Wednesday December 27: The ABW Almost Daily Commentary - A Holiday Shoeshine

Hello again,

To my dismay, I haven't yet progressed to being able to sit at home and make money from The Angry Black Woman Show with Sunny James.  I, indeed have a full time job, without benefits, the lack of which is another commentary altogether.  But for the last handful of months I have been working in a downtown Washington DC office building entering and existing through the airy, marbled lobby.  The coolness of the marble was immediate in the humid Washington summer and has been cold and austere this fall and winter.  Once a week the lobby is visited by the shoeshine man. And this is how I referred to him--the shoeshine man. Sometimes when I passed him I would nod in that strangely masculine way, sometimes I would offer an audible greeting, "hello" which he would return in a soft and smoke-enveloped voice.  He would sit with his elbows buried in his kneecaps, giving his coccyx bone a workout, reading the paper, propped on the edge of the chair as if on an exterior stoop, ready to go with the flow should another more pleasing pursuit come his way. Other times he had several rows of vacant shoes in front of him.  I never saw anyone who dropped off the brown, black, or ox blood loafers, lace-ups and sensible heels, but by the end of the day each pair had disappeared, to which the outstretched legs of the shoeshine man attested.  He is a slight man, about 60, thin and less than average height, and very discretely salt and peppered.  Not my physical type, but my goodness, the color of him is something to behold.  He is the color of the men my 91 year old grandmother hated that I would make a habit of bringing home--dark and creamy.  And perhaps it was this last reason that I always took note of his presence in the lobby.  This island of familiar darkness nestled in a constant stream of whiteness. 

The shoeshine man comes with his tall, black chair, with brass foot rests affixed to the front.  As the Christmas holiday approached, I noticed that his chair was occupied more often than not.  I would sometimes catch bits of his low-key exchange with the white men who always seem to have a need for polished shoes. While they sat several feet over his slight frame I could hear his 'Yea, Sir' and 'No, Sir' with a noticeable but quiet drawl on the end of each "R." Over the course of several months, unbeknownst to him, I developed a dislike for the service he provided.  The visual was more than I wanted to think about--this throwback to a time when Black folks provided invisible services.  And the service, damn well, better be performed in silence, unless, of course, the White person was feeling magnanimous and wanted to hear what foolishness would tumble out of the servile mouths of doormen, maids, cooks, grandmothers or the shoeshine man.  I often questioned myself, if the same shoeshine man were doing business on U Street or H Street instead of in this very white world, would I have as much of a problem with his trade?

I wondered, is this what he had done all his life?  How had the shoeshine man become the shoeshine man? So I thought I should rectify my distain for what he seemingly did for a living. I decided that my crocodile boots, that I had been polishing quite expertly myself for sometime, would survive my mission to correct my thinking. 

Last week, I approached this small man and his very tall chair and announced that my boots could use a polish.  He, 'yes mamam'ed me and took my hand as I took my first big step up and then another into the very tall seat.  I quickly understood why I don't see any women in the shoeshine chair and I was thankful for my wardrobe choice that morning.  The conversation started easily enough, the weather, the holidays and the losing Redskins.  I told him that my son wasn't much of a 'Skins fan.  And then the lights came on.  I watched Mike's face light up as he smiled from ear to ear.  He shared the news that his own son was expected home from Iraq the next day.  His son was a paratrooper who had followed in his footsteps and after the holidays his son would be starting his second tour of duty in Iraq.

Mike told me about his wife of 30 years, Bea, who he loved completely and who had died a year earlier of diabetes and how he stayed busy mostly because he missed her so.  Mike told me about his shoeshine stands in another six buildings in Washington and how he was making money hand over fist and how much he was going to enjoy spending it and spending time with a son he was, so clearly, proud of.  As I got out of the chair, I knew I couldn't have gotten into or out of his chair without his assistance. When I got down he seemed taller and more filled out than when I had climbed up.  I'm thankful for his and his son's service to this country. I'm glad I stopped for a shine.  And now when I walk the marble floors and catch a glimpse of Mike, I am sometimes at peace in this constant stream of whiteness. 

See ya next time,
Sunny!