(This column appeared in The Atlanta Journal and Constitution combined edition of Dec. 25, 1963)
It was the night before Christmas Eve, a clear night, starlit and cold.
The department stores were closing, but in the restaurants business was still brisk as weary shoppers stayed downtown to eat before going home, package-laden, to trim the Christmas tree. At the restaurant, where the scrawled sign on the window said “Merry Christmas to All,” the lights were bright, the atmosphere warm with the good smell of hot rolls and fried chicken. The family entered and stood looking a moment over a bright-lit room. All the tables were filled, but the hostess came up pleasantly.
“Four?” she said. “I’ll have a table for you in a minute. Would you like to check your coats?”
The father turned to the check room, taking off his coat. “You want to leave yours?” he said to his wife.
“I’ll take it to the table,” she said.
“I wanta check mine with Daddy’s,” the little boy said. “I wanta check mine with Daddy’s too,” the little girl said.
The mother smiled. “You like to everything just like your daddy,” she said.
Across the room the hostess held up four fingers. The family made its way to her, threading their way through the tables, the mother leading, the father following, the two children in between. no heads turned as they passed. No buzz of conversation followed them.
They looked at the menu. “I wanta drumstick and a thigh,” said the little boy. “I want a wing and a breast,” said the little girl. “What do you want, daddy?”
“Either one suits me,” the father said.
The mother kept a careful eye on the children. “Set up in your chairs,” she said. “Don’t play with your knife and fork. Mind your manners.”
“Yessum,” the children said.
They ate quietly, holding the chicken in their fingers, as did everybody else.
With the coffee, the father took out a cigarette. He held out the pack to his wife. She shook her head. “I’ll wait till we get in the car,” she said.
As he paid the check, the father picked up a toothpick from the little roller on the cashier’s desk. He started to put it in his mouth. He saw his wife looking at him. He grinned and put it in his pocket. “I’ll wait till I get home,” he said.
They went out to the car. It was still a cold, starlit night. None of the stars had fallen. The thin moon had not dissolved in blood.
Nothing was changed. For nothing had happened. Except that an American Negro family had finished their Christmas shopping and had gone to a restaurant to have their dinner, and then had gone quietly home to trim the Christmas tree.
