Alligator and Other Stories

by Dima Alzayat

  BARMAN:

  That right?

  COX:

  Sure is. It wasn’t called Lake City until 1859. Before that it was called Alligator.

  BARMAN:

  (Glances at the alligator head behind him.)

  COX:

  It was changed on account of the new mayor’s wife refusing to hang her lace curtains in a place called Alligator.

  BARMAN:

  (Shaking head.) You don’t say.

  COX:

  (Laughing hard, loud.) I always get a laugh outta that. We changed the name all right, and she hung her pretty lace curtains, but that didn’t mean the gators went away, now did it?

  BARMAN:

  (Laughing.) No, I suppose it didn’t.

  Interviewee: Betty May Jumper

  Interviewer: R. Howard

  Date: June 28, 1999

  H: What kinds of things did he tell you about the Seminole wars?

  J: He just said that they were killed by many children. They had to run and hide to keep from being killed. Then, the braves, led by Osceola fought against them and they keep chasing them down until we got to down here, at the end of the Florida state. And we went out in the glades and that is why the soldiers can’t get _______ – because they are scared of the snakes and the alligators and stuff. And that is why the Seminole survived. Maybe only two hundred and fifty or somewhere – survived in the Florida. That what he told me.

  H: I have read some of your articles where you talk about having been a half-breed; where your Father was white and your Mother was Indian and how that put you in some danger.

  J: They didn’t allow the half-breeds to mix with the full-blood Seminoles in Florida, and so a lot of them have been killed – half-breeds.

  H: Can you tell me about your education? Like what kind of schools you attended?

  J: I wanted to go to school but they wouldn’t allow me because I wasn’t white and I wasn’t colored. So, both groups won’t take me. The colored lady who worked on a farm with my Mother told her that I could go with her daughter and she would watch me and I could go to school that way. So, my Mother said ‘Alright.’ But the principal was a colored man and he said, ‘She is not colored. She can’t go here. She is not black.’

  CARINE (1991)

  Once we moved to Alabama it seemed like we became different. Different people. We started going to a regular church. The service was in English only. Uncle Joseph and Aunt Mariam stopped speaking Arabic. Not completely, just to us. They spoke it to each other when they thought we weren’t listening. I don’t know if it makes me sad that I forgot it altogether. What difference would it have made? We still looked different enough so there was that. I’d go a year or two not thinking about it and some girl or other at school would ask me why I had hair on my arms, why I got dark in the sun. Was I sure I didn’t come from colored folks? I spent years bleaching the hair on my arms, my face. Now I’m older, hardly any of it grows back anyway.

  When Nick proposed of course I said yes. I wanted life to move on, to will away these thoughts now coming back each night. When my first son was born Uncle Joseph and Aunt Mariam said he looked like a real American, and he did, blond hair like his daddy, skin like cream and rosy cheeks like one of those babies in the magazine ads. For a time after, things did get better. I was busy with Nick and there were more children and I didn’t have any time to sit and think, and it was just fine that way.

  THE

  SYRIAN WORLD

  VOL. II. No. 8. FEBRUARY, 1928

  Syrian Naturalization Question in the United States

  CERTAIN LEGAL ASPECTS OF OUR NATURALIZATION LAWS

  A vital question which confronted the Syrians in the United States has in all likelihood been finally determined. Considerable discussion had arisen respecting the provisions of our Naturalization Act and its applicability to Syrians, more especially, Section 2169, Revised Statutes, United States Code, Title 8, Section 3599, which declared and still declares that the provisions of the Naturalization Act “shall apply to aliens being free white persons, and to aliens of African nativity, and to persons of African descent”.

  All others are excluded from the privilege of naturalization and thereby citizenship.

  So far as Syrians are concerned, it has been judicially determined that they fall within one of the classes to whom is accorded the privilege of citizenship.

  A résumé as brief as possible will be made of the several cases which discuss the question and of the decisions which settled it once and for all.

  STEVEN ‘BUBBA’ MORELLI (2003)

  Damn it, Bubba. You know better. No bad shots. Blood on the tree there. No. It’s not. On the ground. Yes. And there. Not enough. Not a lung or heart. Damn it. Another drop there. Okay.

  There he goes, the white of him.

  No, not him.

  Too white, too light.

  ‘Hello?’

  What the hell was that. There it goes again.

  Scaring your damn self. Damn hand. Shakes and you feel scared is all. How long before it’s tremors. Years maybe. Then what. You’ll stop moving altogether. Goddamnit, don’t think about that now. Focus.

  That white? No.

  ‘Hello?’

  Someone else. Tracking my buck. Looks like. I’ll show him. There. Two of them.

  ‘Hey, hello!’

  No. Too quick. Don’t look like people at all.

  Oh God.

  Romance of Everglades.

  The matter of the reclamation of the Florida Everglades recently has been the subject of discussion in congress. Moreover, there has been something savoring of sharp trouble for the agricultural department in the affair.

  Not all the darkness and the romance of the Everglades passed with the ending of the long wars with the Seminoles, who made that region their stronghold. Semi-wild men live in the recesses of the glades today, and tragedies still frequently mark the land. Game in abundance still finds a place from the hunter in the jungles, and at least two species of birds, the Carolina paroquet and the great ivory-billed woodpecker, extinct in all other parts of the United States, have managed there to keep their race from extermination.

  Defiance of Osceola.

  The older tragedies of the Everglades, dark as they were, hold the most interest. It was on the edge of the jungle country that Osceola, the Seminole, when asked to sign a treaty with the whites by which the land was to be given up, drew his knife, struck its blade through the document of transfer, and said: “There is my signature.”

  It has been said that it takes only one drop of red blood to make an American Indian. The Everglades once furnished proof of the saying.

  JOSEPH (1964)

  I wish they’d let me sleep. God protect me. They come like they did that first time years ago, charcoal-black skin around the holes on her chest and him riddled to shreds like one of them paper targets on a range. Oh Mariam, take pity on me.

  Don’t talk about it. Don’t trust no one who wants to know, I said to the children, and Mariam said, No, Joseph, but I didn’t listen. I made her understand. She was frightened for the boy too. You heard stories then about mobs crossing state lines to get to the families after, to keep everyone quiet. I worried for him, and the girls, of someone in Birmingham hearing about it. George’d already been in trouble once, in Valdosta. Had only a fruit stand then, nothing that could earn him enough to feed a wife, four kids, but he worked out a way to do alright. But it weren’t long before he was brought up for gambling, running punchboards and the like. He felt the hand of the law on him then but he still wasn’t scared. He should’ve been. He was an American, he said, had been for more than ten years. He was proud of it, said it was bound to matter if things got sticky. I agreed. It was Klansmen who saw different.

  MESSAGE TO CONGRESS – PRESIDENT ANDREW JACKSON

  It gives me pleasure to announce to Congress that the benevolent policy of the Government, steadily pursued for nearly thirty years, in relation to the removal of the Indians beyond the white
settlements is approaching to a happy consummation.

  . . .

  The consequences of a speedy removal will be important to the United States, to individual States, and to the Indians themselves.

  . . .

  It will separate the Indians from immediate contact with settlements of whites; free them from the power of the States; enable them to pursue happiness in their own way and under their own rude institutions; will retard the progress of decay, which is lessening their numbers, and perhaps cause them gradually, under the protection of the Government and through the influence of good counsels, to cast off their savage habits and become an interesting, civilized, and Christian community.

  . . .

  What good man would prefer a country covered with forests and ranged by a few thousand savages to our extensive Republic, studded with cities, towns, and prosperous farms embellished with all the improvements which art can devise or industry execute, occupied by more than 12,000,000 happy people, and filled with all the blessings of liberty, civilization and religion?

  December 6, 1830

  WITNESS 2 – NAME WITHHELD (1939)

  I won’t pretend I thought about that dead man and his wife much over the years. I suppose if anything I thought of my own father and felt bad for that man’s children, that like me they’d grow up without one.

  He died when I was five, before I learned what it meant to be a man like him, black and broad and tall. He had to bend to get through the doorway of our house. His chest was wide, the length of my arm, his voice like a valley. People moved out of his way when they saw him coming. Even whites. I liked that. It made me feel safe. He was tall and strong and I felt like nothing could harm him or us because of it. All day he worked and came home smelling like oranges or grapefruit or whatever it was he’d been picking. My mother would massage his shoulders and he’d make her laugh and the both of them would fall asleep before us they were that tired.

  It took ten men to carry his coffin and she walked beside it and didn’t cry, even when they lowered him into ground still wet from morning rain her face stayed dry. I thought she was strong or cold but I know better now. I’d been the only one home with her when she’d been told. As soon as I heard the words I started crying. My panic got worse when I saw her face. I couldn’t bear it. She looked both wretched and relieved, like she’d at last lost something she knew she’d never be allowed to keep.

  I’m sorry

  1 message

  Tue, May 8, 2002 at 11:17 AM

  Diane Morelli

  To: Steven Morelli

  Steven– the kids told me about Aunt Carine passing and I want you to know how sorry I was to hear. I know she became more difficult in her later years but I still remember her the way she was all that time ago. She was a tough woman but kind and I know she loved you and Marcus very much. She was the closest I had to a mother-in-law and she was always good to me.

  I remember when I was pregnant with Lucas she told me something that stayed with me always. She was in one of her anxious moods. Your mother had recently passed and Carine said she was glad for her. I thought she meant she was glad to see Adele at peace after so many years of treatment. Then she told me that at the funeral she had seen her whole family there, parents, siblings, all the ones who had passed, waiting for your mother. I was surprised but not too much, you know my mother said these same kinds of things to me at that age. I asked Carine how that made her feel and she said she was glad for Adele and left it at that but I got the sense that maybe she was sad for herself to be the last one of her siblings left. She cheered up soon enough but I thought you might want to know. In my heart I think she’s with them now and that she was ready.

  –Diane

  STEVEN ‘BUBBA’ MORELLI (2003)

  ‘You sure gave me a fright. I thought I was seeing ghosts.’ My laugh’s strange. Did they sense it. No. Not him, her maybe. Wide faces, brown. Crouching low, that deer between them. Pretty big. A lot of blood running, even for its size. Must’ve pierced the heart. Didn’t hear the shot. Did I. ‘Want a picture?’

  ‘No.’

  Why’s she looking at me like that? Big buck. Hard to heave him out of all that foliage. Even with her. ‘If ya’ll want some help, I’m tracking one that’ll take another while yet.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’

  More polite than her. Did she grunt? Won’t look at me. Don’t have to help you at all. ‘I’ve got a good knife.’ Watching me. The shot, surely was. Must have heard. Where did I? There. Don’t like her eyes. Funny. Watching me, my hand. Damn shaking.

  ‘I got one. You hold the other legs. I’ll cut.’

  Stubborn as her. ‘I’ve field dressed about a dozen this big. It can get messy.’

  ‘We got it.’

  What’s her problem? Ungrateful. Should walk away. Let them figure it out. A big buck. But didn’t look this heavy. Two hundred pounds, maybe more. Hit right in the heart. Ask. ‘What’d you get him with?’ What’s he nodding toward. Sidelock? No. Hammer rifle. Would’ve heard it. Must’ve. Wound smaller, cleaner than that. ‘You better move quick before he bleeds out.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  That look again. Some woman. From the bottom up, deeper this time. She knows what she’s doing. Strange. Steady, the blood. Not touching the meat though. She knows. Strong too. Her blade’s sharp against it. In one go all of it in a thud against the ground. Strong like a man. A hammer rifle. Wrong size. Big buck. Mine must’ve been two hundred pounds, more. ‘I’ve been here all morning. Funny I didn’t hear or see you at all.’

  ‘We set up last night.’

  He’s alright. Why’s she smiling? What’s to smile about?

  BILLY BOWLEGS — his Indian name is HALPATTER-MICCO — is a rather good-looking Indian of about fifty years. He has a fine forehead; a keen, black eye; Is somewhat above the medium height, and weighs about 160 pounds. His name of “Bowlegs” is a family appellation, and does not imply any parenthetical curvature of his lower limbs. When he is sober, which, I am sorry to say, is by no means his normal state, his legs are as straight as yours or mine. He has two wives, one son, five daughters, fifty slaves, and a hundred thousand dollars in hard cash. He wears his native costume; the two medals upon his breast, of which he is not a little proud, wear the likenesses of Presidents Van Buren and Fillmore.

  Billy’s young wife, who has no name, as far as I could learn, is a quiet, modest squaw, though her features bear a striking resemblance to those of her rakish brother, Long Jack. I was very desirous to add to my collection the portraits of Billy’s “old wife” and her daughters, especially that of the elder, the “Lady Elizabeth Bowlegs,” a good-looking lass of eighteen. But they “kept themselves to themselves,” and very stoutly refused to have any thing to do with me or any body else.

  Ben Bruno, the interpreter, adviser, confidant, and special favorite of King Billy, is a fine, intelligent-looking negro. Unlike his master, he shows a decided predilection for civilized life, and an early visit to a ready-made clothing establishment speedily transformed him into a very creditable imitation of a “white man’s nigger.” He has more brains than Billy and all his tribe, and exercises almost un-bounded influence over his master. The negro slaves are, in fact, the masters of their red owners, who seem fully conscious of their own mental inferiority. If a Seminole wishes to convey a high idea of his own cunning, he will say, “Ah, you no cheat me. I got real nigger wit.” The negroes were the master spirits, as well as the immediate occasion, of the Florida war. They openly refused to follow their masters if they removed to Arkansas; and it was not till they capitulated that the Seminoles thought of emigrating.

  CRIMINAL DISTRICT COURT

  COLUMBIA COUNTY

  STATE OF FLORIDA

  – DIRECT EXAMINATION –

  21 BY MR. O’MALLEY

  22 Q. Please state your name for the Record.

  23 A. Chief John F. Baker.

  24 Q. Chief Baker, could you please t
ell the Court what transpired on the afternoon of May 15, 1929?

  25 A. Lt. Cox and I went out to Romey’s grocery in response to a complaint about them leaving trash out on the sidewalk. Again, I should add.

  26 Q. So this was not the first time?

  27 A. No, they done it on several occasions. Left produce, trash out on the sidewalk.

  28 Q. Was it trash or produce out on the sidewalk?

  29 A. I don’t give a tinker’s damn where they put their trash or their produce. But I work for the people of this town and it’s my job to look into complaints. Romey had on more than one occasion left his goods and Lord knows what on the sidewalk, like it was their own personal property to do with as they please.

  30 Q. And what transpired when you and Lt. Cox arrived at the store?

  31 A. We asked to speak to Romey or his son, and his wife was quick to tell me neither of them were there and what’s more she wasn’t going to listen to a thing we had to say.

  32 Q. And how did you and Lt. Cox react to this outburst?

  33 A. Well, we didn’t have a chance to do much before she threatened me personally, said she’d have me killed before Sunday.

  34 Q. And what happened next?

  35 A. I’d dealt with her before and I knew she weren’t a lady at all, more of a mule, working how she did, lifting crates and breaking them down herself. It weren’t natural. But I said then and I’ll say again it weren’t my concern. I told her to move her produce off the sidewalk and she began threatening me and gave me no choice but to take her in.

  36 Q. Did you or Lt. Cox arrest her?

  37 A. I did but she caused a ruckus and had people coming out their shops to see what all her screaming was for so I let her go. I realized then her mind wasn’t right to be screaming at the law like she was and I couldn’t bother with her no more that day.