Growing Up in the Fifties
by Claire Scott

A coloring book time.
A Leave it to Beaver time.
Dads in seersucker suits set off to work
in Chevy Impalas and Studebakers.
Moms ironed cotton sheets and made
tuna casseroles with crushed potato chips.
Eisenhower presided over prosperity
like an affable grandfather.

What of a black maid in a starched
uniform, cooking and cleaning fourteen
hours a day, starting with poached eggs
for my father, finishing with a roast
or a steak and a mountain of dishes
before retreating to a tiny
attic room with no curtains.
Only Tuesdays off.

What of depressed moms who drank
gin from shampoo bottles, bourbon
stashed in winter boots. Moms
who swallowed Percodan by the fistful,
eyeing tall bridges, wide oak trees.
Shhh! Don’t tell. Simply hire someone
to make sandwiches for the kids
and send them off to school.

What of fallout shelters in basements,
school children crunched under desks
in duck and cover drills, waiting for a bomb
to wipe out the world. Children alone
in their rooms until called for supper at six.
Silent meals, served by a silent maid.

Silence only broken by a mother
screaming she wanted to die.
Despite the Father Knows Best time.
Despite the coloring book time.  

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