I almost missed it at the outpost when I’d stuffed the courier’s pamphlets and flyers inside my bags. And I’d stared at it in disbelief, rubbing my fingers over the elegant script used to write my name, marveling over the mere sixteen days the letter had taken to reach me.
I held on to the envelope all day, vowing not to open it until I returned home from the outpost. Several times along the path, I stopped, pulled out the envelope, stared at the Philadelphia postmark, the purple three-cent stamp of the woman named Susan B. Anthony with Suffrage For Women written under her photograph. What a strange stamp, and what was the suffrage?
In the evening, I sat cross-legged on my bed and pressed my very first friendship letter to my bruising-blue lips, smelling the small envelope, turning it over, holding it up to the candlelight, doing it again and in a trance of wonderment.
I traced a dark finger over Queenie’s city address, the smart fancy script, the blue ink. Leaning into the light, I took Pa’s knife and slowly and oh so carefully opened it.
July 9, 1936
Dearest Cussy,
We made it to Philadelphia safely. I rented an apartment fourteen blocks from the library. It is crowded with five of us in this tiny two-room flat with no porch or hills to escape to.
Philadelphia is gray from its bootstrap to the top of its tall concrete buildings. The city nights are without stars, and I miss that most. It is hot, noisy, and never beds itself. How odd that Troublesome rises late out of its smoky-blue shadows and struggles for the light when the city won’t shut off its blinding one!
There are beggars on the streets everywhere you look. One thief stole my bag, and another knocked down my young Aaron and snatched his hat. Hunger abounds. Men, women, and children stand in long food lines for their meals.
It’s hectic here, and folk are always busy flittering about like bees. Oh, I wish you could see this big city and the people skittering to and fro! The white folk in this big place don’t even look at me like they do in Troublesome.
The library is big, bigger than the whole town of Troublesome. I haven’t seen all of it, but my boss, Mr. Patchett, promises to take a day off soon and show me around. Mr. Patchett is from England, and calls me a quick study. He says I’m a capable female and smart-enough Negro. He has urged me to apply to the Hampton Institute Library School, and insists on giving me a letter.
Write to me soon, honey.
God bless you and your papa,
Queenie Johnson
I read the letter many times, until the candle lost its fire and would no longer hold—till the morning light and fanciful and frightful dreams of city life had lulled me into a restless sleep.