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

by Honoree Fanonne Jeffers

  That was the evening that she tapped Midas on his shoulder to alert him, do not be startled, and then, as he continued talking, Aggie began to drip almond oil from the bottle Lady had given her as a gift. Aggie rubbed the oil into Midas’s scalp, gently separating the clumps of his hair, while he halted talking, attempting to remember his thoughts. Pop George laughed and told him, take his time, lil’ brother, and the next Sunday, Pop George said he was an old man. He needed his rest, so he was gwan lay down. Midas turned to leave, but Aggie called, sit on back down. She pointed to the braided rug that covered the dirt floor. She pulled out a chair and settled behind Midas, until his head was between her knees. She rubbed more oil into his hair. Then, with her nails, she carefully traced patterns and braided his hair like rows of corn.

  Two more Sundays: each of those visits, Pop George said his rheumatism was acting up. He would lie down some more, though he walked to the next room as smoothly as before. On the third Sunday, Aggie was no longer present at the cabin, as it was her woman’s seclusion in the moon house. Yet on the fourth Sunday, Midas did not remark on her absence, and she was glad that he knew that matters of the moon house were not to be discussed with men. Eleven Sundays went by, and on the twelfth, Midas appeared at the cabin with a battered hat on his neatly braided head. He pulled off the hat and asked Aggie to marry him, and Pop George clapped his hands, saying it was about time. He was ready for some grandbabies.

  “Ain’t gwan be none of that,” Aggie said. “I’ont want no chirren.”

  Her frown was deep, though it softened when Midas told her whatever she wanted was fine by him. She and Pop George was all the family he needed. And he shole wanted her to braid his hair and scratch his dander, too. He smiled, offering his hand, and when Aggie took it, Midas lifted her fingers to his lips.

  Bad Dreams in the Night

  Midas was a good listener to Aggie, after he moved into the two-room cabin she shared with Pop George. Even when she did not talk, Midas listened to her body, as they slept on the corn-shuck-filled mattress ticking in the front room. On her sad days, when she thought of her mother and father, Aggie’s feelings would wash over her. She would reach out to Midas to keep from heeding the call of the knife she used to cut vegetables and salt pork, to avoid unsealing the seams of her body. Midas seemed to know when these times came upon her. After they jumped the broom, he tolerated her lack of outward affection. He told her he knew how she felt inside.

  Yet even Midas’s goodness could not keep the truth of the plantation from showing its evil side.

  It is said that someplace on this earth there is a god whose face is made of the sun and the moon, and that this god can see everything during the light and everything during the dark. Humans are not like gods, all-seeing and all-understanding. They do not see what others see. A human has a side that is blind. But the purpose of a god is benevolence. And at times, a divine being will share knowledge with a human, out of mercy or sheer whimsy. The night the Ninki Nanka revealed itself to Aggie was one of these times, when the moon was a mere slice in the sky. When a voice woke her from her sleep.

  It was her mother’s voice, and whenever a well-behaved child hears her mother’s voice, she must answer, so Aggie did.

  “Mama?”

  She did not know whether she was asleep or awake when she rolled from the bed and lifted Midas’s arm. She was barefoot, and she lit the lantern—another gift from Lady—and opened her cabin door. Taking a long stick from the woodpile outside, she began walking, both hands occupied. When she felt lost—for, even though she knew the farm, it was foreign in the dark—the voice that sounded like her mother would keep calling. She walked until she heard the shrill sounds of a child screaming, overridden by the howls of a beast. At first these sounds were faint, but as Aggie walked closer to the creek, they became louder.

  Her mother’s voice urged her on, like a grip on her arm or a push on her back. At the creek there was a horse tied to a tree. The animal was chuffing in distress. And there, on the grassy bank, the monster’s body covered a screaming child. The monster’s scales were gone and only its pale skin was left. Aggie put down her lantern so she could grip the long stick in her hand. She approached the back of the Ninki Nanka and began to hit its body until it wailed in pain. She kicked the monster, and it finally fell off the child, then she told the child, run, run. The child did not run, however, only crouched nearby. Yet the monster heeded Aggie’s words, and as it ran past the lantern, she saw it was only a man: her master, Samuel Pinchard. He ran naked to the horse, put a foot in the stirrup, and climbed onto the saddle.

  Aggie walked to the lantern and picked it up, then went back to the child, who was naked, too. Aggie lifted the lantern, and as the light cast its godly benediction, she saw the child was Mamie.

  “Come here, lil’ sister,” Aggie called. “I ain’t gwan hurt you. Come here, baby.”

  Mamie crawled to her and grabbed on, whimpering. Aggie took off her shawl and wrapped the child in it and they sat together on the grass. They stayed at the creek until the rooster in the barn far away made its urging crow. For several days that followed, she gave her responsibility for the Quarters-children to Pop George, in order to care for Mamie. No one saw Samuel during those days, though Pop George asked everyone about him. And Aggie pondered the stories of her mother, about the creatures that her African grandmother had told Kiné of, in a courtyard, long ago. Were there truly supernatural monsters stalking the water? Or were these monsters only white men who walked on two legs, abominations but not strangers? Only dangerous because they were familiar—in one’s home, in one’s temple, on the dirt of natal land?

  IV

  The Negro race, like all races, is going to be saved by its exceptional men. The problem of education, then, among Negroes must first of all deal with the Talented Tenth; it is the problem of developing the Best of this race that they may guide the Mass away from the contamination and death of the Worst, in their own and other races. Now the training of men is a difficult and intricate task. Its technique is a matter for educational experts, but its object is for the vision of seers.

  —W. E. B. Du Bois, “The Talented Tenth”

  You misjudge us because you do not know us.

  —W. E. B. Du Bois, “The Talented Tenth”

  Brother-Man Magic

  After I returned to the City, the old man would call me every Sunday. He tried to keep his peace, but when winter came, he began throwing hints about David, that he had asked about me. Maybe I wanted to give the young man a call.

  I was too embarrassed to confess that David had mailed me letters and cards for two months that fall, asking me for a second chance. And I’d been planning to forgive him—after making him suffer a sufficient amount of time—until I received David’s very last letter in October. In it he confessed, he knew his cause was pointless. He still loved me, but he’d started dating another girl. Her name was Carla Jackson, she was real nice, and David hoped he and I would always be friends.

  And so I reconciled with Chris Tate instead, who’d been looking pitiful in the hallways at school. He’d call my house, pretending to ask for homework, and when my mother hung up on her end, he’d beg me to get back together. He hadn’t been seeing anybody else. He promised. In November, we returned to our regular spot behind the lower school.

  Chris was a good kisser, but his other idea of romance was to grab my breast with one hand and pump it, as if seeking pasteurized, whole milk. He’d pull my hand and place on the front of his jeans.

  “Touch it, Ailey.”

  “No. You don’t deserve it.”

  “Please. I’ll take you to the movies.”

  I nudged him away. “That’s not the logical order of things. First you make me your girlfriend. Then you take me to the movies. Then I jerk you off.”

  “I thought you were my girlfriend. I asked you two weeks ago, and you said yes.”

  “But it doesn’t count if no one else knows. And what about my mama? You know she’s cr
azy.”

  He put my hand back to his fly, telling me, let him take care of that. If there was anything he knew how to do, it was how to handle a mother.

  That evening, my mother knocked on my door. “Ailey, I just had a strange conversation. It was that boy that calls for homework all the time. Chris Tate?”

  My chest clutched, but I kept my voice casual. “He called you for homework?”

  “No, baby, of course not. But I think that boy has a crush on you.”

  “What? No. Uh-uh.”

  “Something’s going on when he takes twenty minutes of his telling me how pretty and nice you are, but that you won’t pay him any attention.”

  “No, I won’t, because he’s gross! And, like, super slow.”

  “Don’t be mean, baby. Boys sometimes lag way behind, but they catch up. That’s a natural fact.”

  She sat down on the bed. “Ailey, please don’t be mad, but I invited him over for dinner on Sunday.”

  “Oh my God! Oh Jesus.” I hoped my acting skills were holding up.

  “Give the boy a chance. He can’t be that homely, and you’re old enough to keep company. Date. Go out. Whatever you young folks call it. And it’s not like you’ve got that many options at school with nothing but white boys. Though you know I’m not prejudiced.”

  “Sure you’re not, Mama.”

  On Sunday, Chris showed with a bouquet of red Gerbera daisies for my mother. He wore khakis, a white dress shirt, a blue blazer, and a red tie. He was polite, shaking my father’s hand, and he listened to the stories of my aunt and mother. Chris’s table manners were flawless; I saw Nana watch him with grudging approval as he took small bites and used his cutlery properly. He’d even rested his fork on his plate at meal’s end.

  I sat at the other end of the table and produced my most obnoxious behavior. I rolled my eyes and sighed loudly at intervals. When I went in the kitchen to help my mother with dessert, she told me, stop being so rude. Chris was good-looking and his father was a doctor. I could do worse. And see how he’d thanked her for the wonderful meal?

  “I’ve got a feeling if you gave him a chance, you might actually like him.”

  “As if,” I said.

  When it was time for Chris to leave, my mother produced a sweet potato pie, wrapped in aluminum foil. She told him it was for his mother, and she invited him back the next Sunday, discreetly pinching my back when I protested. The next time he called for “homework,” she knocked on the door, grinning.

  “It’s your man.”

  “Ew, Mama. Please.”

  There were more Sunday dinners, where I made a show of warming to Chris, as my mother watched beaming. I followed her into the kitchen, carrying dirty dishes, and she urged me, go sit on the couch with the boy. Talk to him. He sure was good-looking, wasn’t he?

  During Christmas vacation, she suggested that Chris take me to a Saturday matinee. Wouldn’t that be nice? After she called Mrs. Tate, of course. And examined Chris’s insurance papers and driver’s license, and the mechanic’s report for his used BMW. My father was at the hospital working, but he would want to know she’d checked everything thoroughly. Chris told her he would go out to the car and get the paperwork. When he shut the front door, Mama told me, don’t tell her she didn’t have good taste in men.

  When Chris collected me that Saturday, I told him we really had to watch the movie. My mother would be expecting a detailed description of the plot. But I’d brought an old jacket with me, and I draped it over his lap during the show and slipped my hands inside his pants.

  By spring break, Mama trusted Chris enough to drive me to the City library for a study session, but instead, that morning, he and I headed to the Planned Parenthood clinic. He’d been begging for sex ever since Christmas, and I wanted it as much as he did, even as clueless as he was about the female body. I was sixteen and about to explode, but I didn’t want to get pregnant. And I didn’t trust Chris with taking complete responsibility for birth control.

  At the clinic, I was afraid I’d be ashamed, but the receptionist treated me politely, not as if I should be worried that she would call the fake phone number I gave her and report me as a whore to whatever stranger answered. When my name was called, there were pleasant crinkles around my nurse’s blue eyes. In the exam room, she asked, had I ever been sexually active?

  I hesitated, thinking of Gandee. “I’m not sure. Nobody’s been inside there, though.”

  “Let’s call that a ‘no,’ then.”

  She talked me through the pelvic exam, stopping when I flinched. “You’re doing great, Ailey. I know this isn’t fun.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “Then you’re the first woman in the history of the universe who enjoys this. I hate mine. I always have pepperoni pizza afterward.”

  I lifted on my elbow. “You get these, too?”

  “Every woman does. Or she should.”

  “Geez.”

  “That pizza’s sounding pretty good right about now, isn’t it? Okay, lie back down. I’m going to do the anal exam. Here we go.”

  “Ouch!”

  “I know, honey. Just a few more seconds. You’re very, very brave.”

  When I limped to the lobby, brandishing my packet of birth control, Chris did a victory dance. In the car, he was all over me.

  “Don’t get too excited,” I said. “I’ve got to wait awhile for these pills to kick in.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of the colorful free condoms the clinic offered.

  “Damn, Chris, did you leave any for the other people?”

  “They had their chance. You snooze, you lose.”

  “Okay, but let’s stop at the pharmacy. I want to get some of that jelly stuff.”

  “These have the spermicide on them. I checked. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  Chris’s mother was away until that evening, so his house was empty. I wanted things to be special, suggesting a picnic, but inside, he wedged me against the kitchen counter, fumbling with the front of my jeans. When he couldn’t find his way past the zipper, he gave up and grabbed at my crotch. I sighed and told him, sure. He led me upstairs, squeezing my hand. On his bed, he pulled at my jeans, repeating how much he loved me, then fumbled with the condom. When he lay on me, he grabbed at my crotch again, searching, while I told him that wasn’t it. That was the wrong hole. Finally, he found the proper place, and there were thirteen seconds of incredibly painful pressure, as if I had to make a bowel movement but couldn’t.

  He kissed the side of my face and told me again that he loved me.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Is it over?”

  His face was hidden in my neck, but he nodded. His breath deepened and he went to sleep on me. I wanted to kick him in his exhausted balls. He didn’t remember that he was supposed to hold on to the condom afterward, either. It had slipped off inside me, and I ran to the bathroom when he turned over, deep in sleep. I squatted and snagged the condom with my fingernail, wrinkling my nose at the mess.

  A few days before this disgusting moment, Mama had conducted the sex talk with me. She wasn’t accusing me of anything, she’d said. She only wanted to talk, because I was a young lady, and I needed to know a few things. Such as, prayer wasn’t an effective form of birth control. It had seemed a silly statement, and I’d laughed at her seriousness. But it hit me what she meant when my period was four days late. During that time, I sat on the toilet at least ten times a day, waiting for blood, and asking God to spare me, this once.

  After that, every time Chris and I were together, I withstood his awkwardness, telling him, don’t squeeze my breasts like that, and I needed more than a few seconds of kissing to get ready. And I thought of David, how I hadn’t been able to wait for him to touch me. How he’d been so gentle, and I’d been the one to pull him to me whenever we were alone. But David had a new girlfriend. She was receiving his tenderness.

  Chris and I were a couple, though. My patience had won out. Instead of Mama dro
pping me off at school, Chris picked me up each morning, that fall of our senior year. My dream of us walking though the hallways was fulfilled, and before we headed to our respective classes, he kissed me and strutted off. We even planned to attend college together, down south. I’d convinced him to apply to Routledge College, giving him a list of distinguished alumni. There were plenty of physicians, too, in case Chris wanted to study premed. When Mama suggested I apply to Harvard or Yale, I told her there was no way I was spending another four years surrounded by honkies. And I didn’t want to attend Mecca, either. What kind of adulthood apprenticeship would that be, living at home with my parents? She told me, all right, I was her baby, but she knew I would be safe in Georgia. I’d only be a few miles up the road from Uncle Root.

  We avoided talk of my sister, how she’d attended Routledge, too. In two years, we hadn’t heard from Lydia. No phone calls, no letters. I’d matured enough to know mentioning her name would only cause my mother grief. But I’d go into Coco’s room, where Lydia had moved to escape me. I’d close the door and take down a box of my sister’s belongings and go through her keepsakes from college: Smiling photos of her with her friends. Graded assignments that Lydia had saved with her professor’s complimentary comments written in red ink. I pulled her Beta Alpha Beta orange-and-white sorority jacket off the hanger. I put it on and rubbed my hands along the sleeves. I’d decided I wanted to pledge Beta, too; it would bring me closer to Lydia, even if I didn’t know where she was now.