A Harlem Christmas Story
December 20th, 2010
Author: Tom Tiede
Those who remember the 1960s and 1970s will recall they were sore times in urban America. The Civil Rights movement was augmented by a group known as the Black Panthers, who were an openly belligerent and mostly counterproductive social lobby. Militant racial aggression was in flower; quiet deliberation had been set aside. The Panthers leaned toward shaved heads, clenched fist salutes, and noisy fulminations against the errant Mr. Charlie.
At the same time there were more charming minority activists who provided the black communities with a less enraged crusade against poverty, family discord, and discrimination. One such was elderly woman in Harlem, New York – Clara McBride Hale. A sweetheart with a sweetheart’s grace and manner, Mother Hale opened the doors to her small apartment to care for infant children who were born addicted to their mother’s drug use during pregnancy.
Over time the great woman helped more than 1,000 kids of the sort. She took most of them through their addiction period, and raised many as if they were her own. She saved their lives, in multiple ways, and placed hundreds in decent homes by path of legal adoption. One has to understand infant addiction to understand her accomplishments. A drug addicted baby may have brain damage, poor muscle control, mental illness – or, often, all of them together.
I met Mother Hale in connection with news stories I was writing about poverty and its consequences. She was generous with her time, and lovely to be with. It was near Christmas, as it happened, and she said she was planning a party for her kids, who were bundled throughout the apartment. She said she had managed to get donations for everything, the food and the gifts, but she had yet to find a Santa Claus. “Can you get a red suit by Saturday?” she asked.
One can not refuse a saint’s request, and there I was that weekend, with suit, with pillow, with beard. When I came through the door with my bag full of toys, I was greeted by squealing children and the applause of a dozen or more of their relatives. One man, however, was not applauding. He was the shaved-head, clenched-fist, Black Panther of the group, the single father of one of kids. He sat on his hands, and glared – the only man I ever saw who did not blink.
Mother Hale said he had raised an objection concerning the presence of a white Santa. She responded correctly that it was good for the kids to mix with the real world, of whatever color. As to the kids, they were on the side of Mother Hale, crawling over her to get into my sack. Christmas songs were sung, strings of lights twinkled, and ice cream was consumed. One lad peed on the trousers of my rental outfit, but nobody bothered to notice, not particularly him.
It all went well. Yet the Black Panther fellow did not seem to be impressed. He ate the cake, and drank the cola, all the time looking, unblinkingly, in my direction. Mother Hale hugged him, and he hugged back, so he was something other than merely chilling, yet he made no friendly move in my direction, nor did I in his. He was dressed in dark denim; he was big as a bus; he seemed to crack his knuckles a lot, though I may be embellishing my memory.
When the party ended, with good wishes to all from Mother Hale, and to all a good night, I stepped into the Harlem street at twilight, and walked to my car. Past the smell of a bad café, past the winos propped against the bricks, past the consequences of the poverty of which I wrote. And there was my car, surrounded by others in denim, others with shaved heads. I thought I was a dead Mr. Charlie, or at least a white Santa Claus who had wiggled down his last chimney.
Then the Black Panther man arrived. He said that it had not been a good idea for me to leave my automobile on the street. People in the neighborhood, he added, strip everything but the seat springs –so he had stationed his friends to secure the vehicle. I smiled. He didn’t. I got in, started the engine, and he knocked on the window, his breath a gray fog on a cold evening. “You did all right for the kids,” he said, “and for Mother Hale. Merry Christmas.”
December 20th, 2010
Author: Tom Tiede
Those who remember the 1960s and 1970s will recall they were sore times in urban America. The Civil Rights movement was augmented by a group known as the Black Panthers, who were an openly belligerent and mostly counterproductive social lobby. Militant racial aggression was in flower; quiet deliberation had been set aside. The Panthers leaned toward shaved heads, clenched fist salutes, and noisy fulminations against the errant Mr. Charlie.
At the same time there were more charming minority activists who provided the black communities with a less enraged crusade against poverty, family discord, and discrimination. One such was elderly woman in Harlem, New York – Clara McBride Hale. A sweetheart with a sweetheart’s grace and manner, Mother Hale opened the doors to her small apartment to care for infant children who were born addicted to their mother’s drug use during pregnancy.
Over time the great woman helped more than 1,000 kids of the sort. She took most of them through their addiction period, and raised many as if they were her own. She saved their lives, in multiple ways, and placed hundreds in decent homes by path of legal adoption. One has to understand infant addiction to understand her accomplishments. A drug addicted baby may have brain damage, poor muscle control, mental illness – or, often, all of them together.
I met Mother Hale in connection with news stories I was writing about poverty and its consequences. She was generous with her time, and lovely to be with. It was near Christmas, as it happened, and she said she was planning a party for her kids, who were bundled throughout the apartment. She said she had managed to get donations for everything, the food and the gifts, but she had yet to find a Santa Claus. “Can you get a red suit by Saturday?” she asked.
One can not refuse a saint’s request, and there I was that weekend, with suit, with pillow, with beard. When I came through the door with my bag full of toys, I was greeted by squealing children and the applause of a dozen or more of their relatives. One man, however, was not applauding. He was the shaved-head, clenched-fist, Black Panther of the group, the single father of one of kids. He sat on his hands, and glared – the only man I ever saw who did not blink.
Mother Hale said he had raised an objection concerning the presence of a white Santa. She responded correctly that it was good for the kids to mix with the real world, of whatever color. As to the kids, they were on the side of Mother Hale, crawling over her to get into my sack. Christmas songs were sung, strings of lights twinkled, and ice cream was consumed. One lad peed on the trousers of my rental outfit, but nobody bothered to notice, not particularly him.
It all went well. Yet the Black Panther fellow did not seem to be impressed. He ate the cake, and drank the cola, all the time looking, unblinkingly, in my direction. Mother Hale hugged him, and he hugged back, so he was something other than merely chilling, yet he made no friendly move in my direction, nor did I in his. He was dressed in dark denim; he was big as a bus; he seemed to crack his knuckles a lot, though I may be embellishing my memory.
When the party ended, with good wishes to all from Mother Hale, and to all a good night, I stepped into the Harlem street at twilight, and walked to my car. Past the smell of a bad café, past the winos propped against the bricks, past the consequences of the poverty of which I wrote. And there was my car, surrounded by others in denim, others with shaved heads. I thought I was a dead Mr. Charlie, or at least a white Santa Claus who had wiggled down his last chimney.
Then the Black Panther man arrived. He said that it had not been a good idea for me to leave my automobile on the street. People in the neighborhood, he added, strip everything but the seat springs –so he had stationed his friends to secure the vehicle. I smiled. He didn’t. I got in, started the engine, and he knocked on the window, his breath a gray fog on a cold evening. “You did all right for the kids,” he said, “and for Mother Hale. Merry Christmas.”