My name’s Joyce; I’ve got joy in my heart and in my name. My parents wanted to have a child so badly, and tried so hard, that when I was finally born they named me after the joy they felt. I was born and raised in Washington, D.C. I’ve always loved cooking. To me there’s a sacred ritual in taking out the utensils, marinating my ingredients, and mixing up the spices. I think I got the taste for cooking by watching my grandma when she’d make us corn soups, potato gratins and Thanksgiving turkeys. My grandma always used to say she made the best turkey in Washington. The cranberry sauce with stuffed chestnuts is my favourite. We’ve always celebrated Thanksgiving as a family, long as I can remember. There’s my daddy (he drives a farm truck), and my mom (she’s a typist down at City Hall), and my grandma – she used to live in the southern plantations with her husband, who’s dead now. My grandma’s done seen a lot in her day. She was there when they read out Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation to black Americans. She sang the slave songs of the South, and then she emigrated to the North. Yes sir, my grandmother’s seen a lot. She still tells me about how her husband was well treated by his master, and got his final pay after working in the plantation fields for over twenty years. Now ain’t that something? Making my grandma’s cooking is my favourite thing.
When I turned twenty-one it was time for me to leave the family home and earn my living. Here in America anything is possible – even the impossible. When I say impossible, I mean a black woman getting hired in a fancy D.C. restaurant. Before that I worked in a diner, but they treated me like a housekeeper there. All I did was mop, wipe tables and scrub the can. Some customers refused to sit down to eat their hot dog or their burger if I was around. But I’m still Joyce, and I got joy in my heart. It took me a while to find a proper job waitressing in a real restaurant. I knocked on every door I could find. “Sorry Miss, we don’t hire coloureds here,” they’d tell me. Unfortunately, in this country Blacks don’t have the same status as Whites. But Mr. Cliff, my boss, ain’t like the others – he judges you by how hard you work, not how you look. I still gotta make sure I keep my uniform white and spotless, of course. Mr. Cliff gave me a chance, and he hasn’t regretted it yet. I told him about how I love to cook, and I even gave him my grandma’s Thanksgiving recipes. In two years working here I’ve learned a lot – how to fold the napkins, polish the wine glasses, lay the silverware and serve customers with a smile. I always introduce myself the same way: “Hi, my name’s Joyce, like joy with a couple extra letters, and I'll be your waitress today.” Some of the diners still refuse to be served by a “negress” as they call me, and ask for a white waitress instead. Mr. Cliff doesn’t get involved, but I know he disapproves. Sometimes when I get upset about it, he lets me try the daily special. It’s a real treat, since I could never afford to buy myself an eight-dollar steak or a twelve-dollar seabass. That’s too rich for my blood; I’m just a waitress with joy in her heart.
My favourite customer is Mrs. Lane. She comes every Sunday with her daughter, Grace, and always has a smile for me. When she sees me she says: “Well, if it isn’t Joy with a couple of extra letters!” Mrs. Lane is the wife of a wealthy businessman. He never comes to the restaurant with her, but she doesn’t seem to mind – her daughter is good company. That girl is so well-mannered; never puts her elbows on the table or too much salt on her food, and always saying, “Hello Joyce,” “Thank you, Joyce,” “Please, Joyce.” Last Sunday Mrs. Lane gave me a twenty-dollar tip, but I had to give sixty per cent of it to Mr. Cliff. House rules, you see.
But I’m still Joyce, so there’s always some joy in me.
Alan Alfredo Geday