“Welcome, my brilliant scholars! I do have a doctorate, and you should respect that, as any Black woman who made it through seven years at Harvard has earned her propers. To paraphrase the great poet Sterling A. Brown, ‘More Negroes have been ruined by Harvard than by bad gin.’ Only he didn’t say ‘Negroes,’ if you catch my drift.”
The class tittered.
When I’d signed up for my spring classes, Uncle Root had advised me to save room in my schedule for treats. I didn’t want to burn out in my first year of college. I needed a respite from premed classes, but when I’d handed him the college catalog, he’d put it aside.
“You need to take a class with Belinda. She’ll definitely clear your sinuses.”
Dr. Oludara had been the old man’s prize student in history. She’d graduated from Routledge in 1972, gone on to Harvard for her master’s and doctorate, traveled to Nigeria on a fellowship, and come back to the states with her African husband. Then, to the old man’s complete shock, Dr. Oludara had returned south, bought a home an hour outside of Atlanta, and applied for a teaching job at Routledge.
“Call me ‘Doctor,’” she said. “Or, if you prefer, ‘Professor,’ but never ‘Miss’ or ‘Missus.’ I love my Femi dearly, but I’m more than his wife and the mother of his children. I’m a scholar in my own right! And surprisingly enough I didn’t go into teaching for the money. I do it for the love, since there is very little money involved. Femi’s an engineer, so he makes the money in this family, which is how I can afford to teach and raise our children. And he gave me all this gold for my bride price!” She held up her arms, making the bracelets sing. “Be prepared to dive into the awe-inspiring history of our African American people! I’m amazed that I have the opportunity to be with you, and to be filled with your brilliance. My only prohibition is no cursing or name-calling. Our discussions might get a bit rowdy, but remember, everyone has a voice and there will be mutual respect. If not, I’ll ask you to leave, and possibly drop you from the class. And if your behavior is very bad, I might refer you to the campus disciplinary committee for expulsion!”
She smiled cheerfully.
Though the required textbooks were in the bookstore, Dr. Oludara would give us additional handouts ahead of time for our units. She expected us to read the class materials, especially the seven extra students she’d allowed in the class, even though her load was supposed to be capped at twenty-two. But for this initial week, she had decided to do something she’d never done before. On Thursday, she was taking us on a surprise field trip.
In the second row, a raised hand. “Where are we going?”
Our professor stopped waving her arms. “Tell me your name, please?”
“Abdul Wilson.”
“Thank you! My dear brother, a surprise implies a withholding of information, so that means I’m not telling you where we’re going. However, be assured that you will be safe. All students need to wear something light-colored. No student wearing dark clothing will be allowed to join the group, and when we arrive at our destination, you’ll be required to take off your shoes. What do you kids say? If your feet are ‘jacked,’ please hide them with light-colored socks.”
Again, we laughed.
On Thursday morning, we met in front of our classroom building. I was self-conscious in my yellow-and-white cotton dress. Even in the summertime, I preferred dark clothing; I hadn’t brought any light clothing to campus, and both my roommates were much thinner than I was, so I couldn’t borrow their clothes. So I’d driven to Chicasetta the day before and found a dress in my great-grandmother’s trunk. My granny hadn’t thrown out any of her mother’s clothing, and the dress was from the ’50s, when Dear Pearl had been smaller, though still on the chubby side. The dress was handmade, with tiny neat stitches in the seams. It had a narrow waist and a full skirt that fell a handspan below my knees. Thankfully, the sleeves were three-quarter; I was sensitive about my fleshy arms. Underneath the bodice, a thin lining. The skirt had a petticoat that whispered with my movements. Dear’s feet had been larger than mine, so I stuffed toilet paper in the toes to make her beige high heels fit. I’d put on a pair of her clip-on earrings, and Keisha had loaned me some colorless lip gloss. I’d painted my toes and oiled the heels of my feet, but I didn’t wear pantyhose. I was hot enough in the dress.
Pat walked up to me, followed by Abdul and Steve. The three were identically dressed in white button-down shirts and khaki pants. Pat had on tan-colored sandals, but the other two wore white sneakers.
“Damn, lady!” Pat said. “When you clean up, you really go all out! You got my heart beating so fast. Here, feel it.”
He took my hand, squeezing. I laughed but didn’t let go.
“Ain’t nobody touching your chest, boy! You always trying to gas me up.”
“Naw, Ailey, I’m for real! I see you at chapel, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look quite this fine.”
When Tiffany Cruikshank walked up in her cream-colored pantsuit with light-orange shoes, Pat told her, I didn’t want to believe what men told me, but maybe I’d believe another incredibly beautiful woman. Didn’t I look nice?
“Yes, you do look very pretty in your dress.” Tiffany spoke formally, as if giving a speech, and didn’t crack a smile. “That’s a very ladylike ensemble.”
“Thank you, Tiffany.”
I crossed my arms; the attention was making me uncomfortable. Then, Dr. Oludara arrived, wearing a long white dress. Her hair was tightly wrapped again, this time in material that matched her outfit. She waved her arms and the bracelets jingled. Let’s go.
I wasn’t used to wearing heels, and once we stepped onto grass, I stopped and took off my shoes. The grass was warm against my feet. After about a quarter of a mile, our professor announced, we had reached our destination. My classmates and I looked around. There was nothing there. I’d heard that Dr. Oludara was rather eccentric, but I couldn’t believe I’d dressed up and greased my feet to walk to the middle of an empty field.
“If you haven’t done so already, my young scholars, please remove your shoes.”
She closed her eyes and moved her lips soundlessly. When she opened them, she told us that this land had once belonged to other people. The Creek Indians, who had been driven from their homes. Think about it. Somebody making you leave your wonderful house and go some other place you knew nothing about. Think about how that would make you cry, as it had made the Creek people cry. And then think about how angry it would make you that the people who stole your house forgot it had ever belonged to you.
Dr. Oludara told us that after the Creek people had been forced off this land, it had been purchased by a slave master, Matthew Thatcher. Then the Civil War came, and afterward, Mrs. Routledge had traveled down south. Mrs. Routledge and Mr. Thatcher met and became friends. It was an odd connection, but somehow their bond was strong enough to compel Mr. Thatcher to leave Mrs. Routledge the majority of his estate in his will: one hundred sixty acres, his large, two-storied house, and nearly six thousand dollars—a lot of money in those days. But before his death Mr. Thatcher would build a one-room schoolhouse on that land for Mrs. Routledge. The small structure would eventually be named Georgia Institute for Colored Girls.
We’d already seen the old schoolhouse on our freshman tour; this spot where we were standing had once been host to a slave pen. Citizens in Milledgeville, only a few miles away, had come here, where the traders would have human merchandise waiting. When he’d bought the land, Mr. Thatcher had torn down the pen, but the debris—shackles and various torturous instruments from the slave trade—remained scattered in the place the pen had been, this very spot.
“Where you are standing is hallowed ground,” Dr. Oludara said. “Our ancestors were taken from their families and brought to this place for slave auctions. They grieved as they were put in narrow enclosures, sometimes by themselves and sometimes crowded together. They were categorized according to the work they did. Field workers, who picked cotton. Artisans with special skills
, such as blacksmiths and carpenters. House slaves, such as cooks and ladies’ maids. But there was another kind of enslaved individual sold here. There was a euphemism: ‘suitable for housekeeping.’ That meant those females who would be used for bedroom purposes. Do you understand what I mean? Their bodies would be taken and degraded. Their children might remain with those mothers, or they might be sold as well. If they were daughters, they, too, would be used by white men, sometimes even as little girls.”
I wrapped my arms around myself, buried my chin into my chest, and started rocking. I hoped no one was looking at me.
Then, Dr. Oludara told us, as a northern African American, Mrs. Routledge wasn’t personally familiar with the slave trade or being hurt by white men, because she’d been born free. She’d been born lucky, but she had possessed a ministry to heal the pain of her people.
“Can you hear them? Can you feel that pain? Because Mrs. Routledge heard, across the miles, in Boston. And she answered that call.”
Mrs. Routledge didn’t need to have been a slave herself to know girls were endangered. They needed protection, and she handpicked twelve girls who were the children of formerly enslaved people. Along with her daughter, Violet, they were the institute’s first class. They cleared off the land where the pen once had stood; they worked hard. They sweat. Their arms ached. The heavy skirts of the time made the work even more difficult, and the girls became fatigued—but, Dr. Oludara told us, Mrs. Routledge had put her hands on her hips. When she spoke, she rocked as if to her own, internal music, as she did when she instructed her girls to keep working. Do not faint and do not hesitate.
“Can you see Mrs. Routledge? Can you?” She began to clap softly. “Listen to her telling those girls, think of their people who needed their help. The other women. The other little girls.”
When Dr. Oludara walked closer to us, something hit my chest. I caught my breath and when I exhaled, I began to weep. I thought of the little slave girls, and of the little girl I had been. The secrets I kept about what had happened to me, so no one would think I was dirty. I thought of the pain of my ancestors who’d been slaves, perhaps even sold in this very place. I thought of it all, and I put my hands over my face to hide my shame, but there was an arm around my shoulder. It was Pat, and I buried my head in his chest as he hugged me tightly. He kissed the top of my head, but my weeping would not stop, as our professor’s clapping increased in volume.
“And let go of that hurt, that degradation of the past. That’s what Mrs. Routledge told her students. Don’t hold on to that madness. And then one of her students found the spot. The place where the blood of slaves had soaked into the ground. It was darker than the rest, even though this land is a red dirt place. After all those years that bloody spot was there. That was a horrible moment, and after Mrs. Routledge cleared this area, she decided, it was full of too much pain. Her schoolhouse needed to be someplace else on this piece of land. She left this spot alone, so it could heal. And that’s why there are no campus buildings here.”
Dr. Oludara stopped clapping. She released a large sigh.
“We have so much work to do, my young scholars! There is a reason for your presence, right here, right now. I am so happy to be your guide this semester, and I ask you, do not forget the blessing of this place. Don’t you ever forget.”
She was quiet for the next few minutes, as we students gathered our shoes. We laughed off our emotion, the embarrassment of the moment, until Dr. Oludara told us, let’s head on over to the Rib Shack. It would be her treat for all of us! Communing with the ancestors was hungry work.
* * *
“Goddamn!” Abdul ejected. “You telling me Harriet Jacobs couldn’t find no eligible brothers to get with?”
Dr. Oludara raised her finger in protest. “Brother Wilson, not cool at all. Apologize.”
The antebellum review took place in the second week of Dr. Oludara’s class, and Abdul fidgeted in his chair while she explained that, initially, scholars had thought a woman named Linda Brent had written Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, but in the late 1980s, somebody discovered the author’s real name was Harriet Jacobs.
“My bad, Doc,” he said. “I mean, I’m sorry.”
“All right. I will forgive you.”
“But Doc, look. If that jawn was in danger, how’d she find time to make not one but two half-white babies?”
“That’s so foul,” I said. “My cousins are mixed.”
Abdul raised his hands, palms forward. “I didn’t say a thing about your family. I’m talking about Harriet Jacobs. Did her children not have a white daddy? Thus, they were half-white.”
He looked at Steve, who nodded vigorously. Behind them, Pat leaned back in his chair, but the annoyed look on his face told the real story: his friends were getting on his nerves.
“Are you saying we’re supposed to feel sorry for this woman?” Tiffany Cruikshank asked. “Because I don’t. Jacobs willingly had sex with a white man. Being raped by Mr. Flint would’ve been better than what she did.”
“Wow, that’s super harsh,” I said. “How is rape possibly better?”
“Getting down on purpose with a slave master makes her a tramp, which is how white men viewed Black women anyway.”
“That’s, like, seriously old-fashioned.”
“Yes, Ailey, and I’m proud to be that way. You went to some private school with white folks, right? Is that why you think like a whore? Or are you one already?”
I caught my breath. “Oh my God, did you just say that to me—”
Our professor called for order and for kindness. “Sister Cruikshank, you owe Sister Garfield an abject apology! Your insult of her is rude, cruel, and completely uncalled-for. In other words, it’s not ‘the jam.’ Isn’t that what you kids say nowadays?”
There was laughter at her attempt to be cool, and then Tiffany gave me a gruff apology, looking at the space over my head.
When I spoke again, my voice shook. “I’m as Black as anybody else at this school, and I’m not anybody’s whore, either. I can’t help that my parents sent me to a private school. Whatever to that. I was just saying I think Miss Jacobs might have loved that white man she had those babies with. And maybe he loved her back. Maybe he thought she was a lady.”
Abdul and Steve erupted into outraged groans and then assaulted the air with their Public Enemy hand gestures. By 1992, PE had rendered Black male rage, with its attendant body language, fashionable again. Northern brothers on campus regularly quoted long passages from the group’s lyrics. Even back in high school, Chris had urged me to listen to their albums, praising Chuck D’s philosophical brilliance—even if his sudden Black identity hadn’t kept him from attending Princeton instead of Routledge.
“How’s a white man ever going to respect a Black woman?” Abdul asked. “Girl, where are you from?”
My mouth trembled as he swooped his arms around, comparing Jacobs’s situation to “Who Stole the Soul?” from Fear of a Black Planet.
At lunchtime, my roommates and I sat in the refectory on the room’s margins. The table in the center was reserved for members of Beta Alpha Beta Sorority. Even Roz, a direct descendant of a founding Beta Lily, didn’t dare trespass.
Abdul placed his tray on our table, and Pat and Steve followed suit. It was an unseasonably warm January evening, but the Three Amigos still wore their long-sleeved shirts and khakis. Abdul’s chewing stick had disappeared. The gossips believed they were “Rocks,” pledging Gamma Beta Gamma fraternity underground, which was rumored to be a months-long process.
“Who said you could sit here?” Roz asked.
“We always sit with y’all,” Abdul said.
“I know, but you can’t do that anymore.”
“Girl, stop acting cute.”
“I don’t have to act. I am cute.”
“Move your shit, Miss Siddity.”
Roz looked around as if searching for someone. When she scraped back her chair and stood to go, Keisha shot me a pained look. As a s
ocial work major, she tried to get along with everyone. It was a professional requirement, and back in our room, she told our roommate her behavior hadn’t been very nice. The Three Amigos were our friends. Even Abdul, with his rude self.
“Yeah, Roz,” I said. “Why’d you leave?”
“Y’all know Abdul and Tiffany are kicking it.”
“How you know?”
“Because I do.”
“But who cares?”
“I care. I’m trying to pledge Beta in the fall.” Roz began her tired harangue, that Beta Alpha Beta was a family legacy. As a fourth-generation legacy of the sorority, she couldn’t be turned down for membership unless her grades tanked. Or if she had morality issues, which might come up if somebody on campus tried to start a rumor about her sleeping around. She had to be extra careful. She planned to be a lawyer and live in Atlanta, so she needed Beta membership, because there wasn’t an African American city official in that town with any clout who didn’t have Greek letters—
“Okay, already,” I said. “But you know they won’t turn you down.”
“Maybe, but they can beat me when I get on line. They can beat you, too, if you apply. And if you don’t leave Abdul alone, Tiffany’s coming for you.”
“Don’t nobody in this room want to fuck that guy.”
Keisha cleared her throat and I quickly apologized for using foul language.
“Watch,” Roz said. “As soon as them two go public, every other sister gone want him. That’s the way that goes.”
But in the days that followed I refused to leave the table whenever our friends sat down, though Roz continually warned I might ruin my chances for Beta, or, at best, acquire a reputation as a gold digger. Pat’s departed grandfather had donated that million dollars to build the male honors dorm. He drove his grandfather’s old Mercedes, too.
None of our roommate’s concerns swayed either Keisha or me. We kept sitting with the Three Amigos in the refectory. I still tutored Pat in math in the library carrels, and he still flirted endlessly.
The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois Page 24