Now that Doris is back in town, I've been thinking about the story she tells over and over, her own personal mythology. Especially the part about stealing from the racist "Mr. Benjamin:"
"The seeds of this vocation were planted
in 1944. The teenager convinced the proprietor of Benjamin's, a store
in Beckley, W.Va., to show her some watches. Payne, who is black,
enjoyed the attention he lavished on her — right up until a white
customer walked in. "Mr. Benjamin's demeanor totally changed and he shooed me out," she recalls. "It bothered me tremendously."
To spite him, she walked to the door with a fancy watch on her
wrist. Benjamin didn't notice. Rather than stealing it, she called it
to both men's attention.
"I showed that white man that Mr. Benjamin wasn't taking care of business. It was my way of spiting him," she says."
She told me this story dozens of times. She won't answer questions about it, because questions disrupt the crystallized version of events. She knows drama, and she knows that this story gives her a compelling reason to go on stealing after this, to humiliate every other shopkeeper she meets.
But the real Doris was the one who fondly recalled planting seeds in the garden with her mother. Her mom gave her a clothespin, and it was Doris' job to dig the holes out, then sprinkle the seeds in, then cover them up with dirt.
I did this with my 2 year old son the other night after dinner, and the joy he took in performing this simple task was complete when we woke up this morning to find tender green shoots popping up from the soil.
Maybe those are the important moments anyway, not the ones we turn into mythology to explain our bad behavior.