by Alice Walker
Well, there was more of this, but why burden you with it? You know what some people are, and the bishop was one of them. Samuel and I left without even a word about the Olinka’s problems.
Samuel was so angry, I was frightened. He said the only thing for us to do, if we wanted to remain in Africa, was join the mbeles and encourage all the Olinka to do the same.
But suppose they do not want to go? I asked. Many of them are too old to move back into the forest. Many are sick. The women have small babies. And then there are the youngsters who want bicycles and British clothes. Mirrors and shiny cooking pots. They want to work for the white people in order to have these things.
Things! he said, in disgust. Bloody things!
Well, we have a month here anyway, I said, let’s make the most of it.
Because we had spent so much of our money on tin roofs and the voyage over, it had to be a poor man’s month in England. But it was a very good time for us. We began to feel ourselves a family, without Corrine. And people meeting us on the street never failed (if they spoke to us at all) to express the sentiment that the children looked just like the two of us. The children began to accept this as natural, and began going out to view the sights that interested them, alone. Leaving their father and me to our quieter, more sedate pleasures, one of which was simple conversation.
Samuel, of course, was born in the North, in New York, and grew up and was educated there. He met Corrine through his aunt who had been a missionary, along with Corrine’s aunt, in the Belgian Congo. Samuel frequently accompanied his aunt Althea to Atlanta, where Corrine’s aunt Theodosia lived.
These two ladies had been through marvelous things together, said Samuel, laughing. They’d been attacked by lions, stampeded by elephants, flooded out by rains, made war on by “natives.” The tales they told were simply incredible. There they sat on a heavily antimacassared horsehair sofa, two prim and proper ladies in ruffles and lace, telling these stupendous stories over tea.
Corrine and I as teenagers used to attempt to stylize these tales into comics. We called them such things as THREE MONTHS IN A HAMMOCK, or SORE HIPS OF THE DARK CONTINENT. Or, A MAP OF AFRICA: A GUIDE TO NATIVE INDIFFERENCE TO THE HOLY WORD.
We made fun of them, but we were riveted on their adventures, and on the ladies’ telling of them. They were so staid looking. So proper. You really couldn’t imagine them actually building—with their own hands—a school in the bush. Or battling reptiles. Or unfriendly Africans who thought, since they were wearing dresses with things that looked like wings behind, they should be able to fly.
Bush? Corrine would snicker to me or me to her. And just the sound of the word would send us off into quiet hysteria, while we calmly sipped our tea. Because of course they didn’t realize they were being funny, and to us they were, very. And of course the prevailing popular view of Africans at that time contributed to our feeling of amusement. Not only were Africans savages, they were bumbling, inept savages, rather like their bumbling, inept brethren at home. But we carefully, not to say studiously, avoided this very apparent connection.
Corrine’s mother was a dedicated housewife and mother who disliked her more adventurous sister. But she never prevented Corrine from visiting. And when Corrine was old enough, she sent her to Spelman Seminary where Aunt Theodosia had gone. This was a very interesting place. It was started by two white missionaries from New England who used to wear identical dresses. Started in a church basement, it soon moved up to Army barracks. Eventually these two ladies were able to get large sums of money from some of the richest men in America, and so the place grew. Buildings, trees. Girls were taught everything: Reading, Writing, Arithmetic, sewing, cleaning, cooking. But more than anything else, they were taught to serve God and the colored community. Their official motto was OUR WHOLE SCHOOL FOR CHRIST. But I always thought their unofficial motto should have been OUR COMMUNITY COVERS THE WORLD, because no sooner had a young woman got through Spelman Seminary than she began to put her hand to whatever work she could do for her people, anywhere in the world. It was truly astonishing. These very polite and proper young women, some of them never having set foot outside their own small country towns, except to come to the Seminary, thought nothing of packing up for India, Africa, the Orient. Or for Philadelphia or New York.
Sixty years or so before the founding of the school, the Cherokee Indians who lived in Georgia were forced to leave their homes and walk, through the snow, to resettlement camps in Oklahoma. A third of them died on the way. But many of them refused to leave Georgia. They hid out as colored people and eventually blended with us. Many of these mixed-race people were at Spelman. Some remembered who they actually were, but most did not. If they thought about it at all (and it became harder to think about Indians because there were none around) they thought they were yellow or reddish brown and wavy haired because of white ancestors, not Indian.
Even Corrine thought this, he said. And yet, I always felt her Indianness. She was so quiet. So reflective. And she could erase herself, her spirit, with a swiftness that truly startled, when she knew the people around her could not respect it.
It did not seem hard for Samuel to talk about Corrine while we were in England. It wasn’t hard for me to listen.
It all seems so improbable, he said. Here I am, an aging man whose dreams of helping people have been just that, dreams. How Corrine and I as children would have laughed at ourselves. TWENTY YEARS A FOOL OF THE WEST, OR MOUTH AND ROOFLEAF DISEASE: A TREATISE ON THE FUTILITY OF THE TROPICS. Etc. Etc. We failed so utterly, he said. We became as comical as Althea and Theodosia. I think her awareness of this fueled Corrine’s sickness. She was far more intuitive than I. Her gift for understanding people much greater. She used to say the Olinka resented us, but I wouldn’t see it. But they do, you know.
No, I said, it isn’t resentment, exactly. It really is indifference. Sometimes I feel our position is like that of flies on an elephant’s hide.
I remember once, before Corrine and I were married, Samuel continued, Aunt Theodosia had one of her at-homes. She had them every Thursday. She’d invited a lot of “serious young people” as she called them, and one of them was a young Harvard scholar named Edward. DuBoyce was his last name, I think. Anyhow, Aunt Theodosia was going on about her African adventures, leading up to the time King Leopold of Belgium presented her with a medal. Well Edward, or perhaps his name was Bill, was a very impatient sort. You saw it in his eyes, you could see it in the way he moved his body. He was never still. As Aunt Theodosia got closer to the part about her surprise and joy over receiving this medal—which validated her service as an exemplary missionary in the King’s colony—DuBoyce’s foot began to pat the floor rapidly and uncontrollably. Corrine and I looked at each other in alarm. Clearly this man had heard this tale before and was not prepared to endure it a second time.
Madame, he said, when Aunt Theodosia finished her story and flashed her famous medal around the room, do you realize King Leopold cut the hands off workers who, in the opinion of his plantation overseers, did not fulfill their rubber quota? Rather than cherish that medal, Madame, you should regard it as a symbol of your unwitting complicity with this despot who worked to death and brutalized and eventually exterminated thousands and thousands of African peoples.
Well, said Samuel, silence struck the gathering like a blight. Poor Aunt Theodosia! There’s something in all of us that wants a medal for what we have done. That wants to be appreciated. And Africans certainly don’t deal in medals. They hardly seem to care whether missionaries exist.
Don’t be bitter, I said.
How can I not? he said.
The Africans never asked us to come, you know. There’s no use blaming them if we feel unwelcome.
It’s worse than unwelcome, said Samuel. The Africans don’t even see us. They don’t even recognize us as the brothers and sisters they sold.
Oh, Samuel, I said. Don’t.
But you know, he had started to cry. Oh Nettie, he said. That’s the heart
of it, don’t you see. We love them. We try every way we can to show that love. But they reject us. They never even listen to how we’ve suffered. And if they listen they say stupid things. Why don’t you speak our language? they ask. Why can’t you remember the old ways? Why aren’t you happy in America, if everyone there drives motorcars?
Celie, it seemed as good a time as any to put my arms around him. Which I did. And words long buried in my heart crept to my lips. I stroked his dear head and face and I called him darling and dear. And I’m afraid, dear, dear Celie, that concern and passion soon ran away with us.
I hope when you receive this news of your sister’s forward behavior you will not be shocked or inclined to judge me harshly. Especially when I tell you what a total joy it was. I was transported by ecstasy in Samuel’s arms.
You may have guessed that I loved him all along; but I did not know it. Oh, I loved him as a brother and respected him as a friend, but Celie, I love him bodily, as a man! I love his walk, his size, his shape, his smell, the kinkiness of his hair. I love the very texture of his palms. The pink of his inner lip. I love his big nose. I love his brows. I love his feet. And I love his dear eyes in which the vulnerability and beauty of his soul can be plainly read.
The children saw the change in us immediately. I’m afraid, my dear, we were radiant.
We love each other dearly, Samuel told them, with his arm around me. We intend to marry.
But before we do, I said, I must tell you something about my life and about Corrine and about someone else. And it was then I told them about you, Celie. And about their mother Corrine’s love of them. And about being their aunt.
But where is this other woman, your sister? asked Olivia.
I explained your marriage to Mr. _____ as best I could.
Adam was instantly alarmed. He is a very sensitive soul who hears what isn’t said as clearly as what is.
We will go back to America soon, said Samuel to reassure him, and see about her.
The children stood up with us in a simple church ceremony in London. And it was that night, after the wedding dinner, when we were all getting ready for bed, that Olivia told me what has been troubling her brother. He is missing Tashi.
But he’s also very angry with her, she said, because when we left, she was planning to scar her face.
I didn’t know this. One of the things we thought we’d helped stop was the scarring or cutting of tribal marks on the faces of young women.
It is a way the Olinka can show they still have their own ways, said Olivia, even though the white man has taken everything else. Tashi didn’t want to do it, but to make her people feel better, she’s resigned. She’s going to have the female initiation ceremony too, she said.
Oh, no, I said. That’s so dangerous. Suppose she becomes infected?
I know, said Olivia. I told her nobody in America or Europe cuts off pieces of themselves. And anyway, she would have had it when she was eleven, if she was going to have it She’s too old for it now.
Well, some men are circumcized, I said, but that’s just the removal of a bit of skin.
Tashi was happy that the initiation ceremony isn’t done in Europe or America, said Olivia. That makes it even more valuable to her.
I see, I said.
She and Adam had an awful fight. Not like any they’ve had before. He wasn’t teasing her or chasing her around the village or trying to tie roofleaf twigs in her hair. He was mad enough to strike her.
Well, it’s a good thing he didn’t, I said. Tashi would have jammed his head through her rug loom.
I’ll be glad when we get back home, said Olivia. Adam isn’t the only one who misses Tashi.
She kissed me and her father good night. Adam soon came in to do the same.
Mama Nettie, he said, sitting on the bed next to me, how do you know when you really love someone?
Sometimes you don’t know, I said.
He is a beautiful young man, Celie. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a deep, thoughtful voice. Did I tell you he writes verses? And loves to sing? He’s a son to make you proud.
Your loving sister, Nettie
P.S. Your brother Samuel sends his love as well.
DEAREST CELIE,
When we returned home everyone seemed happy to see us. When we told them our appeal to the church and the Missionary Society failed, they were disappointed. They literally wiped the smiles off their faces along with the sweat, and returned, dejected, to their barracks. We went on to our building, a combination church, house and school, and began to unpack our things.
The children... I realize I shouldn’t call them children, they’re grown, went in search of Tashi; an hour later they returned dumbfounded. They discovered no sign of her. Catherine, her mother, is planting rubber trees some distance from the compound, they were told. But no one had seen Tashi all day.
Olivia was very disappointed. Adam was trying to appear unconcerned, but I noticed he was absentmindedly biting the skin around his nails.
After two days it became clear that Tashi was deliberately hiding. Her friends said while we were away she’d undergone both the facial scarification ceremony and the rite of female initiation. Adam went quite gray at this news. Olivia merely stricken and more concerned than ever to find her.
It was not until Sunday that we saw Tashi. She’d lost a considerable amount of weight, and seemed listless, dull-eyed and tired. Her face was still swollen from half a dozen small, neat incisions high on each cheek. When she put out her hand to Adam he refused to take it. He just looked at her scars, turned on his heel and left.
She and Olivia hugged. But it was a quiet, heavy embrace. Nothing like the boisterous, giggling behavior I expect from them.
Tashi is, unfortunately, ashamed of these scars on her face, and now hardly ever raises her head. They must be painful too because they look irritated and red.
But this is what the villagers are doing to the young women and even the men. Carving their identification as a people into their children’s faces. But the children think of scarification as backward, something from their grandparents’ generation, and often resist. So the carving is done by force, under the most appalling conditions. We provide antiseptics and cotton and a place for the children to cry and nurse their wounds.
Each day Adam presses us to leave for home. He can no longer bear living as we do. There aren’t even any trees near us, just giant boulders and smaller rocks. And more and more of his companions are running away. The real reason, of course, is he can no longer bear his conflicting feelings about Tashi, who is beginning, I think, to appreciate the magnitude of her mistake.
Samuel and I are truly happy, Celie. And so grateful to God that we are! We still keep a school for the littlest children; those eight and over are already workers in the fields. In order to pay rent for the barracks, taxes on the land, and to buy water and wood and food, everyone must work. So, we teach the young ones, babysit the babies, look after the old and sick, and attend birthing mothers. Our days are fuller than ever, our sojourn in England already a dream. But all things look brighter because I have a loving soul to share them with.
Your sister, Nettie
DEAREST NETTIE,
The man us knowed as Pa is dead.
How come you still call him Pa? Shug ast me the other day.
But, too late to call him Alphonso. I never even remember Ma calling him by his name. She always said, Your Pa. I reckon to make us believe it better. Anyhow, his little wife, Daisy, call me up on the telephone in the middle of the night.
Miss Celie, she say, I got bad news. Alphonso dead.
Who? I ast.
Alphonso, she say. Your stepdaddy.
How he die? I ast. I think of killing, being hit by a truck, struck by lightening, lingering disease. But she say, Naw, he died in his sleep. Well, not quite in his sleep, she say. Us was spending a little time in bed together, you know, before us drop off.
Well, I say, you have my sympathy.
Yes ma’am, sh
e say, and I thought I had this house too, but look like it belong to your sister Nettie and you.
Say what? I ast.
Your stepdaddy been dead over a week, she say. When us went to town to hear the will read yesterday, you could have knock me over with a feather. Your real daddy owned the land and the house and the store. He left it to your mama. When your mama died, it passed on to you and your sister Nettie. I don’t know why Alphonso never told you that
Well, I say, anything coming from him, I don’t want it.
I hear Daisy suck in her breath. How about your sister Nettie, she say. You think she feel the same way?
I wake up a little bit then. By the time Shug roll over and ast me who it is, I’m beginning to see the light.
Don’t be a fool, Shug say, nudging me with her foot. You got your own house now. Your daddy and mama left it for you. That dog of a stepdaddy just a bad odor passing through.
But I never had no house, I say. Just to think about having my own house enough to scare me. Plus, this house I’m gitting is bigger than Shug’s, got more land around it. And, it come with a store.
My God, I say to Shug. Me and Nettie own a drygood store. What us gon sell?
How bout pants? she say.
So us hung up the phone and rush down home again to look at the property.
About a mile before us got to town us come up on the entrance to the colored cemetery. Shug was sound asleep, but something told me I ought to drive in. Pretty soon I see something look like a short skyscraper and I stop the car and go up to it. Sure enough it’s got Alphonso’s name on it. Got a lot of other stuff on it too. Member of this and that. Leading businessman and farmer. Upright husband and father. Kind to the poor and helpless. He been dead two weeks but fresh flowers still blooming on his grave.
Shug git out the car and come stand by me.
Finally she yawn loud and stretch herself. The son of a bitch still dead, she say.
Daisy try to act like she glad to see us, but she not. She got two children and look pregnant with one more. But she got nice clothes, a car, and Alphonso left her all his money. Plus, I think she manage to set her folks up while she live with him.