Do this as if it was ‘sacred’—It is!

Aunt Bertha had moved from the Tremé to the East New Orleans neighborhood we called ‘The Goose’ along with my mother, step-father and four siblings in the Spring of 1964.  This ‘move’ occurred shortly after her husband, Gus (Uncle ‘Tand’), her sister, Dora (the one called ‘Shosh’), and Shosh’s husband, (George) passed away before 1960, Aunt Bertha came to live with my mom’s young family in the yellow (now green) house in the Tremé.

Aunt Bertha, one of my maternal great-grandfather’s (Peter) sisters was seventy-six years old in the Fall of 1968 when she was still a ‘strong walker,’ but at this point, she demanded one of her great-nephews as an ‘assistant’ on those, now less-frequent walks to ‘take care of her business’—pay utility bills, eye doctor, ear clinic visits, and so on.  The fact was, she still could outpace me and most of my siblings as well as my Uncle Bennie’s much longer gait, so we all were less than eager to accompany Aunt Bertha on her grueling ‘appointments on foot.’  In spite of her petite stature—it is doubtful she exceeded four-foot-eight inches tall, yet rapid steps, even in high heels, made up for any physical limitations she had.

I was ‘volunteered’ this evening of Tuesday, November 5, 1968 to accompany Aunt Bertha to a “walk down the street.”  I had no choice, nor did I question where our destination was, I ‘cooperated’ without protest and was panting like ‘puma running down his prey’ when some ninety seconds later we arrived approximately five-hundred thirty-five feet (two minutes walk) from our departure point to the local elementary school which was our polling place for the 1968 General Election.   

I watched from the room just outside where the voting booths were stationed, as I took care to be quiet and waited as Aunt Bertha went to the polling administrators and had her credentials checked and signed to vote.  Seconds later, she entered the opened gray-colored vinyl curtained cubicle, pulled the lever, an obnoxious bell-like sound rang simultaneous with the closing of the curtains.  The faint sounds of clicking could be heard from where I stood, patiently waiting, however, I could not detect from which of the now, six closed booths housing voters the clicking sounds originated.  I surmised all of the voters were ‘clicking.’  

Aunt Bertha emerged from the ‘magic’ booth with the same irritating sound of the bell with the curtains parting.  She removed her eyeglasses and carefully placed them in her purse without interrupting her movement towards me and a ‘regal countenance’ on her face said volumes of how she felt about exercising her ‘sacred right.’

The equally brisk walk home was not without incident, as I huffed trying to keep pace, I asked.  “Aunt Bertha, who did you vote for?”

Now, there are ways elders teach the younger generation that oftentimes, ‘sting like hell’ for many years afterwards, however, the point is usually well made, regardless of the pain inflicted.  This was such a lesson.  Aunt Bertha replied, again without breaking stride, “That’s the same thing as asking me to tell you my Social Security Number!  Did you notice the curtains around the booth?  You do know why they put the curtains there, right?”

Lesson over.

I repeated that one-tenth of a mile walk to that same elementary school on the afternoon of Tuesday, November 7, 1972.  This time, I stood in line behind an elderly black woman, undoubtedly an octogenarian, who apparently observed that I was pretty young to be in that particular line awaiting ‘our turn to close the curtains and perform our civic duty.’

“How old are you, dear?” The petite woman whispered while turning inconspicuously so as to insure a degree of privacy in her query.

“I’m eighteen, as of the end of last month, ma’am!” I responded in like confidence and discretion.

“The first time I was allowed to vote, we had to be able to read and write and own property!”  The lovely older woman confided, almost matter-of-factly.

I think of that lovely old lady in that line, more than forty-five years ago, every time I cast a vote at a polling place. I think of the lesson (and so many other ones) Aunt Bertha taught in her gruff, but loving manner.  I was so fortunate to have learned how precious a ‘right’ and the related ‘responsibility’ to exercise I had inherited from those incredible people who preceded me.

The following year after Aunt Bertha taught me the importance of the right to cast a vote, on a sunny, summer day in June 1969, she transitioned from human existence, quietly and privately.

Do this as if it was ‘sacred’—It is! 

VOTE!

                                My mother, Dolores and Aunt Bertha in 1967