Be strong for me

I was ten in the summer of 1970, between fifth and six grades.  We still lived in Beacon Hill, a suburban sub-division going through a troubled racial transition, punctuated by confrontation and violence.  Everyone knew my parents as strong and active in the civil rights movement, but during that summer they had begun the search for a new home.

Our school experienced the tensions brought about by bussing.  My older sister, Jennifer, had entered junior high at a central school where most kids came on the bus.  But in fifth grade I still walked to Beacon Hill as part of the dwindling white population.  I had the double jinx – white and smart – that made me a target of frequent taunting and occasional physical violence.  I remember the day that Marsha Cotton stood up for me on the playground.  She was a very black, very large girl.  Kids, and some adults, called her “cotton-ball” because of her roundness.  My foils in fifth grade were our then “Beavis and Butthead”, Rotney Jones and Dennis.  This particular day their recess teasing attentions focused on me until Marsha Cotton placed her oversized, cotton-ball shaped self between us and hollered  “what ‘choo wanna be callin’ her names fo’?  Whyn’t ‘choo leave her alone?” 

But here I was, feeling alone under the torment of Rotney and Dennis, until Marsha Cotton defended me, providing strength when I had none.

Many families fled Beacon Hill before my parents began the house search.  For a long time they told us that nothing was accomplished if the white families jumped ship instead of working to build a community.  But the time came when even their staunch liberalism gave way to a practical need to be sure that their children were in safe, quality schools.

So we return to the summer of 1970.  Childhood summer days stretch almost to eternity, the adventures our imaginations engaged in led us all around Beacon Hill.   Our family tradition fed our imaginations still more by taking us to popular movies at the second run theatre on a weekly basis.  

This particular Saturday matinee was “Anne of the Thousand Days”, a lush costume drama featuring Richard Burton as Henry VIII and introducing Genevieve Bujold as Anne Boleyn.  My older sister Jennifer knew all about the British monarchy, she studied the pedigrees and history avidly.  I took little interest.  To me history was dates and places, not stories.  So while she approached the movie with a knowledge of this specific time in royal history, I arrived as a blank slate. 

The film opens with Henry VIII’s wooing of Boleyn, while still married to Katharine of Aragon.  To Jennifer, of course, this was dramatic foreshadowing, and she whispered with my mother about what was coming.  New to the story, I was shocked when Henry worked his way around to having his long marriage annulled in order to marry Anne and attempt to have sons. 

The politics were beyond my ten year old experience, but my mother and sister whispered throughout the film about issues of succession, supremacy and studliness.  I saw the movie from a different perspective, as a simple story of being bullied, and standing up for yourself, or having someone stand up for you.  As Anne Boleyn begins to fall from Henry’s good graces following the birth of the dreaded girl, Elizabeth, she begins to prepare Elizabeth to be Queen, and to fight for her daughter’s right to succession.  I’d been fighting for my dignity in school, trying to maintain my peaceful enjoyment of learning without too much interference from kids like Rotney and Dennis.   I could relate.

“Anne of the Thousand Days” is a lengthy film, over 140 minutes.  That gave Mom and Jennifer plenty of time to explore the roles of Cardinal Wolsey and Thomas Cromwell and all of Henry’s cronies.  I saw the growing desperation of a mother imparting her wisdom to her daughter in the face of impending doom.  Mom and Jennifer followed the trial of Anne Boleyn, accused of adultery and clearly framed so that her husband could marry his mistress Jane Seymour.  I saw a mother torn away from her helpless young daughter, an exceptionally frightening scenario for a ten year old.

The film’s emotional peak comes as Anne is led from the Tower of London to her execution.  She asks her confidante if it will hurt.  When he replies that “they say not,” she adds with confidence “it will be easy, I have a little neck.”  They enter the Tower Green, pass the guards, and up the steps to the platform where, in short order, the swordsman beheads her.  As the cannon fires to indicate the execution is complete, the picture cuts to young Elizabeth outdoors at the palace.  She hears the cannon in the distance, understands its meaning, then slowly turns and returns to the palace, standing stick straight and holding her head high.

I was a sobbing mess as the credits began to roll.  I related to Anne Boleyn, refusing to sink to the level of her husband, choosing to die with dignity rather than to compromise her daughter’s future to save her own life.  The honor of it.   I related to the ladies in waiting, tears streaming down their faces as they served their mistress to her last breath.  And I so related to Elizabeth, left so alone, taking on all responsibility for her enormous future with no one to be strong for her.

My mother wrapped up her historical discussion with my sister and turned to me, astonished at my emotional outburst.  She put her arm around me.  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

I looked at her and through my tears said “It was so sad. “