An Open Letter to Kathryn Stockett, Author of The Help
I first picked up a copy of The Help in June of 2010 to read on a cross-country flight when travelling from my home in Los Angeles to a meeting in the New York area. The book had already generated quite a buzz in West Los Angeles.
I didn’t know much about The Help except that it was a novel about a group of women and their domestic help in the South in the 1960s. Since I grew up in New Orleans during the same period, I figured that it might be something I would enjoy. Despite my inherent reluctance to purchase a hardback copy of any book (and having no friend with a copy to lend, and with the library’s waiting list several months long) I trudged over to Borders after work the night before the flight and plunked down $25.00 to buy myself a copy.
From the moment I picked up the book, it resonated with me. With rapt attention, I read the book throughout the entire cross-country flight. Once I arrived at the meeting, every spare second was spent finishing the book. For the next several week, I told anyone who would listen about The Help. The novel’s description of what it was like to grow up in the South in the 1960s brought me right back to my childhood, and most specifically, it made me think about my own nanny, Sylvia.
Sylvia came to work for my family when I was only ten days old and was an integral part of my childhood and adolescence. She continued to be a part of our household until I was sixteen years old, when she and my mother had a parting of ways, after which we remained in close touch until her death. When she came to work for us, she was newly divorced from her husband and had no children of her own. Sylvia, as an important member of my family, attended every one of my graduations from high school until law school, as well as my post-wedding celebration in New Orleans. When I brought my son to New Orleans, first as a toddler and then later as a child, I made sure to bring him across the river to visit with Sylvia. When my father died in early 2008, Sylvia attended his funeral with the assistance of her nephew, Frank since she was frail and no longer able to attend without assistance.
After my dad’s death, the time got away from me, and I didn’t keep in touch with Sylvia as well as I should have. The demands of my job and family took up most of my time. Since my mother relocated to Los Angeles following Hurricane Katrina and my father was gone, I did not get back to New Orleans as often to visit.
After I returned from my cross-country trip in June of 2010, having finished The Help, I picked up the telephone to call Sylvia. I was embarrassed that it took my reading a book to prompt me to make the long overdue call, but glad that it finally moved me to action.
After I dialed, the phone rang and rang. This was unusual since Sylvia seldom left the house. I decided to try again later and see if I might have better luck. A few hours later, when I tried again a male voice answered “hello.” Sylvia lived alone, and I had never known anyone else to answer her telephone so I was caught off guard. “Is Sylvia there?” I asked. “No, she’s not” the voice responded. After I identified myself, the voice was identified as Sylvia’s nephew, Frank. I asked Frank if he knew when I might be able to reach her. “Aunt Sylvia’s in the hospital. She is in Oschner’s Intensive Care on the East Bank.” “Can I call here there?” I asked. “What is wrong with her?” Frank answered“She had a brain aneurysm.” I asked whether she was conscious and able to speak on the telephone. Frank told me that she wasn’t, and that the prognosis was very grave. I hung up the phone in tears, asking him to please keep me updated as to her condition. I felt terrible and disgusted with myself and wondered how my preoccupation with my mundane, day to day life had kept me from making contact with Sylvia before it was too late.
Over the next several weeks, I e-mailed and called Sylvia’s family often. I was thrilled to learn after several weeks that Sylvia, against all odds, had improved enough to be discharged to a rehabilitation hospital on the West Bank close to her house.
I was so relieved that I had been given a second chance, and eager to see Sylvia once more, that I immediately booked a ticket to New Orleans. In preparation for the visit, I went through all my old photo albums and scanned lots of old photographs of me and Sylvia and then had them put into a digital photo album for Sylvia to look at and keep with her at the rehab hospital.
When I got to New Orleans and reached the rehab hospital, I walked down a long corridor filled with patients sitting in the hall or rolling around in their wheelchairs. When I got to Sylvia’s room at the end of the long hall and stuck my head in, she was nowhere to be found. I turned back around and went back to the nurse’s station. Suddenly, I saw her. Her hair was gray and was arranged in short braids instead of the black straight hair do that she had favored for the last 45 years, but I knew right away that it was her. When I walked over and tapped her on the shoulder and she turned around and looked at me, the look of first surprise and then joy on her face made both of us immediately burst into tears. Neither of us had thought that we would see the other before it was too late, and yet, here we were.
Due to the toll taken by Sylvia’s illness and multiple brain surgeries, and her advanced age, she was confused about her situation and living arrangements. She kept offering to go in the kitchen and fix me some duck or French Toast, both of which had been my favorites as a child. She had also apparently told others in the nursing home that my father owned the place and would be coming to make several improvements at her request. One thing I am sure about, however, is that she knew who I was. She told anyone who would walk by “this is my baby.”
About eight months later, in February 2011 when my husband had another function to attend in New Orleans, my son Jesse and I were able to accompany him on his trip and once again I made the trek to see Sylvia in the rehab hospital. This time, I brought a DVD featuring film footage from my first years as well as later birthday parties and playdates with friends which also featured Sylvia. The nurses delighted in watching the videos of Sylvia as a young beautiful woman chasing around after me as a brown haired pixie.
In April of 2011, I received an e-mail from Frank telling me that Sylvia had been admitted to Touro Infirmary in New Orleans and had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. She died in early September.
The hours that I was able to spend with Sylvia in the last year of her life were a gift that you gave to me. Your book gave me a perspective on our relationship that really changed me forever.
After I finished The Help, I read a letter to you which was a criticism written by a woman who told you that you were mistaken, and that the relationship you shared with your own maid and nanny, Demitrie, was one-sided. She told you that although you may have loved her, and that you thought that Demitrie loved you as well, that you were mistaken and that for her, it was just a job. A way to collect a paycheck and make ends meet.
I am here to tell you, and to tell that woman, that I know different. Yes, it may have been that the relationship was consummated due to the employment relationship, but that was only the beginning. Regardless of race, these relationships are the fundamental underpinnings of who we are today. I know that for me, Sylvia will live on in my heart forever, and for you, I am sure that wherever Demitrie is, she is amazingly proud of you, and is telling everyone who will listen.
Peace to you.
Cynthia
© 2012 Cynthia Burstein Waldman
