by CP Patrick
The men bent down and pick up burned pieces of my flesh. They blew on my skin to cool it down before putting pieces of me in their pockets. They snapped off my fingers and lowered my body to the ground so they could take my charred ears. Souvenirs. Bragging rights to show their friends.
Once they collected what they wanted, they made certain my charred body was visible to anyone who walked the shortcut. A warning to other Negroes passing through about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I watched them get into their red pickup truck. They laughed and congratulated each other. As if they had won a game rather than beaten, burned, and hanged an innocent man. I do not know what became of my body, because I left it there hanging on the tree.
I followed them. Chased their red pickup truck as it stirred up clouds of dust. My spirit was so angry. So full of hate for the men who ended my life for sport. Winds began to blow, and a large tree fell across the dirt road.
The truck slammed into the tree at a high speed. Bodies flew from the back of the pickup truck. Those in the front seat went through the windshield.
They died not far from where they lynched me. I didn’t have time to confront their spirits, as they passed over quickly. Regardless, I looked upon the scene with joy. It was the first time I felt powerful. Strong and invincible. Hate. That’s what I felt.
Crimes against Negroes seemed to intensify. Ocee, Perry, Rosewood. So many Negroes were dying. Lynchings by mobs, attended by Whites eager for pieces of burned Negro memorabilia.
I travelled throughout inflicting my wrath. I blew over trees. Caused damage to homes and businesses. I made creeks rise and people drown. Destruction came in whatever way I could bring it.
By the time 1928 came around, I had such hatred, I wanted more than fallen trees and creek drownings. I wanted to send my wrath down on Florida in a major way.
Seems like as soon as I had the thought, I heard a voice say, “I can help you.”
It was the voice of woman, soft. Reminded me of Tina.
It was common for spirits to speak to each other. But to offer help? This was something new.
“How can you help me?”
I looked down and saw a Negro woman. Honey-brown skin and long dark hair. Beautiful. And as dead as she was alive.
“I understand your pain. I understand your hate.”
She told me her story. She had suffered more than I could ever imagine. She had suffered for centuries.
“I will show you how to bring about pain,” Awiti promised. “Most Negroes will never be free until they die. Don’t you agree?”
I know I didn’t feel free until the day I died, looking down on the White men as they took pleasure in killing me. And not until I avenged my death and the deaths of so many others with my wrath. That was the feeling death could bring. Freedom from worrying day to day about being a Negro man in the wrong place at the wrong time. Their hate could no longer hurt me.
“Yes, I agree.”
“So why don’t we do them all due justice?”
“How?”
I was ready.
Together we created a magnificent storm. Sent a force of wind and rain so great, the surge breached the dike surrounding Lake Okeechobee and flooded the area for miles. Many people died as Awiti and I looked on with pride. It was beautiful.
Hate. That was the eye of the storm. But it was not enough. We weren’t done yet. And I knew I would never be done.
19
el isleno
Key West, Florida (1935)
You gots to be careful when you looking for someone who don’t want to be found. They hiding for a reason. And what you think that reason is might be different from the real reason. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. But still. Ain’t nothing gon’ stop me from finding Miss Angela. Not even being afraid of what I might find.
I done travelled all this way, and I know one thing for sure. Polly best notta sent me the wrong way. If she did, I’m gon’ let her have it. Now, I trust Polly. She one of the few I can call a friend. But like everybody else in this world, friend or not, Polly known to lie from time to time.
I’m supposed to go down this dirt road right here till I see a small wooden piece of a house with a black door. Ain’t gon’ be much else around.
“Ella, look for the chicken bones.”
That’s what Polly told me.
And there go chicken bones, hanging by strings, so I guess this got to be the right place. If I go ’round back, there’s supposed to be a garden. And in that garden, it’s gon’ be a brown woman, tending to her business.
Well I’ll be. There she is.
“Hello, ma’am.”
I introduce myself ’cause I want her to know I been raised right. But she grunt and wave her hands in the air to shoo me away.
“I said, hello, ma’am.”
I’m not being disrespectful, but to the point. Firm, as Mama used to say.
Need this woman to know I mean business. After I done came all this way? She ain’t ’bout to ignore me. Not today.
“Si, I hear you.”
But she don’t look up. She stay bent over, her big white dress hanging off her. That dress got to belong to somebody else. Ain’t no way she pay money for a dress look like that. The hem all a mess from brushing up against the ground. I can’t even see if she got shoes on. Probably don’t.
“My name Ella,” I say. “What’s yours?”
I want to know her name ’cause if she say the wrong name, I’m gon’ head back over to Petronia Street and give Polly a piece of my mind.
“Angela.”
She still don’t look up. Keep picking through whatever growing in her garden, with a basket sitting on her hip. She steady pulling from the ground and putting whatever she grab in her basket.
“Are you the Miss Angela?” I ask. “The Miss Angela someone like me might come looking for?”
“Probably.”
“Well, all right now!”
I don’t even try to hide my excitement. I done found Miss Angela.
She don’t seem keen on me visiting. Probably ’cause she don’t want to be found. I don’t even care. If she wanted to hide, she shoulda never let Polly know where she stay.
“So much I want to talk to you about, Miss Angela!”
“Well, talk then.”
Now that I’m closer, I can see she pulling at weeds and picking herbs and roots from the ground. Wonder if they for that magic I heard Miss Angela like to use on people. That voodoo.
“Well, let me see now…”
I didn’t actually think about the first question I’d ask.
“Um, well, I guess, to make certain I gots the right Miss Angela, is you part Cuban?”
Polly said she wasn’t sure if Miss Angela was part Cuban or not, but she definitely mixed up with something. And even though I can’t understand a word she saying, Miss Angela sure ’nuff cuss me out in Spanish talk. She loud and real angry. I know she ain’t saying nothing nice.
“All right, well. Guess that answers that question.”
Now that I’m looking at her, I can see she mixed with something. Her skin golden brown, and her hair is dark, kinda straight. I want to kick myself. That’s a waste of a good question. I gots to think before I talk.
“What do you want?”
Miss Angela’s basket is getting full. Them chicken bones hanging all around her house start swaying in the breeze. Never thought I’d say this, but chicken bones make nice music in the wind. I like the way they sound.
“Want to talk. You see, I’m collecting history.”
“History, you say?”
Miss Angela seem somewhat interested. Polly told me she would be. She finally look my way.
“Yes. History. About Key West.”
“And I’m proud to be doing it,” I want to add.
But I don’t want to sound pleased with myself.
Everybody agrees somebody needs to collect stories about Key West, but don’t nobody else seem up to the task
. Polly say it’s real easy for history to get lost. And once it’s gone, ain’t no way to ever find it again.
“The history of Brown folks, that is.”
I make sure I don’t say Black folks. I’m collecting history ’bout anybody in Key West that ain’t White. For some reason, this makes her smile. Miss Angela done smiled her first smile at me.
“Oh, Señorita, I got lots of history!”
Miss Angela smiling big now. Her teeth white and shiny. She sure is pretty. I can see why Polly say Mr. Manuel fell in love the first time he laid eyes on her.
“I know you do.”
I’m so close, I can see about everything that makes her who she is. Dark eyes and full lips. Her golden-brown skin. She short too. Well, shorter than me, and that means she downright tiny. But she got a nice shape. Full of curves men like. Negro men and White men.
Polly told me before Mr. Manuel came ’long, Miss Angela ain’t have a problem lying with no man, no matter what color he was. Long as his money was green.
“’Cause of your history. That’s why everybody tell me to come see you. Especially Polly. Polly told me…”
But Miss Angela don’t even give me a chance to tell her what Polly said.
“Si, Polly. She crazy, that one.”
“Ain’t she now!” I got to agree.
Polly known to say some of the wildest things. Like the time she told me there was a White man who liked to make his shoes from the skin of the blackest Negro he could find. Said Negro folks’ skin never wrinkled and he could wear his shoes for years and years. Polly always telling stories like that. She said Negro shoes is a real thing, but I don’t believe her.
“Anyhow, Polly the one told me to come see you. That you can tell me a whole lot ’bout Key West. She say that…”
And all of sudden, I ain’t quite sure how to finish what I was ’bout to say. What Polly told me was sure ’nuff something. I have to be careful how it come out.
“I know what Polly told you.”
Miss Angela sit her basket on the ground. She raise her head and look up to the sky, the sun shining on her face.
“Well then?”
Ain’t no nice way to ask her ’bout it. So I best just go on and ask, “Is it true?”
Miss Angela look me right in the face.
“Si. It’s true.”
Well I’ll be damned. Don’t know what I’d do if something like that ever happened to someone I love. I mean, everybody gon’ die one day, but to know someone you love died like Mr. Manuel? Left this earth like that? Ain’t no way your heart ever gon’ be right again. It’s gots to stay broken forever.
For some reason, I’m hoping Miss Angela gon’ tell me the sayings ’bout her and Mr. Manuel isn’t true. That it’s a story. Something impossible to happen in real life. Like the White man who liked to wear shoes made from Negroes.
“You too hopeful ’bout life,” is what Mama always told me. “Stop expecting the best from folks. Expect the worst and let folks surprise you. Most times they won’t.”
“Can you tell me what happen?” I ask. “You know, in your own words?”
I try to sound fancy, like a real historian gathering facts. All I have is bits and pieces ’bout Miss Angela and Mr. Manuel. And even the parts Polly told me is hard to believe. No matter how I try, I can’t believe some of the cruel things folks think up to do to one another.
Miss Angela sitting in the grass, her too big white dress laying all around her. Look like she sitting on a cloud. Soft breeze blowing through her hair. Her face still up to the sky. Her eyes closed now. Chicken bones blowing in the wind, making music. Wish I could stay in this moment right here forever.
“My Manuel.”
Miss Angela voice is soft, like she whispering to him. I don’t say nothing. I can tell Miss Angela in a place only she know ’bout. Somewhere special for her and Mr. Manuel.
One thing I know for sure—Mr. Manuel loved himself some Miss Angela. That’s the one part of the story everybody agree on. And I can tell by the look on Miss Angela face when she say his name. She look and sound like somebody who was once loved.
Miss Angela don’t seem ready to talk yet, but I don’t mind. I’m gon’ let her stay in that place with Mr. Manuel till she ready. I suspect it take some time to tell a stranger how the man you love was taken from you. How the life you had plans for was snatched right out your arms.
“Manuel love me.”
Miss Angela don’t move. I’m not quite sure she even talking to me. I be as still as I can and listen.
“Even when everyone told him he was wrong to love someone like me, he love me. Love me extra ’cause he knew I need it.”
Miss Angela fall real slow-like into the grass. She stretch out in her garden. Arms open wide like she ’bout to give someone a hug.
“Still can’t believe I was so lucky in this life. Can you believe a man like Manuel love me?”
I can tell she not expecting me to answer. I listen.
“Out of all the women in Key West, he coulda had any fine woman he want. But he love me. Me!”
Miss Angela start laughing and rolling ’round. Grass in her hair. Green stains on her dress. Her basket tip over, and instead of being mad ’cause everything fall out, she laugh even more.
Polly told me Mr. Manuel was quite something. He was all Cuban, not mixed like Miss Angela. Real handsome and something tough. And strong.
Far as I know, any man who come back alive from any war was strong. They say Mr. Manuel took care of poor folks too, no mind they race. Folks of all kind called him El Isleno. That’s the only Spanish I know. Learned it from Polly. It mean, “The Islander.”
“That shole is mighty special Mr. Manuel chose you, Miss Angela.”
I want her to remember I’m here.
“Yes, I suppose. Special. And stupid.”
Miss Angela stop laughing and sit up. She got a look on her face. That kind of look that say, “Stay back, ’cause I don’t know what I might do.”
Then she says, “Perhaps, if he didn’t love me, he’d still be alive.”
Miss Angela start putting herbs and roots back in her basket. She moving fast, the way people that’s angry do things. I look at them chicken bones on strings, dancing in the wind. They don’t sound as nice.
“I told him, you know. It was enough for him to love me in secret. But for him, it was not enough.”
She say something in that Spanish talk as she raise her hand to the sky, her fist shaking. Only word I can make out is Manuel. Guess she fussing at him.
“He knew better, Ella. No man with White skin can love a Negro woman.
“Oh, they can love us in private, si. Give us money, buy us nice things. We can smoke and drink rum while we lay together. But every White man knows you cannot let your Negro live with you.
“That’s what Manuel did, though. Took me off the streets. Told me never again would I need to lie with a man for money. Only for love. You only supposed to lie with a man for love. Did you know that, Ella?”
“No, Miss Angela. Can’t say I outright knew that.”
I suspect it’s a good time to be honest with her, since she’s being honest with me.
“I never lay with a man before.”
“You never lay with a man?” Miss Angela start laughing again. “Oh, you poor thing!”
“Well, I never had the chance to,” I say, trying to defend myself. “But I s’pect if I did, I’d lay with a Negro. And of course I’d love him. Don’t think I could outright lie with a White man, though. Not even for love. They skin kinda make me think of raw chicken.”
This make Miss Angela laugh, tears running down her face.
“Oh, Ella! You funny! Manuel would have liked you.”
“I bet I woulda liked him too. Everybody say he was nice.”
“Who is everybody?” Miss Angela shouts at me. “They don’t know Manuel. They don’t know him! Stories is what they know. I know him! I feel him!”
She hitting her chest, looking a
t me like she ’bout to put some voodoo on me. I know what she mean, though.
That’s how I felt when Mama died. Folks crying and hugging on me. Talking about what a good woman Mama was. That it was a shame she was leaving me on this earth while she went on to heaven.
They didn’t know her, though. Just knew Mama made the best fried fish. That she was a good church-going woman. She never talked bad ’bout Daddy even though he gambled away almost every penny Mama made. And that was before he took off to Jacksonville with some young hussy.
“Your mama gon’ watch over you from heaven.” That’s what folks told me.
Guess Mama got to heaven and was having such a good time with the Lord, she forgot. Still, I was the one to know Mama. I know she loved me. Don’t even blame her for getting to heaven and forgetting ’bout me. I blame the Lord. For taking Mama from me. And everybody ain’t stuck with the pain. Just me.
“I know what you mean ’bout everybody, Miss Angela. Guess I was trying to say Mr. Manuel had what folks say is a good reputation. That’s all.”
But Miss Angela can’t let the fact I said everybody go.
“Everybody wasn’t there when the Klan came through our door. Pulling Manuel right from my arms. Everybody didn’t see him get covered in tar and feathers. So everybody know nothing!”
She right. Wasn’t nobody else there that night. This Miss Angela and Mr. Manuel story.
“My Manuel. He fought the Klan. Hiding behind those white hoods. Cowards!
“He ripped some of their hoods, you know. We saw their faces. Not everybody. We saw them. Me and Manuel.”
Look on her face let me know she right back in that moment. Watching the Klan tar her man. Damn.
“But the Klan don’t know me. Don’t know what I can do. “Black magic” what some folks call it. But voodoo is not magic. It’s like…”
Miss Angela cock her head to the side while she choose her words.
“Voodoo is like the one you call Lord.”
“Like Jesus?” I ask. I can’t hide my surprise. Never heard of Jesus and voodoo in the same sentence before.
“Yes! Like Jesus! Power and love. Love and power so strong, you can do anything. But only if you believe.”