childcare for my three toddlers.
"I have the perfect solution for you," Lou Ellen, the office manager, told me. "My girls are old enough to stay by themselves. I'm going to have to let my maid go. She'll need a job. What if I send her to you?"
"A maid? I can't afford a maid. How much are you paying her?"
"Eighteen dollars a week. She is great with kids, does all my housework, and even prepares meals."
I was shocked. I'd never had household help, and I wasn't sure I wanted a stranger in my house, but it certainly sounded like an option. It would be better not having to drag the children out on frosty mornings.
"Sure, we'll give it a try and see how it works out," I told Lou Ellen.
This was Jackson, Mississippi. The time period and location was the same as the setting for the book, "The Help." One inaccuracy I've found in the book is that those maids were paid $40 per week. I find that hard to believe because the maids I came to know seemed content with half that much. Minimum wage was a dollar an hour. Maid service came under a different category, and minimum wage laws didn't apply.
Evan and I lived through the racial unrest of the sixties, and although injustices done in the name of maintaining traditional Southern values was all around us, we had our own problems and scarcely noticed what was taking place. Since our wedding, we'd not had any dealings with other races. Poverty and lack of education in most of the black community kept the races separated.
Lou Ellen's maid worked for us only a couple of weeks. She'd been offered another job paying a little more, but she had a friend who needed a job. The next week Mamie came. She was about my age and the children liked her immediately. Mamie was shy, and although I tried talking to her as I would a friend, we never seemed to get past the employer/employee stage in our relationship. She did whatever I asked, and things seemed to be working smoothly. It was great having a clean house when we came home from work.
At the printing company, when I revealed that I'd worked as an artist, I was assigned their artwork in addition to proofreading. The company was using an ad agency, but they were more than happy to turn the art and design work over to me.
I'd not been with the company but a couple of months when it was sold to another party. Changes were in the works. The new owners reorganized and over half the work force was dismissed. My fate hung in the balance. I was told to keep working, and they'd let me know when a final decision was made concerning my continued employment.
The company changed names and moved to a smaller location. I was assigned to do my work in the stripping department. There, I was trained in pre-press preparation. Now in addition to my earlier responsibilities, I worked in the darkroom stripping negatives into position on orange masking paper, and burning them onto aluminum offset plates. I learned every phase of the printing business, but was still labeled artist and proofreader. Since I was now proficient in many skills, I was able to keep my job.
In spite of his concerns, Evan kept his job as well, while many of his coworkers were left to find other employment. Just when everything seems to be going too smoothly, something is likely to change.
Mamie had continued to work for me for two years, and I had no complaints, Then one day, I came home and found Mamie in tears.
"Ms. Shelby, I can't works fo' you no mo'. Yo' son, he call me sumpin' what ain't my name."
"Mamie, what did he call you?"
"I ain't saying it. But I can't works here no more. It be sumpin' what ain't my name."
"Mamie, I'm so sorry. I'll get him to apologize, but I have to know what he called you. We don't use the "N" word around here. Surely it wasn't that. Can't you tell me?"
"No'm, I can't say it. It be sumpin' bad. You needs to get you a new maid. I ain't gonna be comin' back."
No amount of persuading would change her mind. Don was three. When I asked him, what he said to her, I got nowhere.
"What did you call her?" I pleaded. "I need to know. You've hurt her feelings."
"Nothin'" and "I don't know," was the most I could get from my son. I asked Carol who was almost five. "I didn't hear him call her anything," my daughter told me. "but I did see her shaking a sheet in his face and yelling. She said 'you thank you be white. This is white. You ain't white.'"
I never found out what was so objectionable. I could only assume he must have called her "black." That didn't seem so horrible, because it was time when the phrase, "Black is beautiful" was being used to refer the negro race. If he included the "N" word, it is possible he'd picked up from one of the kids in the neighborhood or even my dad. Dad was the Archie Bunker type who was prejudiced against all races. He was perfectly capable of using any derogatory term in his vocabulary.
I was disappointed to lose Mamie, but having a maid with the children had worked well, so I hired a new maid. Mary was a student at a nearby college. She was educated and more self-assured than Mamie had been. Mary and I did get to be friends, and we often got into interesting discussions about college courses, social issues or religion. The only problem was Mary wasn't dependable. Too many days, she called at the last minute to say something had come up, or she wasn't feeling well. I'd started using a daycare for times when Mary couldn't be there. Eventually, I ended up using them entirely. My days of dealing with 'the help' had come to an end.
As time would tell, the daycare too, had its drawbacks.
From the beginning, Evan had a personality conflict with his immediate supervisor. My husband is a conscientious worker, but the sensitive side of his nature demands respect. His supervisor ran the department with the tact and temperament of a drill sergeant. His blunt and unrelenting criticism of the employees under him did little to make anyone feel secure. Since Evan had worked in the drafting department less time than most of the others, he was convinced the cutback would be used as an excuse let him go. I needed to find a job fast.
The employment ads offered nothing in the field of art. The only thing, which looked interesting, was an ad for a proofreader in one of the larger printing companies. I knew nothing about proofreading, but the back of the dictionary had a section on proofreading marks. I studied them and went in for an interview. I was given a galley proof to read and mark corrections. I did it with the expertise of an experienced proofreader and was hired on the spot. The next step was getting childcare for my three toddlers.
"I have the perfect solution for you," Lou Ellen, the office manager, told me. "My girls are old enough to stay by themselves. I'm going to have to let my maid go. She'll need a job. What if I send her to you?"
"A maid? I can't afford a maid. How much are you paying her?"
"Eighteen dollars a week. She is great with kids, does all my housework, and even prepares meals."
I was shocked. I'd never had household help, and I wasn't sure I wanted a stranger in my house, but it certainly sounded like an option. It would be better not having to drag the children out on frosty mornings.
"Sure, we'll give it a try and see how it works out," I told Lou Ellen.
This was Jackson, Mississippi. The time period and location was the same as the setting for the book, "The Help." One inaccuracy I've found in the book is that those maids were paid $40 per week. I find that hard to believe because the maids I came to know seemed content with half that much. Minimum wage was a dollar an hour. Maid service came under a different category, and minimum wage laws didn't apply.
Evan and I lived through the racial unrest of the sixties, and although injustices done in the name of maintaining traditional Southern values was all around us, we had our own problems and scarcely noticed what was taking place. Since our wedding, we'd not had any dealings with other races. Poverty and lack of education in most of the black community kept the races separated.
Lou Ellen's maid worked for us only a couple of weeks. She'd been offered another job paying a little more, but she had a friend who needed a job. The next week Mamie came. She was about my age and the children liked her immediately. Mamie was shy, and although I tried talking to her as I would a friend, we never seemed to get past the employer/employee stage in our relationship. She did whatever I asked, and things seemed to be working smoothly. It was great having a clean house when we came home from work.
At the printing company, when I revealed that I'd worked as an artist, I was assigned their artwork in addition to proofreading. The company was using an ad agency, but they were more than happy to turn the art and design work over to me.
I'd not been with the company but a couple of months when it was sold to another party. Changes were in the works. The new owners reorganized and over half the work force was dismissed. My fate hung in the balance. I was told to keep working, and they'd let me know when a final decision was made concerning my continued employment.
The company changed names and moved to a smaller location. I was assigned to do my work in the stripping department. There, I was trained in pre-press preparation. Now in addition to my earlier responsibilities, I worked in the darkroom stripping negatives into position on orange masking paper, and burning them onto aluminum offset plates. I learned every phase of the printing business, but was still labeled artist and proofreader. Since I was now proficient in many skills, I was able to keep my job.
In spite of his concerns, Evan kept his job as well, while many of his coworkers were left to find other employment. Just when everything seems to be going too smoothly, something is likely to change.
Mamie had continued to work for me for two years, and I had no complaints, Then one day, I came home and found Mamie in tears.
"Ms. Shelby, I can't works fo' you no mo'. Yo' son, he call me sumpin' what ain't my name."
"Mamie, what did he call you?"
"I ain't saying it. But I can't works here no more. It be sumpin' what ain't my name."
"Mamie, I'm so sorry. I'll get him to apologize, but I have to know what he called you. We don't use the "N" word around here. Surely it wasn't that. Can't you tell me?"
"No'm, I can't say it. It be sumpin' bad. You needs to get you a new maid. I ain't gonna be comin' back."
No amount of persuading would change her mind. Don was three. When I asked him, what he said to her, I got nowhere.
"What did you call her?" I pleaded. "I need to know. You've hurt her feelings."
"Nothin'" and "I don't know," was the most I could get from my son. I asked Carol who was almost five. "I didn't hear him call her anything," my daughter told me. "but I did see her shaking a sheet in his face and yelling. She said 'you thank you be white. This is white. You ain't white.'"
I never found out what was so objectionable. I could only assume he must have called her "black." That didn't seem so horrible, because it was time when the phrase, "Black is beautiful" was being used to refer the negro race. If he included the "N" word, it is possible he'd picked up from one of the kids in the neighborhood or even my dad. Dad was the Archie Bunker type who was prejudiced against all races. He was perfectly capable of using any derogatory term in his vocabulary.
I was disappointed to lose Mamie, but having a maid with the children had worked well, so I hired a new maid. Mary was a student at a nearby college. She was educated and more self-assured than Mamie had been. Mary and I did get to be friends, and we often got into interesting discussions about college courses, social issues or religion. The only problem was Mary wasn't dependable. Too many days, she called at the last minute to say something had come up, or she wasn't feeling well. I'd started using a daycare for times when Mary couldn't be there. Eventually, I ended up using them entirely. My days of dealing with 'the help' had come to an end.
As time would tell, the daycare too, had its drawbacks.
 Recognized |
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This is the continuing story of my life during the sixties.
It follows "Battling the Baby Blues." The picture shows twins at ages three and Carol at five. This story starts when the were a couple of years younger.
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and 2 member cents. It follows "Battling the Baby Blues." The picture shows twins at ages three and Carol at five. This story starts when the were a couple of years younger.
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