Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

Who Are You?

New York City

December 19, 1974

Dr. Diggers was somewhat surprised when Dena showed up for her second appointment. She strolled in five minutes late and flopped down in a chair.

Dr. Diggers smiled at her. “Back for me to have another crack at you?”

“Yes,” Dena said, with little enthusiasm.

“Then I will proceed with the torture.”

“You might as well. What are we supposed to talk about today?”

“Well, I would like to continue to try and get to know you a little better, find out at least about your background. Where are you from?”

“Where are you from?” Dena asked.

“Chicago. And you?”

“Me? I’m not from any place in particular.”

“Strange. That’s not my experience.”

“What do you mean?”

“It has been my experience that everybody has to be from some place.”

“I was born in San Francisco, but we moved around a lot.”

“What is your heritage?”

“My what?”

“Your heritage. Where do you come from … your roots?”

“My roots? Like the book. You mean my ancestors?”

“Yes, what was their nationality?”

“Oh, I don’t know. My father was Swedish … or Norwegian or something like that.”

“And your mother?”

“Just plain old American, I guess; she never said. Her maiden name was Chapman so I guess she’s what?—English? I don’t know.”

Dr. Diggers was always astonished at how so few people cared about their heritage. “Aren’t you curious to find out more?”

“Not really. I’m an American; that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

“Well, then. How would you describe yourself … other than as an American?”

“What?”

“How would you describe yourself?”

Dena was puzzled. “I’m a person on television.”

“No, you personally. In other words, if your job ended tomorrow, who would you be?”

“I don’t know … I would still be me. I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“OK, let’s play a little game. I want you to give me three answers to this question. Who are you?”

“I’m Dena Nordstrom, I’m blond … and …” She was having a hard time. “And I’m five foot seven. Is this another test?”

“No, it just helps give me a little better idea of your self-image. It gives me an idea about what we have to work on.”

“And did I pass or fail? I’d like to know.”

Dr. Diggers put down her pen. “It’s not a question of that. But think about how you answered. All three answers describe your image.”

“What was I supposed to say? What else is there?”

“You’re not supposed to say anything specifically. Some people say, I’m a wife, I’m a mother, I’m a daughter. In all three answers you did not connect yourself with a personal relationship—and that usually indicates you may have an identity problem. And some of our work here will be to find out why. See what I mean?”

Dena felt alarmed. Identity problem?

“It is just something to think about down the line. Right now let’s talk about your immediate problems. You say you’re not sleeping well.”

“No, I’m not. But let’s go back to the other thing. Again, I don’t want to hurt your feelings but that test or whatever it was is dead wrong. I know exactly who I am. I always knew exactly what I wanted and what I wanted to be. I already told Dr. O’Malley that once.”

“As I said, it’s not a test,” Diggers said. “It’s just a question.”

That night, when Dr. Diggers was going over her notes, she remembered the first time she had been asked, Who are you? Her answers had come immediately and without difficulty. I’m female, I’m black, I’m crippled. She wondered, after all these years if, asked again, her answers would still be the same and in that order. Dr. Diggers turned out the lights in her office and rolled down the long hall to her kitchen, where her dinner was waiting.

That night Dena picked up the phone and called her friend.

“Sookie, it’s Dena.”

“Well, hey! How are you?”

“Are you busy?”

“Nooo. I wasn’t doing a thing except flipping through my Southern Living Cookbook trying to figure out what in the world I can serve two hundred people. I could just put Earle Poole in a paper sack and throw him in the river. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing; why are you mad at Earle?”

“Oh, you don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Every year, around Christmas, I have a little holiday luncheon for all my close girlfriends around here. Just us, nothing big … just fifteen or sixteen of us. So I handed the invitations to Earle and told him to have Melba down at the office Xerox them and send them out and she sent it to everybody on our Christmas card list, including all of Earle’s patients. So Lord knows how many people will be showing up here next week.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Make a lot of cheese grits and hope for the best; what else can I do? It’s in God’s hands now. But enough about me. I hope you’re calling to tell me you’re going to get to come and spend Christmas with us this year.”

“No, it doesn’t look good. I think I’m working the whole time.”

“Oh, that’s what you said last year. Can’t you get off? The girls will be so disappointed. They are dying to meet you. Just think about those poor little things, tears running out their eyes, their little hearts broken.”

“Sookie, stop it. You’re shameless.”

“But it’s true! They watch you every time you’re on television and they even named a pet after you, Dena the hamster.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, your namesake is up there right now, running around in circles on its wheel.”

“Well, tell them I’m flattered … I think. That’s quite an honor.”

“Yes, you are officially in the Hamster Hall of Fame.”

“Listen. The reason I called is that I want to ask you a question.”

“Oh! OK … what?”

“I want you to give me three different answers to the question, all right? That’s all you can say, don’t think about it, just say the first three things that come into your mind.”

“OK.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you?”

“What? Oh, don’t be silly. You know who I am.”

“No, that’s the question. Who are you?”

“Who am I?”

“Yes. Three descriptive facts.”

Sookie thought aloud. “Oh, all right … Let’s see, who am I? Who am I?”

“Don’t think about it, just answer off the top of your head.”

“Well, I have to think! I can’t just say anything.”

“Yes, you can, that’s the point. Hurry up.”

“Well, all right. I’m a Simmons on my mother’s side, a Krackenberry on Daddy’s side of the family, a Poole by marriage. I’m a Southerner. I’m a Kappa.”

“OK, stop,” Dena said.

“I’m the mother of three daughters. I’m a wife.”

“Sookie … I just need three.”

“Well, Dena, I’m more than just three things! I’m past president of the Junior Auxiliary, a past Magnolia Trail Maid—”

“It’s over, you answered the question.”

“Well, this is the silliest question I ever heard of. I have a lot more. What is this for, a program?”

“Nothing. It was just a game some people were playing.”

“Who?”

“Oh, just a bunch of people at a party. It’s a party game.”

“Did they ask you who you were?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I hope you told them you were a Kappa!”

“That was the first thing I thought of, Sookie.”

“What else did you say?”

“Oh, let’s see … I remember. I said I was a communist and a child molester.”

Sookie screamed, “You did not!”

“No.”

“You better not have. Those people up there might not know you are kidding.”

The next morning when Earle Poole came down to breakfast, Sookie sat down and stared at him. He looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Who are you?”

“What?”

“Who are you? Give me three answers.”

Earle put the paper down. “Look, Sookie, if this is about those invitations, I told you I am sorry.”

“No, it’s not about that, Earle. Just answer my question. Be serious, now.”

Earle sighed. “I’m a dentist … I’m a husband …”

“One more thing.”

He looked at his watch. “And I’m late!”

After Earle left, still caught up in the game, Sookie called her mother. Her mother immediately answered in a loud, booming voice, “I’m Lenore Simmons Krackenberry!”

“I need three answers, Mother.”

Her mother said, “Sookie, that is three answers!”