The Washerwoman Philanthropist
by Kevin Chappell, Ebony Magazine
Summary: For over 60 years, Oseola McCarty of Hattiesburg, Mississippi,
washed other people's clothes using only a large pot and a scrub board
and never revealing a secret. There was good money in washing clothes,
and she was saving half of it. When McCarty retired very comfortably at
the age of 87, she was able to establish a scholarship fund at the University
of Southern Mississippi, a school she had never seen, "to give some child
the opportunity I did not have." Now, those whose clothes she washed are
scrambling to match her generosity.
This article has been cleared for re-publication and abridgment in
English and in translation by USIS and the press outside the United States.
Credit to the author and the following note must appear on the title page
of any reprint: Reprinted by permission from Ebony magazine, copyright
(c) 1995 by Johnson Publishing Company, Inc. 95209.
Although she has hobnobbed with some of Hattiesburg, Mississippi's most
polished people, Oseola McCarty has never been one to get excited by fancy
stuff. So when the small town's most important people would come to her
house, informing her about an upcoming social event, government function
or showy country club luncheon, she would never consider attending.
It did not matter that she was never invited. McCarty had learned to be
happy simply lending an ear and a hand. After all, she was only the town's
washerwoman.
So day after day for much of her 87 years, she waited for the important
people to bring their clothes to her old wood-fire house. She would rush
out to their car, gather the dirty laundry and make a little small talk
before carting their clothes to the backyard.
There, she made the clothes look nice, scrubbing them until the colors
sparkled, the whites gleamed and her hands ached.
All the while, the tiny woman kept a secret that has recently rocked the
town's 45,000 residents. "There is good money, in washing clothes," says
the silver-haired McCarty with a smile seemingly for everyone, from the
Black neighbors who criticized her for "washing them White folks' dirty
drawers" to the White customers who considered her a poor little old washerwoman
who never married, never had kids and lived alone."People did not think
there was money in washing, but there was. And I was not saying nothing."
For 60 years, only the local bankers knew that while McCarty was elbow
deep in dirty water, she was knee deep in money, having squirreled away
what would eventually total nearly a quarter of a million dollars. The
town and the world found out about the virtues of washing clothes recently
when McCarty decided to give $150,000 to the nearby University of Southern
Mississippi, a school she had never visited.
It is a remarkable story of how a simple woman's work and savings ethic,
unselfish giving and unyielding faith have inspired an entire country
and crushed stereotypes in the Deep South. "I want to give some child
the opportunity I did not have," says McCarty, who had to drop out of
school in the sixth grade to care for her sick aunt, and stayed out of
school when her grandmother became ill. "I hope this money can help children,
for years to come, make their dreams come true."
McCarty used to dream, and think, sometimes about things like shoes, or
rather people's fascination with them. She always thought what difference
does it make what kind of shoes a person wears? Heck, as a kid, she would
cut the toes out of her shoes when they became too tight. She would run
through the fiery red Mississippi dirt, toes flapping and mind dreaming.
At first, she would dream vivid dreams about exotic places she wanted
to go, exciting things she wanted to do, expensive items she wanted to
buy and wearing shoes that fit.
But with a bundle of soiled clothes always there to jar her back to reality,
the dreams soon turned empty. Anyhow, coming from a family of washerwomen,
she was told empty dreams were the best kind. They were less disappointing.
Wash clothes and dream empty dreams. That is what her mother did. That
is what her mother's mother did. And eventually, that is what she did.
Before the washerwoman knew it, she was caught in a vicious cycle. Every
day was the same: At the first sign of daybreak, she would begin boiling
white clothes in a big iron pot, grinding dirty socks and underwear on
her old Maid Rite scrub board in water she had drawn from a nearby fire
hydrant. She would then wring the clothes and hang them to dry on about
100 feet (30 m) of line. By the time she reached the end of the line,
the clothes at the beginning would be dry. The day ended with her ironing
as the sun set.
In the 1960s, she bought an automatic washer and dryer, but gave both
away after using them once and finding them miserably insufficient. "The
washing machine didn't rinse enough, and the dryer turned the whites yellow,"
she says. Through it all, the quiet woman never took sick, never complained
much and never raised her voice much above a whisper. In fact, McCarty's
life has been filled with nevers. She has never owned a car (she still
pushes a buggy about a mile (1.6 km) to the local Big Star grocery store),
never used her air conditioner (unless visitors insisted), never attended
a play or concert ("There was never anything I particularly wanted to
see"), never traveled out of the South ("There was never anywhere I wanted
to go") and never even treated herself to a new Bible (her old one has
been read so much, tape is the only thing holding together the Old and
New Testaments).
Through bank mergers, closings and name changes, she just kept saving,
every week depositing half her earnings into the bank. "I would take so
much for my groceries and my bills," she says, "and save the rest." McCarty
saved just in case one day she wanted to stop washing clothes and start
dreaming vivid dreams again.
In her twenties, when McCarty was charging only 50 cents for a load of
clothes for a family of four, she began saving pennies and nickels. She
never kept up with how much she had saved and never withdrew any money.
In her eighties, she was charging more than $10 a bundle, and her change
had changed into certificates of deposit, savings bonds, money market
and Christmas club accounts at four different banks. But she had not changed
a bit.
McCarty retired in December 1994 and continued not to want anything, except
maybe some new hands, which arthritis has ravaged so much her knuckles
look like ripened acorns and her palms like pitted prunes. Instead, she
found herself a good doctor, a good lawyer and decided to give the University
of Southern Mississippi $150,000, the largest gift ever by a Black to
a Mississippi university. The money establishes an endowed scholarship
fund, with priority given to needy Black students.
"I have everything I could want, and I had more money than I could possibly
spend," says McCarty, justifying her gift, which some Blacks have said
should have gone to an African-American university. "I made the decision
on my own to give the school the money. They used to didn't let Negroes
go to the school, but now they do, so they should have the money."
McCarty decided on the amount she wanted to give after her attorney, who
was one of her former customers, showed her 10 dimes, each representing
10 percent of her money. He also gave her pieces of paper labeled "church,"
"relatives" and "university." She placed one dime in front of "church,"
three in front of "relatives" (which consist of a few distant cousins)
and six in front of "university," a stone's throw from her house. She
signed an irrevocable trust agreement, stating her wishes and giving the
bank responsibility for managing her funds. No money officially goes to
the university until after her death. But since receiving national attention,
the school has been flooded with contributions from people across the
country, including a man from Houston, Texas, who sent $10,000. The school
is using these donations to start the scholarship now in hopes McCarty
will be around to see the graduation of the first student she helped put
through school.
That student is Stephanie Bullock an 18-year-old Hattiesburg native. As
the first Oseola McCarty Scholarship recipient, she will receive $1,000
each year, as long as she makes good grades. The school's yearly tuition
is $2,400. "At first, I was really surprised and shocked, but now I am
very proud," says Bullock, who now visits McCarty, runs errands for her
and brings her "second grandmother" her mother's special homemade ice
cream. "She is great. I gave her a big hug and thanked her."
While McCarty is enjoying the attention, she does not think much about
being in the same income bracket as the judges, doctors, businessmen and
others she used to wash for. In fact, she now gets a good laugh out of
them, many of whom are scrambling to pool resources and "outdo" her gift.
It all amuses her. "They say can't no washerwoman do more for the university
than they can. They say they are not going to have it," McCarty says with
a chuckle. "I think they are embarrassed. That is good. I got them."
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