“Nozema”

Nozema is the real name of the young black woman who raised me as a young child.  She was hired by my grandmother to be a Nannie for me and to help around the home after my mother had her second and third babies, my sister Jane and my brother Walter.  With two small babies in the home and with our having moved back into the home to live with our grandparents after an ill-fated move to Georgia, I was placed under Nozema’s care.  My mother was not able to live in Georgia due to her fragile mental state caring for three small children, so my dad brought us home.

I recall on several occasions that Nozema carried me on her right hip, whenever she needed to move me quickly from one spot to another.  She was strong and beautiful.  She only worked in the mornings and afternoons, but never on Sunday.  Most Saturday’s she was not in the home, unless she had to help us with canning tomatoes or peaches.  But five days a week she was in our home and I followed her around for a lot of my early childhood.  Since I was with her more than my mother, I assumed at this ripe young age that she was my mother.  It never occurred to me to think otherwise.

She always called me “her boy” and hugged and kissed me, so I was sure she was where I belonged.  I affectionately called her “Noxzema” after the skin cream I had seen on the TV.  I never knew until many years later I had mispronounced her name.  She never tried to correct me, I suppose, since she loved me so.

She was a marvelous cook, and made the creamiest mash potatoes I have ever tasted.  I remember begging her to cook me some more mash potatoes on many days.  She also knew how to pound a piece of meat before cooking to make it tender.  I remember she cut the steak or roast in small pieces for me so I would not choke.  She did not eat at the table with the other grown-ups, so she and I would often sit and eat together at another smaller table.  Since I never tarried long over meals, it was a good arrangement for all.

One day Nozema invited me to come to see her home.  I was happy to go.  She said she needed to do something at her home and I could come play with her son who was there.  Nozema’s son was four and a half years old and I was close to four when she invited me to come play with her son.  She told me his name but I don’t remember his name.   I do remember we played for an hour or so together while Nozema did something in her home.  We played till we were tired and then we sat down together on a green couch.

As we sat together, I had opportunity to look at Nozema’s son closely.  I noticed he was taller than me, and his arms were bigger than mine.  He was strong and thin and seemed to be in good shape.  I did not yet know him well, but we “studied each other” as little boys do other playmates.  I noticed we were a lot alike, but I noticed one great difference, something even a three year old would not miss.  I noticed his skin was a different color than mine.

I had never thought about skin color before, but it occurred to me while sitting next to him that if he is Nozema’s son and he is black like she is black then I might not be Nozema’s son.  Until that day, I was sure I was her son.  But holding my arm close to his arm, I perceived there was a real difference.  His arm was black (actually dark brown) and mine was white with a shade of pink.

I remember feeling absolutely devastated.  My world as I knew it suddenly fell to the ground around my feet.  I no longer knew who I was, or where I belonged.  I only knew that my skin was a different color than Nozema’s son, so that meant I could not be her son.  I was different and I did not know where I belonged.

Nozema took me back to my home a little while later.  I did not know how to articulate what I had discovered, so I said nothing.  I acted as if nothing had changed.  But in my heart, I knew that I was not like Nozema and I was devastated. Something had changed that day and I did not know how to go back to this original place.

Looking back, I believe the child in me is still looking for someone to love me as unconditionally as Nozema loved me.  My mother Laura loved me, of course, as much I suppose as Nozema.  But she had to spread her love among six children.  Nozema, for a time, I thought, only gave her love to me.

In the kingdom of God, we are privileged to be loved by many persons, each unique, and sometimes of different skin colors.  But when we are being loved unconditionally, I do not believe we see the colors of a person’s skin, but rather the beauty and kindnesses of their hearts.

I rather suspect this is what heaven is like, with so many unique persons together loving from many times and places.  But we will all be united in that place by the love of God in Jesus Christ our Lord.  I am sure, for me, when I see Jesus’ face, he will look something like Nozema!

Bill W.