by CP Patrick
But if I was honest with myself, I had always found women’s bodies beautiful. My eyes were drawn to the shape of their lips, the size of their breasts. It didn’t matter, though, because women were off limits.
Even if someone knew my thoughts, I could be punished. Or perhaps even institutionalized. Loving another woman was unnatural, and thus, of course, illegal. An abomination in the eyes of God.
But there was no one there to judge me that day, no one in the cotton fields to tell my secret. Just me and Awiti.
“I know you love me, and I love you, Kate,” Awiti said before touching her lips to mine.
Her lips were so soft, and the skin on her face like fine silk. There was no harsh facial stubble, no scratches like John’s beard, just soft. Everything was soft.
I reached for her breasts under the water, and we moved closer, retreating toward the shore until her breasts were above the water. Her nipples tempted me, like small mounds of chocolate, and before I knew it, they were in my mouth.
I kissed and sucked until Awiti’s nipples became erect and soft moans escaped her lips.
She began to touch me beneath the water, her fingers pushing and stroking between my legs. She pleasured me until I cried out from the joy, the shaking of my body. Never had I felt such a longing. Never had I been so in love.
That moment became all-defining for us. We were all we had in a cruel, dark Southern world filled with hatred and bigotry. But our love could only sustain us for so long.
Although we both wanted to believe it could, love wasn’t enough to keep us alive and nourish us forever. I was White and adored; Awiti was Colored, and because of that, she was hated. Besides love, there was only so much we could do for each other.
Awiti told me one night, “I have to leave this place, Kate.”
We were lying in the bed John and I shared whenever he was home from his travels. It never felt quite right when he was in it.
“But what will I do without you?” I pleaded. “I need you!”
I was crying, hysterical, for this had become the topic of every conversation—her leaving, and me crying, begging her to stay.
“There is a life for you here, Kate, even if it is a pretend life. It’s a good life. What’s here for me?” she asked.
The dark eyes looked sad. We had discussed every possibility—running away together, going to Canada. But we knew there were few places, if any, that would be accepting once they learned of our true relationship.
“I refuse to hide forever, Kate. But I will never leave you, I’ll always be near. Our love is like the force of the hurricane—strong, unforgiving, wild, and damaging. When you feel those winds, you’ll know it’s me. Nothing can stop me from loving you, Kate.”
I understand why Awiti left me. For who could endure a lifetime of hate? Even for love, it was too much to ask of anyone.
Of course, if she had to go, I didn’t want her to leave empty-handed. She had saved me all these years, pretending to be my hired help, but all the while loving me, teaching me to have a voice and believe in myself. There was only one thing I could think to do.
I knew where John kept his money. Yes, he had some in the bank like all wealthy men, but not all of it. He kept a very generous amount in the home safe. And so the night before Awiti left, I took it all. Emptied the safe and gave my love enough money and jewels to afford her a lovely life.
Awiti was long gone by the time John discovered the theft. I acted just as shocked as he did. I echoed his angry sentiments that someone had robbed us blind without us even knowing. I was so meek back then.
Today I would tell him, “I gave your money to my Black lover. Wanted her to live a good life. Or squander it all gambling and drinking moonshine. Whatever she wanted. I was only fair. You know, since her family earned most of your money for you.”
I could see John passing right out! He would have never heard the end. He would have surely had a heart attack at the words “Black lover.” Or better yet, when I said I gave his money away.
Don’t know why these thoughts make me laugh, but I do. Loudly.
“You all right, Mama?”
“Yes, Lizzy. I’m all right.” I’m better than all right.
Throughout my life, like she promised, there are times Awiti reminds me she is there, always loving me.
One time, after Lizzy was born, John and I travelled to New York. I became a better wife after Awiti left, more resigned to my role. I was sitting on a park bench, with Lizzy in my lap, and a lady came and sat next to me.
Her face was shielded by a scarf, and her entire body covered with clothing. But her hand—I would recognize that brown, toffee skin anywhere.
She placed a book on the park bench, and then she got up and walked away. The Well of Emotions.
I still have that book, dog-eared to my favorite part, the words that got the author in a whole lot of trouble back then:
“And they were not divided that night.”
That’s me and Awiti.
“Mama,” Lizzy calls out. “Looks like this Hurricane Frederic is going to be one heck of a storm.”
I know it is my love. She is coming to make them pay. Make them suffer. I never blamed her for it, for the damage she caused. I understand what it is to be hurt and angry. To hate a world that refuses to love you.
“Yes, Awiti. Come wash over me.”
24
black bird
Palm Beach, FL (1981)
Grandfather was evil. And not like, “he was a just a mean old man” evil. Like, he was super evil. And he was the worst kind of evil because he was rich. I think the only reason my dad didn’t turn out like him was because he left the South for college, went up North, and never looked back.
When I was younger, Dad never talked about his childhood much except to say he was glad it was over. He clung to his father-in-law like he was the father he never had.
In fact, we spent every vacation and holiday we could with Mom’s crazy, liberal, amazing family. Every holiday except Christmas.
For Christmas, we had to go to Florida to spend it with my grandfather.
“To secure our future,” Dad would say.
Once I got older, and I could understand life a little more, Dad and I really talked about things, including his childhood. The stuff I found out about my family didn’t make me proud.
Liberal White guilt, Tammy called it. And well, I love her and believe everything she says because she’s so freaking smart. So I guess you can say I have a case of the liberal White guilt.
From a young age I knew Grandfather was racist. He was a deep-seated Southern boy, blue-blood true racist. He talked about Black people as if they were rabid dogs—diseased, dirty, wild, dangerous, and deranged. And he believed the world would be a better place if they, like rabid dogs, were put to death.
Oh, and of course he didn’t call them “Black people.” That would be too humane. They were “the others,” “those people,” or his favorite, “niggers.”
Last Christmas, Dad told me there was a room in Grandfather’s mansion that was full of stuff from when my grandfather was a young man. Grandfather called it his History of the South room. Dad said it was Grandfather’s jack-off room.
According to Dad, Grandfather went in there to jerk off and get high off of all the violent things he did in his youth. I decided it would be best if I didn’t go in there. I was tempted, but I’ll be honest, I was afraid of what I might find in that room aside from Grandfather’s cum stains.
I told Tammy about the History of the South room over spring break, and she wanted to know what was in there. She was always curious about stuff like that. So this year, I promised I wouldn’t be a bitch about it. I would check it out.
Whenever we crossed the bridge to get to Palm Beach, my grandfather always said the same thing.
“Thank God for the bridge. That’s the only thing that separates us from them. You know niggers don’t like water. Hell, they can’t even swim!”
He said it in h
is annoying Southern drawl that made him sound like a Confederate soldier. Dad rolled his eyes; Mom picked imaginary lint off her skirt. I looked out the window at the beautiful blue intercoastal that just that quickly, my grandfather made ugly.
We arrived at Grandfather’s mansion as scheduled, his driver made certain of that. The Florida sun reflected off the pink stucco with white trim. His house always made me think of ice cream. Lots of rich and famous families lived nearby. We even ran into Donald Trump one Christmas. I think that was the only time my mother truly enjoyed herself, because whenever she could, she worked her brief run-in with “The Donald” into conversations.
I can’t say I have ever enjoyed myself. Usually I tried to spend as much time as possible at the beach or driving around with Dad in one of Grandfather’s antique cars. Christmas holiday seemed to be the longest week of the year.
This Christmas would be like all the others, except I planned to check out Grandfather’s jack-off room. I decided I would check it out after Christmas Eve dinner while everyone ate desserts and the children sang Christmas carols. I just wanted to take a peek. I told Tammy about the History of the South room over spring break, and she wanted to know what was in there.
Grandfather always had his huge pine Christmas trees decorated by a professional. This year’s theme was cats and dogs. The trees were decorated with hideous, expensive ornaments of various breeds and way too much trimming. I wanted to knock it down, watch all those glass ornaments of cats and dogs break into a million pieces. Man, I really hate here.
On Christmas Eve, all of my family gathered in the large dining room for our annual feast. There was enough food to feed an army. The older I got and more exposure I had of the world, I became aware of such lavishness. It made me sick. We would never be able to eat it all.
The caterer had prepared an excessive number of sides, which guests were to pair with fish, turkey, chicken, duck, and if that wasn’t enough, turducken. We sat around the table, laughing and talking as we paid our dues so that when Grandfather died, he would leave us a portion of his big fortune for being “family.” Everyone was eating dessert when I excused myself. No one even noticed I left.
I walked down the main hall and headed toward Grandfather’s History of the South room. For some reason, I was nervous. I felt like I was sneaking around a place I shouldn’t be, instead of walking around my grandfather’s house. It was eerily quiet on the south wing of the house. Everyone was still in the dining room faking like they were having a good time.
The door to the History of the South room was slightly cracked. I carefully pushed it open, real slowly. Next thing I knew, I had stepped into a museum honoring the antebellum South. The room was full of everything one would expect a racist to have, except, well, you would never expect to actually see it.
There were thick ropes with nooses that had dried blood on them. Several Confederate flags adorned the walls. Klan head coverings sat atop mannequin heads, and a full Klan suit was memorialized in a glass frame. One of the walls contained shelving that held little glass jars filled with God-knows-what.
The remaining spaces on the walls were covered with newspaper clippings and historic headlines. There was even a framed newspaper highlighting the day Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. I felt sick. But I was all the way in now. It was time for me to see who my grandfather really was.
A blue photo album sat on top of a wooden desk. Although I could only imagine the horrors I would find inside, I opened the cover. On the first page was a newspaper clipping from the St. Louis Argus.
“Outspoken Negro killed,” I read aloud.
I knew I should close the book, to stop reading. But I couldn’t.
“Palm Beach, Florida. June 13. The body of Henry Simmons, Negro, riddled with bullets, was found today hanging to a tree on Palm Beach Island. Simmons was a native of the Bahama Islands. He is said to have been an industrious and conscientious worker at a local ice cream plant, but he also made enemies because he was outspoken on the treatment of American Negroes by Southern Whites.”
“I see you found my brag book.”
It was my grandfather’s Confederate soldier voice.
I had been so absorbed in the horror I was reading that I hadn’t even heard him enter the room. And when I turned around to face him, I knew what my dad meant.
I had never seen such happiness on my grandfather’s face. His wrinkles seemed to fade. He had stepped back in time a few years by just walking into the room. This was definitely his jack-off room.
“Don’t be shy now. Look around. This is who we are.”
He walked around the room proudly.
“Everything in that book you holding, I did it. Every picture you see, I took it because I was there. Or one of my friends was there. That was the time when White men ruled the world. None of this equality and segregating they got going on now. You know what I mean?”
I wanted to run from the room. He thought I was like him. That we were the same because we were family. A good ol’ racist grandfather and grandson bonding moment. But we weren’t. I was nothing like him.
“You know what’s in these jars? These real nigger parts from lynchings. Come see now!”
His voice was excited, his cheeks flushed. Grandfather grabbed me by the arm and steered me toward the wall that was covered with jars.
As we moved closer, I could see what was inside the jars—ears, fingers, toes, and my God, there even was a penis! The parts sat in a clear solution that only intensified the view of the charred black skin. I felt my stomach lurch. I was going to vomit.
Upon hearing me gag, Grandfather admonished me.
“Now don’t be weak like your daddy! That boy always been weak about niggers. I took him with me to a lynching when he was a boy, and he cried for days. Shamed me, he did.”
Grandfather sounded angry. The memory of his weak White son at a lynching still infuriated him.
“All these nigger parts you see here, they got what was coming. All of them did something wrong, and they had to pay for they crime. Justice. That’s how things was done back then,” Grandfather said.
“When things were that way, when White was right? We didn’t have all these problems we have today. All these niggers running around committing crimes, and nothing being done to them.”
He spit on the hardwood floor, disgusted. I wondered if his housekeeper would know that was spit when she came to clean.
“I’m not weak, Grandfather. I just…”
I tried to defend myself, but I didn’t know what to say. I was in my Grandfather’s jack-off room. He had killed Black people, kept their body parts, and was proud of it. What was I supposed to say to that?
“I just…didn’t know you had all this stuff in here,” I finally said.
“Yup! And it’s yours once I pass if you want it,” he replied.
His Southern drawl was laced with pride. He looked at me eagerly.
He wanted me to want it. Needed me to want it. Every piece of his racist soul leaned forward, eager for my response. His blue eyes stared into mine, and I knew this would be a defining moment in our relationship. I thought of Dad reminding me that Christmas holidays were to secure our inheritance.
“Of course…of course, I want it. It’s cool,” I said.
I instantly felt sick. I had sold my soul to my blue-eyed Confederate-soldier-voiced Grandfather in his jack-off room. What was wrong with me?
“That’s my boy! Now c’mon back to the party. The little ones are about to start singing,” he said with a smile.
Grandfather walked out of his History of the South room like he walked out of the garage after we had a discussion about one of his antique cars. The dead body parts and racist memorabilia were just another part of his collection. He believed he had really given me something.
I had sold my morals and values to my evil Grandfather in hopes of gaining my inheritance. I ran to the bathroom and vomited.
When Tammy called me later in the evening to s
ay our good nights, she could hear it in my voice. I was not myself.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. You know my dad’s side of the family stresses me out. We’ll talk about it when I get back.”
I changed the subject and asked about her Christmas Eve activities I was sure were quite different from mine.
How could I tell my sweet, liberal Tammy that one day we would inherit my grandfather’s jack-off room, complete with Klan hoods and the burned body parts of Black people from crimes he committed but was never charged for? Yeah, that was a conversation that must be had in person, if ever.
On Christmas morning, my stocking was stuffed with envelopes, cards full of money every college student needed. I usually walked away with several grand. But this year, the money didn’t make me happy.
As was custom, I also received my ugly sweater to wear next Christmas. It was bright green and covered with red Christmas ornaments and silver tinsel. It was revolting. At the end of the obsessive amount of gift opening, one present remained under the tree.
“Looks like Santa left you something extra,” Grandfather said.
He looked at me with proud eyes.
I reached for the small box covered in Santa-printed wrapping paper, a White Santa, of course. I was afraid to open it. Surely Grandfather wouldn’t give me a racist memento that would scare the children. But I had seen his jack-off room, so I could not be certain.
“Go on now. Open it,” he said excitedly.
I started to unwrap it carefully, for I expected a charred black body part to fall out at any moment. Those jars filled with the parts of lynched Black people haunted my dreams last night. I didn’t sleep well at all.
The wrapping came off easily and revealed a white box. I lifted the lid of the box, and inside, underneath white tissue paper, was a wooden box.
I was reminded of those annoying dolls where each doll held a smaller doll inside. I might pass out from anticipation before I opened the actual gift. My heart pounded.