Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Ordinary People
A Memoir of Family
CONDOLEEZZA
R ICE
isbn 978-0-307-58787-9
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
First Edition
Starting Early
all have white ancestors, and some whites have black ancestors.
Once at a Stanford football game, my father and I sat in front
of a white man who reached out his hand and said, “My name is
Rice too. And I’m from the South.” The man blanched when my
father suggested we might be related.
It is just easier not to talk about all of this or to obscure it
with the term “African American,” which recalls the immigration
narrative. There are groups such as Mexican Americans, Korean
Americans, and German Americans who retain a direct link to
their immigrant ancestors. But the fact is that only a portion of
those with black skin are direct descendants of African immi-
grants, as is President Barack Obama, who was born of a white
American mother and a Kenyan father. There is a second nar-
rative, which involves immigrants from the West Indies such as
Colin Powell’s parents. And what of the descendants of slaves in
the old Confederacy? I prefer “black” and “white.” These terms
are starker and remind us that the first Europeans and the first
Africans came to this country together—the Africans in chains.
mother were born very close together in the early 1920s. Uncle
Alto and Aunt Genoa, who went by Gee, made their entrance
about a decade later. My grandparents were not themselves
college-educated, but they were determined that their chil-
dren would be. Though they believed in honest hard work, they
wanted their children to have an easier life than they’d had.
As it turned out, this took some doing. The eldest child,
Albert, was difficult to educate. Albert started school at Miles
College in Fairfield, Alabama, not far from Birmingham. But
my restless uncle left school and went north to Pennsylvania
with his young bride and first child to seek his fame and for-
tune. When my grandfather learned that Albert was working
in the steel mills, he got on the train, brought Albert and his
young family back to Birmingham, and insisted he return to
school. My grandfather had had to work in the coal mines, but
the steel mills were not good enough for his son. Albert did
eventually finish college and became a quite successful Presbyte-
rian minister.
On the other hand, Mattie and my mother finished Miles in
the requisite four years. They lived at home and drove to college
each day. Both were stunningly beautiful. Mattie looked like her
mother, sharing her rich brown complexion, high cheekbones,
and long, wavy black hair. My mother looked like her father, fair-
skinned with the same round face that I have and long, straight
brownish hair. As little girls they were favored by adults because
they were so cute. One of my most cherished photographs shows
five-year-old Mattie and three-year-old Angelena as “calendar
girls” for the local barbershop.
In college the “Ray girls,” as they were called, were popu-
lar, with outgoing Mattie becoming a majorette and my more
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you.” It was good advice, but I never mastered playing gospel the
way my mother and Mattie did.
On the weekend, the girls went to fraternity and social club
dances in dresses that Mattie, who could sew beautifully, made
from whatever material they liked. They loved clothes. My
mother once said that her meager teacher’s salary was already
owed to fine clothing stores such as Burger-Phillips and Newber-
ry’s the minute she got it. They took trips to shop in downtown
Birmingham, where their really light-skinned acquaintances
would “pass” as white so that they could go to lunch counters and
bring hot dogs out to their waiting, darker-skinned friends.
I’ve heard many friends and family say that they never thought
my mother would marry. She was so close to her family, ex-
tremely reserved, sharp-tongued, and, despite her beauty, headed
for spinsterhood. But one day she went to work at Fairfield In-
dustrial High, where she’d been teaching for several years. There
was a lot of buzz about the new athletic director and assistant
football coach. Tall, dark-skinned, and extremely athletic, he
was powerfully built with a deep, resonant voice. And he was a
preacher who happened to be single.
Mother claimed that John Wesley Rice Jr. first saw her walk-
ing down the hallway in a red polka-dot dress and red, very high-
heeled strappy shoes. He was leaning against the wall, filing his
fingernails and hoping to have a chance to say hello. He claimed
that it was she who had made the first move, dressing that way to
catch his attention.
Daddy had come to Birmingham after finishing Johnson C.
Smith University in Charlotte, North Carolina. He’d started
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miles long.” I suspect this event loomed larger than life in my fa-
ther’s memory, as is often the case with childhood recollections.
But the Rices really loved Long, a populist politician whom they
saw as caring about common people—even black people.
For the most part, Daddy seems to have enjoyed less serious
pursuits. He loved to play preacher. One day he and his sister re-
created a funeral that their father had just conducted. They went
to the church, set their dolls up in the pews, and laid one doll on
the altar table to mimic a casket. Theresa was playing the piano,
and my father had begun to preach when one of the dolls in the
pews fell with a heavy thud. They ran out as fast as possible, sure
that they’d somehow awakened the dead.
Theresa, unlike the young John Rice, was an intellectual and
a somewhat somber personality from the day she was born. She
read constantly and seemed to take personally the suffering and
sorrow around her. My father illustrated this in a story about a
certain Easter. The seven-or-so-year-old John was thrilled with
his new suit for the Easter program and the basket of candy that
the Easter Bunny had brought. But nine-year-old Theresa cried.
When my grandfather asked what was wrong, Aunt Theresa said
that she was reflecting on the bad things that had been done to
Jesus.
That in a nutshell captured the difference between Daddy
and his sister. Daddy was an easygoing personality who didn’t
always take life too seriously. He was a popular kid who would
become an outgoing adult.
Theresa was reclusive, brilliant, and determined to follow
in her father’s intellectual footsteps. She would later go on to
become one of the first black women to receive a doctorate in
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