by Cynthia Bond
Ruby walked to the window and looked. There was the ripe scent of something coming through the woods. It was sweet and salty, like pomade and sweat. Tears of gratitude wetted her eyes.
She turned to her children. She had so much to teach them. To stand. To fight. To believe in rising. She would teach them. She would teach herself. She felt her heart beating steady in her chest. She could give each of them this knowing. She would give it to them like angel cake.
Acknowledgments
I’D LIKE TO THANK the talented Cole Rucker, Beth Collins-Burgard, Lorrie Fienberg and, of course, my mother, Dr. Zelema Harris, for finding me lost in the thicket of the piney woods, time and again. For resetting my fractured spirit, for warming me with gumbo, tales of mugwort; sharp, pointed wit; and the sweet balm of trust, then guiding me, with love, back to the waiting road. For teaching me, by their magnificence of character, how to live. My agent, Nicole Aragi, for first, choosing my manuscript, which changed the course of my life, then with patience and astounding equanimity gifting me with a sturdy map and compass to help me track a clearer, more meaningful path. For answering every lonely, anxious call with knowing kindness, and for having a belief in my work, so sturdy and firm, that it slipped past my doubt and into my heart. Thanks to my editor, Lindsay Sagnette, who bore gentle witness to both horror and joy. Who led me to blue smoke, clouding the pit fires, and the wind carrying the scent of sweet and salt. Whose stunning insight made all of my waking, walking dreams a reality. To the undaunted, torch bearer, publisher, Molly Stern, for leading not only me, but so many writers, towards the northern star. To everyone at Hogarth, for shaping a trudging hope into a firm reality. To novelist John Rechy, the late James Pickett, playwright and activist, and Henry Kisor of the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University, for giving me the necessary tools and supplies for the journey. To my sister, Narissa Bond, who has held my hand since childhood, and whose inspired voice and music echoed through to my marrow, reminding me of timeless earth and the waiting horizon; and my big little brother, the indomitable Jay Harris, who survived the unsurvivable with such grace and dignity, that he strengthened my resolve to be alive. Who has always kept my feet buoyant and parted the thickest branches to let in the sun. To my dear Billy Wright, whose brilliant writing and wry Texas humor has kept me laughing for twenty-eight years, even through moonless nights. Whose face is, and always has been, family. To Jason Ellenburg for warming me with the irony of his art and ginger sweet potato mash. To the late Harryetta Peterka for infusing my heart with fearlessness so many years ago. To Peggy Medina and Judea Cavoto and the Blackbird Writing Collective for cradling my soul and reminding me of magic. To PEN USA for providing much needed support, and for creating a sacred circle of Fellows, including the late, great, Qevin Oji. To copy editors Carolyn Clark and Jan Simon for providing expertly crafted guideposts. Thanks to Greg Grant of the Piney Woods Native Plant Center for helping me to stop and gather dogwood and honeysuckle along the way. John Imig, Damon O’Neil and Jason Parker of Swork Coffee, for the life-sustaining elixir, and for allowing me to rest, type and weep for hours into months into years. To Lindale Banks and her great-grandmother’s healing hands. To Duvall Osteen, for skillfully scouting the path ahead, and reporting back, that I might not stumble along an unknown terrain, and Nora Evans-Reitz, for deciphering unbelievably cryptic codes and travel notes. An inexpressible gratitude to my late grandfather James Marshall, 16 deceased aunts and uncles and a phalanx of ancestors for whispering hope through the roots and clay. To my talented father, the late Horace Bond, who taught me forgiveness. Special thanks to the courageous, lost children of Hollywood—those who ran away from monsters, hiding in shadows, and those who, sadly and unwittingly, ran towards them. Thanks to the many social workers and organizations who catch these brave, young people, when the bough breaks, including, but not limited to, Children of the Night and the Kruks/Tilsner Youth Shelter. My heartfelt, humble gratitude to my beloved and gallant partner La Tina Jackson, for teaching me about a phenomenon called gravity, for welding love to truth, and with heart-stopping wonder, always welcoming me, at long, long, last, home. To Avrie McKinley-Jackson for stoking the hearth fires. To Julie Curtis, Josh Raisin and Sonia Martinez, for standing vigil, teaching and cherishing my greatest treasure. Most of all, my deepest, forever thanks to my brilliant, beautiful and utterly hilarious daughter, Malia Jay Bond-Blanc, who came to me on the wings of a thousand prayers, who arrived in my arms, slippery and crying, and has in nine years, answered every single Mother’s wish, and others I could never have imagined. Whose shining face, dancing walk, and contemplative joy allowed every breath, every step, every single day.
About the Author
CYNTHIA BOND has taught writing to homeless and at-risk youth throughout Los Angeles for more than fifteen years. She attended Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism, then moved to New York and attended the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. A PEN/Rosenthal Fellow, Bond founded the Blackbird Writing Collective in 2011. At present, Bond works as a writing consultant and teaches therapeutic writing at Paradigm Malibu Adolescent Treatment Center. A native of East Texas, she lives in Los Angeles with her daughter.