The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois

by Honoree Fanonne Jeffers

  My grandmother gasped, and my mother asked, didn’t Lydia have any shame, talking about her inside business? People were eating. Children were in the room.

  “I’m not a kid anymore,” I said.

  Beside me, Mama swiveled. She pointed her finger at me, close to my face. “Ailey Pearl Garfield, is anybody talking to you? You need to learn to be quiet when grown folks are speaking. Or you gone learn to deal with my teaching you, and you don’t want that.”

  Mama turned back to my sister. Across the table, Lydia had put her arm around Dante.

  “How could you do this? Have you lost your mind? You just turned twenty-one two weeks ago!”

  Lydia didn’t seem upset. She smiled, as if my mother wasn’t shouting. “You were around that age when you and Daddy got married. And then you had me. Y’all did all right.”

  “Girl, you think I wanted that? I was supposed to be going to graduate school, but I got pregnant! That’s why I got married, Lydia! That’s why I had a damned baby at twenty-three years old!”

  Mama put her hand to her mouth. Except for my mother and sister talking, everyone else had been quiet, but now I couldn’t even hear breathing. Then Mama rose, picked up a serving bowl, and walked back to the kitchen.

  At the head of the table, my father pushed back his chair. He held out his hand to my sister’s husband, and Dante stood. They shook hands, but when Dante tried to let go, my father held on. He cleared his throat a few times.

  “Brother, you better take care of my baby. I’m not playing with you.”

  “I will, Dr. Garfield. I promise. I won’t let you down, sir.”

  My father and Dante stood there, and then my father pulled at him again, and they embraced. Daddy pounded the younger man on the back. When they parted, my father’s face was wet. The younger man sat down, and my sister kissed his cheek. She rubbed her lipstick off his skin.

  But still, nobody else said anything. We just sat there, I don’t know how long, until Nana announced it was time for my father to call her a taxi, but he said no, he’d drive her. It was a holiday, after all. After that, Aunt Diane began collecting plates. My sisters and I tried to help her, but she told us that was all right. She had it. When Aunt Diane’s arms were full, she went into the kitchen, but she didn’t return, either.

  The next morning, the newlyweds were gone, and Coco packed for New Haven. She asked my father to take her to the bus station. The dorms were closed, but she was going to stay with a friend.

  Within days, my mother called the new number Lydia had written down for her, along with her new address. But there was a message whenever Mama called: she had reached a number that was no longer in service or had been disconnected. My mother called Uncle Root, telling him she needed him to go to Atlanta and see about her daughter. She gave the old man the address, but when he drove to the neighborhood, there was only an empty lot. Then he called someone he knew in Spelman College’s admissions office, but he was given the news that they had no record for my sister’s transfer.

  Song

  The Village Becomes a Farm

  Twenty years had passed, and a new century had begun. Since Nila had given Micco his first cow, much had changed in the village and in the people’s land near the Oconee River. More white men along with their wives and children had pushed further west, bringing their ways of collecting days on paper, instead of recording moons. There were many small battles between the Creek people and these whites, for they had brought cattle and pigs with them, which trampled the land, and they killed too many deer.

  Bushy Hair had inherited the tendencies of Coromantee-Panther and, though he had stiffened in age, when young men from the village began to fight the white men—the children and grandchildren of Englishmen and Scotsmen—Bushy Hair was filled with red courage and rode into battle. He died in one of these fights and his name was sung with grief and gratitude.

  Yet battle was different when it occurred on paper and in assaults on the mind. The white men—the Americans—wanted everything and did not respect the ways of the people. Even those who represented themselves as friends encouraged domestication among Creek men, that they should farm the land, instead of letting women do it. The most annoying were the Christian missionaries who intruded at odd times to advocate baptism and the romantic practice of the man on top instead of on the bottom or from behind. They insisted that anyone civilized knew the latter two were unholy and, moreover, encouraged the rheumatism.

  After his uncle died, Micco felt more confusion, especially when the elders of The-Place-in-the-Middle-of-the-Tall-Trees decided to combine their village with another. Nila begged her son to move with her, but his desire for property, a hankering he had inherited from his father, became stronger. He wanted to make his own way and it pleased him that after the villagers left, he could walk the land and know that he owned it all. As he had in his childhood, he whispered to himself, “Mine! Mine!” This was land Micco could give to his children after his death. A legacy, for he had married as a young man.

  Micco and his wife, Mahala, had twin sons and a third son. Each had American names, as Mahala had insisted. Then, when Micco thought that Mahala had gone through the change, for she had stopped her intervals in the moon house—the only Creek way she followed—Mahala had become pregnant and gave birth to a little girl. Her mother named her Eliza, but her father would call her “Lady.”

  Mahala was a mestizo, the daughter and granddaughter of mixed-blood children of white men who had mated with Creeks. Mahala’s skin was very pale, her hair light brown, and her eyes blue instead of brown. She had met Micco at the trading post near her family’s home by the Oconee River. Mahala’s father had impressed upon her his own ways—that women should obey their husbands—and after Micco and Mahala married in a tiny Christian church near the trading post, she had moved her belongings to his village and his house, instead of Micco following his wife, as a proper Creek man did. In fact, Mahala did not even speak the language of the people. Her parents had forbidden it in their home, and when Micco spoke to their children in his dialect—for he had taught them—and they responded in kind, Mahala grew petulant. She accused her husband and children of making fun of her, an insecurity made more potent when they laughed at her in reply.

  Mahala was ambitious for her husband, and at their biannual journeys to the trading post, she urged him to buy another cow, as well as a couple of pigs. These trips allowed her not only to visit with her parents, but to covet the lifestyles of the whites. In addition to livestock, Mahala began to bother Micco to purchase slaves, whom traders brought to the post. Initially, Micco was resistant: though his wife was unaware of his Negro blood, he was sensitive about the idea. He had seen slaves before, naturally, though they had been Creek. The village had kept people in bondage, because of a revenge trade in the aftermath of a murder, or when captives were taken in war. Yet buying a person who had not committed any wrong, or whose clan or village had not transgressed, did not sit well with Micco. Still, his wife pushed him, and one summer, when a slave trader found his way up the path to Micco’s farm, he paused to speak to the man.

  The trader rode a horse and carried a long gun. He was accompanied by a stoic-looking mulatto boy. The boy held on to a chain that was connected to four shackled Negroes: three men, and a woman who was young with large eyes and a mane of thick, kinky hair. Micco knew he did not want to purchase this woman. She stirred a man’s desire in him, and she would be a temptation. Yet a slave could not say yes to him in the dark, and rape was not in Micco’s nature. He almost sent the trader away until Mahala came to the opening of their hut and berated him, saying that she needed a slave. Hadn’t he promised her one long ago, along with a cabin like her father’s? Micco ended up buying the oldest slave in the bunch for a pittance, only fifty dollars. Though the man walked upright and, when his mouth was forced open, every one of his shining, white teeth was in place, the trader told him he had to be honest. This slave had been taken from Africa thirty years before, and thus, was
well past his prime, but the trader assured Micco that he was getting a good bargain. The trader had put the slave through his paces on the coffle journey, and he was a hard worker who could labor for many hours at a time. The slave’s name was Pop George, and he was patient with Mahala as she sent him on many errands and spoke to him in a sharp, superior voice.

  It was a simple life for Micco’s family. Time passed without incident, with the wife cultivating vegetables and fruit, and the husband hunting in the woods with his sons. When they left the territory of what had once been the village—which Micco now called a “farm”—there would be rare occurrences in which they encountered white men, but these white men were never hostile. Perhaps they didn’t even know they were seeing Indians, for Micco and his family no longer dressed in the old ways, and when he and his sons gave greetings, the white men waved back. Then there was a sad time for Micco, when his sons came of age and decided to leave the farm and find their Creek relatives, but he understood. The three of them needed wives, and they wanted to find their mates among the women of their people.

  Without his sons, Micco began to fish more. Gradually, the fish had come back to the creek now that the villagers had gone, and Micco liked to let his thoughts overtake him as he placed his hands into the water to grab the fishes’ mouths. Fishing was patient work, and he had memories of Bushy Hair, how his uncle had been so kind to him. There were moments when Micco shed tears of nostalgia over his uncle, but these were happy memories. Yet when his thoughts turned to Dylan Cornell, he pushed that ugliness aside. It was too painful: the moment when Micco had grabbed the chin of his father and pressed a knife against the throat until blood gurgled.

  Whenever patricide particularly tormented him, a small man would appear to him at the creek. He said his name was Joe, and he was the height of a child. He had the dark-dark skin and the tightly kinked hair of a full-blood Negro, and he informed Micco that he had known his grandfather, Coromantee-Panther, many years before. That it had been Joe who had guided his grandfather past the mound into the village proper. Though the small man seemed young, Micco did not challenge his word, for Nila had told him the story of Coromantee-Panther’s appearance. Her own mother had told her the same and that “one of the little” was not to be challenged. Yet Joe was friendly and gave Micco ease. At the creek, he would settle upon the bank.

  The Arrival of the White Man with Strange Eyes

  Owning so much land made Micco largely content, and Mahala was happy, too, once he finally built her a cabin that looked like her father’s, instead of a Creek-style hut. Micco had been lonely. He was glad that Joe had decided to make his acquaintance. A few months later, Micco made another friend as well when a young white man appeared on the farm. He didn’t appear to be looking for any trouble. He only rode up to the cabin, got off his horse, and tied the reins to the post.

  The stranger was young enough to be Micco’s son, and he looked somewhat like Micco’s father: he was blond, and his hair shone in the sun. His eyes were strange-colored, changing every moment. Now blue, now green, with hints of orange and gray, too. His sympathetic manner seemed a benediction to Micco.

  In the times to come, some would say Lady answered the door, that this white stranger had a conversation with her and fell in love. And that he immediately asked Micco for her hand in marriage. This story about Lady is untrue, however, for she was a toddler when the white man arrived. Yet she’d answered the door, of a manner, since Mahala had been carrying her in her arms.

  The Negro named Pop George would say that the moment he stopped praying for making do and started praying for mercy occurred not when the white man entered the cabin for the first time, but when the white man took his first bite of peach. It was summer and he was offered dinner, a savory stew of cured venison, garlic, onions, and turnip roots. For dessert, there were large peaches, grown on the farm. Despite its juiciness, the stone was firmly tucked inside, so the white man used his tongue to slowly coax it from the flesh. He made an injudicious sound.

  These are the incongruities of memory. It is hard to hold on to the entirety of something, but pieces may be held up to light.

  Micco’s young visitor was named Samuel Pinchard, and the two men became fast friends. Micco offered the old-style Creek hospitality to the young man and let him sleep inside the cabin on one of his sons’ vacant beds. In the dark early mornings, Mahala made corn porridge for both men and poured rich milk into Samuel’s coffee cup, adding spoonfuls of sugar. When Samuel complimented the sweetness of the milk, she was pleased. She was the only one of her family who drank milk from cows. Her husband and daughter—and her sons before they left—could not tolerate it. After breakfast, Micco and Samuel went to work, milking the cows and turning them out to feed. They slopped the pigs that Mahala had insisted Micco purchase. Then they turned to chopping at trees. Micco had told his friend he should stay awhile; he would help Samuel build his own cabin on the farm, along with the assistance of Pop George. The second cabin was built, and once Samuel moved in, he helped Micco and Pop George cultivate more acres. Micco was open to advice and agreed that it was a good idea to plant cotton. During this time, the terrible dreams that he had been having about the murder of his father ended: he took that as a good sign.

  The Suggestion of a Comrade

  When happiness is upon us time does not slow down. As Micco’s grandfather Coromantee-Panther had done in days past, Samuel Pinchard would make noises about moving on from Micco’s farm. This frightened Micco, as he was afraid of loneliness. Whenever Samuel threatened to leave, Micco would cringe at the prospect of the dreams of his murdered father returning. He would beg Samuel to stay, and the young white man would sigh and say all right, just a bit longer.

  One spring evening in Samuel’s fifth year of living on the farm, Micco confided some fears to Samuel over dinner. On paper, Micco had always passed for white, using the last name of his father, Cornell. Yet as more Americans pushed west, and as the land between the Ogeechee and Oconee rivers—and now, even close to the Okmulgee—was ceded by Creeks who had betrayed the people, Micco was afraid. He had a wife and children and owned slaves like a white man, but Americans didn’t even use the guise of friendship anymore. They had taken to killing Creek people on sight. If his secret was revealed, he was a dead man and his family would be homeless and destitute.

  So Samuel kindly offered a suggestion to Micco: the land should be registered in a white man’s name, and Samuel was willing to be that man. Micco was unsure, but his wife made encouraging movements with her fingers, motioning that Micco should listen to his friend. Then she prepared a second helping of supper for the two men. As Samuel ate Mahala’s food and made hearty sounds, Micco offered a suggestion to his friend. He would sign a piece of paper giving the farm to his friend, if Samuel would agree to marry his daughter in two years. She would be only ten years old, but that was the age of consent for white people to marry in Georgia. However, Micco stipulated that Samuel would have to wait to consummate the marriage until Lady reached the blood of womanhood or the age of sixteen, whichever came first. Samuel readily agreed.

  After dinner, Micco went down to the creek. He didn’t usually fish in the dark, but he knew the water well. When he placed his hands in the water, he could sense that which he could not see. Joe was there, sitting on the bank, and as Micco fished he talked to Joe of his plans to give his only daughter in marriage to Samuel. The man was white, but then again any male who married into a woman’s clan was bound as kin, so it would ensure that his land stayed with their family. It seemed like a good plan to him.

  Joe said no words, but he grunted, which Micco took as agreement. He caught no fish that day.

  The next morning, Samuel climbed upon his horse. He told Micco he was riding to the town called Milledgeville to fill out the paperwork for the farm. He smiled as he told Micco he’d even decided on a name for the establishment. It would now be called “Wood Place.”

  Samuel stayed gone for two weeks, and Micco was very afr
aid. On the day that his friend rode up to the cabin, Micco was filled with happiness. Yet Samuel seemed a changed man. He was no longer obsequious, and his voice seemed deeper. In three more days, the slave trader appeared with his mulatto helper, who was now a young man who tugged a chained coffle of five slaves. Money was exchanged between Samuel and the trader, and Samuel informed Micco that these were the new slaves who would build another cabin where Micco, Mahala, and their little girl would live. This structure would be located on the extreme south side of the farm, and Samuel would continue his outrages: he’d take over the cabin on the north side, the place Micco and his family had built and called their home.

  A Series of Changes

  As another five years passed, Samuel took over more of the running of the farm, especially after a minister married Samuel and ten-year-old Lady. She continued to live with her parents, but Samuel took walks with her, chaperoned by Mahala. Upon his return from these walks, he was even more authoritarian. When Micco tried to offer advice to Samuel about the farm he still considered his own, his new son-in-law took it as an opportunity to remind Micco of the papers that were registered in Samuel’s name with the white men in the town of Milledgeville. And Samuel continued to purchase more slaves.

  Micco was upset, but he’d never been a warrior. He was a farmer, and in the years since Samuel had arrived at Micco’s farm more white men had settled in the area. There was even a white man named Aidan Franklin who had moved his family on top of the mound that rose on the edge of what used to be the village of the people.

  Yet even with his small, daily aggressions, Micco wanted to believe that Samuel and he remained friends. Samuel often smiled with sincerity in their encounters, which confused Micco. Surely such a nice man could not be an enemy. He must be perceiving things incorrectly. And Micco would receive the white man with hospitality in his little cabin, which was now surrounded by slave houses, until the next day, when Samuel would commit another tiny outrage, and then another. Mahala, however, refused to blame him for their reduced circumstances and still treated him kindly. It was her husband toward whom she directed her wrath, during the nights, when their daughter was asleep.