Nigger Toes When we creep up the steep driveway of my grandparent’s house, it is usually night. Whether we in this car are the first brigade or last of the familial troops to descend upon this site in Chattanooga, Tennessee, whether it is 5:30 p.m. or 1:30 a.m., our eyes behold the fat, red-suited, animated Santa waving slowly out on the balcony of the second story. He is lighted and waiting for us all to arrive. To most, Santa appears as a symbol of Christmas; to me and my family he appears as a symbol of our Christmas and more importantly, the man who really brought us all together—Popo. Popo is fiercely in love with his children and grandchildren and proves it in his determination to have us all together every year. This Christmas he greets my sister and me at the door in his robe—crisp white boxers peeking out, hair uncombed, oxygen tube in his nose, twinkle in his pale blue eyes. He has zoomed to the door in his motorized wheelchair which is adorned with different sized oxygen tanks (an unfortunate necessity to this 80-year-old man with emphysema). Nannie shuffles in behind him. She gentle, he firm, they are both delighted to see us, the first to arrive. Instantly Popo reaches for the money he shoved in his robe pocket to give to my sister and me. He knows that he does not have to hand out money—he does not do it to buy our love. It is just one more thing he gives to his grandchildren. We all hug and kiss. His strong, raspy voice—“Good to see ya. Good to see ya,” he repeats, sucks some oxygen and runs a hand over his hair. He pulls closed his robe and escorts us into the kitchen where my sister and I are reminded to make ourselves at home. Popo chats briefly as is his custom—brevity—and he goes back up to bed. It is 11p.m. and past his bedtime. As he skids out of the kitchen he yells, “C’mon Mamma,” but he does not stop to wait because he knows she will stay with us in the kitchen until we go to bed ourselves. Appropriately enough, it is Popo who fills our stockings each year—all 15 to 20 we have on any given year. This Christmas my sister and I volunteer to help Popo. I do not so much out of kindness to my aging grandfather, but because I want to be Santa for a few moments. The stockings are stuffed with fruits, candies and nuts. I don’t know when or where this tradition began but I remember throughout my childhood quickly plucking the fruit from my stocking and putting it in the, “Yeah, thanks, Santa” pile. The candy was, of course, devoured and then there were the nuts. The nuts, I suppose were Popo’s trademark just because he used to always have a tray of unshelled peanuts in the kitchen. My cousins and I were always intrigued by the lumpy and pale nuts lying in with shredded and cracked shells and flakes of reddish-brown peanut skins. The nuts were never in a bowl, always a rectangular cooking tray; and they never left the kitchen. As kids, we would pick at them, perhaps eat one or two but really, they were Popo’s nuts. I always knew my grandfather enjoyed nuts, which is why it comes as no surprise to me this Christmas when Popo reminds me and my sister to put Brazil nuts in his stocking. “Make sure you give me some of those nigger-toes,” he says frantically filling other stockings with goodies. My sister and I look at each other, eyes wide. All at once Popo, this Santa Claus of sorts is stripped of his red suit; his jolly cheeks pale. He is now merely a man with some chocolates, oranges, apples, and nuts, wishing to share Christmas with his family. My sister and I don’t say anything but Popo, like a child aware of his mischief and sorry about his parents’ disapproving faces, falters and gives an expression which is either an a apology or a request: “Gimme a break.” Whatever the expression, it is clear that Popo recognizes that now the proper term for Brazil nuts is Brazil nuts. Laura and I stuff the dark brown nuts into Popo’s stocking and let the subject drop. I do not think my grandfather a bad man—he is not. I am not shocked that my grandfather has said such an atrocious thing. I feel shocked and foolish because I am forced to recognize or remember that there was a time when people would think to call a toe-sized, wrinkly, brown nut a nigger-toe. Within Popo’s lifetime, all of a sudden it was not okay to call a black man a nigger, which I can only assume he did, not because he was consciously hateful but because he was never forced to think of what it meant to call a person a nigger, or how crude it was to name a nut with such a pejorative term. I could think less of my grandfather because he didn’t rise up against society. He didn’t have the strength to understand how hurtful the concept of a nigger-toe nut was. I could get mad at him because he doesn’t see the connotation and consequences of what he said. I don’t. I think of all the generous passion my grandfather has displayed toward his family. I think of the respect he shows people he encounters. I think of his intelligence and innovative spirit. My heart sinks, plummets into my stomach, for this is the ignorance which plagues our nation. It is woven into our minds and curls around the wrinkles in our brains. This ignorance resides in all of us, as we all use words without fully understanding what they mean. Most of us have walked through an entire day without questioning the words we use. We do not beg answers from society so we begin to accept things as they are—“hand me some nigger-toes, please.” When we allow ourselves this sort of apathy toward society, toward language, we develop a vernacular of hatred which wares on our souls. When Laura, Popo and I finish with the stockings I scan the living room which is complete in its Christmas decor—tree with lights and presents underneath, various Christmas themed knick-knacks atop tables, stockings carefully laid out on the floor. (They are too heavy and too many to hang). Fake pine and red ribbons add cheer to the stair case banister and lights dress the windows. I hear laughter from the kitchen and Popo racing to his next course of action, oxygen tanks knocking and clanking. The Brazil nuts stay nestled in the stockings and I feel confused by the scene before me and the man behind it all. I am thankful for what Popo does for our family, our Christmas and realize that I should let the electronic Santa greet me every year as the symbol it is and let Popo greet me as the man he is, full of inconsistencies, generosity, ignorance, love, and brilliance. Abigail Rothberg

 

Return to Contents