Color Purple Collection

by Alice Walker

  “In these days of which I am speaking, people met other animals in much the same way people today meet each other. You were sharing the same neighborhood, after all. You used the same water, you ate the same foods, you sometimes found yourself peering out of the same cave waiting for a downpour to stop. I think my mother and her familiar had known each other since childhood; for that was the case with almost everyone. All the women, that is. For, strange to say, the women alone had familiars. In the men’s group, or tribe, there was no such thing. Eventually, in imitation of the women and their familiars, companions, friends, or whatever you want to call them, the men learned to tame the barbarous forest dog and to get the occasional one of those to more or less settle down and stay by their side. I do not mean to suggest that the dogs were barbarous in the sense that we sometimes think of animals today as being ‘red in tooth and claw.’ No, they were barbarous because they simply lacked the sensibility of many of the other animals—of the lions, in particular; but also of the elephants and turtles, the vultures, the chimpanzees, the monkeys, orangutans, and giant apes. They were opportunistic little creatures, and basically lazy, sorely lacking in integrity and self-respect. Also, they lacked culture.

  “It was an elegant sight, I can tell you, my mother and Husa walking along the river, or swimming in it. He was gigantic, and so beautiful. I am talking now about his spirit, his soul. It is a great tragedy today that no one knows anymore what a lion is. They think a lion is some curiosity in a zoo, or some wild thing that cares about tasting their foul flesh if they get out of the car in Africa.

  “But this is all nonsense and grievous ignorance; as is most of what ‘mankind’ fancies it ‘knows.’ Just as my mother was queen because of her wisdom, experience, ability to soothe and to heal, because of her innate delicacy of thought and circumspection of action, and most of all because of her gentleness, so it was with Husa and his tribe. They were king of creation not because they were strong, but because they were strong and also gentle. Except to cull the sick or injured creatures from the earth, and to eat them, which was their role in creation, just as it is the role of the vulture to eat whatever has already died, they never used their awesome strength.

  “We had fire by then. I say this because it was a recent invention; my mother’s grandmother had not had it. Husa and his family would come of an evening to visit; they loved the fire; and there we’d all sprawl watching the changing embers and admiring the flames, well into the night, when we fell fast asleep. My mother and I slept close to Husa, and in the morning’s chill his great heat warmed us.

  “So I was not lonely, though at times I saw that other children regarded me strangely. But then, being children, they’d frequently play with me. I loved this. Our playing consisted very often of finding some new thing to eat. And we would roam for miles in search of whatever was easy to reach and ripe. It seemed to me there was everything anyone could imagine, and more than enough for twenty human and animal tribes such as ours. I wish the world today could see our world as it was then. It would see the whole tribe of creation climbing an enormous plum tree. The little brown and black people, for I had not yet seen myself as different; the monkeys, the birds, and the things that today have vanished but which were bright green and sort of a cross between a skunk and a squirrel. There we’d be, stuffing ourselves on plums—little and sweet and bright yellow. Husa would let us stand on his back to reach the high inner branches. If we were eating for a long time, Husa would lie on the ground yawning, and when we were full, the monkeys, especially, would begin a game, which was to throw plums into Husa’s yawning mouth. It was curious to see that no matter how rapidly we threw the plums into his mouth, Husa never swallowed one and never choked. He could raise the back of his tongue, you see, like a kind of trapdoor, and the plums all bounced off it.

  “What does not end, Suwelo? Only life itself, in my experience. Good times, specific to a time and place, always end. And so it was with me. The time arrived when I was expected to mate. In our group this was the initiation not only into adulthood, but into separation from the women’s tribe—at least from the day-to-day life of it that was all one had ever known. After mating and helping his mate to conceive, a man went to live with men. But this was not a hardship, since the men’s encampment was never more than half a day’s journey from our own, and there was always, between the two tribes, the most incessant visiting. Why didn’t they, men and women, merge? It simply wasn’t thought of. People would have laughed at the person who suggested it. There was no reason why they should merge, since each tribe liked the arrangement they had. Besides, everyone—people and other animals—liked very much to visit. To be honest, we loved it. That was our TV. And so it was well to have other people and other animals to visit.

  “Though I hated the thought of leaving my mother, I knew I could still see her whenever I wanted to, and I also knew that the men in the men’s tribe were ready to be my father. For no one had a particular father. That was impossible, given the way the women chose their lovers, freely and variously. The men found nothing strange in this, any more than the women did. Why should they? Lovemaking was considered one of the very best things in life, by women and men; of course it would have to be free. See what I mean about songs?” Miss Lissie chuckled. “Besides, when a young man arrived in the tribe of the men, they were at long last given an opportunity—late, it’s true—to mother. Fathering is mothering, you know.

  “There was a girl I liked, who liked me back. This was a miracle. And at the proper time, the day before the coming up of the full moon, she and I were sent to pick plums together. I remember everything about that day: the warmth of the sun on our naked bodies, the fine dust that covered our feet... . Her own little familiar, a serpent, slid alongside us. Serpents then were different than they are now, Suwelo. Of course almost everything that was once free is different today. Her familiar, whom my friend called Ba, was about the thickness of a slender person’s arm and had small wheellike extendable feet, on which it could raise itself and whir about, like some of those creatures you see in cartoons; or, retracting these, it could move like snakes move today. It could also extend and retract wings, for all serpents that we knew of at that time could fly. It was a lovely companion for her, and she loved it dearly and was always in conversation with it. I remember the especially convoluted and wiggly trail Ba left behind in the dust, in its happy anticipation of eating fresh plums... . Later that day there was the delicious taste of sun-warmed plums in our mouths. We were, all three of us, chattering right along, and eating, and feeling very happy.

  “I was not to be happy long; none of us was. Eventually I had my friend in my arms, and one of her small black nipples, as sweet as any plum and so like my mother’s, was in my mouth, and I was inside her. It was everything I’d ever dreamed, and much more than I’d hoped. But it was not, I think, the same for her. When I woke up, she was wide awake, simply sitting there quietly, stroking Ba, who was lazily twisting his full self around and around her beautiful knees. The sun was still above the treetops, for I remember that the light was golden, splendidly perfect, but even as I watched, it began rapidly going down.

  “And then, when I looked down at myself, I saw that while I was sleeping she had rubbed me all over with the mixture of dark berries and nut fat my mother always used, which I realized had been hidden beneath the plum tree. And for the first time I could ask someone other than my mother what it was for. My mother had said it was to make my skin strong and protect it from the sun. And so, I asked my friend. And she said it was to make me look more like everyone else.

  “‘You look like you don’t have a skin, you know,’ she said. ‘But you do have one.’

  “I was thrown completely by this, coming as it did after our first lovemaking. It seemed to indicate a hideous personal deficiency that I didn’t need to hear about just then, on the eve of becoming a man in the tribe of men. Right away I thought: Is this how they’ll see me as well?

  “She took me gently
by the hand and we walked to a clear reflecting pool not far away. We’d often bathed there. And she scooped up a handful of water and vigorously scrubbed my face; then we bent down over the water, and there my friend was, looking very much like my mother and her mother and the sisters and brothers and aunts of the village—all browns and blacks, with big dark eyes. And there was I—a ghost. Only, we knew nothing of ghosts, so I could not even make that comparison. I did look as though I had no skin.

  “It was the first time I’d truly seen myself as different. I cried out in fear at myself. Weeping, I turned and ran. My friend came running after me. For it had not been her intention to hurt. She was taking over my mother’s duty in applying the ointment, and was only trying to be truthful and help me begin to face reality.

  “All I could think of was hiding myself—my kinky but pale yellow hair, the color of straw in late summer, my pebble-colored eyes, and my skin that had no color at all. I ran to a cave I knew about not far from the plum tree. And I threw myself on the floor, crying and crying.

  “She came in behind me, the mess of berries and nut fat in a bamboo-joint container in her hand. She tried to talk to me, to soothe me, to spread the stuff over me. I knocked it away from me; it rolled over the earthen floor. During this movement, I suddenly caught sight of my member and saw that the color that had been there before we made love had been rubbed off during our contact. The sight shamed me. I ran outside the cave and grabbed the first tree leaves I saw and slapped them over myself.

  “But then I realized it was my whole body that needed covering, not just my penis. My friend was still running around behind me, trying to comfort me. She was crying as much as I was, and beating her breasts. For we learned mourning from the giant apes, who taught us to feel grief anywhere around us, and to reflect it back to the sufferer, and to act it out. But now this behavior made me sick. I picked up a stick and chased her away. She was so shocked to see me use a stick in this way that she seemed quite happy to drop her sympathies for me and run. But as she turned to run, her familiar, seeing her fright and its cause, extended both its clawed feet and its wings and flew up at me. In my rage I struck it, a brutal blow, with my club, so hard a blow that I broke its neck, and it fell without a sound to the ground. I couldn’t believe I had done this. Neither could my friend. She ran back, though she was so afraid, and scooped Ba’s broken body up in her arms. The last I saw of her was her small, naked, dark brown back, with Ba’s limply curling tail, which was beginning to change colors, dangling down her side.

  “I never made it into the men’s tribe. I never went back to my mother. The only one from my childhood I ever saw again was Husa. Perhaps he came to look for me as a courtesy to my mother. He found me holed up in a cave far, far from our encampment, my hair in kinky yellow locks, which resembled his, actually; my stone gray eyes wild with pain. He came up to me and rested a warm paw on my shoulder and breathed gently into my face. The smell made me almost faint from love and homesickness. Then he proceeded to lick me all over, thoroughly, as he would wash one of his cubs, with his warm pink tongue. I realized that night, sleeping next to Husa, that he was the only father I had ever known or was ever likely to know. And so, I felt, I had left my mother to join the men after all.

  “Of course Husa could not stay forever. But he stayed long enough. Long enough to go on long walks with me, just as he did with my mother. Long enough to share fires—which I knew he loved, and so forced myself to make. Long enough to share sunrises and sunsets and to admire giant trees and sweet-smelling shrubs. For Husa greatly appreciated the tiniest particle of the kingdom in which he found himself. He taught me that there was another way of being in the world, away from one’s own kind. Indeed, he reconciled me to the possibility that I had no ‘own kind.’ And though I missed my mother terribly, I knew I would never go back. It hurt me too much to know that everyone in our group had always noticed, since the day I was born, that I was different from anyone

  “One day, after a kill, Husa brought the remains, a draggle of skin, home to me. With a stone I battered it into a shape that I could drape around myself. I found a staff to support me in my walks and to represent ‘my people.’

  “Husa left.

  “And now I gradually made a discouraging discovery. The skin that Husa gave me, which covered me so much more effectively than bark or leaves, and which I could tie on in a manner that would stay, frightened all the animals with whom I came in contact. In vain did I try to explain how I came by it, how much I needed it. That it was a gift, a leftover, from Husa the lion, who harmed no creature, ever, but was only the angel of mercy to those things in need of death. But what animal could comprehend this new thing that I was? That I, a creature with a skin of its own—for though I looked skinned, they could smell I was not—was nonetheless walking about in one of theirs? They ran from me as if from plague. And I was totally alone for many years, until, in desperation, I raided the litter of a barbarous dog, and got myself companionship in that way.”

  THE TAPE RAN ON and on, without Miss Lissie’s voice. Suwelo rose from the couch and peered at the spinning cassette. He was about to stop it, and see if it should be turned over, when Miss Lissie’s voice continued. She sounded somewhat rested, as if she’d taken a long break.

  “You may wonder,” she said, “why I repressed this memory. And, by the way, I don’t know what else became of me, or of my dog. It is hard to believe my mother never searched for me, never found me. That I lived the rest of my days in that place without a mate. Perhaps my mate did come to me, and perhaps she brought our child, which must have been odd-looking; for she loved me, of that I had no doubt, and perhaps we began a new tribe of our own. That, anyway, is my fantasy.” She laughed. “It is also the fantasy upon which the Old Testament rests,” she said, “but without any mention of our intimacy with the other animals or of the brown and black colors of the rest of my folks.

  “I will tell you why I repressed this memory. I repressed it because of Hal. But, Suwelo, there is more; for that is not the only lifetime I have given up, or, I should say, that I have deliberately taken away from myself. In each lifetime I have felt forced to shed knowledge of other existences, other lives. The times of today are nothing, nothing, like the times of old. The time of writing is so different from the so much longer time of no writing. People’s very eyes are no longer the same. The time of living separate from the earth is so much different from the much longer time of living with it, as if being on your mother’s breast. Can you imagine a time when there was no such thing as dirt? It is hard for people to comprehend the things that I remember. Even Hal, the most empathetic of fellow travelers, up to a point, could not follow some of the ancient and pre-ancient paths I knew. I swallowed past experiences all my life, as I divulged those that I thought had a chance, not of being believed—for no one has truly, truly believed me; at least that is my feeling, a bitter one, most of the time—but of simply being imagined, fantasied.

  “Suwelo, in addition to being a man, and white, which I was many times after the time of which I just told you, I was also, at least once, myself a lion. This is one of those dream memories so frayed around the edges that it is like an old, motheaten shawl. But I can still sometimes feel the sun on my fur, the ticks in my mane, the warm swollen fullness of my tongue. I can smell the injured and dying kin who are in need of me to bring them death. I can feel the leap in my legs, the stretch in my belly, as I bound toward them and stun them, in great mercy, with a blow. I can taste the sweet blood as my teeth puncture their quivering necks, breaking them instantly, and without pain. All of this knowledge, all of this remembrance, is just back of my brain.

  “But the experiences I best remember were sometime after the life in which I knew Husa. It was, in fact, a terrible, chaotic time, though it had started out, like the eternity everyone knew, peacefully enough. Like Husa I was friends with a young woman and her children. We grew up together and frequently shared our favorite spots in the forest, or stared by night into
the same fire. But this way of life was rapidly ending, for somehow or other by the time I was fully grown, and big, as lions tend to be, the men’s camp and the women’s had merged. And they had both lost their freedom to each other. The men now took it on themselves to say what should and should not be done by all, which meant they lost the freedom of their long, undisturbed, contemplative days in the men’s camp; and the women, in compliance with the men’s bossiness, but more because they now became emotionally dependent on the individual man by whom man’s law now decreed they must have all their children, lost their wildness, that quality of homey ease on the earth that they shared with the rest of the animals.

  “In the merger, the men asserted themselves, alone, as the familiars of women. They moved in with their dogs, whom they ordered to chase us. This was a time of trauma for women and other animals alike. Who could understand this need of men to force us away from woman’s fire? And yet, this is what they did. I remember the man and the dog who chased me away; he had a large club in one hand, and in the other, a long, sharply pointed stick. And how sad I was to leave my friend and her children, who were crying bitterly. I think I knew we were experiencing one of the great changes in the structure of earth’s life, and it made me very sorrowful, but also very thoughtful. I did not know at the time that man would begin, in his rage and jealousy of us, to hunt us down, to kill and eat us, to wear our hides, our teeth, and our bones. No, not even the most cynical animal would have dreamed of that. Soon we would forget the welcome of woman’s fire. Forget her language. Forget her feisty friendliness. Forget the yeasty smell of her and the warm grubbiness of her children. All of this friendship would be lost, and she, poor thing, would be left with just man, screaming for his dinner and forever murdering her friends, and with man’s ‘best friend,’ the ‘pet’ familiar, the fake familiar, his dog.