The Impressionist (5 page)

Jim Ed stopped painting and reached into his cart. He fumbled around, pulling out an old, faded leather Bible, its pages tattered and edges rolled up. After opening it, he slowly flipped through the pages, stopped, and began to read.
“Lord, how they have increased who trouble me! Many are they who rise up against me. Many are they who say of me, ‘There is no help for him in God.’
In other words, ‘David, you’re so messed up even God’s abandoned you!’ But hear David’s response in that same passage.
‘But You O, Lord, are a shield for me, My glory and the One who lifts my head.’
His security wasn’t in anyone but God. Now that gets me excited! At times David had to stand his ground alone, but eventually the same people who doubted him, who even betrayed him, rallied around him.”

Jim Ed closed the Bible and his eyes narrowed. “Adam, your insecurity is killing you and it’s driving Paige away. She can’t respect someone who doesn’t respect himself.”

I bristled at the comment, but deep down I knew he was right.

“You know what I think?” he continued, picking up his brush and dabbing at something on the paper.

“Surprise me,” I said, cracking my neck. It was a nervous habit.

“I think you’d rather live alone and unloved than to be in a relationship filled with disrespect.”

“When I’m alone there’s less stress,” I admitted, “Less hassle.”

“You mean less conflict?”

“Yes, you nailed it!” I said, “Except the conflict with myself! I pretty much despise myself!”

“Well that’s something that needs addressing, don’t you think?” He leaned forward, brush still flowing on the paper, and spoke softly. “Starts with refocusing your view. Get you seeing yourself as God sees you.”

“The way God sees me?” I laughed again. “I can tell you how God sees me, as a failure, a big fat zero!”

Jim Ed stopped the flow of his brush and looked at me long and hard. “When you see God’s love for you, you can begin to see yourself more clearly, the way your Creator, the Master Artist, sees you. That’s where your true identity and purpose comes from. Takes some adjustment and usually occurs in the middle of pain, but it’ll free you to live.”

I said nothing, nor did I move.

Jim Ed studied my profile and then studied the paper like a master chess player would calculate his next move. “You know I do understand what it’s like to despise yourself.” He removed his glasses and rubbed his nose with his thumb and index finger while still holding the brush. “I know all about hating oneself.”

The comment caused me to jolt upright on the bench. “I find that hard to believe,” I said. “You seem so happy and at peace.”

“Happy is a relative term,” he said, “but I am at peace… now. I had to learn, like you have to learn, to see myself as the Master Artist sees me.” He placed his bifocals back on and adjusted them on his nose. “You can’t even imagine what it was like growing up as a black man in the South back then. Things are a lot different now.”

I didn’t see that coming either. It was hard to imagine how this intelligent, respectful, compassionate man could have been subject to ignorance and prejudice. Jim Ed’s eyes got a faraway look and made me wonder what long ago memory he was seeing.

Mama Porter placed the shiny bright dime in little Jim Ed’s hand and squeezed it shut. “I be real proud of you, son. You
worked yourself hard this week—helped your Mama out so good. Now go on and pick whatever candy you want. You deserve it.”

Little Jim Ed stared down at his hand, slowly unfolding his fingers, hardly believing his eyes. Ten whole cents! His mind danced with the possibilities as he tiptoed to get a clearer view of the myriad of candies behind the glass counter in Simmons Corner Store. There were jars of jelly beans, licorice sticks, both red and black, candy corn, Life Savers, homemade cookies, and a huge jar of dill pickles. After quite a while deliberating with himself, Jim Ed finally came to a decision.

“I’ll takes me some jelly beans,” he said, “and some candy corn…and…and…one of them pickles.”

Harry Simmons, a gentle and caring man wearing a white apron, scooped up a heap of jelly beans and candy corn pieces and poured them into a small brown bag. Then he fished around the pickle jar in an attempt to snag the largest one possible and put it into separate brown bag.

“Now what you say to Mr. Simmons?” Mama Porter asked Jim Ed as Mr. Simmons bent down and handed him the bags.

“Ahh, thank you, Mr. Simmons.”

Jim Ed was thoroughly enjoying his pickle while at the same time firmly gripping his bag of candy when he and his mama stepped through the front door of the store to exit. That also happened to be the exact moment when a young girl came running pell-mell into the store, plowing squarely into Jim Ed. The collision knocked him to the floor, sending the pickle and jelly beans mixed with candy corn flying. Determined not to lose a single piece, little Jim Ed scrambled around on the store’s hard-wood floor in a desperate effort to retrieve them. While doing so, the girl’s mom said to her, in a well-mannered voice, yet loud
enough that everybody in the store could hear, “Now Elizabeth, you say ‘excuse me’ to the little colored boy.”

“Mommmm,” the girl protested in her frilly dress, “do I have to? He’s a nigger.”

“Yes you do,” the mother insisted, with a slightly embarrassed look on her face, “and what have I told you about using that word? He can’t help it that he’s colored.”

“But Mommmm, you and Daddy say it all the time!”

The woman and her daughter’s words seared through Jim Ed’s heart like red-hot daggers. Mama Porter wanted to get in the mother’s face and tell her a word or two, but doing so would only mean more trouble for her and her family. So she gritted her teeth and bore it.

Picking up the now dirty pieces of candy and placing them back into his bag, Jim Ed was ever so careful to exclude each and every black jelly bean. Holding the rejects tightly, he walked back up to the counter and held out his hand toward Mr. Simmons.

“Please take these black ones back. I don’t want them.”

Mr. Simmons smiled back empathetically while taking the black ones out of the boy’s hand. Then he scooped up some new jelly beans, sorted out the black ones and picked him out another pickle. Mama Porter nodded to Mr. Simmons indicating her appreciation for his kindness toward her son.

The next stop Mama Porter had was to run into Wool-worth’s to pick up some fabric for sewing.

“Mama, that pickle made me thirsty,” Jim Ed said, tugging at his mother’s dress. “Can I gets me a drink of water?”

“Sure honey,” Mama Porter said, unrolling a piece of fabric and examining it. “There’s a water fountain right by the bathrooms, next to the toys. Juss go all the way downs that aisle right
there,” she pointed, “and you’ll sees it. I’ll be here waiting whens you finish. I has to pick out some more cloth.”

At that, Jim Ed meandered his way through the toy section, stopping of course, to check out a new yo-yo and a cap-gun/ holster set with a matching cowboy hat, but the thirst got the best of him and he eventually made it to the opposite end of the store. When he bent over to take a gulp of water from the brand-new, shiny clean, water fountain—one with a cooler to keep the water nice and cold, some older kids surrounded him yelling, “Hey nigger boy, you caint drink there. Caint you read? Says ‘Whites Only.’” Jerking Jim Ed back by the collar they ordered, “You gotta drink from your own fountain over there!” Then they pointed to a door that opened up to the back of the store’s alley. Outside was a filthy, smelly, rusty old water faucet next to an equally filthy bathroom door. While Jim Ed went outside for his drink, the boys guarded the “White’s Only” fountain making sure he obeyed the law. What little water did come out of the old faucet was hot and tasted like its smell…nasty. When Jim Ed finally made it back to his mother, tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“What’s wrong, my angel?” Mama Porter asked.

Jim Ed wiped his eyes and looked up at his mother. “Mama, why are people so mean to us because we colored?”

“It ain’t right, honey, but it be the way things is,” she said. “It be the way things is.”

“I tell you, Adam, I despised myself for being black— despised the color black. The road we walked on was black. Black was the color of dirt and storm clouds. I always felt like I had some infectious disease or something. I was angry at God for making me that way. After a while, being called a ‘nigger’ for so long and being treated that way, I guess I just started believing it—didn’t think I was worth the dirt in my own Mama’s front yard.”

“I’m really sorry you experienced that,” I said, cringing inside. “Prejudice is an ugly thing.”

“Yeah, it’s ugly all right. You wouldn’t believe some of the terrible, ignorant things I’ve seen people do in my lifetime. But just the same, I’ve learned over the years that you can’t thrive in life while blaming all your problems on others. You’ll always wind up a victim. Besides, things are better nowadays. We’ve come a long way and so have you, although we have a long way to go—still a lot of healing to do.”

“I hope so,” I said, thinking of my father and grandfather and some of my relatives, how they lived in a cesspool of discrimination and bigotry. I wondered how I would have acted if I’d been raised back then, in that setting. It was not something I enjoyed thinking about, but ignoring it seemed worse.

“So what happened?” I asked. “Where’d all the hate and anger go? Why are you painting this white guy’s portrait?”

“Well,
my
change didn’t happen all at once, but little by little, starting when I met Christina—my dearest Christina.” Jim Ed’s face lit up. “I tell you, Adam, we have to always be alert because God sends significant people into our lives at critical moments. Christina came to me during one of mine.”

“Christina?” I said, a slight smile fighting to form on my face. “Is this a love story, Jim Ed?”

“Yes-sir-ree,” he replied, “could be a movie on the Hallmark Channel.” He lowered his head a few inches from the paper and blew air on a spot he’d just painted. “Christina, well she…how can I put it? She was the most beautiful woman ever laid my eyes on—walked with grace and dignity—always held her head up high, even in the midst of our struggles. Was humble, understanding how much she needed God’s mercy and grace in her life, but at the same time had this glowing confidence about her.”

“Sounds like a special lady,” I said, trying to create an image of Christina in my mind.

“Oh, she was special indeed. It was just like the song says, ‘she was a magnet and I was steel.’ Something about her just drew me to her. I’d been around lots of pretty girls in my day. I may not be much to look at now, but back then,” Jim Ed chuckled, “I was considered quite a catch…but none of those other girls could hold a light to my Christina. She’s the one who helped me see that I was special. Made me a better man.

“I’d be getting all down on myself or fighting mad for being who I was and she’d tell me things like, ‘Jim Ed, did you know that black is the color of the richest most fertile soil? Black soil is the best.’ I remember we were walking by Mr. Hatcher’s field one day and she said to me, ‘You see that shiny black steed over there? Your color is the same as it. Isn’t it a spectacular creature—strong and confident?’ She’d place her hands on my cheeks and pull my face down to hers and say, ‘Now you listen to me, James Edward Porter, you are created in God’s image. You hear me?’ I guess after a while, I started to believe that too.

“Let me show you something.” With his palette still in one hand and his brush in the other, Jim Ed walked over to me. “Here, hold out your arm.”

I stretched out my arm toward him as he began to dip the brush in the paint. He gently brushed a stroke of yellow on my arm, then red, then blue, then green.

“What do those colors make up?” he asked.

“A rainbow?” I guessed.

“Yep, a rainbow.”

After that, he repeated the process on my other arm. This time however, he painted each stroke directly on top of each other.