AFTERTHOUGHTS
Jim Crow, the familiar term for the subordination and separation of African Americans in the South, began during Reconstruction and continued until the conclusion of the freedom movement. Some of Jim Crow was legislated but much of it was enforced by custom and practice. Everybody knew their place, and in the early part of the twentieth century few ventured outside of those approved spaces.
White Southerners lived by a strict racial creed. It was based on two main principles; black inferiority and white supremacy. It was a painful combination of paternalism and Negrophobia (an intense fear of black men) and denied African Americans even the remotest opportunities for happiness. It stripped them of all dignity and respect, and I remember, oh so well, the stories that my father used to tell about growing up in Alabama during the 1930s and ’40s. Walk along the road, he said, and you see a white man coming toward you, then you’d better lower your eyes and cross over to the other side. Venture out on a Saturday to treat yourself to a dandy new hat and you’d better pick carefully because anything you tried on you owned, ’cause no white person would wear anything after it had been touched by somebody black.
It was so dehumanizing, my dad would recall with that faraway look in his eyes, and that horrible senseless system of hatred didn’t even have the decency to spare the children. It pressed itself down on the backs of our innocence like a tarnished lead anchor. My dad would say: “There just ain’t nothing worse than having somebody look at you like something they wanted scraped off the bottom of their shoe and then trying for the life of you to figure out what in the world you ever did that could make somebody hate you so much.” He always ended with a long weary sigh. “I don’t suppose some of us will ever get over it.”
NOBODY ’ S CHILE
You know when I was little,
we slept three to a bed, four to the floor,
two at the door, and we prayed like the dickens
Mama and Daddy wouldn’t have no more.
Back then, babies were made on dream-filled beds
found in tilting old shacks,
built of not much more than ticks and tacks
but we managed to keep it all together with faith and love,
and an occasional miracle from up above.
You know when I was little
school was learning to read with a hoe and write with a plow,
and I remember oh so well
that the lovin’ could be hard, the livin’ could be hell,
the Devil could walk like a man
and Papa’s liquor could sound mighty darn loud
when you gave it a tug and it got loose from the jug,
but the understandin’ was
that you stayed out of white folks’ business,
grown folks’ conversations, and niggers’ no good mess.
Chile, when I was little,
pig lard greased your hair, a croaker sack warmed your back
and Mother Earth was the shoes that wore your feet black.
Miss Sally Walker could rise, the game was Miss Mary Mack,
the animals talked, wisdom walked,
and Bur Rabbit was the know-it-all in this here town.
Each and every spring, the May pole would go round and round
and a chile’s joy was a blessing — wherever it could be found.
You know when I was little
pennies never quite made it from Heaven
but were grudgingly pinched from some white man’s pants pocket.
Santa rarely made it.
So Christmas was usually just an apple dangling down from a tree
and New Year’s was yet another maybe.
Baby, when I was little,
Mister Charlie decided that I wasn’t too small,
that my body was already well into its prime,
my virtue was up for grabs,
and that his needs were far more important than mine.
So at thirteen, I became a white man’s whore
and suddenly I wasn’t so little no more.
You know when I was little
I found out that nobody could afford to give me a childhood,
that not knowing could be way too dangerous
and innocence was reserved for little white girls
with big blue eyes and long blond curls.
I realized early on that Ishmael’s tears may have moved God to
goodness and mercy,
but mine just made me old and ugly,
and mercy was a promise for yet another day
that reigned up in Heaven, a million miles away.
Chile, when I was little,
it sure was tough to be somebody’s colored baby
in this here old place.
And gracious, from where I’m a-settin’,
it don’t look like things done changed up they face.
Hush-a-Bye
In a little girl’s lonely world, the corn stalks rustled like a snake’s wicked rattler, the moon danced ominously through the dark oak trees, and the winds whispered warnings to anyone who would dare to be out on such a night. But caution fell upon stubborn ears. Ruth could not allow herself to be dissuaded. She might have only been ten, but she was soon to be a saint, and she had been sent seeking the truth. If Jesus was here, she would find Him. She would not leave this place until she did.
The mothers had lovingly prepared her, as they did all who were about to take this journey. The moment the blood had flowed through her legs, taking her into the wonderful world of womanhood, the mothers had begun their ritual. She had been taken down to the river’s edge, scrubbed clean of past sin, and readied to be born again in the spirit. Mother Faye was chosen to be her guide. Together they had prayed, but separately they would see the light. When the brilliant deliverance had come and gone, Ruth would be allowed to return and take her rightful place on the holy pew. She would wear a little white hat that the women would embroider. She would rest among the blessed and speak in the tongues of the saved. She would never be the same again, they had told her, and for the little girl who was really nobody’s chile but everybody’s baby, this promise was a miracle that was only days away.
Although she was nobody’s chile, she did have someone who loved her. Nana cared for her like she was truly her own. Ruth would ask her over and over again how she came to be hers, and Nana loved to tell the story, loved to remember that day, over ten years ago, when she’d found a precious li’l baby layin’ in the middle of the meadow — bloomin’ and blossomin’ without love, tenderness, or care. A beautiful li’l baby who refused to surrender to the harshness of her reality but instead decided to shine like a morning glory. A precious little one who refused to be frightened and did not utter a single sound. A baby who had been waitin’ for a mama, and a woman who was waitin’ to be a mama. They needed each other then, and they needed each other now. Nana was counting on Ruth to save her, and Ruth refused to let Nana down.
Nana, on her sickbed, was ready to leave this world and enter the next. This morning they had come, as Nana’s eyes rolled around her head, and her mouth made funny little sounds, and they had prepared for her death. The mirrors had been covered and the pillows removed from the back of her head. Brother Jake had stood continuously in the middle of the room singin’ hymns, and the saints, well, they had rocked and prayed. They would sit up with Nana until it was all over, and then Pastor Brown would anoint her with the special oil he kept in his pocket. The evangelists would come soon after and dress her.
They would put on her very best suit and the ugly black shoes that her Sister Hessie had given her. Nana had told Sister Hessie, on one of her last goods days, that she didn’t want to be put away in those shoes, but Sister Hessie wouldn’t listen. She would put on the dark suit that she liked rather than the red dress Nana preferred. And then she would put on those ugly old-lady black shoes, and grin a real big toothless grin, just ’cause they were new. They had belonged to another, but that saint had died ’fore she
had a chance to wear ’em, lucky her! “Why waste good shoes?” Sister Hessie had asked, “especially since they ain’t but one size too big for Nana’s size-six feet.” But Nana had warned that when you wear somebody else’s shoes to be buried in, they pinch your toes all the way to Heaven, and Nana wanted a comfortable trip. Sister Hessie would never listen, though — she would bury Nana as she saw fit, and poor old Nana would probably stumble her way on through the Lord’s pearly gates. Well, Ruth might have been only ten, but she was sure big enough to save Nana. She would simply ask Jesus to spare Nana, so that she would have someone she could love. She would meet Jesus here, and she would beg him. She was not too proud to do that.
Not more than a year ago, she and Nana had huddled together at the little wood stove. Ruth remembered it like it was yesterday. Nana stood steady, strugglin’ to infuse a li’l discipline into Ruth’s wayward head of hair — tuggin’ the hissin’ hot comb through each carefully parted section, and Ruth flinchin’ as the comb made its way, inch by inch, through the resistant locks. This had been their routine each and every Saturday evenin’ after the supper dishes were done. But one evenin’ had been real special.
“Nana, do you think Jesus can really love somebody like me?”
“Chile, what kind of question is that? Just last week in Sunday school, they taught you my favorite song, ‘Jesus Loves Me, This I Know.’ That song there ought to tell you what you needs to know. You think we’d be singin’ that in church and all if it wasn’t true? My mama used to say that God done made all of us, and He don’t make no junk.”
“Well,” Ruth said, “Jessie says that Jesus ain’t got no use for no ugly li’l black girl like me. She say that’s why my mama, whoever she be, left me in the middle of a field like a pile of trash she want throwed away, ’cause she looked at me and decided she ain’t had no use for nothing’ that looked like me. Just ’cause I beat Jessie Lee at the spelling bee last Thursday, and ain’t nobody ever done that before, she got to go and say all that. And that not all Jessie Lee say, she say — ”
Nana just shook her head and said, “Jessie Lee say this, and Jessie Lee say that. Her lips ain’t no prayer book, and her tongue is loose on both ends. Fact is, the Lord brung us together ’cause He knew I could love you better than anybody. Sometimes a mama is buried so deep in her own hurtin’ that she can’t do right by no chile. She got to heal herself ’fore she can tend to another, and the Lord makes sure she gets that time. Yo’ mama left you out there ’cause she knew somebody would find you — and that somebody was me. I thank God every day for you. You know what the preachers always say, don’t you? ‘What God done brung together, let no man tear apart’ — and that mean Jessie Lee, too.”
“Nana, they say that for marryin’,” Ruth giggled.
“It ain’t just for no marryin’, neither, it’s for any joinin’ up. God done brought us together, and ain’t nobody got nothin’ to say ’bout it. Now bend your head so I can get through.”
Nana loved her. Ruth might be nobody’s chile, but she was Nana’s own. Nana had told her that she was as black and pretty as a thousand summer-midnight skies. Nana looked at her with all the love of any mama. Nana, bless her heart, had never given Ruth nothing but love and kindness. But now she might be leavin’ this world, and Ruth would once again be alone.
“Look for the light,” Nana had told her. “When it comes to seekin’, look for the light. It will let you know that the Lord has looked into your heart and saved your soul. Just look for that light. It could come as a flicker, a sparkle, or even a blast. But you’ll know it when you see it, and what a glorious day that will be. I can tell you that I seen that light at twelve, and it ain’t never growed dim. Dark roads and bleak nights don’t even worry me no more ’cause I still got the light. The light, Ruthy Ann, look for the light!”
Well, if Nana was right, then the Lord would be here tonight and would wrap his arms on around Ruth Ann Williams. He would touch her in a mighty way, and He would answer her prayers to restore Nana to good health and strength. She would know, then, that she would never again have nothin’ to fear as long as she held on to the light. Ruth, like all the others who had come before to the wilderness, the chosen ones who had set in the plain and simple, who knew how to get still and quiet so they could hear the voice of God, would find all that she was lookin’ for.
The winds were beginning to gust quite a bit now. Ruth pulled her wrapper a li’l tighter around her. She had been squattin’ so long her legs had gone to sleep. She rocked on her heels a little to see if she could restore some feeling to her numb little limbs. An ant was makin’ its way slowly up her thigh and would probably bite her if she didn’t kill him. She let him be — tonight was not the night for killing. She closed her eyes. She would open them again only after she had been visited by the greatness. It would come, too, just like Nana had said it would — to a li’l black girl sittin’ in the openness. She had found love once before in the middle of the field, and she would do so again. She rocked harder and faster and then she began to sing. He was on the way, Ruth reminded herself. Salvation was now only a breath away. Serenity was beginning to surround her. He would be here soon, and Ruth would be ready. Yes, she would be ready for Him when He came.
Little Boy Blue
Junior looked out his door real quiet-like. He had eased it open just enough so he could hear a little but not enough so he could be seen. The wooden floor in the little cabin was always so cold this time of year; it made his feet ache to walk on it. His grandma had bought him some new slippers with the money she’d made from takin’ in two extra loads of wash last week, but he didn’t bother to put them on. He might be heard, and he didn’t want that. His mama would light into him but good if she thought he was standing in the middle of somethin’ he ain’t had no business in.
Shadows danced through the poorly lit room, and his mama was way ’cross to the other side, but Junior could see her good enough, and she didn’t have on nothin’ but a slip. She was sippin’ whiskey out of a coffee cup. Junior might have only been six, but he’d seen a lot in his years, and he knew whiskey when he saw it in Mama’s half-closed eyes or heard it slur ’cross her lips. The man that was standin’ next to her had on pants but no shirt. He had a tattoo on his arm that looked like a snake, and his white hand grabbin’ hold of Mama’s arm made Mama look black as coal. That man had been there before. He always came in late and left ’fore morning. Junior always knew when he was around ’cause he smoked them smelly “roll-your-owns,” and the stench of ’em always woke Junior clear out of a good sleep. The man’s hand lifted up to his mama’s breast and he squeezed it real hard.
“Ain’t you had enough?” His mama asked the man, and then she laughed a fake laugh. Junior always knew she was fakin’ happiness ’cause the smile never quite made it up to her eyes. The eyes, Junior figured, never hid a thing.
“I ain’t never got enough, but it’ll have to do ’cause I got to go. Sue will be lookin’ for me soon, and I don’t want her lookin’ too hard.”
“You know,” Junior’s mama began slowly, “I figured you might be able to spare a few dollars. Junior’s birthday is tomorrow, and he got his eye on this little checker set — I thought maybe … ,” and her voice faded away.
“Didn’t I just give you some money?”
“That was over a month ago. That money been gone. I was just thinkin’ …”
“You ain’t supposed to be thinkin’ nothin’. I ain’t got no money for no checker set. My boy need him a new fishin’ pole, and I barely got enough for that.”
“But you got two boys,” his mama pleaded. Junior hated to see his mama beggin’. “One might live on Hill Top, and the other on the Bottoms, but they both your boys. Junior got his heart as hard on that checker set as that other one got his on that fishin’ pole. Since you missed Junior’s Christmas on account of your boy needin’ that new bike, I thought maybe since it’s his birthday and all — ”
“Don’t be countin’ the money in m
y pocket. It ain’t yours to be figurin’. Don’t none of what go on at Hill Top need to reach down here to you. You just make sure you here when I say be here, and keep your mouth shut. The rest will take care of itself. As for that boy of yours, he gonna have to wait. What’s a nigger boy need with a checker set anyway? Maybe you ought to bring him on out to my tobacco field so he can help put in my crop. I need some help, and that boy of mine seem to be too busy with that new bike of his to do me much good. Yeah, you bring that kid of yours on over and I’ll get him started. Oh, and here’s a quarter. See what you can do with that.”
Junior closed the door softly and then went back to bed. He lay down and pretended to sleep till mornin’ came and his mama shook him to get up.
“Happy birthday, baby. Mama got a big surprise for you — a brand-new quarter to spend at the General Store. I know you’ll like that — and after we leave there I got somebody special for you to meet. He’s kind of a friend of mine. He gonna show you all about farmin’.” And then she hugged him. Junior took the quarter ’cause he didn’t want to hurt his mama’s feelin’s. He smiled up at her, too — only he wondered if that smile ever made it up to his eyes.
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