{"product_id":"the-color-of-water-isbn-9781594481925","title":"The Color of Water","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eFrom the bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eDeacon King Kong\u003c\/i\u003e and the National Book Award-winning \u003ci\u003eThe Good Lord Bird\u003c\/i\u003e: The modern classic that spent more than two years on \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller list and that Oprah.com calls one of the best memoirs of a generation. \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e 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 mother's past, as well as his own upbringing and heritage, in a poignant and powerful debut, \u003ci\u003eThe Color Of Water: A Black Man's Tribute to His White Mother\u003c\/i\u003e. 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 Manhattan's 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.\u003cbr\u003e In \u003ci\u003eThe Color of Water\u003c\/i\u003e, McBride retraces his mother's 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.\u003cbr\u003e 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 life's blessings and life's values transcend race. Twice widowed, and continually confronting overwhelming adversity and racism, Ruth's 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.\u003cbr\u003e Interspersed throughout his mother's 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. \u003ci\u003eThe Color of Water\u003c\/i\u003e 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.\"[A] triumph.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"As lively as a novel, a well-written, thoughtful contribution to the literature on race.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post Book World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Inspiring.\"—\u003ci\u003eGlamour\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Vibrant.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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\u003cb\u003eJames McBride \u003c\/b\u003eis an accomplished musician and author of the National Book Award-winning \u003ci\u003eThe Good Lord Bird\u003c\/i\u003e, the #1 bestselling American classic \u003ci\u003eThe Color of Water\u003c\/i\u003e, and the bestsellers \u003ci\u003eSong Yet Sung\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eMiracle at St. Anna\u003c\/i\u003e. He is also the author of \u003ci\u003eKill 'Em and Leave\u003c\/i\u003e, a James Brown biography. A recipient of the National Humanities Medal in 2016, McBride is a Distinguished Writer in Residence at New York University.When I was fourteen, my mother took up two new hobbies: riding a bicycle  and playing piano. The piano I didn’t 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 collector’s 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  don’t 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe 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  didn’t 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 ‘‘Mommy’s  madwalk,’’ and if she was doing it in your direction, all hell was gonna  break loose. I’d 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. Daddy’s  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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  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 weren’t 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!’’  she’d 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 wouldn’t ride that bike, Ma,’’ and I silently agreed, because I  didn’t 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 couldn’t handle it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs 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 I’d 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 wasn’t 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 \u003ci\u003ecrack \u003c\/i\u003e’em’’),  religious consultant (‘‘Put God first’’), chief psychologist (‘‘Don’t  think about it’’), and financial adviser (‘‘What’s money if your mind is  empty?’’). Matters involving race and identity she ignored.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs a kid, I remember wishing I were in the TV show \u003ci\u003eFather Knows Best, \u003c\/i\u003ewhere  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 John’s 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  we’d fight over who got to sleep next to the wall. ‘‘I got the inside!’’  I’d shout, and Richard, the brother above me and thus my superior,  would shake his head and say, ‘‘No, no, no. \u003ci\u003eDavid \u003c\/i\u003esleeps on the inside. \u003ci\u003eI \u003c\/i\u003ehave the middle. \u003ci\u003eYou, \u003c\/i\u003eknucklehead,  have the outside,’’ so all night I’d inhale David’s breath and eat  Richie’s toes, and when I couldn’t stand the combination of toes and  breath any longer I’d turn over and land on the cold cement floor with a  clunk. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt 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 wasn’t 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 isn’t bad,’’ one quipped,  ‘‘except for the snakes.’’ Another added, ‘‘Sometimes the bus never  brings you home.’’ Guffaws all around.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘‘Be quiet,’’ Mommy said,  inspecting my first-day-of- school attire. My clothes were clean, but  not new. The pants had been Billy’s, the shirt was David’s, 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. ‘‘C’mon,’’ she said, ‘‘I’ll 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt became the  high point of my day, a memory so sweet it is burned into my mind like a  tattoo, Mommy walking me to the bus stop and every afternoon picking me  up, standing on the corner of New Mexico and 114th Road, clad in a  brown coat, her black hair tied in a colorful scarf, watching with the  rest of the parents as the yellow school bus swung around the corner and  came to a stop with a hiss of air brakes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGradually, as the  weeks passed and the terror of going to school subsided, I began to  notice something about my mother, that she looked nothing like the other  kids’ mothers. In fact, she looked more like my kindergarten teacher,  Mrs. Alexander, who was white. Peering out the window as the bus rounded  the corner and the front doors flew open, I noticed that Mommy stood  apart from the other mothers, rarely speaking to them. She stood behind  them, waiting calmly, hands in her coat pockets, watching intently  through the bus windows to see where I was, then smiling and waving as I  yelled my greeting to her through the window. She’d quickly grasp my  hand as I stepped off the bus, ignoring the stares of the black women as  she whisked me away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne afternoon as we walked home from the bus stop, I asked Mommy why she didn’t look like the other mothers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘‘Because I’m not them,’’ she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘‘Who are you?’’ I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘‘I’m your mother.’’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘‘Then why don’t you look like Rodney’s mother, or Pete’s mother? How come you don’t look like me?’’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  sighed and shrugged. She’d obviously been down this road many times.  ‘‘I do look like you. I’m your mother. You ask too many questions.  Educate your mind. School is important. Forget Rodney and Pete. Forget  their mothers. You remember school. Forget everything else. Who cares  about Rodney and Pete! When they go one way, you go the other way.  Understand? When they go one way, you go the other way. You hear me?’’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘‘Yes.’’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘‘I  know what I’m talking about. Don’t follow none of them around. You  stick to your brothers and sisters, that’s it. Don’t tell nobody your  business neither!’’ End of discussion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA couple of weeks later  the bus dropped me off and Mommy was not there. I panicked. Somewhere in  the back of my mind was the memory of her warning me, ‘‘You’re going to  have to learn to walk home by yourself,’’ but that memory blinked like a  distant fog light in a stormy sea and it drowned in my panic. I was  lost. My house was two blocks away, but it might as well have been ten  miles because I had no idea where it was. I stood on the corner and bit  back my tears. The other parents regarded me sympathetically and asked  me my address, but I was afraid to tell them. In my mind was Mommy’s  warning, drilled into all twelve of us children from the time we could  walk: ‘‘Never, ever, ever tell your business to nobody,’’ and I shook my  head no, I don’t know my address. They departed one by one, until a  sole figure remained, a black father, who stood in front of me with his  son, saying, ‘‘Don’t worry, your mother is coming soon.’’ I ignored him.  He was blocking my view, the tears clouding my vision as I tried to  peer behind him, looking down the block to see if that familiar brown  coat and white face would appear in the distance. It didn’t. In fact  there wasn’t anyone coming at all, except a bunch of kids and they  certainly didn’t look like Mommy. They were a motley crew of girls and  boys, ragged, with wild hairdos and unkempt jackets, hooting and making  noise, and only when they were almost upon me did I recognize the faces  of my elder siblings and my little sister Kathy who trailed behind them.  I ran into their arms and collapsed in tears as they gathered around  me, laughing.","brand":"Riverhead Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303341019365,"sku":"NP9781594481925","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781594481925.jpg?v=1767738747","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-color-of-water-isbn-9781594481925","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}