The History

If walls could talk, we would have secrets to share. It must be understood that it took me quite a while to understand the world of people as compared to my own. One thing I do know is that I entered the world empty as a vessel, but I did indeed learn. I look back on so much of what I’ve seen not fully realizing what it was until now. It took me so much time to understand and see. The most important aspects to be understood became that I am home. I am a haven. In addition, it was my job to shelter. Therefore, we keep secrets because we are all keepers of our own domain. We have secrets and we hold them because it is our sacred bond with inhabitants that we shield them from the world. They are just as much a part of our lives as we are theirs.

1928:

The last layer of paint was striped on and I know the men left us all. For a moment, we were empty. Then, a man arrived accompanied by his new wife. He was tall and wore a suit with a hat. She wore dresses that covered almost her entire body. They walked in with suitcases, and she exclaimed,

“This is our home!” and he playfully lifted her up. It was strange because they seemed so happy to see me. When her mouth arched and played around the word “home” I felt empowered. I instantly wanted to protect them. They often smiled at one another. They played jazz music loudly and would practice their dancing when they went out. Large boxes arrived of mysterious liquids in bottles that made them goofy. It became blissful. The man left most days for a long time. He was going to work. She and another woman would clean the windows, dishes, clothes, and linens. Then, she alone would prepare food and when he arrived, they would eat together.

Days passed as they kissed and hugged and spoke of the world. Then, one day after she had left, she returned home with a smile but wringing her hands and pacing. The woman mumbled words to herself, turned on the spot, and mumbled more. When he walked through the door she made a proud exclamation,

“We are having a baby!” His eyes teared as he lifted her up and turned on the music. This was before I knew the significance of a baby, but now I do. I saw them descend into the bliss I was in. Her body expanded and she protruded around corners and needed assistance standing up. While alone, she sung to her belly, tapped it, spoke to it, and sang to it. When he arrived home, he did the same.

1929:

One day, she had expanded so much I feared she may explode, they left for several days, and when they returned, they had something soft wrapped in a blanket. This was their child. The child was rather loud and slept all the time, but they spoke softly and sang in some sort of bliss I would never understand, but I did know that I was falling in love with this family. The baby grew in voice and in size and they spoke of their future often.

Slowly, the man turned sour after returning to the house. He had fewer smiles and fewer touches to give, and his face seemed farther away. Some loud arguments woke the child and perpetuated fits of screaming, but the screaming of the child was not a deterrent.

He walked in and the door darkened. His eyes were far, his brow sweaty, and his mouth in a frown.

“It happened; they fired me.” He said without a kiss to his wife or child. She wrapped him in her tiny arms silently. He started spending more time out there, coming home with a dirty face and dirty clothes. Their clothes started to tear and collect dirt. The food supply seemed to diminish and the child cried often. There was no more jazz in the house. Possessions left one by one. Then, one day, they walked out with their suitcases. The last I saw of the first family I loved. I couldn’t keep them.

After they left, there were many people in and out. It seemed as though they didn’t care about the house. Some were families like them, some were single men, some were women with children. It was a very confusing time. Some of the people that came were kind and cooked. Some of the people that came broke windows and took objects away carvings were made that I didn’t know but the people seemed to. I was just being used. Once all the windows were broken, people stopped coming when rain lashed through and then snow settled. I could feel myself deteriorating for a long time. I was so cold and so alone. but I sat, I waited for more secrets and for another family i could protect. This time seemed to stretch on endlessly. When the summer came, rot and smells overcame me and I continued to weaken. Nobody was here to say goodbye. Nobody cared.

1936:

I was desolate, completely rotting away, when a woman, a man and their son arrived. This boy was not small and soft, he looked very much like a smaller version of his parents. They came in and looked and then left. I thought that I would be alone forever until men came. They came with hammers and paint and all sorts of utensils. I’ll always be grateful to them, because they actually fixed me. The rot went away and I felt strong once again. I felt I could be a protector, but of course, I never got to thank them. I spent some time alone, adjusting to my new strength when one day, the three of them came back. The man still in a suit, the woman in a different dress, and the boy dressed for play.

The mother and father listened to the radio almost all the time. When the father was gone, the mother kept it at a low volume, occasionally music came through, but a lot of it was talk. In the evenings, when their son would play outside against the setting sun they would say things like,

“Europe is a disaster” and “it’s only a matter of time”

The boy grew and I knew time was passing. Over this time, there were many people invited into the home. Conversations had- some of them somber and some of them had fun. They always introduced their child proudly. Despite the serious nature of their nightly conversations, the family seemed happy and lighthearted. Sometimes, I felt included when they said the phrase, “this is our home,” I felt I was involved in their protection and it felt right.

1941:

She turned on the radio at her normal time, and listened. She sat for a very long time that day, neglecting her normal routine. She kept her son home all day. When the man returned his face looked rather grim and I was worried. His jacket was off as well as his tie. Something about him looked off. She swiftly kissed him as they entered the kitchen and just listened to the broadcast.

The next day, he came down the stairs yelling,

“We were attacked!”

“You have a son and a family, Please!” he turned sharply to her, his face grave.

“We were attacked. I am doing this.” Something about this stopped her commentary. It took a long time for me to understand that he was leaving. The family would no longer be the same family. They started separating from one another, permanenetly taking place in front of the radio. They even allowed the son around these reports. Something was changing. He walked down one day in a green uniform. His wife cried, while the boy cried out. He embraced his wife first and she handed him several slips of paper. He saved the last for his son. His son cried and bawled and screamed. His son begged him not go, but he disengaged from the embrace and left with watering eyes while tucking the paper into his uniform.

1942:

Time had passed since he left. Mother and son tried to had fun together but it was hollow. I often caught them looking at the door. At night, they would often read to each other from the mail. All of what they read ended with “love, Harry.” So much had changed. I never changed and I never fully understood why they did, but I kept trying to protect them and keep them.

A sharp rap on the door during dinner. So small a sound. The mother told the boy to stay at the table, but he went to the wall and peered secretively around the corner. When she got to the door, she took a moment before opening it, and two men in green uniforms were there and presented her with something. She broke down and wept. Her wails echo into my mind to this day. When the men left, she called her son to her and embraced him. I began to understand that the father would never return.

It was so quiet after that. Mother and son hardly spoke. Mother began to drink a dark liquid that made her very sleepy. One night, she went to sleep with the fire on, and I saw my counterparts catch. Smoke filled the room She was a mother, and she went and got her son. After that, she had to leave the house and stay out long hours, often returning covered in dark marks and a gray uniform of her own covered in dust. They fixed the wall but one day, they packed the small car with whatever would fit, and they just left. The boy took a final look around and blinked. That was my small goodbye.

1944:

The winters had been hard and lonely, but I was getting used to it. I basked in the memories of happy families and not my failure to protect them from outside. I was supposed to keep the outside out, but I had not done that. I knew I deserved to be abandoned, but I did desire love. I was basked in a reverie, when a man barged in. He had a frown and a suit that accompanied a peculiar walking style that made him stomp around everywhere. I believed he was injured. The man spent the days trying to salvage our sorry and deteriorating protection and at night, he drank from glass bottles and sometimes, he could not even stand up. The drinks slowly seemed to change him and often, he would break or throw things and spend the whole next day cleaning it up.

He brought home many different women. Sometimes he was cruel and sometimes he was kind. I never knew what created the difference in him. Then, a woman came, and she never stopped leaving. She was here to stay. There was such a brief moment where they had bliss, but time passed, and things changed. There was even a night where he threw her into me. I do not like to remember that time. After he threw her into me, she began to shrink. The house was filled with long silences as he drank and drank from glass bottles. Often, the silences were followed by loud and rageful voices, mostly his. Oftentimes, he would pass out on the floor or the sofa. One night, following a rage, he went to run up the stairs after her but his limp and drink made him completely unsteady. He teetered and tottered on the stairs until he fell backwards. A loud yell entered the house followed by a bang. The woman ran to him and she was wailing and crying. Many people showed up at the house after that, milling around the motionless body of the man. Then, they left and carted him away.

Shortly after that, I noticed that her belly was growing more and more everyday. She began to sing to her belly and laugh out loud. Two older people arrived, and I realized later it was her parents. They patted her belly and her mother planted flowers out front. There was a brightness in the home again and I loved being a part of a family.

1956:

The boy was aged to look similar to his father, but he was kind to his mother and grandmother. He left everyday for school and returned promptly. There was a jovial sweetness inside of this family. Then, the older woman didn’t get out of bed one day. I’m not sure what happened but she was stuck there. Again, many people came to the house eventually carrying her off. Not too long after, Father, daughter, and son packed up the house and left.

I am used to being alone now. I dwelled on the happy times when the old man and old woman would dance together while mother sang to her son. I still thought of the happy baby that I had first known and held onto the hope that I would see them again. I wondered everyday about the woman who started the fire. Time did not exist for me as it seemed to exist for others. I stood standing while their lives shifted, changed and expanded. I could do nothing for them because so much of their lives existed outside of me, but I knew them better than anyone else.

1960:

A family again arrived. They had dark skin and two young children. Both of the parents had to leave most days to go out and “make the money” so I often was responsible for watching the children. One of them was 10, the other was 4, the older was a boy, the younger was a girl. They often listened to the radio and spoke of “the protests” and “the marches”. As a family they seemed exhausted but happy. The music played loud as they danced over spiced stews.

They awoke one night to windows being smashed. Someone outside was throwing bricks and yelling things out of a truck. Whatever was written on the brick made them all huddle close together throughout the night, the children eventually sleeping while the parents stared wide-eyed at each other. They fixed the window, and the children grew. They always made time to tell stories and sing songs “from before”.

1961:

”. One day, husband and wife both arrived home frantically turning on the news to the radio.

“Good lord, he was shot. He was shot and killed in public!” That same night, many cars began to drive out front and honk and make loud noises. I could hear glasses breaking and even saw small fires fizzle on the lawn. It was another sleepless night for the mother and father. Sometimes, they gave each other hard stares. They often shared with their children the world was hard and unfair to them. I felt so sad about that because I loved them. All I wanted was to protect them, but there was no keeping the outside from hurting them.

The children grew. No matter what befell the house, they stayed. The son doted on his little sister even as he aged. The parents were gone a lot, so they each took care of each other. He would bring her home, feed her snacks, and play with her dolls. The love within this house was so true, but the outside world crept in sometimes.

1963:

A somber day came when all were quiet coming home. When the boy arrived with his sister, he put his finger to his lips and turned on the radio instantly, something he never did.

“…. At least 4 little girls killed in the Birmingham Bombing today…” the boy lowered his head and grabbed his small sister and held her close. When the mother and father arrived home, they sat somberly. That night was completely without joy. The months that followed seemed less joyful. Years continued and the children grew, especially the boy who looked so much like his father in the mirror across from me, his whole body had broadened.

1968:

The family became less somber and returned to nighttime dances and storytelling as they always did. They seemed so sturdy, always ending up in a place where they were loving and happy within my walls.

Again, another radio broadcast made them invariably sad.

“they killed him at that hotel,” mother said while crying and holding onto her son. Her son cried, then the father cried. Again, they all huddled together. The girl had become quiet and played less as she grew up. She seemed to always have her eyes peering out into something unseen.

“They’ll never solve it, they don’t want to” the son choked out between sobs. The father had very little to say. There was another attack among many where trash was thrown on the lawn and then it all caught fire. I still remember the stench of it, practically burning me.

The father seemed to wane and wane. As the son broadened, the father’s size deteriorated, and his eyes became less focused. One day, he was in the kitchen, and he grabbed his arm and dropped to a chair. The mother tended to him, and more people came. They all left for days. I didn’t know if I would ever see them again until mother and children walked through the door.

“… I think it was a broken heart, baby, this world was hard on your daddy.” The son seemed not to hear but the daughter nodded along. “We are goin to my mama’s house, babies.” They packed the car and they left. I missed their singing the most. It wasn’t songs on the radios, they were so spontaneous. I missed the loud popping grease on the stove. I always hoped they would come back to this home, but I knew that I had done a bad job protecting them, but I could keep their secrets and I could remember their love and devotion.

A woman came through the door after that followed by a young man, her son. He was young enough that he was still growing, but gave the illusion of a fully grown man. He went to school and she went to work. She had never been married because the boy’s father never wanted him so she had been on her own for “a long long time” . They were a small, but happy family. He spent as much time cooking as she did. He brought other young men and women over and the mother was happy enough to have them. They loved their new house and spent time painting the walls and going through belongings long left behind. I even felt adored as they worked. Occasionally, the mother would spend the night away, but never often. It was a different family than I knew but one that I adored. The boy tossed balls around outside and came home in a helmet and gear. Apparently, he was very athletic.

I liked this small family. It was very honest and open to me. Not that anyone could hide anything from me anyway, but they tried. They read and sang along to radios and enjoyed going out to movies together. There was a certain bliss in this time. They had a television where they would often watch the news together somberly.

“Those poor boys…” Mother would often say as well as “it’s so horrible what’s going on over there…” the son usually watched on quietly sometimes adding “they are hardly older than I am”

The son began to bring home the same girl and occasionally, they would kiss or hold hands. I started to understand that they were in love and the mother was very happy. This contentment continued for a long while. Mother going to work and yet not being able to wait to see her son. The son always seemed happy to see his mother.

1969:

Then they began to talk about what would happen after he left school. There were so many ideas and so many things he wanted to accomplish and she loved him all the more for it. She even revealed that she put her earnings toward the future he wanted and he was touched. Until the letter. When it arrived, the mother was alone and she cried. She then cooked dinner until her son came home. He was so happy that day. Dinner was silent and his mom told him that he would be going. He didn’t even have to ask where to.

Days seemed like they moved at a slow speed. They were less lively and almost always glued to the television. The depth of the silence was the hardest part. This family had taught me so much and spoken so honestly, the silences felt much longer than ever. When he left, I was saddened. I could never seem to stop the outside world from coming in, somehow, I always failed. I would never tell anyone the significance of these silences. I could at least keep their secrets.

While he was gone, time stretched on. The woman seemed to get older and smaller. There were times when she would talk out loud, but mostly, it was silent. Sometimes, she looked to the door, as if hoping he would walk in. After a while, his letters stopped coming as much. She began to read over his old ones over and over again while silently watching the television. There was never anybody else brought into the house. I sort of missed that and I wondered if she missed it as well. I didn’t know.

1972:

Finally she read a letter that made her smile. Really smile. She began moving things all around and doing their shared household duties with diligence. Some things she packed up and drove away, but she always came back. I had seen her do this several times before, only to get another letter that seemed to suck all of the life from her.

Then, she took a trip in the car and returned with her son, only it was not the same boy at all. She had aged immensely in the years he was gone and he had aged even more. His hair was long and greasy. Beneath his eyes, there were deep lines, and his brow was permanently furrowed. He was muscular, but much leaner than when he had left and his eyes were glazed over, constantly seeing shadows. The worst part was his smile. He hardly ever smiled anymore and when he did it was fake, barely baring teeth while his eyes maintained a steely coldness within them.

For weeks, she doted on him, but mostly he just asked to be left alone. He went out late and sometimes didn’t return for days and never answered her where he was. All the secrets made everything so different from before. His unyielding silence made me feel hopeless. His mother left one day and that’s when I saw it.

He brought many people over. Different kinds of people than he used to. They all had fogged eyes like his. They turned on a record player and he brought out a needle. I’m not sure what it was, but it seemed to make him sick. The people that used it seemed unable to move or speak correctly. He hadn’t eaten for several days. Something about this was very scary to me. It felt like the end of something instead of the beginning.

A vicious fight broke out. I couldn’t fully understand why. Things were fine up until the moment that they weren’t. The son and several others got involved in a group brawl. They broke things in the kitchen, living room and hallway. Then, as soon as it started, the group separated. Except one body was left bleeding heavily on the floor. After only a few minutes, everyone was gone except for the bleeding boy.

When the mother returned, it was to a broken house and a dead body. She screamed and looked frantically for her baby boy but there was no one to be found. She got on the phone and many people arrived. They stayed for hours. She cried a lot and exclaimed,

“He couldn’t have done this!” It was a terrible day. Shortly after, she left with almost nothing. Slowly, many strangers came and walked around the house and assessed something called “the value of the land” because “it would never sell now”. I’m one of the last pieces standing. Bit by bit, the whole house was dismantled, and I could see others living through the windows. I have no regrets except that I couldn’t keep the world out. There had been pain, yes, but there was also so much love and joy. I know that they will tear me down as well and it may be as though these happy families never existed, but I know better. Even if I stop existing, their memories and love always happened.