The Color of Water: A Black Man's Tribute to His White Mother by James McBride (

Description: The Color of Water by James McBride With a new Introduction to this touching homage to his mother, the author paints a portrait of growing up in a black neighborhood as the child of an interracial marriage. Although raised an Orthodox Jew in the South, McBrides mother abandoned her heritage, moved to Harlem, and married a black man. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description From the bestselling author of Deacon King Kong and the National Book Award-winning The Good Lord Bird: The modern classic that spent more than two years on The New York Times bestseller list and that Oprah.com calls one of the best memoirs of a generation. Who is Ruth McBride Jordan? A self-declared "light-skinned" woman evasive about her ethnicity, yet steadfast in her love for her twelve black children. James McBride, journalist, musician, and son, explores his mothers past, as well as his own upbringing and heritage, in a poignant and powerful debut, The Color Of Water: A Black Mans Tribute to His White Mother. The son of a black minister and a woman who would not admit she was white, James McBride grew up in "orchestrated chaos" with his eleven siblings in the poor, all-black projects of Red Hook, Brooklyn. "Mommy," a fiercely protective woman with "dark eyes full of pep and fire," herded her brood to Manhattans free cultural events, sent them off on buses to the best (and mainly Jewish) schools, demanded good grades, and commanded respect. As a young man, McBride saw his mother as a source of embarrassment, worry, and confusion—and reached thirty before he began to discover the truth about her early life and long-buried pain. In The Color of Water, McBride retraces his mothers footsteps and, through her searing and spirited voice, recreates her remarkable story. The daughter of a failed itinerant Orthodox rabbi, she was born Rachel Shilsky (actually Ruchel Dwara Zylska) in Poland on April 1, 1921. Fleeing pogroms, her family emigrated to America and ultimately settled in Suffolk, Virginia, a small town where anti-Semitism and racial tensions ran high. With candor and immediacy, Ruth describes her parents loveless marriage; her fragile, handicapped mother; her cruel, sexually-abusive father; and the rest of the family and life she abandoned. At seventeen, after fleeing Virginia and settling in New York City, Ruth married a black minister and founded the all- black New Brown Memorial Baptist Church in her Red Hook living room. "God is the color of water," Ruth McBride taught her children, firmly convinced that lifes blessings and lifes values transcend race. Twice widowed, and continually confronting overwhelming adversity and racism, Ruths determination, drive and discipline saw her dozen children through college—and most through graduate school. At age 65, she herself received a degree in social work from Temple University. Interspersed throughout his mothers compelling narrative, McBride shares candid recollections of his own experiences as a mixed-race child of poverty, his flirtations with drugs and violence, and his eventual self- realization and professional success. The Color of Water touches readers of all colors as a vivid portrait of growing up, a haunting meditation on race and identity, and a lyrical valentine to a mother from her son. Author Biography James McBride is an accomplished musician and author of the National Book Award-winning The Good Lord Bird, the #1 bestselling American classic The Color of Water, and the bestsellers Song Yet Sung and Miracle at St. Anna. He is also the author of Kill Em and Leave, a James Brown biography. A recipient of the National Humanities Medal in 2016, McBride is a Distinguished Writer in Residence at New York University. Review "[A] triumph."—The New York Times Book Review"As lively as a novel, a well-written, thoughtful contribution to the literature on race."—The Washington Post Book World"Inspiring."—Glamour"Vibrant."—The Boston Globe"James McBride evokes his childhood trek across the great racial divide with the kind of power and grace that touches and uplifts all hearts."—Bebe Moore Campbell Review Quote Praise for The Color of Water "[A] triumph."- The New York Times Book Review "As lively as a novel, a well-written, thoughtful contribution to the literature on race."- The Washington Post Book World "Inspiring."- Glamour "Vibrant."- The Boston Globe "James McBride evokes his childhood trek across the great racial divide with the kind of power and grace that touches and uplifts all hearts."-Bebe Moore Campbell Discussion Question for Reading Group Guide INTRODUCTION The Color of Water James McBride grew up one of twelve siblings in the all-black housing projects of Red Hook, Brooklyn, the son of a black minister and a woman who would not admit she was white. The object of McBrides constant embarrassment, and his continuous fear for her safety, his mother was an inspiring figure, who through sheer force of will saw her dozen children through college, and many through graduate school. McBride was an adult before he discovered the truth about his mother: the daughter of a failed itinerant Orthodox rabbi in rural Virginia, she had run away to Harlem, married a black man, and founded an all-black Baptist church in her living room in Red Hook. In this remarkable memoir, she tells in her own words the story of her past. Around her narrative, James McBride has written a powerful portrait of growing up, a meditation on race and identity, and a poignant, beautifully crafted hymn from a son to his mother. ABOUT JAMES MCBRIDE James McBride, a writer and musician, is a former staff writer for The Boston Globe , People magazine, and The Washington Post . A professional saxophonist and composer, he has received the Richard Rodgers Development Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters and the American Music Theater Festivals Stephen Sondheim Award for his work in musical theater composition. He lives in South Nyack, New York. Overwhelming acclaim for James McBrides unforgettable memoir: "Vibrant." -- The Boston Globe "Incredibly moving." -- Jonathan Kozol "James McBride evokes his childhood trek across the great racial divide with the kind of power and grace that touches and uplifts all hearts." -- Bebe Moore Campbell "Complex and moving... suffused with issues of race, religion and identity. Yet those issues, so much a part of their lives and stories, are not central. The triumph of the book -- and of their lives -- is that race and religion are transcended in these interwoven histories by family love, the sheer force of a mothers will and her unshakable insistence that only two things really mattered: school and church... The two stories, sons and mothers, beautifully juxtaposed, strike a graceful note at a time of racial polarization. -- The New York Times Book Review DISCUSSION QUESTIONS Discuss Ruth McBrides refusal to reveal her past and how that influenced her childrens sense of themselves and their place in the world. How has your knowledge -- or lack thereof -- about your family background shaped your own self-image? The McBride childrens struggle with their identities led each to his or her own "revolution." Is it also possible that that same struggle led them to define themselves through professional achievement? Several of the McBride children became involved in the civil rights movement. Do you think that this was a result of the times in which they lived, their need to belong to a group that lent them a solid identity, or a combination of these factors? " Our house was a combination three-ring circus and zoo, complete with ongoing action, daring feats, music, and animals ." Does Helen leave to escape her chaotic homelife or to escape the mother whose very appearance confuses her about who she is? " It was in her sense of education, more than any other, that Mommy conveyed her Jewishness to us ." Do you agree with this statement? Is it possible that Ruth McBride Jordans unshakable devotion to her faith, even though she converted to Christianity from Judaism, stems from her Orthodox Jewish upbringing? " Mommys contradictions crashed and slammed against one another like bumper cars at Coney Island. White folks, she felt, were implicitly evil toward blacks, yet she forced us to go to white schools to get the best education. Blacks could be trusted more, but anything involving blacks was probably substandard... She was against welfare and never applied for it despite our need, but championed those who availed themselves of it. " Do you think these contradictions served to confuse Ruths children further, or did they somehow contribute to the balanced view of humanity that James McBride possesses? While reading the descriptions of the childrens hunger, did you wonder why Ruth did not seek out some kind of assistance? Do you think it was na Excerpt from Book When I was fourteen, my mother took up two new hobbies: riding a bicycle and playing piano. The piano I didnt mind, but the bicycle drove me crazy. It was a huge old clunker, blue with white trim, with big fat tires, huge fenders, and a battery-powered horn built into the middle of the frame with a button you pushed to make it blow. The contraption would be a collectors item now, probably worth about five thousand dollars, but back then it was something my step- father found on the street in Brooklyn and hauled home a few months before he died. I dont know whether it was his decision to pull out or not, but I think not. He was seventy-two when he died, trim, strong, easygoing, seemingly infallible, and though he was my stepfather, I always thought of him as Daddy. He was a quiet, soft-spoken man who wore old-timey clothes, fedoras, button-down wool coats, suspenders, and dressed neatly at all times, regardless of how dirty his work made him. He did everything slowly and carefully, but beneath his tractor- like slowness and outward gentleness was a crossbreed of quiet Indian and country black man, surefooted, hard, bold, and quick. He took no guff and gave none. He married my mother, a white Jewish woman, when she had eight mixed- race black children, me being the youngest at less than a year old. They added four more children to make it an even twelve and he cared for all of us as if we were his own. I got enough for a baseball team, he joked. One day he was there, the next--a stroke, and he was gone. I virtually dropped out of high school after he died, failing every class. I spent the year going to movies on Forty-second Street in Times Square with my friends. James is going through his revolution, my siblings snickered. Still, my sisters were concerned, my older brothers angry. I ignored them. Me and my hanging-out boys were into the movies. Superfly, Shaft, and reefer, which we smoked in as much quantity as possible. I snatched purses. I shoplifted. I even robbed a petty drug dealer once. And then in the afternoons, coming home after a day of cutting school, smoking reefer, waving razors, and riding the subway, I would see my mother pedaling her blue bicycle. She would ride in slow motion across our street, Mur- dock Avenue in the St. Albans section of Queens, the only white person in sight, as cars swerved around her and black motorists gawked at the strange, middle-aged white lady riding her ancient bicycle. It was her way of grieving, though I didnt know it then. Hunter Jordan, my stepfather, was dead. Andrew McBride, my biological father, had died while she was pregnant with me fourteen years earlier. It was clear that Mommy was no longer interested in getting married again, despite the efforts of a couple of local preachers who were all Cadillacs and smiles and knew that she, and thus we, were broke. At fifty-one she was still slender and pretty, with curly black hair, dark eyes, a large nose, a sparkling smile, and a bowlegged walk you could see a mile off. We used to call that Mommys madwalk, and if she was doing it in your direction, all hell was gonna break loose. Id seen her go up to some pretty tough dudes and shake her fist in their faces when she was angry--but that was before Daddy died. Now she seemed intent on playing the piano, dodging bill collectors, forcing us into college through sheer willpower, and riding her bicycle all over Queens. She refused to learn how to drive. Daddys old car sat out front for weeks, parked at the curb. Silent. Clean. Polished. Every day she rode her bike right past it, ignoring it. The image of her riding that bicycle typified her whole existence to me. Her oddness, her complete nonawareness of what the world thought of her, a nonchalance in the face of what I perceived to be imminent danger from blacks and whites who disliked her for being a white person in a black world. She saw none of it. She rode so slowly that if you looked at her from a distance it seemed as if she werent moving, the image frozen, painted against the spring sky, a middle-aged white woman on an antique bicycle with black kids zipping past her on Sting-Ray bikes and skateboards, popping wheelies and throwing baseballs that whizzed past her head, tossing firecrackers that burst all around her. She ignored it all. She wore a flower-print dress and black loafers, her head swiveling back and forth as she rode shakily past the triangle curve where I played stickball with my friends, up Lewiston Avenue, down the hill on Mayville Street where a lovely kid named Roger got killed in a car accident, back up the hill on Murdock, over the driveway curb, and to the front of our house. She would stop, teetering shakily, catching herself just before the bike collapsed onto the sidewalk. Whew! shed say, while my siblings, camped on the stoop of our house to keep an eye on her, shook their heads. My sister Dotty would say, I sure wish you wouldnt ride that bike, Ma, and I silently agreed, because I didnt want my friends seeing my white mother out there riding a bicycle. She was already white, that was bad enough, but to go out and ride an old bike that went out of style a hundred years ago? And a grown-up no less? I couldnt handle it. As a boy, I always thought my mother was strange. She never cared to socialize with our neighbors. Her past was a mystery she refused to discuss. She drank tea out of a glass. She could speak Yiddish. She had an absolute distrust of authority and an insistence on complete privacy which seemed to make her, and my family, even odder. My family was huge, twelve kids, unlike any other family Id ever seen, so many of us that at times Mommy would call us by saying, Hey James--Judy-Henry-Hunter-Kath--whatever your name is, come here a minute. It wasnt that she forgot who we were, but there were so many of us, she had no time for silly details like names. She was the commander in chief of my house, because my stepfather did not live with us. He lived in Brooklyn until near the end of his life, staying away from the thronging masses to come home on weekends, bearing food and tricycles and the resolve to fix whatever physical thing we had broken during the week. The nuts and bolts of raising us was left to Mommy, who acted as chief surgeon for bruises (Put iodine on it), war secretary (If somebody hits you, take your fist and crack em), religious consultant (Put God first), chief psychologist (Dont think about it), and financial adviser (Whats money if your mind is empty?). Matters involving race and identity she ignored. As a kid, I remember wishing I were in the TV show Father Knows Best, where the father comes home from work every day wearing a suit and tie and there are only enough kids to fit on his lap, instead of in my house, where we walked around with huge holes in our pants, cheap Bo-Bo sneakers that cost $1.99 at Johns Bargains store, with parents who were busy and distracted, my stepfather appearing only on weekends in sleeveless T-shirt, tools in hand, and Mommy bearing diapers, pins, washcloths, Q-tips, and a child in each arm with another pulling at her dress. She barely had time to wipe the behind of one child before an- other began screaming at the top of her lungs. Back in the Red Hook Housing Projects in Brooklyn, where we lived before moving to the relative bliss of St. Albans, Queens, Mommy put us to bed each night like slabs of meat, laying us out three and four to a bed, one with his head to the headboard, the next with his feet to the headboard, and so on. Head up, toes down, she called it as she kissed us good night and laid us out in the proper position. The moment she left the room wed fight over who got to sleep next to the wall. I got the inside! Id shout, and Richard, the brother above me and thus my superior, would shake his head and say, No, no, no. David sleeps on the inside. I have the middle. You, knucklehead, have the outside, so all night Id inhale Davids breath and eat Richies toes, and when I couldnt stand the combination of toes and breath any longer Id turn over and land on the cold cement floor with a clunk. It was kill or be killed in my house, and Mommy understood that, in fact created the system. You were left to your own devices or so you thought until you were at your very wits end, at which time she would step in and rescue you. I was terrified when it came my turn to go to school. Although P.S. 118 was only eight blocks away, I wasnt allowed to walk there with my siblings because kindergarten students were required to ride the bus. On the ill-fated morning, Mommy chased me all around the kitchen trying to dress me as my siblings laughed at my terror. The bus isnt bad, one quipped, except for the snakes. Another added, Sometimes the bus never brings you home. Guffaws all around. Be quiet, Mommy said, inspecting my first-day-of- school attire. My clothes were clean, but not new. The pants had been Billys, the shirt was Davids, the coat had been passed down from Dennis to Billy to David to Richie to me. It was a gray coat with a fur collar that had literally been chewed up by somebody. Mommy dusted it off with a whisk broom, set out eight or nine bowls, poured oatmeal in each one, left instructions for the eldest to feed the rest, then ran a comb through my hair. The sensation was like a tractor pulling my curls off. Cmon, she said, Ill walk you to the bus stop. Surprise reward. Me and Mommy alone. It was the first time I remember ever being alone with my mother. It became the high point of my day, a memory so sweet it is burned into my mind like a tattoo, Mommy walki Details ISBN159448192X Author James McBride Short Title COLOR OF WATER 10TH ANN Edition Description Anniversary Language English Edition 10th ISBN-10 159448192X ISBN-13 9781594481925 Media Book Format Paperback DEWEY B Year 2006 Residence South Nyack, NJ, US Birth 1921 Subtitle A Black Mans Tribute to His White Mother DOI 10.1604/9781594481925 Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2006-02-07 NZ Release Date 2006-02-07 US Release Date 2006-02-07 UK Release Date 2006-02-07 Pages 336 Publisher Penguin Putnam Inc Publication Date 2006-02-07 Imprint Riverhead Books,U.S. Replaces 9781573225786 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:43687780;

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