Claire Conger

In Negroland: A Memoir, Margo Jefferson chronicles her coming of age in mid-century America in a relatively privileged Black household. I found her concerns to be surprising similar to my own, in a relatively privileged white household: complexion, make-up, clothes, and perfect hair. (I used to cry in frustration trying to get my hair to do what I wanted.) Similar, too, were the primary demands: graduate college, land a good job, marry well.

Ms. Jefferson’s mother is concerned about appearance, and pays her far more attention than mine did me. When “[Margo comes] downstairs wearing a red blouse and a purple and white flowered skirt, [her mother sends her] right back up to change.” (page 227) My mother didn’t even care that my skirts met the school dress code, until the dean of girls phoned my father at work.

What intrigues me is Ms. Jefferson’s thoughts on having to remember that one is a Negro. There’s more to it than staying safe in a white world. There’s a choice–a freedom–of being with one’s people, whoever those people may be.