Good Negress

by Verdelle, A. J.

  I looked close at Georgia when Missus James say she leavin, see is Georgia the one. I looked close at Virginia too. Patuskie is not on the map, and Missus James say small places are not on the maps because not enough people live in each place. Virginia is so far away from Detroit it just makes my heart ache, so I looked again at Georgia. Georgia could be far away as the moon, and it wouldn’t unsettle my heart.

  Georgia is next to Alabama on one side and South Carolina on the other. Underneath Georgia is Florida, and that is where the United States end. It pushes out into the ocean. Missus James say she live near Valdusta, and when I looked on the map I had to change how I spelled it, to Valdosta, even though if you sound it out it sound like Valdusta. Missus James could live in Florida, on account a the map show state lines, and Valdosta is near the state line between Florida and Georgia.

  Margarete say they got a boy, a son, so I guess it’s three a them movin to Georgia. Georgia is more south than Virginia, I noticed from the map. But it’s all south. I’m learnin plenty about this line between the South and the North for the whole country. Missus James say this line is named after two men named Mason and Dixon. Used to be a line about Pennsylvania—that’s another state—and then it became a line about South and the slaves.

  I tell Missus James that I wished I could understand this better. She say don’t worry about understandin it cause knowin that there is something peculiar, something to understand, is enough. And that later on, I can go back to this thing that I will most certainly remember because it puzzled me, and learn to understand it then. I say OK, but I kind of drag that agreement out a my mouth: she is leavin and I have the fear that this won’t be discussed anymore. I ain’t never heard nothin about it before now. She looks my disappointment dead in the face and she say the important thing to learn from this is that history complicates things.

  History complicates things, I think. Ain’t no way I’m going to forget that. I don’t even write it down. And now, here it is, all these years later, and when I think of history, I think of all this, and the way it complicates.

  I WROTE TO Lantene bout what I’m learnin—the letters got thick while Harold Grayson worked so hard. Lantene used to always be talkin bout what different places and things she wants to see, and in my geography book, there is a name for every place. Except places small as Patuskie. Lantene don’t want to go no small places nohow, and I wished she had a book to look in like me.

  I wished I had known about state lines when I was ridin with Harold Grayson, see what they look like on the road.

  There is plenty more to this geography than I know bout yet. I cain’t really tell if I’m behind or not cause when the teacher ask them geography questions hardly nobody can answer, so I guess it’s new for all us.

  Now that I have the maps to look up all bout this country, I occupy myself sometimes lookin at the rivers. I imagine where Patuskie would be, what the geography book calls inland. I look for place names to practice my pronunciation.

  Luke edward had tried to tell me bout the country way I talk when I first come, same as Missus James. I had just shut my mouth there round the house. Wasn’t nobody home most a the time but me no way, so it was easier to just keep quiet than to give Luke edward somethin to be makin a mockery about. Plus I thought he was teasin, or pickin, like about my headrag and cleanin clothes. But he was tellin—or foretellin—the stone gospel truth.

  Missus James, she wasn’t makin no mockery. I knew that. She was talkin to me bout the same things the other people laughed at, but she wasn’t laughin. She was just waggin that tongue round tryina demonstrate how my way a talkin got to change.

  Granma’am said I ain’t no ways ignorant. She said God give me enough in the head for several. You kin read and you kin reason and that is good. Valentine and Fitzwilly both say you could improve y’writin and I trust in time you will. I remember this that Granma’am said when I got sad bout my talkin, and I practiced movin my thick tongue round.

  I also remember that Granma’am was a little shy discussin education. Her experience of it was shallow, she said. She told me to do everything Mr. Fitzwilly said, to the letter. And she asked Miz Valentine Kinsey to look over my homework; they arranged that that would be my payment for sittin for Miz Kinsey’s kids. Miz Kinsey said that wasn’t enough, though; she said you have to give children, me included, some reward, and she always gave me a few quarters in addition.

  I THOUGHT I had seen the ocean closest to Richmond one time, when Granma’am took me and the boys. But Margarete say that she remember that time and it was the wide part a the New River we went to.

  Well, it was the one time we went to the water. Luke and David used to come down and we would remember it all together, seem like then I could remember it better. I know that means I hardly remember it at all, but also I know I was a little mad bout it cause Granma’am always say that the water was too cold, and I was much too little a girl. Not like I knew how to swim. Figures, I thought then, the one time in my life I gets to see real ocean and they don’t let me get in the water. From what they told, my brothers swam they behinds straight across and now that I got my geography book and have learned about rivers and oceans, I know that what they said ain’t so at all.

  OUR NEW TEACHER wrote her name, G. Pearson, Teacher. And she wrote A. James, Former Teacher. Put both names on the chalkboard and on the tackboard, written in her teacher-drawn hand. The new teacher was in the classroom, and the board covered with marks, on the Monday after the Friday when Missus James left. No seam in that cloth.

  One a the first few days after the new teacher come, she asked us to write down what we like or what we miss about Missus James. She say Missus James had told her about each student, and now she wanted us students to tell her about Missus James. She say we could tell what Missus James taught us that we liked. Or some things she did that we will miss, or some songs she taught us to sing that we want to sing again.

  She say we got to write at least five sentences, and if they real good, she will mail them to Missus James in Georgia. I was very excited about the mail to Georgia. She say that’s our assignment for the rest a the afternoon, and when we finished we could give it to her and come back tomorrow.

  I finished fast on account a I been writin so many letters to both Granma’am and Lantene. But I was careful on account a I secretly would like my letter to get in the mail. I wrote: It was cole when I first come to Detroit and Missus James tole me I could ask her any thang I want to know. And so I ask her how come it was so cole in Detroit, and she explain to me bout the farther north you git the more cole it git and how plus in Detroit the wind off Lake St. Clair pick up water and that make the air wet stead a dry. And any body kin figure that the cole water in the wet air is worser on the skin than cole dry air, and thas how I learnt bout the weather and geography at the same time. And then Missus James ask me if I had any sisters, and I said naw I got two big brothers and so the next Monday she brought me a hand me down coat from a girl at her church and Lord that coat was so much warmer than the one Margarete give me it have a big button right up at the neck.

  And then after I looked over my work, I tried to correct my spellin. Missus James had said I had big problems with communicatin in English, and that my problems with spellin was part. Missus James had made me cry several times, but I didn’t write that down. Josephus say his uncle Jump say ain’t no problem can be solved till what the problem is is clear. So Josephus say I should be glad Missus James say what my problems are so I can get to solvin them. Missus James don’t say much a nothin to Josephus far as I can tell, and since Josephus is havin somethin to say right then I want to ask him what do he think about that. But Josephus is wantin to race me down the boulevard and that takes my mind off things.

  Missus James paid a lot a attention to Morris in our class. Seem like she give him the attention for all the boys put together. She call Morris to the board to do math problems. She have him read out loud in the front a the class by her desk. Once, I seen her give
him a bow tie to wear. Like she give me the coat. She send notes home to his mama, and talk to him bout how was church when he stop by her desk at recess on Mondays.

  Morris is a very smart boy. And once, later, Josephus did say that he thinks teachers prefer the smartest kids. He don’t think they can help it. Well, Morris is very smart. He told me he has encyclopedias at home that his mother bought, and none a the books are missing. When I found that out, I wished he was a girl so he could invite me over to his house so I could look and see. Brenda Greenfield had more a things than anybody I visited: gloves, a piano, hair ribbons, hats, more than ten dresses. No encyclopedias, though.

  While I was chewin on my pencil, still concentratin on my spellin, my distraction bout Morris reminded me bout a poem he had read front the class one time. I liked the poem very much and Missus James gave me a sheet a paper with the poem written down. I rememorized it on account a it reminded me a my daddy. And Missus James had said good. Poems were good for me to study and recite cause it would get my ear used to hearin good English. Thinkin bout it, I wrote the poem down at the bottom a my letter.

  “Epilogue” by Countee Cullen

  The lily, being white not red,

  Contemns the vivid flower,

  And men alive believe the dead

  Have lost their vital power.

  Yet some prefer the brilliant shade,

  And pass the livid by;

  And no man knows if dead men fade

  Or bloom, save those that die.

  My letter did get mailed.

  MISSUS PEARSON ASK me where I am from.

  I answer her, “Patuskie.”

  “Where is that?” she asks me.

  “By Richmon,” I answer her.

  Missus Pearson say for me to repeat, “Rich-monD.”

  “Rich-monD,” I repeat.

  Missus Pearson say, “Near Rich-monD.”

  “Near Rich-monD.”

  Missus Pearson say that when the kids talk bad bout me and call me Cakky-lakky they makin jokes bout me bein from the Carolinas. Missus James had told me that. Missus Pearson say the kids sayin southern Negroes don’t know how to talk. I don’t know why they say southern Negroes don’t know how to talk. They may not talk North-like but they—we—talk. I kept my head down in the books much as I could, on account a Missus Pearson like to stop me in my sentences, not like Missus James who least would wait. And I kept my mouth shut much as I could. While I was studyin the maps lookin for places for my pronunciation, that’s when I found Gibraltar. This was Granma’am’s mama’s name, Gibraltar. It’s in a country called Spain, which I ain’t never heard tell of before. I didn’t know Granma’am’s mama was named after geography. Granma’am ain’t said nothin to me bout Spain. Wonder why Granma’am ain’t never discussed this with me, what with her mother havin that name and all.

  I remember what Granma’am said bout Gibraltar: Gibraltar was my mama like Margarete is yours. Jones was her plantation name. Gibraltar Jones. The people what owned the land was origined from Wales. They talked amongst themselves about Wales and England too. They had things stitched in their linens havin to do with Wales. Every mornin when all us chillen got up, my mama Gibraltar had us to take turns tellin what we had seent in our sleepwalks. This was what we talked amongst ourselves about. Mama said at night is when the secrets show. If we didn’t wake up wid our night dreams clear, Mama had us to talk about what we remembered from what had happent durin the day before. I never did learn how to make my mind make good records like my mama intended us to. My mama’s mind was like a broad high stone. She had it full wid pictures a all she had seen and heard tell of, etched in and kept turnt from the masters. All a coloreds would come ask Gibraltar somethin they got confused about, or check wid Gibraltar when some’m seem to be gettin falsified in time. Other coloreds come to ask her what she thought might happen, too. When I was near grown, bout twelve or thirteen, my mama said that somethin was bout to bust inside her and she thought h’it would take her on Home. She callt each one a us to her side at the washin pail; she ask me if I had learnt how to watch and remember, how to witness. I told her that I had. She made me promise to look after my brother. He was a year older than me, and he refused to hear talk a Mama goin, po’ thing. I promised Mama I would take care a him, and I did. I don’t know the timin, after she told me she thought she was goin, and when she actually went. But she did go on. She never looked sick or peaked, and she kept up insistin that we should watch and study our own inside. She beat our clothes clean to the very end. She cooked cornbread and hog maws till the very end. She gave us her mornin instruction till the end. Was many a grievin nigra once Gibraltar went on.

  Folks didn’t understand my calm, thought I was stopped up. The women took me and gave me a hard river bath tryina git me to loose my sadness. Finally, I told them that my mama had warned me. They made me tell them all that she had said, and then after I did that, then they let me be.

  We was two motherless children. I took care a my brother like I had promised, and the other womens took care a me.

  I asked Granma’am about her brother. “Oh, he done passed on now too, long ago.”

  “What was his name, Granma’am?”

  “Joe. Joe and Martha Jones was us, children of Gibraltar.”

  A LOT A these names a places is really nice. Florida, Indiana, Montana, Missouri. There a place way up in Canada called Alberta. What a nice name, Alberta, sound like down home. For a minute, I wished my name was Alberta. Like a woman’s name, and a man’s name, and a place in a foreign country at the same time. But then Canada started to rise for me, like steam from the cleanin pail. Spain too. Canada is big and wide and north, and I ain’t never heard nothin bout it, not until my geography book. And Spain is the country surroundin my great Granma’am’s name. That made it even sweeter. So then I start to wish my name was Canada. And then Spain. Canada Deneese. Or just plain Spain. Seem strong to be named after land.

  ONE DAY WE was coming down the boulevard and I was thinking about the cold. So to distract myself I went back to my last night’s dream, where Margarete’s stomach blazed like a lion’s hair. That’s when I thought to ask Josephus about Margarete’s belly, which had been worrying me.

  “You know about the stomach shape when you pregnant, J?”

  “What you talkin bout, Denise?”

  Maybe I could shake something up in him, maybe he knew and didn’t know he knew. Josephus usually knew the common-sense practical things. But usually he knew he knew, too.

  “My mother Margarete’s havin a baby, you know.” I sighed and explained. “And I cain’t remember which shape a the stomach means girl or boy.”

  “Oh,” Josephus says.

  “It’s if it’s high it’s one thing, boy or girl, and if it’s low, it’s the other.”

  He laughs and says, “Yeah.”

  He knows what I’m talking about. “Did you forget too?” I ask him.

  “Never paid much attention, didn’t know in the first place. Mostly ladies’ things to know, Deneesey. You better hope the baby’s strong, and not be worried about what kind it is.”

  I want to go back to the subject to try to encourage him to get behind his “ladies’” and “not ladies’” things to know. But then I decide to forget about it. Either it will come back to me, or it is just part of the country I have had to leave behind. I expect and hope it will come back to me. My memory does come back sometimes, bold and unannounced, intact.

  My forgetting the stomach part was curious and huge. How was it that something I knew, really knew, had simply left my mind? (I had forgot that gravy can only be made with hot, hot water, but this was more basic than gravy.) I tried to call my knowledge in, to rake it up, to sweep it to the middle of the road. Nothing worked. All the time I stared into my dark mind, searching for this memory I couldn’t find, I had the sense that somewhere in my head it looked at me dead on, legs crossed, and the top one swinging.

  As quietly as it kept its distance, it reappeared l
ater on. All at once, there she was, alert, invigorated, and not apologetic. From this my first remembered struggle to recall a forgotten thing, I learned how memory does its circle dance—steadily, deviously, protectively—in the head.

  ONE A MY early days in her classroom, Missus Pearson said we will now have a lesson on grammar. We gone talk about nouns, pronouns, and adjectives in this lesson. She said out loud: They called the young man a cad. She say cad is a noun because people called the man that name. She want us to give her a different noun. She writes on the board: They called the young man a _________. The chalk sails over the black slate making lovely curving letters; not screeching or scraping like noise us kids make who don’t know how to write with chalk. “All right, class, what might people call him?” Karen calls out a knucklehead. Missus Pearson smiles and says, “Another example.” Dana calls out a hard worker. And Missus Pearson says good, and writes the two words, hard worker, neat across the blank.

  I have never heard of that word cad before, and so I stop at her desk at the end of school and say, “Missus Pearson, what do cad mean?”

  “You mean, what does cad mean?”

  “Yes,” I say, “what does cad mean?”

  “Look it up,” she says.

  “OK,” I say, opening up my book again. “How you spell it?” I didn’t write it down before.

  “How do you spell it?”

  “Oh,” I say, “how do you spell it?” Now I’m concentrating on remembering what we talking about. Then she said, “Look it up.” She handed me a old school dictionary. She said I could have it for my own. I was very excited. There wasn’t much wrong with it, only the back cover was missing, and page 144 was half torn out.

  She had me use the dictionary to learn to spell. To sound out words so I could find them, and then to seek their meanings. I realize from trying to look up words that I don’t know how to spell most of what I say out loud. When I finally get it found in the dictionary, I usually am right about what I mean. This confuses me some, that I don’t know how to spell what I know how to say. Another plain thing; not forgotten, but never learned.