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miss burma

Miss Burma had taken to joining the women on the stoop of the apartment building where she lived. She'd sit wide-legged, dip her dress between her legs and tell stories 'til times got

better.

Liz and Callie'd look dead into Miss Burma's face, wide eyed, concentrating. Jesse'd lay her head against Sharon's shoulder and digest all that was being said and then dream that Miss Burma was her grandmother.

The women discoverd that Miss Burma had no relatives ΟΙ friends left when they found her wandering the halls, talking to herself or to imaginary women in front of or behind her, and smelling bad from old alcohol and no clean dress. No one took care of her nearly enough, though social service people came around once a month to take her to cash her check and buy food.

Before leaving for work, Liz and Callie prepared breakfast for Miss Burma. They'd leave her lunch in her refrigerator. Jesse and Sharon took her dinner to her in the evening if Miss Burma wasn't feeling well, but on most days, Miss Burma would eat dinner with all ΟΙ some of them. Each week, the Women alternated these duties. On weekends all volunteered to clean Miss Burma's apartment. They'd talk to her and look through her photo albums. If it was one woman's turn to comb Miss Burma's hair, they all went.

They belonged to Miss Burma and Miss Burma belonged to them. Miss Burma was their decided connection to the past. Miss Burma was their wonder. Wonder she had survived. Wonder she remembered stories to tell them. Wonder officials hadn't come along and taken their Miss Burma to a state home or another place to die without having had a chance to leave her stories with anyone.

Miss Burma had antedotes to make crises bearable or seem less important than they were. "Fight, you say you having a li'l fight. Honey, me and mine'd fight 'til times got better. Dollin' get to fightin and didn't care who knowed it. I was wit a woman one time who was married because it was supposed to mean something to be married even when your heart was not anywhere near being married. Anyhow, I was having a fight wit this woman about this very thing. loving each other and the man she was wit come from nowhere swinging and opposite. carrying on for just the .cause she didn't love him. We had to stop fightin, me and my woman friend, to kick his behind before he hurt one of us. You fight 'til times get better, darlins, but most times there is a something that bring you together and you do fight at times to find out what it is."

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-by Raymina Y. Mays

Miss Burma's best stories seemed to come around 7:30 after dinner, when they were all full and sitting on the stoop in front of the apartment. This night Miss Burma held in her hand her ration of red wine as the women had gotten her to a place where she'd only drink one glass per day. The smoke from a reefer cigarette was shifting according to the breeze. Moths were dancing around the street lights overhead and the children were being called indoors as daylight was about over. Miss Burma was prepared

to pick from her host of stories that the women had heard slightly different versions of at least once. Maybe she'd give them something new to hold onto for the hard times. Miss Burma began to finger the wine glass and look up at the street lights and up at the moon as she'd do all night, depending upon the point she'd try to make.

On

some

not

"Women stories. You say you want women stories. Got a lifetime of them stories. Got some known facts on hatred. On love. On how to live. How to give up and then make it back. making it back." On this night, it seemed that Miss Burma would season their hearing first with a love story. But she shifted a bit and sat straight up. The women were not sure what they'd hear, she usually slumped forward and looked tired.

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