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Below is a guest post, written by my mother, Dorothy Robson {formerly Dorothy Hudson} who grew up as a young girl in Virginia in the 1940s and 50s alongside Viola, her family’s “help.” It wasn’t until Kathryn Stockett’s novel, The Help and subsequent film sparked conversations with my mom that I came to realize how much her own childhood experience was part of this larger picture. I asked her to write down what she remembers, and I’m glad to have the opportunity to share her perspective. I wish we could hear Viola’s side of the story, as well. We don’t have a photo of her — which is unfathomable, given her central role in the family’s life. Nor do we know what became of her after she was “let go.” That unknown remains difficult for my Mom, my Aunt Ginnie, and other family members — as it was for The Help‘s Skeeter when denied contact with Constantine.

I should mention, too, that taking my children to see this PG-13 movie resulted in the best conversations we have had to date about race, power, and socioeconomic class. The film has been criticized for glossing over weighty issues, and I concur, but the flip side of that softer coin for our family was that it offered a story that a 10 year old could begin to wrap her head around. My daughter, Ella was fascinated by the characters, their challenges, sadnesses, and motivations. The wheels were turning, and she was busting with questions.

I read a review by Alice Walker that said, “… our mothers and fathers who basically re-enslaved themselves to feed, clothe and educate their children, also did their best to love the children they were forced to tend, thus keeping themselves human in a situation in which the most self-destructive hatred might have developed…” Viola was among those who did just that. Worthy of a cup of tea and a moment of quiet, the guest post that follows shares the memories of a little girl and a woman she loved:

Aibileen and Mae Mobley in "The Help." Click on Image for Source.

Viola Was Our Help {Guest Post by Dorothy Robson}

When I was visiting my daughter and her family recently, 10-year old Ella asked, “Grandma, have you seen The Help?” “No, but I want to.” Reading the book had brought back a flood of memories for me and I had been intending to get to the theater. End of conversation, until we got into the car after Ella’s lacrosse practice. “Grandma, you have to close your eyes. Keep them closed.” The car started moving. Were we going to Ben and Jerry’s? No, we’d made too many turns for that and now we seemed to be on a straight highway. When the car stopped and I opened my eyes, I saw that we were in a mall parking lot. I was led through the mall doors and was greeted by a poster for The Help. But it wasn’t until my daughter Beth said, “Ella thought you’d like to see this” that I realized what was happening.  So the three of us entered the movie theater with popcorn and water bottles in hand… which leads us to the story of Viola.

From the time I was a baby until I was almost ten years old, our family had “help,” a maid named Viola.  She came to our house every week day, taking the bus to our suburban home from downtown Washington, DC. In those days it was not unusual for families with income a bit above average to have a full-time domestic employee. They were referred to as maids; they were always black, and none lived in our neighborhood. My friend Martha’s family had Ernestine, my aunt and uncle had Queenie, and we had Viola.

When my parents married, Viola was part of the package, having worked for my father before his first wife died suddenly.  Now she would work in the new household with the new Mrs. Hudson. We were a family with 8 children; his, hers, and theirs. My mother, a young widow, had one child from her first marriage and in a couple of years I would be born, followed by my younger sister, Ginnie. My father came to the marriage with 5 children, but only one child was young enough to be living at home. My two new brothers maintained a bedroom on the third floor, livening up the scene whenever they came home, and two sisters were married and out on their own. I imagine it was a complicated business to manage this combined household, both for my mother, the new bride, and for Viola, the experienced help.

Unlike “the help” in the film, Viola would get off the bus wearing her own street clothes, usually a bright print dress and a hat with a little veil, and run-down sandals.  Viola was not very tall, a bit stocky, and used something on her longish black hair to make it shiny and straight, with curls at the end. She’d walk from the bus stop to our house, going directly down to the basement where her grey work uniforms and aprons hung in a small closet.  She’d change into her drab uniform, come upstairs and begin her day’s work.  Viola would do dishes, vacuum, wash, dry and iron clothes, scrub the bathrooms, polish silverware, and perform any other household chores that needed doing that day.  Although my mother was a stay-at-home housewife {the norm for those times} and did many of these same tasks, it felt like Viola was the one ultimately responsible for getting everything done.

Young Skeeter with Constantine. Click on Image for Source.

When my mother had to go out on an errand, Viola would, of course, take care of us. She could simultaneously change a diaper, settle an argument between squabbling sisters, wipe a runny nose, make grilled cheese sandwiches and Campbell’s tomato soup, and be there to comfort a child who’d scraped her knee. Just as in The Help, Viola would pick up a crying child who had woken from a nap. She had a good lap for a kid to sit on; a comfy lap. She’d chant nursery rhymes with the littlest one. I still remember my younger sister Ginnie sitting in a high chair in the kitchen, rhythmically reciting “Hey, Diddle Diddle” with Viola. When it came to “And the dish ran away with the spoon!” Viola would loudly say “’poon,” imitating baby Ginnie who couldn’t say it right. “No, ‘Bylo, it’s ‘poon!” Ginnie would protest. This would keep up, with little Ginnie trying her hardest, and Viola just laughing away.

There was one story about Viola and me that would be retold many times; I had been playing with a new friend who had just moved into the neighborhood.  It was late on a summer afternoon, and we were a couple of five year old girls testing the limits of a ten-year old boy, my new friend Jeannie’s older brother.  He was playing with a bow and arrow {a real one} and he told us to move. I guess we didn’t, because the next thing I knew, I’d been hit in the head by an arrow gone astray, just at the scalp line above one eye. Blood flows easily from that area, and it trickled down as I ran home, just a few houses down the street.  I remember that Viola leaned my head into a basin of cold water, turning the water pink.  My mother arrived home only to have Viola run out to greet her in the driveway with, “Mrs. Hudson, a boy shot Dorothy!”  My frantic mother rushed in, expecting to find a smoking gun beside her dead child, and was immensely relieved that little Dorothy’s wound required only a Band Aid and some disinfectant. Viola had handled the situation as well as she could, except for scaring my mother half to death.

I remember a game of words once in which Viola referred to herself as “poor”, and we children insisted, “You’re not poor, Viola.” “Oh, yes I am,” she’d say, “and you are rich.”  We certainly didn’t want to be called “rich”, although we were rich in comparison to Viola. So we’d argue “poor” and “rich,” until we got tired of it. If I remember correctly, Viola earned $35 a week cash, plus her carfare. My mother would buy uniforms and aprons for her, and Viola would eat meals at our house. But she’d eat by herself at a small table in the kitchen, never at the dining room table where the rest of us ate.  At the time, I never thought anything of it. Just like in the film, that’s the way it was in the early 1950’s.

Viola was usually pretty good-natured and she enjoyed a good laugh. But understandably, this wasn’t always the case. I remember one incident that stood out in family lore, in which Viola quit and wouldn’t come back to work. It was because my older sister Janice accused Viola of killing her pet duck {one of those Easter pets that rarely have a long and happy life}. Evidently Viola fed the duck after someone else had already fed it, and soon after it was a dead duck. “You killed my duck!” was said one time too many and Viola went down to the basement, changed her clothes, and went home early—for good. That’s when my older sister Peggy went to Viola’s apartment and made peace with her. We all felt awful when Viola quit, and were very relieved when she returned. After all, she was part of the family.

Occasionally there would be company for dinner, a fancier dinner than most nights, and Viola would be asked to stay and help. A good cook, Viola would have prepared most of the food. And she certainly would have made dessert, because she made the best pies ever. My favorites were apple, cherry and lemon meringue. Somehow, in the midst of her work day, she could turn out an impressive pie or two.  “Mmm, mmm!” we’d say, following our noses into the kitchen to get a closer whiff of her latest. During a company dinner, Viola would stay in the kitchen, coming out only to put serving dishes of vegetables and meat on the table. If we needed anything from her, my mother would ring a little bell that sat on the dining room table, and Viola would come in. When dinner was over, Viola would clear the dishes and use a silver crumb scraper and tray to neaten up the table after we’d eaten her flaky pastry. Somehow I ended up with that set, as a keepsake of Viola’s role.

Viola’s years with our family came to an end when I was in fifth grade. My parents were taking a six-week trip to Europe and we three children still living at home were not going with them; we were being left in the care of close friends and relatives. My parents decided it was the time for another change — for Viola’s employment with our family to end. I remember my father taking Viola aside, walking with her down the brick sidewalk, and I knew what he was telling her. She cried, and we kids cried because everything was going to be different. I don’t remember saying our goodbyes, but if I had to do it now, I’d tell her how much I would miss her.  I’d apologize for sometimes being thoughtless of her feelings and for fighting with my sisters. I’d thank her for the many everyday and special things she did for us, including making the best pies ever. And I’d tell her I loved her and I’d never forget her.

As far as I know, Viola never had children of her own. So we Hudson children were like her own children. Once when my mother had done something we didn’t like {probably disciplined us harshly—perhaps justifiably so} my sister and I actually had a conversation that started with the leading question “So who do you like best, Mommy or Viola?” I only recently learned from a relative that the biggest reason Viola didn’t want to leave was because she would be separated from Ginnie and me, the two youngest kids. Viola had seen us at our best and our worst and she still loved us.

There were a number of times during The Help that tears came to my eyes, particularly during the scenes with Mae Mobley, the chunky little blond-headed girl that Aibileen held and cuddled and nurtured every day. Aibileen wanted sweet Mae Mobley to know that she was “kind…smart… important.” Theirs was a loving bond not affected by race or economic class. It just was what it was. When the film came to an end and the credits scrolled by, I was surprised — but then not surprised — to see that Aibileen was played by an actress whose first name was Viola. {Viola Davis}

Dorothy lives in Vermont with her husband, Dick

One last thought: Viola had a boyfriend, and she’d take home cans of bacon fat from our house to fry pork chops for him.  When I got married and had my first kitchen, I continued to put bacon fat in a can, saving it in the freezer.  Why, you might ask, was I saving it?  The answer has to be, to give to Viola! It was a habit, even after she was gone.

The Help painted a picture of a time and place that was much like what I experienced as a child. At the end of our evening at the movie theater, I thanked my daughter, Beth and granddaughter, Ella for surprising me with our shared experience. But I especially wished I could thank Viola. She was our help.

- Dorothy Hudson Robson, October 2011