“Then I’ll be back in two days.”
“Leroy are we really going to get married in Mama’s house?”
“Jesus, Cypress, what do you think I come from? First, I haveta ask for your hand. Then we get the preacher.”
“Oh Leroy . . .”
“Don’t ‘Oh Leroy’ me, ’less you gonna give me some.”
“You know, I been savin’ it for ya.”
“Really, is that the truth, now?”
“Darlin’, you know what an ol’ fashioned girl I am.”
Sassafrass had tried everything to be a decent Ibejii, a Santera. She desperately wanted to make Ochá. To wear white with her élèkes. To keep the company of the priests & priestesses. The New World Found Collective where she & Mitch had been living for over a year offered spiritual redemption, if little else. The harvests had been meager so far. Everybody was from cities; never seen a hoe or hay before for that matter. Then, there were the problems of grinding grains, building homes, fetching water, so many things no nationalist dealt with in Newark or Los Angeles.
Mitch just made things harder. Always complaining, refusing to work with the other men, disrespecting the deities, cursing & reminiscing ’bout times that weren’t really all that good. Shooting galleries on Main Street. Passing bad bills in Long Beach. The taste of Johnny Walker Black in Watts on a steaming summer night. He wandered from the collective frequently, returning incoherent, dirty, unacceptable.
On the other hand, Sassafrass loved her new life. She made cloth for all the collective, for feasts, for rituals, for sale to tourists come to look at these New Afrikans. Sassafrass was respected, would have been sought after by men of cleaned spirits had it not been for Mitch.
Mama Mbewe begged her to end this relationship. She threw the cowry shells to see what the spirits saw in the future. She marked Sassafrass with cacario, the white chalk, that cleaned evil from the soul. Again & again, Mama Mbewe shook her head slowly, sadly.
“It says you must give up a man. There is a man leading you away from righteousness. A man unfit for the blessings of the spirits.”
Sassafrass knew that already. Only two days before the Padrino, Oba Babafumé, had sent her for a live white chicken, which he’d held over her head, before he sent her with 5 fresh oranges & the chicken to throw in moving waters, that Oshun & Shango might come to her aid. Come to her aid, to remove the influence of Mitch, ruled by Elégua & Oya. Mitch had been wearing white for months, not to make Ochá (Sainthood), but to curtail his natural instincts.
It’d been useless. Shango’s Birthday was approaching. Sassafrass was busy weaving a gigantic red cotton & raffia hanging in His honor. Mitch was nowhere to be seen.
The visiting Padrinos & Madrinas could be heard beginning the rites for Shango’s day of birth. Caboé. Canta para Ebioso. The Abaqua. Drums & chanting ran thru the lush backwoods of Louisiana. Sassafrass liked to think the slaves would have been singing like that, if the white folks hadn’t stolen our gods. Made our gods foreign to us, so the folks in Baton Rouge never came near those “crazy fanatic niggahs” out there.
Mama Mbewe’s voice raced thru the forests, the makeshift cabins where weavers, potters, painters, musicians, dancers, and ordinary folks seeking another life had made home.
“Shango para icoté
Shango para icoté
O de mata icoté
A la ba obaso icoté
A la ba obaso icoté”
In the Meeting House Shango’s birthday present, a mountain of fresh, unbruised red apples, was in place. An arc of half-smoked cigars smoldered on the ground, a warning or an offering for devotées. In red & white, with élèkes or no, the followers added their personal gifts for the deity with the Ax: vials of home-made whiskey, bananas, knives, long-handled axes, brightly colored scarves, shirts, head wraps. Shango was the Warrior who protected The New World Found from marauders, white folks, recidivists. Sassafrass so wanted to be a priestess of Oshun, like Mama Mbewe. To heal, to bring love & beauty wherever she went. This bad spirit on her head confounded all her desires.
Before she went to the Bembée, Sassafrass anointed herself with florida water: a dab on the forehead, under each arm, her navel, her pubic hair, behind each knee, under both arches of her feet. She left glasses full of honey & water in every corner of her cabin. She left bluing by the front door, ammonia at the rear, that no evil should enter her house in her absence. She carried wild flowers with her to offer to Oshun, her Mother, in the event that Oshun, as was her nature, grew jealous during Shango’s festivities.
“Shango para icoté
Shango para icoté
O de mata icoté
A la ba obaso icoté
A la ba obaso icoté”
Shango was Sassafrass’ patron, her other father. She knew his birthday was auspicious. Didn’t she have bourbon & cigarillos in His honor? Sassafrass tried before anyone saw her to look as if she weren’t worried about Mitch. Mitch wasn’t in this at all. That’s how she tried to look.
The path to the Meeting House was muddy, black, rich. Sassafrass didn’t mind the delta mud oozing thru her sandals. She pulled her buba up. Took small steps. Going to meet her Father. Shango & Oshun were her eternal parents, ’sides Hilda Effania & Alfred. She thought her wish might already have been granted, but she went with a request, nonetheless.
Drums, Drums. Drums, welcoming the faithful. Pulling them to move to dance. Shango conquered the forests. All human challengers. When Sassafrass hit the door, the smells overcame her. Incense, smoke, whiskey, rice & beans, lamb curry, honey. Sassafrass fell on her knees in the face of Madrina Mbewe, Mama Kai, Madrina Iyabodé, Madrina Kai, Papa Aklaff, & Padrino Musa, Padrino Obalaji, & Mama Sumara, receiving the Ibejii. One by one the followers went to Shango’s mountain of apples to pray & reveal their most secret desires. When Sassafrass lay flat on her stomach before Shango’s bounty, the seven holy ones laid hands on her. Sassafrass was blessed. She’d risen off the floor. Her body had been seized by Shango, He’d taken her. When the holy ones removed their hands from her shoulders, back, calves, & head, she just lay there, oblivious to everyone. Palms open. Sassafrass prayed that she might have a child. You leave your palms open that the gifts of the gods might have a place in your life.
When Sassafrass could finally move, Mama Mbewe & Mama Sumara assured her that her wish had been granted, but that she’d fall from grace very soon, if she didn’t abandon Mitch.
“The new one shall be cursed, if you don’t renounce the father. Believe us, he is unclean.”
Mitch was in Baton Rouge under all the magnolias, nodding out. Having a grand time, thinking ’bout his first gig with Coltrane, not realizing Trane was dead awready. In the tumult of the Bembée Sassafrass saw Mtume Satá swallow sticks of flames. Shango had chosen him, Shango had given him the gift of eating fire. Madrina Iyabodé whipped thru the celebrants in command of Shango’s Ax. She threatened all solid matter. Madrina Kai trembled with such power that no one dared touch her robes. Mitch arrived in his I-been-wearing-these-clothes-since-you-guess-when attire; no one noticed but Sassafrass & the gods. Brothers, from only Shango knows where, surrounded him. The presence of such a mean spirit was forbidden. Mitch, of course, began his usual tirade of “muthafuckah-my-woman-is-in-there.” If he’d known she was pregnant, maybe, he’d have acted better. More than likely, if he’d known, he’d have raised more hell.
But he didn’t have an opportunity to be a fool or a jackal. No one could stop it. The drummers could only feed her more. The other dancers moved from her path. Sassafrass was in the throes of the wrath of Oshun. How dare you betray me? Her foot stomped. How dare you not recognize my beauty? Her hand brought forth the mirror wherein she admired herself. How dare you make no preparations for my child who is a gift of las potencias, the spirits? She grabbed up a jar of honey from Madrina Sumara’s hand, danced. Sassafrass danced, tore thru the crowd, spreading honey on the faces, robes, hands of those Oshun chose.
Mitch thought it all very quaint till Sassafrass m
oved toward him & his saxophone with the weight of Oshun in her step. She pulled gob after gob of honey from Madrina Sumara’s glass, stuffed it down the bell of his horn. He still didn’t believe. Sassafrass, under Oshun’s direction, spread honey from Madrina Kai, Madrina Nashira, Madrina Mbewe all over the horn, till he had the decency to be silent.
Sassafrass wore white. She prayed. She wove cloth, not thinking who it was for. She’d fallen from grace. Mama Mbewe, Mama Sumara, Mama Iyabodé passed chickens over her all night. In the morning, she saw a vision of her Mother. She lay on a bed of oranges, surrounded by burning yellow candles, eating honey. “I think I’m going to carry these spirits right on home. I guess I live in looms after all. Making things: some cloth and one child, just one.”
Dear Sassafrass,
Of course you can come home! What do you think you could do to yourself that I wouldn’t love my girl? As a matter of fact, I believe you and I could go into some kind of business . . . maybe, have a boutique with your weavings that hang and mine that serve useful purposes. (smile)
Now I want you to promise to keep on reading this letter. Right now, before you do another thing. There, you see, you probably look like you used to when you’d done something wrong. Your little mouth would curl under and that lower lip would poke out a wee bit. You poked your mouth different when you were mad. Anyway, I want to say that when girls ask out of the blue sky can they come home, it usually means they’re in some kinda trouble. That’s why I asked you to promise me you’d keep reading, no matter what. I know you throw out my letters that don’t suit your fancy—I birthed you, I know all about you. That’s why you’re in trouble now, because you took it upon yourself not to listen to your ma. So, as I was saying, if you are in trouble, you just come right on home, quick as you can. There’s no time to waste. There’s no shame in having made a mistake. Lord knows the history of the race is riddled with mistakes. Look at that Mitch. Now there’s an error if there ever was one. Keep reading. Don’t you put this piece of paper down.
You and Cypress like to drive me crazy with all this experimental living. You girls need to stop chasing the coon by his tail. And I know you know what I’m talking about. I swear I am not sure if you would recognize a decent man, if I sent him out there Special Delivery. Politics and good looks do not a decent man make. Mark my words. You just come on home and we’ll straighten out whatever it is that’s crooked in your thinking. There’s lots to do to keep busy. And nobody around to talk foolish talk or experiment with.
Something can’t happen every day. You get up. You eat, go to work, come back, eat again, enjoy some leisure, and go back to bed. Now, that’s plenty for most folks. I keep asking myself where did I go wrong. Yet I know in my heart I’m not wrong. I’m right. The world’s going crazy and trying to take my children with it.
Okay. Now I’m through with all that. I love you very much. But you’re getting to be a grown woman and I know that too. You come back to Charleston and find the rest of yourself. (smile)
Love,
Mama
The last time Aunt Haydee opened her mouth, she’d asked Indigo to play some rough blues on that fiddle. That was just before Ella Mae’s twins arrived. Indigo’d been rubbing Aunt Haydee’s hands on the porch by the scrub pines. The sea breeze left her face loved & clear. Aunt Haydee’s hands, the same ones delivered hundreds of brown little babies, yellow tykes, screaming black tiny ol’ things, those hands were aching, ugly, unmoving now. Indigo told Aunt Haydee her own stories: how the crocodile got his tail; where the rabbit learned to jump; how the wolf couldn’t be trusted. Aunt Haydee rocked in her chair. Now this chair had belonged to Aunt Carrie who was the mother to Aunt Susie Marie whose sister married that half-breed from Allendale, moved all the way to New York City & was killt in a barroom brawl where the Colored carried on.
Ella Mae’s delivery was quite ordinary. Everybody came out head first. Nothing was missing on either one. Johnny Orpheus held Ella Mae’s left leg, while Indigo raised the right so the babies had a free path. Ella Mae didn’t tear. She made a few yells that Christ would have heard in the other world, but Aunt Haydee kept on murmuring that Ella Mae was a good strong gal, strong gal, birthing two at a time like this.
“Be proud of yourself, Ella Mae. I ain’t never done none of this. Not a child to my name & I can see whatta trial you been thru & how the Lord’s gonna set a bounty of goodness upon ya. I can see it, Ella Mae. Don’t push too hard now. Jesus don’t want nothing coming express.”
Indigo’d studied violin with the white woman Miz Fitzhugh sent every summer, but she concentrated more on learning what Aunt Haydee knew. Giving birth, curing women folks & their loved ones. At first Aunt Haydee only allowed Indigo to play her fiddle to soothe the women in labor, but soon the mothers, the children, sought Indigo for relief from elusive disquiet, hungers of the soul. Aunt Haydee was no fool. She watched Indigo playing the fiddle one evening as the tide came in. It’d been a long time since a colored woman on Difuskie moved the sea. Some say it was back in slavery time.
Blue Sunday, that was her name ’cause she was born on a Sunday & as black as pitch. Blue Sunday was the favorite of Master Fitzhugh, but everytime he came near her the sea would getta fuming, swinging whips of salt water round the house where the white folks lived. This went on for years till Blue Sunday was so grown even Master Fitzhugh knew she’d have to breed or lose him money. He liked the way her bosom was barely visible, how her hips defined that coarse scratchy garb field hands wore. He’d sent her silks, even a corset from France, but Blue Sunday’d tied these round a hog she left in his library. When he whipped her in fronta all the slaves before the indigo harvest, all she did was laugh. No scars, no blood appeared on her back. He threw her to the overseers, two po’ white trash hooligans decent white folks wouldn’t look at. When they were through with her she was still a virgin. Master Fitzhugh took her, unconscious, to his bed. When he penetrated her, she turned into a crocodile. As a crocodile, Blue Sunday was benign. Her only struggle was to remain unconquered. Master Fitzhugh was left with one leg, but otherwise quite himself. The Fitzhughs no longer cultivated indigo as a cash crop. Blue Sunday was never seen again by any white person, but women of color in labor called on her and heard her songs when they risked mothering free children.
Now this is what the folks said. What actually transpired when the sea was rough & a woman was in labor was that Aunt Haydee pleaded with Blue Sunday to “Please, give this child life, please, give this child the freedom you know.” Then Indigo would play her fiddle, however the woman wanted. Once Hilda Effania came to get Indigo after Sister Liza Anne had been in labor for 48 hours, but Indigo’d fiddled her own mother out the cabin. There was nothing could come between Indigo, Aunt Haydee, & new people of color. Hilda gave up. Miz Fitzhugh gave up. When Aunt Haydee died, right after Ella Mae’s twins first suckled, Indigo just picked up her fiddle. Aunt Haydee went to Our Lord on a melody only Indigo or Blue Sunday could know.
Johnny Orpheus tried to give Indigo a few dollars for his two boys, Muhammed & Ali, but Indigo declined. She’d lost Aunt Haydee, which meant we’d all lost touch with a thirst for freedom. Indigo would have tossed Aunt Haydee’s ashes to the waves sauntering up to the cabin every now & then, but she decided to carry Aunt Haydee home in a funny bluish jar Uncle John’d given her when she was small. Uncle John had told her that colored trapeze artists usedta spit into that jar or be strung up by their heels. Now that was a long time ago, but that’s what he said.
No one had ever expected it, but that child from Charleston, that Indigo, moved into Aunt Haydee’s tabby hut, just like she belonged there. It wasn’t that she didn’t have gifted hands or a tenderness that could last a lifetime. It was just folks weren’t sure where she came from or how she came to be among them. Charleston was far away.
Indigo knew, holding Aunt Haydee’s ashes in her arms, she’d not be back for a long while. Charleston wasn’t her home, any more than Blue Sunday hadn’t suffered. In Martinique with the ot
her black people, Indigo could have carried her aunt’s ashes on a ferry, but ’tween Difuskie & Charleston she was lucky to be on more than a canoe.
She spent little time on it, but she was concerned. Her sisters were artists. Would they understand she just wanted where they came from to stay alive? Hilda Effania knew Indigo had an interest in folklore. Hilda Effania had no idea that Indigo was the folks.
Somebody said that the day Indigo left Difuskie, 2,000 Blue Sundays came out dancing to Scott Joplin, drinking moonshine, & showing their legs. Indigo never denied this, but she kept a drawer fulla silk stockings that had not a run, & she’d never been one to miss a dance, when the aqua-blue men strode up from the sea, the slaves who were ourselves.
Hilda Effania couldn’t think of enough to cook. She couldn’t even clean anything else in her house. She looked at Alfred’s portrait over the parlor fireplace, a little embarrassed.
“You know, Al, I did the best I could, but I don’t think they want what we wanted.”
“Now, Sassafrass. This ain’t nothin’ but a baby. You think you the only one ever did this?” Indigo coached. “Push I say, don’t act a fool!”
“Mama did this three times. God is asking you for one time. One time make a free child.” Cypress massaged.
“Yes, darlin’. I’m here. Was there ever one time when you couldn’t come home? Yes, darlin’, I know this isn’t the way you wanted. But, sweetheart, whoever you are is all we have & I swear for Jesus, you my child.”
Mama was there.
Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo Page 19