Denver
When I was just a little fella, folks said there was a man named Roosevelt who lived in a white house and that he was tryin to make things better for colored folks. But there was a whole lotta white folks, ’specially sheriffs, that liked things just the way they was. Lotta times this was mighty discouragin to the colored men, and they would just up and leave, abandonin their women and children. Some was bad men. But some was just ashamed they couldn’t do no better. That ain’t no excuse, but it’s the God’s honest truth.
I thought Lupe Murchison’s house was big, but I hadn’t never seen nothin like that place where the president and his wife lives at. It was never in my mind or my personality that I would ever wind up at the White House. It was never even my desire. So when me and Mr. Ron rolled up to the gates in a dark blue limousine, it was like bein’ in a movie.
Mr. Ron and I was invited to eat lunch with the Bush family right in the upstairs part of the White House. It was a part of a celebration of reading that the president’s mama was in charge of. I guess she’s purty big on readin. Well, we drove ’round a driveway in the shape of a circle and rolled up to some doors guarded by Marines. They were lookin mighty sharp in their uniforms, which was the same color as the car. We got out the limo, and I never did see one of them fellas so much as bat an eyelash. I was glad they’s on my side.
Once we was inside, we went into this fancy room that Mr. Ron said was where the diplomats come to. It was a mighty nice place with lots a’ big ol’ paintins of old-timey men on the walls. With all them rugs and flowers and big ol’ sparklin lamps, the place reminded me of that Worthington Hotel in Fort Worth where I went and accepted that award for all Miss Debbie’s hard work. When I was sleepin on the heatin vent out behind the hotel, I never did ’xpect to go in that place either.
Now here I was at the president’s house, and we was s’posed to meet up there with some other folks that wrote some a’ Miz Bush’s favorite books. Purty soon they started to come in. One of ’em was Marcus Luttrell.
Mr. Ron said this fella was a war hero in Afghanistan who had earned a Navy Cross. I was honored to be there with him. He came in as a guest with a lady that turned out to be married to the governor of Texas.
“I want you to sit by me at lunch, Denver,” she said.
A coupla other writers came in, too, and I got introduced to em. Jim Nance, a sports fella from TV, was one of ’em. He had written a book.
We got to go on a little tour of the place, even walked right by the president’s office, and then we went to the private elevator that the president hisself uses to go upstairs to get some sleep or get hisself somethin to eat. Along the way, I seen some men in suits with wires stickin outta their ears. They was nice enough, but I could tell if I’d a’ looked cross-eyed, they’d a’ taken me down to the fancy carpet with no questions asked.
Ron went up first ’cause the elevator could only take a few people at a time. Then I rode up, and when the doors opened, there was these two white ladies just a-smilin at me.
“Denver Moore!” said a lady with silvery hair and a necklace around her neck. “I am so glad to finally meet you! Can I have a hug?”
I didn’t know whether I was s’posed to do that since I had had a lot of trouble with white ladies in my life. But Mr. Ron leaned over and said, “It’s okay. That’s Barbara Bush, the president’s mother.” So I walked over and gave Miz Bush a hug. She smelled like flowers.
There was another lady standin there, too, and I had seen her on TV enough times to know that she was Laura Bush, the president’s wife.
Then one of ’em said to me—I can’t remember which one—that she was proud I’d learned to read and write. That’s somethin I been workin on the last coupla years. And I don’t know that I’m proud, but I got to admit it makes gettin ’round town a whole lot easier.
Laura Bush said her husband, the president, was gon’ come up and join us, but he was tied up with somethin right then, and did we want to go out on the balcony for a little snack?
While we was walkin out there, Mr. Ron told me we was in the “residence,” the part of the White House where all the presidents have lived. And when we got out on the balcony, there was one of ’em sittin right there! It was Miz Bush’s husband, the first President Bush. He was mighty nice to me.
Out there on the balcony, it was a warm spring day, and we could see that great big flat pond and that famous statue that points up to the sky like a giant railroad spike. I sat down at a table, and some waiters in bow ties started comin ’round with trays full a’ food I seen at some a’ them fancy places Mr. Ron dragged me to. But I was too nervous to eat much ’cause I was afraid them teeth Mr. Ron had made for me might fall out. It had happened before, and I didn’t want it to happen in front a’ no president!
Well, we sat out there sippin our drinks until Miz Bush asked if we’d like her to show us around the place. I ’specially remember two places she took us. One was the president’s private office. He had a TV in there, and I ’xpect he could sit down in there and watch some baseball if he wanted to. The most amazin thing about that office was the desk. Miz Bush told us it was the desk where President Lincoln hisself had signed the Emancipation Proclamation all them years ago. I thought that was really somethin—that I would be standin there, a black man, the great-grandson of slaves, now a guest a’ honor in the White House, standin here lookin at the spot where a great man signed the paper that set my family free. It was somethin I never woulda dreamed of.
Next place we stopped was in the Lincoln bedroom. I swear everthing in that place was gold! Gold curtains, gold carpet, gold chairs. There was even a giant golden crown over the top of the bed. I was standin there tryin to keep my mouth from hangin open when I heard Laura Bush speak up. “Well, hi, sweetheart. I’m so glad you made it.”
I turned around and wadn’t lookin at nobody but the president hisself.
George W. Bush walked right up to me and stuck out his hand. “Denver Moore! What an honor to meet you, sir.”
Well, I felt like I had to be dreamin now. Here was the president of the United States of America, treatin me, a poor homeless man off the street, like I was some kinda important person. I didn’t know what to think. I don’t even remember what I said back to him . . . somethin ’bout bein glad to meet him, too, I imagine. But I shook George W. Bush’s hand, and I ain’t the smartest fox in the barnyard, but in that handshake I felt like a whole lotta history passed through: croppin all year just so I could pay the Man, passin by water fountains where a colored man couldn’t get a drink, and spendin most a’ my life bein called a nigger. Bein dragged by my neck behind horses when I was sixteen years old. Scratchin and scrapin and bathin in fountains in Fort Worth. And now here I was, an ol’ ’cropper with a prison record, shakin hands with the most powerfulest man on the earth.
Ain’t nothin that can do somethin like that but love. The love Miss Debbie had for the homeless had carried me all the way to the White House. And while the president still had ahold a’ my hand, God reminded me of that scripture where He says, “Through Me, all things are possible.”
All things. Did you hear me?
The president was a real Texas fella like Mr. Ron, wearing boots and a cowboy belt with his suit. I liked that. Made him seem kinda regular.
Next thing Mr. Bush did was walk over to that war hero fella, Marcus, and I remember exactly what he said. He said, “Marcus, when I gave you your medal, I gave you my phone number and told you you could call me anytime, day or night. You put your life on the line for our country, and I want to do whatever I can for you. You haven’t called me. I want you to call me.”
Marcus smiled and was mighty humble. “Yes sir, I’ve got your number, and I know I can call if I need to.”
Well, we got finished lookin at the Lincoln bedroom and walked out in the hallway again and looked the place over some more. The president hung around with us for ’bout thirty minutes. Him and Mr. Ron knew some of the same folks in Dallas, and I heard ’em talkin about how Mr. Ron and Miss Debbie used to sit behind the Bushes at the Texas Rangers game when Carson and Regan and the Bush girls was little and Mr. Bush owned part a’ the team.
Purty soon this other fella came out and told us, “Lunch is served,” and we all marched into a fancy dining room. The president couldn’t stay with us for lunch. Laura Bush said somethin had happened in one of them foreign countries, and he had to go tend to it.
Well, lunch came. I don’t remember what they served exactly, but them waiters in black bow ties brung us lots a’ different plates, a little a’ this and a little a’ that. I liked the food purty good, but I was still mighty worried about my teeth.
Someone introduced me to the president’s brother and sister. There was another lady there that had wrote a book, and I remember it because I liked the way the title sounded: The Glass Castle.
All them folks was real nice to me. When it got near the end of the meal, I thought it’d be polite to say how much I appreciated it, so I got everbody’s attention. “I want to thank all you folks for invitin me here today,” I said. “It’s the greatest honor of my life. I wish I could thank you all by name, but to tell you the truth, all you Bushes look alike. Matter a’ fact, all you white folks look alike.”
I was just tellin it like it was, but I still thought Mr. Ron was gon’ have a heart attack.
Lookin back on that day, I can’t hardly believe I had lunch at the White House sittin between Laura Bush and the governor of Texas’s wife. I didn’t know whether to be happy or scared. It kinda reminded me a’ that time when Miss Debbie and all them white ladies was sittin outside the mission in Miss Debbie’s car, tryin to get me to go up to that Christian “retreat.” ’Course, this White House thing was just one meal, with just two white ladies to sit between. I thought I could handle that better than goin up to the mountains with a whole carload a’ white ladies and them wantin to cry and pray over me.
’Course, if I hadn’t gone to that retreat and had so many folks prayin over me, I might not have ever been sittin there at the White House. I had gone from livin in the bushes to eatin with the Bushes, and I know a whole lotta prayer went into that.