An Immigrant: A Short Story

I recognized Francis by three things, her strong southern accent, her rich intoxicating perfume, and the color of her skin. She was my “Black Grandmama.” When I was a little kid, my family would drive down to my father's hometown of New Orleans Louisiana, and stay with his parents for months at a time. My grandparents, very wealthy, had an ensemble of workers. Maids, butlers, cooks, all of which had one thing in common; they were black. Growing up in Dubuque I had very few encounters with people of a different race, but that all changed on our trips to New Orleans. I feel almost ashamed to say I loved her more than I loved my grandparents. But that really isn’t the case; because both of my grandparents had died by the time I was five, and
Francis’s best friend Nora’s favorite was my sister Helen, and I was Francis’s favorite. Within the first few hectic minutes of our arrival at my grandparents house, my mother would hand Helen and I off to Nora and Francis, without a second look, and we’d be in their arms for the rest of the trip. Of course I loved her. And not just because she made me cookies whenever I asked, or because she always had a special present waiting in the kitchen for me every time we returned to my grandparents mansion, or even because she introduced me to Coca Cola when I was only two. I loved her because she loved me. Because her warm personality, gentle as a mouse and strong as a giant, comforted me. In her arms I was safe, I was untouchable. It was the first type of affection that ever really resonated in
I looked up from my cereal, wondering why my parents had stopped talking. What I saw was Francis standing over my grandad, staring at him speechless, a pool of hurt was eminent in her eyes. But without flinching she replied, “yes Sir.” And stalked out of the dining room. Following this instance was a storm of rage and disgust directed at my Grandad from my father. But Grandad just shrugged it off, obviously not seeing what he did wrong. Yet, as days followed nothing seemed to change in the relationship between Francis and Grandad. Francis still patiently waited on him hand and foot. And whenever he asked where my grandma was,
“Francis, where is Rosie?!” she would respond in a voice kinder than a saints, “Rosie’s gone sir, she passed away months ago.” His face would go blank, each and every