Oppressed

by Kira Saito

  I knew what my fate was and I had resisted it since the day I had officially turned into a woman. Being seen in the company of any man was a threat to my so-called honor. My secret escapes to Congo Square on Sundays were the only time I was able to get away from the constant expectations and tensions that filled my life. Antoine, being the gentleman he was, always insisted on accompanying me in case anyone “threatened my honor.”

  Antoine shook his hand free and crossed his arms. His full lips held a disapproving frown, his dark green eyes narrowed, and the nostrils of his thin nose flared as they always tended to do when he was annoyed. He was so proud, so handsome, and infinitely snobby. He smoothed out his already immaculate waistcoat and straightened his silk tie. “Tell me, Cecile, how are gens de couleur libres ever going to get the respect they deserve if they continue to associate themselves with the lower class? These heathens?”

  I shook my head and stopped dancing. “Lower class? Are we not all one and the same? The loa don’t create meaningless boundaries, nor do they discriminate based on class. Who are we to do so?”

  He looked at me incredulously. “Loa! Loa! Where were the loa when my grand-pere fought for his freedom during the Haitian Revolution? They were nowhere to be found! He came to…”

  “Yes, I know; he came to New Orleans, taught himself how to read and write, learned the fine craft of dress-making so he could send your papa to the finest schools. Your papa worked hard so you could pursue your dream of studying law.” I stood on my toes and pinched his cheek affectionately. “Antoine, mon amour, I would hire you as my lawyer any day.”

  “Very funny, Cecile. This is not a joke. We have to maintain our dignity and respect. We have to protect our rights! They can be taken away from us at any moment. Only in Louisiana can a free person of color own property! Imagine! In this day and age, only in one state! These heathens need to stop dancing and fight for their freedom!”

  “Can’t you see they are fighting the only way they know how- and it’s working. Look around you, Antoine! Just look! Rich people, poor people, white, black, yellow, red, purple, green, blue: they’re all together right now at this very moment! At this moment we are all free! The spirits are helping us see what is truly important! Unity and real freedom that breaks rigid man-made boundaries! The spirits want us to be truly free!” I spun round and around and at that moment I was the happiest I’d ever been. Being a reckless heathen was absolutely intoxicating.

  “No. This is a spectacle.”

  I felt weary listening to him spout his views on heathens and rights, mostly because we had the same conversation once a week. “Can we please forget about everything and just dance? You know what tomorrow is. The last thing I need right now is a man telling me about…” I let out a low sigh.

  His eyes softened, and he studied me intently as if he were searching for something comforting to say. “You don’t have to go,” he said rather unconvincingly.

  I looked up at the fading sun and took a deep breath, determined not to shed a tear. “If only it were that easy. I’m destined to follow Maman’s footsteps; she’s made that abundantly clear.”

  I felt his fingers intertwine with mine. “Look, my feet are moving. My hips are starting to swing from side to side. I feel the loa all around me. I am officially a heathen.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh as I watched my dear snobby Antoine attempt to dance like a so-called heathen. His thin, elegant frame moved clumsily and his arms hung limply by his sides. My feet started to move again and tomorrow suddenly floated far far away. I heard the loa cheering me on, which prompted me to dance faster and faster. I linked my arm with Antoine’s, and together we danced only the way carefree children could.

  “You’re going to do great things, Cecile. You’re destined to be the official Queen!” hissed Bade.

  I laughed. “Je t'aime, Bade, but you are sadly mistaken!” I yelled. He was always telling me I was destined to be the official Queen but I didn’t see how that was possible. There were a thousand Voodoo Queens and Kings in New Orleans; I didn’t see how I was any different from the rest of them.

  “Dance, Cecile! Dance because you are free!” he hissed, so I did. Who was I to argue with the loa?

  “Bonjour!” I waved at Ayizan, the loa of the French marketplace.

  She waved at me with her palm leaf. “Bonjour!”

  We danced until the sun faded and the sky tuned a brilliant shade of red. The low sycamore trees grew dark and the moment I heard gunfire and smelled gunpowder I knew that the fun was over. Maybe for good this time…

  Antoine placed his arms around me and together we walked down the cobbled streets, navigating our way through loitering stray animals, fat rats, carriages, and countless street vendors. I relished every single walk I took through the muddy city. I adored the dusty shops where people of all hues offered haircuts, coffee, liquor, clothes, and countless other goods.

  “Look, what is that?!” I started the game Antoine and I had played since childhood. The one in which we pretended we were Yankee tourists visiting New Orleans for the first time.

  He gasped. “I do believe it’s those Choctaw Indians everyone is talking about. How are they allowed to sit on the streets and sell their wares so freely? Lawlessness. And on a Sunday!”

  “And that?” I dramatically pointed to an outdoor café where two men were drinking absinthe and engaging in a game of chess.

  He placed his over his chest and feigned outright shock. “Could it be? No! Why it’s a finely dressed gen de couleur libre playing chess with a finely dressed white man! Atrociousness! What is this world coming to?”

  I chuckled and we continued our game, but the closer we got to my home the more I started to panic. Anxiety cameover me as I thought about tomorrow. Although I had done what I was about to do many times, I knew that tomorrow would be the day. I was seventeen and out of excuses. “I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to go home yet,” I said suddenly, as I tried to gasp for air...

  “Cecile.” Antoine held me tightly and I buried my head into his chest in a vain attempt to shelter myself from my destiny. “It will be okay. You can always say no. No one can force you to do something you don’t feel comfortable doing. You have your rights too. ”

  I laughed sarcastically and bitterly. “I’ve been saying no since last year. Clearly my “non Monsieur, I cannot accept your proposal” is no longer going to work. Maman has already purchased dozens of new Parisian ball gowns, shoes and jewels with the extra money Monsieur Leblanc gave us. There are thousands of women in this city of all ages and hues that have it far worse than I do, so I shouldn’t complain, should I? At least I’ll be taken care of. I know my fate is sealed, Antoine, and our friendship as we know it is over.”

  “No… Don’t say that… Cecile, we can. I mean if you …”

  “Absinthe. I need absinthe,” I rambled, cutting him off. “Take me somewhere dirty, miserable and devoid of any happiness.”

  Antoine’s chest heaved with laughter. “Oh, my dear Cecile, your dramatics never cease to amuse me. What will the fine people of New Orleans do when they hear that Monsieur Leblanc’s daughter was seen in a dirty, miserable place devoid of happiness?”

  “They’ll thank me for giving them something to gossip about,” I said playfully.

  In reality, I felt resentment and unspoken rage build up inside of me at the thought of Papa, but as always I held it in because I honestly had no right to complain. Who was I to complain that I was the child of one of the wealthiest French merchants in Louisiana and his colored mistress? After all, it was he was who kept Maman in the latest Parisian fashions, he was the one who had paid for my schooling, and it was his money that kept a roof over our heads. We lived in luxury and had the finest things money could buy, but for some reason I couldn’t help feeling that my entire life was a mess…

  I wondered if Papa’s real wife knew about Maman. If she did, what did she think about her husband keeping a colored mistress? Did she know about me? Who did P
apa really love; his wife or his mistress? Would my protector be old? Would he get married? Would he already be married? Would his wife resent me? Would I love him? I needed absinthe.

  Antoine lead me to a dimly-lit, smoky bar where darkness and shadows obscured faces and Irish, French, English, Spanish, and German accents filled the air. He ordered two glasses of absinthe from the burly bartender and we drank in silence. I let the smooth liquid burn me from the inside out and fought the overwhelming misery that was beginning to take hold of me.

  “Cecile.” Antoine cleared his throat and focused his deep green eyes on me. His expression was tight and nervous, which was odd for him.

  “Yes?” I asked, as I took his half-full glass out of his hand and chugged down the green liquid.

  “I love you,” he said simply and somewhat shyly.

  I smiled widely because the absinthe had just taken effect. “I love you too! And I love Aimee and I love that man over there and I love this absinthe. We need another! But we have to hurry because I have to go home before Maman realizes I’ve snuck off again and uses the whip on poor Emilie out of anger. She’s been very anxious these days as social season is about to start and the bidding is about to begin. Last night my newest corset refused to lace up and she accused me of eating too many sweets. You should have seen the disapproval in her eyes, Antoine. I swear she was ready to use the whip on me!”

  Antoine sighed deeply, shook his head and turned his back on me to go get us one last drink. My snobby Antoine, I’m going to miss you dearly.

  Chapter Eight

  It Is What It Is…

  The LaNuit Household, Rue de Rampart

  New Orleans, 1852

  “Thank you, mon ami, for the company, the absinthe, and for reminding me of how much of a heathen I am.”

  I gave Antoine a tight hug and tried to fight the sinking feeling that was growing in the pit of my stomach. I glanced uneasily at my home, with its French windows and sturdy wooden railings. Surrounded by blooms of white magnolias, banana trees, tangles of ivory vines that glistened under the moonlight, and clumps of tiny pink rose bushes, it seemed deceptively peaceful.

  The streetlamp cast an eerie glow on Antoine’s face and I could feel that he was wrestling with some monumental decision. He took my gloved hand into his. “Don’t go tomorrow, Cecile. It’s not right. You shouldn’t have to follow in your Maman’s footsteps.”

  I squeezed his hand. “It is what it is. You sound as if I’m going to sell my very soul; clearly that is not the case. There are thousands of men and women of all colors who marry for convenience, and this arrangement is no different.”

  Although I joked about it, the very thought made my skin crawl... I wasn’t supposed to think like that. I couldn’t think like that. I was lucky. There were thousands of other women who would have died to be in my place. It was perfectly normal.

  “It’s not the same thing,” he said adamantly.

  I let out a low sigh and tried to find the words that would somehow accurately express how I felt. “You don’t know how it is, Antoine. Your parents are prosperous gens de couleur libres. Your Maman was lucky enough to find your Papa so they could build a life together. Build a life for you- but it’s not that easy for everyone. This is the only world I’ve ever known. How can I openly condemn the very practice that gave birth to me? I may not agree with it, but if I openly shun it that makes my whole life one big lie.”

  His nostrils flared and he shook his head. “But…”

  I hushed him by pressing my index finger up against his lips. “I know. I know. You don’t approve. We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

  “Cecile Antoinette Fanchon LaNuit!” Maman screeched from the porch.

  Even though she was an exquisitely dressed tiny woman with exceptionally beautiful features, the mere sight of her angry had the power to make my blood run cold.

  “Adieu,” I whispered, giving Antoine a final strong, reassuring smile.

  “How could you!” she hissed venomously. Her nails dug into my wrist and her thin lips were twisted into a cruel scowl as she dragged me inside the house. “You’re not a child! How dare you! How dare you! How dare you sneak off with him! Your reputation is on the line! No one wants a ruined woman- no one!” Her eyes were wild and filled with so much fire I had no choice but to bow my head in submission and hold my breath, hoping she wouldn’t smell the absinthe on it.

  “He’s my friend, Maman,” I said weakly.

  She let go of my wrist, took me by my shoulders and shook me as if she were trying to pull me out of a deep slumber. “Friend! Friend! You are too old for friends like him! He’s a man! You’re a fully grown woman! Why can’t you be like Isadora’s girls? Do you see them sneaking off and acting like classless savages? Do you ever see them unaccompanied? What am I going to do with you? You’re throwing your future away. Did I raise you to be this way? Do you want to spend the rest of your life working as a seamstress or in some other miserable low-class profession?”

  “Stop, please,” I pleaded. I had heard the same speech countless times but it never made it easier. Each scream and each wail was painfully excruciating and made me feel as if I had committed some gruesome and unforgivable crime.

  “Can’t you see the disgrace you’re bringing upon me? On yourself?”

  Tears of frustration and despair started to slide down my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I whispered, desperate to end the fight before it started.

  “This city loves to gossip! This city loves to see others fall! Life is cheap and one wrong move is the end for you, do you hear? You do understand how privileged you are? Do you understand how fragile life is for us? Do you have any idea how many people are suffering? Do you want to be like them?”

  “I know. I know. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” I was barely audible through my tears. “Please forgive me. I won’t do it again, I swear.”

  She took several deep breaths and examined my tear-streaked face. Her expression suddenly softened and pity flooded her large brown eyes. She pulled me close and held me as if I were made out of precious jewels. “I’m only trying to protect you,” she said dismally. “I’m only trying to protect from ruin, gossip, and a life of difficulty.” Tears started to slide down her cheeks and mine immediately stopped.

  “Maman, don’t cry, please don’t cry.” I hated seeing her cry. She cried a lot. She cried every time Papa left us to go back to his real family. She cried when we went to the opera or she spilled red wine on one of her fine dresses. She cried every time she looked at our slave Emilie and was certain that she had the laziest slave in New Orleans. She cried when she thought she was getting old. She cried when she thought I would never stop acting like an unrespectable heathen. She cried when Tante Celeste insisted that I learn Voodoo and appreciate the many sacrifices that our ancestors made in Haiti. Life was one never-ending drama at the LaNuit household. Although she pretended to be strong, I knew that she was fragile and I was the one who had to take care of her.

  “You want me to stop crying?” she asked through tears.

  “Yes, please,” I begged.

  “Then say yes. Say yes tomorrow.”

  “I won’t disappoint you. I promise. Tomorrow I’ll say yes. I’ll say yes and then you won’t have to worry about my future or my reputation.”

  She stopped heaving and her mouth stretched out into a thin smile. Under the low glow of the living room candles she was excruciatingly beautiful and tragic. Her tear-filled eyes were wide and childlike, and her caramel-colored skin was radiant and unblemished. Like every night, her small frame was fitted with a fine silk dress with a low décolleté and her ears were adorned with tiny diamond studs.

  She always dressed up in case Papa decided to drop by and surprise her with some sweet French wines, Spanish chocolates, new pearls or some other shiny trinket. I felt a profound sadness emanating from her and wished that I could somehow make her pain evaporate. Did she know how exquisite she truly was? Would it have made a difference?
Her voice was wistful when she spoke. “He loves me, Cecile; your Papa loves me and he loves you too. It is what it is. We do the best we can, non?”

  “I know he loves you,” I said, as convincingly as I could. “Of course he loves you.” Lies. I was a liar. The honest truth was I had no idea what love really was.

  “Madame, supper is ready,” Emilie interrupted us.

  “Emilie! How many times have I told you not to interrupt me?” Maman’s eyes filled with blind hate as they rested on her.

  “But…” Emilie protested.

  Maman flew into a fit of fury. “Not buts! Don’t interrupt me, ever!”

  I held my breath unable to make eye contact with Emilie. I felt shame, rage and guilt as I thought about how childish I was being. I could have ended up like her and had the unfortunate fate of being a slave for a Maman rather than a free woman of color. Emilie was only a few years older than me, but had been serving us for as long as I could remember.

  I often wondered how Emilie felt serving us day and night, but I never bothered to ask because I wasn’t allowed to openly associate with her as it was forbidden by Maman; as well as the law, because after all she was a lowly slave and I was one class up on her. I knew it wasn’t right. It was socially accepted and perfectly normal in most people’s eyes, but something deep within me always whispered that somehow it was all wrong…

  Recently, this nagging feeling was becoming stronger and stronger, yet I never did anything or said anything. What was I supposed to do? None of it felt natural or normal, yet in countless other households in New Orleans gens de couleurs libres, along with white families, bought, sold and traded life as if it were nothing at all… I often wondered, if life was so worthless what was important? What was valuable? As soon as these thoughts started to enter my head I stopped them and reminded myself that I shouldn’t think about it. As Maman always said, “It is what it is.”