Shoulda Been Jimi Savannah

by Patricia Smith

  three dimes sweaty in my fist. i’m two

  unraveled braids, grape bubble gum smash,

  newly baptized into the wrong world.

  i do not know the name of my immediate

  future, wouldn’t recognize the hot snap

  of the word cock, i don’t have a clue

  to that thing’s unerring purpose. but ouch,

  a vessel deep in me is already calling.

  i move forward, impatient, my touch

  outstretched for a stranger, blood money

  straight from my hurt to his. still, i’m blue

  with shame because i know I’m the only one:

  he has to take my hand and guide it there.

  4

  MAD AT MY WHOLE DAMN FACE

  AIN’T BUT ONE WAY HEAVEN MAKES SENSE

  or, Annie Pearl Smith Explains the U.S. Space Program

  First of all, y’all fools. See what’s right in front of you,

  then got folks telling you you ain’t seeing what you

  just saw, other folks saying you saw more than you did.

  Heaven is where my Jesus live. Just one way to get there,

  no great big shiny ship can rise up on that sacred. They think

  they gon’ look the Lord dead in his eye, asking questions

  with nerve enough to wait for answers? No man gon’ reach

  down, just scoop up moon, even if Mr. Cronkite say he did.

  Them white men way out in a desert somewhere, stumbling

  round in them blowed-up suits with movie stuff back a’ them,

  laughing inside those glass heads. And colored folks aahing

  and oohing like the number’s in and they got money comin.’

  Chile, I sho’ didn’t raise you to be this much fool this fast.

  People got to pray they way up. One small step ain’t enough.

  TAVERN. TAVERN. CHURCH. SHUTTERED TAVERN,

  then Goldblatt’s, with its finger-smeared display windows full

  of stifled plaid pinafore and hard-tailored serge, each unattainable

  thread cooing the delayed lusciousness of layaway, another church

  then, of course, Jesus pitchin’ a blustery bitch on every other block,

  then the butcher shop with, hard to believe, the blanched, archaic head

  of a hog propped upright to lure waffling patrons into the steamy

  innards of yet another storefront, where they drag their feet through

  sawdust and revel in the come-hither bouquet of blood, then a vacant

  lot, then another vacant lot, right up against a shoe store specializing

  in unyielding leather, All-Stars and glittered stacked heels designed

  for the Christian woman daring the jukebox, then the what-not joint,

  with vanilla-iced long johns, wax lips crammed with sugar water,

  notebook paper, swollen sour pickles buoyant in a splintered barrel,

  school supplies, Pixie sticks, licorice whips, and vaguely warped 45s

  by Fontella Bass or Johnny Taylor, now oooh, what’s that blue pepper

  piercing the air with the nouns of backwood and cheap Delta cuts—

  neck and gizzard, skin and claw—it’s the chicken shack, wobbling

  on a foundation of board, grease riding relentless on three of its walls,

  the slick cuisine served up in virgin white cardboard boxes with Tabasco

  nibbling the seams, scorched wings under soaked slices of Wonder,

  blind perch fried limp, spiced like it’s a mistake Mississippi don’ made,

  and speaking of, July moans around a perfect perfumed tangle of eight

  Baptist gals on the corner of Kedzie and Warren, fanning themselves

  with their own impending funerals, fluid-filled ankles like tree trunks

  sprouting from narrow slingbacks, choking in Sears’s best cinnamon-

  tinged hose, their legs so unlike their arms and faces, on the other side

  of the street is everything they are trying to be beyond, everything

  they are trying to ignore, the grayed promise of government, twenty-five floors

  of lying windows, of peeling grates called balconies, of yellow panties

  and shredded diapers fluttering from open windows, of them nasty girls

  with wide avenue hips stomping doubledutch in the concrete courtyard,

  spewing their woman verses, too fueled and irreversible to be not

  listened to and wiggled against, and the Madison Street bus revs its tired

  engine, backs up a little for traction and drives smoothly into the sweaty

  space between their legs, the only route out of the day we’re riding through.

  SANCTIFIED

  Every night, my mother leaned over a chipped porcelain tub.

  She dragged the crotch of the day’s panties over a washboard.

  The crotch of those panties was cleaned thin, shredded bright.

  She poured heat onto the absence of stain, pressed, rattled

  the room with scrubbing, squeezed without rinsing, draped

  the stiff, defeated things over the shower rod. Naked

  and bubbled from the waist down, she flipped on the faucet

  at the sink, ran the hot water until every surface was slimy

  with steam, splashed a capful of disinfectant—meant for soiled

  floors and scarred walls—into a rubber bag, filled the bag

  with scalding water. She sat on the toilet, spread her legs,

  stared again at the strands of silver. She twisted a tube to

  the bag, snaked the tube inside her body. The slowly spreading

  burn said the day was ending in God’s name. She threw back

  her head and bellowed. On a hook, waiting, a white dress.

  AN ALL-PURPOSE PRODUCT

  What surfaces can I use this product on?

  ANSWER: Lysol may be used on hard, nonporous surfaces throughout your home. Lysol cleans, disinfects, and deodorizes regular and nonwax floors, nonwood cabinets, sinks, and garbage pails. For painted surfaces, it is recommended that the product first be tested in a small inconspicuous area.

  Can Lysol be used in the kitchen?

  ANSWER: Lysol may be used on countertops, refrigerators, nonwood cabinets, sinks, stovetops, and microwave ovens. For the bathroom, it may be used for tiles, tubs, sinks, and porcelain. And for all around the house, it may be used on floors, garbage cans, in the basement, and in the garage.

  Can I use this inside my refrigerator?

  ANSWER: Lysol may be used on the inside of a refrigerator. However, you must remove all food, and rinse well after using the product.

  Can I use this to kill mold and mildew?

  Yes. Lysol controls the growth of mold and mildew. It kills the mold, but removal of the stain associated with mold and mildew can sometimes be tough.

  Can I use this to scrub the uncontrollable black from the surface of my daughter, to make her less Negro and somehow less embarrassing to me? She’s like the hour after midnight, that chile is.

  Why, yes. Begin with one Sears gray swirled dinette set chair, screeching across the hardwood on spindly steel legs. Place the offending child on the ruptured plastic of the seat. Demand that she bend her neck to grant you access to the damaged area. You know, of course, that black begins at the back of the neck. Grab a kitchen towel, a washcloth, or a sponge, and soak with undiluted Lysol concentrate.

  Ignoring the howls of the impossibly Negro child, scrub vigorously until the offending black surrenders. There may be inflammation, a painful rebellion of skin, slight bleeding. This is simply the first step to righteousness. The child must be punished for her lack of silky tresses, her broad sinful nose, that dark Negroid blanket she wears. Layers of her must disappear.

  PRECAUTIONARY STATEMENTS. DANGER: CORROSIVE TO EYES AND SKIN. HARMFUL IF SWALLOWED. Causes eye and skin damage. Do not get in eyes or on skin. Wear protective eyewear and rubber gloves when handling.
<
br />   Woman, your mission is beyond this. You must clean the child, burn the Southern sun from her. If she squirms from the hurting, demand that she hold on to the sides of the chair. Soak towel or sponge with our patented holy water. Repeat application.

  I have tried to understand PRECAUTIONARY STATEMENTS my mother DANGER: her hatred of this CORROSIVE TO EYES AND SKIN of the me that wears this HARMFUL IF SWALLOWED the monster she had CAUSES EYE AND SKIN DAMAGE the monster she wanted DO NOT GET IN EYES OR ON SKIN

  Mama, can’t you read it? You want me to read it to you? I can’t help being my color! I am black, I am not dirty. I am black, I am not dirty, I am black, I am. Not. Dirty. What you have birthed upon me will not come off. My hair is black crinkled steel, too short to stay plaited. My ass is wide and will get wider. You can pinch my nose, but it will remain a landscape. You cannot reverse me. What is filthy to you will never be cleansed. There is only one thing you can

  change

  I am not dirty, I am black. I am not dirty, I am black, I am not black, I am dirty. I am dirty black, not black. I am black and dirty. Dirt is black. Black is dirty. You convinced me that I am what is wrong in this world.

  Scrub me right.

  Bleed me lighter.

  What is the difference between disinfection and sanitization? Why are there two different usage directions for each?

  ANSWER: According to the Environmental Protection Agency, “disinfection” is killing more than 99.99% of germs on hard, nonporous surfaces in ten minutes, and may pertain to a number of different types of bacteria, viruses, and fungi. The EPA defines “sanitization” as killing 99.9% of bacteria in five minutes or less.

  Lysol products achieve sanitization in 30 seconds.

  29. 28. 27. 26. 25. 24. 23. 22. 21. 20. 19. 18. 17. 16. 15. 14. 13. 12. 11. 10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. . . .

  Done.

  BABY OF THE MISTAKEN HUE

  Baby of the mistaken hue, child of the wrong nose

  with its measure unleashed, baby of the nappy knot,

  I am your mother. Mad at your whole damned face,

  I swear to the task of torching the regrettable Delta

  from your disobeying braids. I pinch your breathing

  shut to reteach the bone, smear guaranteed cream

  on your pimpled forehead, chin, and cheeks. I am

  the corrector. Soaking a kitchen towel with the blaze

  of holy water, I consider just what you are naked,

  recoil at the insistent patches of midnight blanketing

  your skin and I scrub, scrub, push the hard heel

  of my hand deep into the dark, coax cleansing

  threads of blood to the stinging surface, nod gently

  in the direction of your Mama, don’t! I command

  you to bend, to turn, to twist in the wobbly dinette

  chair and reveal what hides from me, those places

  on you that still insist on saying Negro out loud.

  Remember how the nonbelievers screeched their

  nonbelief at Jesus even as he laid his giving hands

  upon them? One day you will comprehend the torch

  I am. You will be burned smaller, lighter, ever closer

  to the whiteness of my God, who loves you as you are.

  BECAUSE

  we sipped blood siphoned from grocery store grapes

  Because matrons squinted at the dim crackling pages of hymnals

  Because we obediently warbled exactly what we found there

  Because spurting prompt hallelujahs was serious business

  Because my mother’s gilded tooth flashed when she begged

  Because on Sundays we presented God with several options

  Because Rev. Thomas’s sick ankles were stiff and blue with fluid

  Because his spat truths were mangled by bad tooth and spittle

  Because he made seventy-two years move like some golden engine

  Because Tony the choir director was, how you say it, a sissy

  Because that old organ wailed like the B-side of a backslap

  Because the pocked wooden floor left language on our knees

  Because the rafters grew slimy with wailing, because, well,

  because Judas, a pimp in blacklight, was smirking at Jesus again

  Because somebody definitely acted up and conjured Mississippi

  Because salt pork flailed in a skillet in the basement kitchen

  Because Lawd knows we were all gon’ be crazy hungry

  Because the Holy Ghost was dawdling in the men’s room

  Because He had scanned the crowd and wasn’t crazy about His odds

  Because the grandbabies of freed slaves shimmied in their seats

  Because every upright elder in the front row blathered with fever

  Because crosses, unblessed with bodies, were everywhere

  Because every one of those wooden T’s bellowed something out loud

  Because, just like last time, the fun-word-of-the-day was sacrifice

  Because that sissy popped like a tear dripped on a red stovetop

  Because he flowed our whole upturned voice from his fingers

  Because worshippers with straightened hair wept slivers of Delta

  Because we were a tangled mess of sanctified thighs and tongues

  Because several instigators whispered Just felt the Ghost come in

  Because Annie Pearl Smith’s dazzled eyes got all-the-way wide

  Because her numbed and hard-girdled waistline twisted in bliss

  Because thick bodies hit the floor hard, squalling, convulsing,

  Because prim ushers dug white-gloved fingers into her forearms

  Because I had to gaze into the peppermint of my mother’s wail

  Because I questioned what soft, holy monster writhed inside her

  Because I had once again been spared the slick sleight hand

  of the devious divinity, because that twirling sissy and I

  loved wrong and were loved wrong, because when Tony sniffed

  haughty at the thrashing, collapsing congregation and whipped the choir

  in the direction of flame, I felt the organ’s bright asking drip like fuel

  into the blood feeding my little hip. So I struck the match.

  WHAT GARFIELD PARK KEPT SAYING

  No one skated. Of course we couldn’t.

  We had very specific ideas about blades,

  and our feet were never involved: My mother

  absently sucked the loose gold that framed

  her left front tooth while slicing into the thickness

  of some pig for the necessity of supper. Daddy

  carried a quick-flick razor in the side pocket

  of pencil-legged pants, just waitin’ for some

  fool to get wide on whiskey, slyly palm the ace,

  and get cut. In my room off of other rooms,

  I danced slow around the edges of paper dolls,

  scared to slip and slice recklessly into blonde flips

  or perfect pink legs. The idea of chilly dance,

  of a snowy felt skirt with flouncy curled hem,

  of lacing up in stiff white leather and scissoring

  gracefully on dirty ice past storefront preaching

  and gin mills, of lifting up one leg and spinning

  like a hot whisper and not even falling, the idea

  was hurtful because one more time I had to reach

  so far outside my own head to even think that way.

  But from the layered gray greenness of the park,

  a recorded monotone kicked in, 10 p.m. every night,

  droning until dawn: Danger. Do not go on the ice.

  Danger. Do not go on the ice. Oh, that’s left over,

  daddy said, from the days when young Jews twirled

  gleefully into and out of the arms of one another,

  passing time while their fathers coaxed thick music

  from bulky phonographs and their mothers fiddled

  with the
perfection of place settings. At night, the ice,

  suddenly more water than anything, impenetrable

  beneath the moonwash, would lure them back.

  The recording was a monotone lullaby meant to lull

  them to sleep. Because sometimes a starlit skater

  would crack the lying surface, flail beautifully,

  scream into the pocket of dark, and drown.

  —

  During the day, I’d scurry past the line of swings

  singing out their rust. Boys leaned toward my

  running to whisper a symphony of the word pussy,

  and frightened manless mothers arced like rooftops

  over their ashy screeching children. I searched hard

  for the lost rink, a golden gleam beneath the napped

  weeds and slush. One time I thought I sensed a faint

  outline, a soft bean-shaped impression, muted and

  glamorous, but there was nothing to be resurrected,

  no water to freeze and glisten and beckon. The metered

  frost of the nightly warning rode uselessly on the air,

  continuing to fracture the ghosted dreams of Negroes.

  But deep in the thump of December, some of Garfield’s

  ice circles turned to mirrors. I was obsessed, standing

  then stomping on them, pounding with my full weight,

  jumping then smashing down, tempting the fate I’d

  been warned about, one more place only beauty could reach.

  TO KEEP FROM SAYING DEAD

  For Gwendolyn Brooks

  Winter, with its numbing gusts and giddy twists of ice,

  is gone now. It’s time for warmth again.

  So where is Gwendolyn Brooks?

  Its huge shoulders slumped, Chicago craves her hobble,

  turns pissed and gray, undusts her name.

  To know her,

  you need to ride her city’s wide watery hips,

  you need to inhale an obscene sausage

  smothered in gold slipping onions

  while standing on a chaotic streetcross

  where any jazz could be yours.

  Walk the hurting fields of the West Side,

  our slice of city burned to bones in ’68:

  Goldblatt’s, the colored Bloomingdale’s, gone.