“Glory, glory, hallelujah!” the group continued.
Up went my leg. It snapped straight out from my body at a ninety-degree angle. Alarmed, Mrs. Reece looked at me. “Lord, help me,” I prayed.
“Hold on, honey,” Mrs. Reece whispered as she took a step toward me.
My leg began to shake in midair.
“Don’t worry, sugar,” Mrs. Reece said, stroking my cheek. “I’m right here.”
“His truth is marching on!” the group sang.
I felt the warmth of her touch. The heat from her fingers sizzled through my throat. “Yes, His truth is marching on!” I said, the block of ice melting away. “His truth is marching on!” I repeated, forcing my foot down in front of the microphone, liberating myself with a twitch of the toes instead of a jerk. “His truth is marching on!” I shouted ardently. My arms were moving; my legs were stepping high. With the aplomb of a Buckingham Palace guard, I marched. Up and down, I marched, parading back and forth. Grinning widely, Mrs. Reece motioned to the band, who had quit playing; once more they began to play. “In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea!” I belted, my voice bursting from my body. “With the glory in His bosom He transfigures you and me.” The music was finally engulfing me, mesmerizing me, holding me close. “As He died to make men Holy,” I sang in a deep voice, “let us die to make men free. His truth is marching on.”
“Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on!” all of us sang until the crowd, clapping loudly, drowned us out and we could no longer hear ourselves. So, joining hands, we formed a semicircle and silently bowed.
Looking up, I stared at the townspeople, at all of those faces. Some were perplexed. Confusion twisted their features. Others were annoyed. They were shaking their heads. But many, it seemed, were happy. And, suddenly, the impact of their smiles flowed like warm water all over me.
“Old Vine Methodist,” Mayor Anglin shouted, pushing through our arms. “Good citizens of Crockett County, how about giving them another hand!”
Then, before I knew it, while the audience was still applauding and I was still basking in the heat of approval, royal blue robes began floating across the stage. “A little angel,” came the withered old voice of Mrs. Fiedler as she extended her arm and offered me a robe. Dizzy and disconcerted, I blinked once, inhaled deeply, then composed myself. Quickly, I took the blue robe. On it came, washing away the green. Immediately, the choral group from Ginseng Episcopalian pressed forward. A slight twitch tingled in my arms. For a second I felt the urge to flap them, but then the music started. “Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war,” we all sang. The melody seeped into my arms and calmed me. Its measured tempo soothed me. And when I ordered my arms to substitute flutter for flight, they did just as they were told. Daintily, I fluttered my fingers. A touch of love. A bite of cake. And next—full-throated and grandly—I was lifting up my voice in song. “With the Cross of Jesus going on before!” My heart liquefied. The music washed over me. “…Through the night of doubt and sorrow. On goes the pilgrim band, singing songs of expectation, marching to the promised land,” I sang. We all sang. And the crowd went wild. They marched, pounding their shoes into the grass, all the while chanting, “Onward, Christian soldiers,” over and over again. At the same time, the choral group from Poplar Holler Pentecostal Holiness Church was marching toward the platform—shaking it with the thumping of their feet.
“We didn’t know you were singing with everyone.” Miranda Williams giggled, edging against me. “That’s nice.” She handed me a white, discolored robe. “You’ve already got on two,” she said. “Now it’ll be three.” Instantly, a wave of white, like a blanket of foam, splashed forward. At once, ten people burst out singing. “Up to the bountiful Giver of life. Gathering home! Gathering home!” they sang in rich, melodious voices. “Up to the dwelling, where cometh no strife. The dear ones are gathering home.” With arms locked around each other, all of us started to sway. Like a huge wave, that soft blanket buoyed me up and exposed me to the sun. The Holy Spirit burned through me, and I began to sing alongside my brothers and sisters. “Gathering home…gathering home,” I sang out. “Never to sorrow more, never to roam. Gathering home…gathering home. God’s children are gathering home.” My face was wet; my eyes were filled with tears. “Up to the city where falleth no night. Gathering home! Gathering home!” we all sang together, rocking from side to side. “Up where the Savior’s own face is the light. The dear ones are gathering home.” Releasing our arms, we raised them upward and looked toward the sky. “Gathering home…gathering home,” we ardently chorused. “Never to sorrow more, never to roam. Gathering home…gathering home. God’s children are gathering home.” Thereupon, each of us joined hands, and like a big net, we swung our arms outward. “Up to the beautiful mansions above. Gathering home! Gathering home!” we all harmonized, bringing our arms back to our sides. “Safe in the arms of His infinite love. The dear ones are gathering home,” each one of us sang, our arms still swinging. “Gathering home…gathering home. Never to sorrow more, never to roam,” our voices sang out. “Gathering home…gathering home. God’s children are gathering home.”
“Here we come!” Miss Gooch said, as we finally stood still on the stage. “For you,” she said, grabbing my arm, pulling me over, and wrapping a gold robe around me. “You gotta stay. We need you,” she said, as the group from Matanni’s church stepped down and the group from Union Church took their place. “Oh, beautiful for spacious skies. For amber waves of grain,” her strong soprano voice rang out.
“For purple mountain’s majesty. Above the fruited plain,” we all joined in. Like wheat blowing in the breeze, our gold-draped bodies leaned from side to side. Our voices were ripe and hearty. “America, America, God shed His grace on thee. And crown thy good with brotherhood. From sea to shining sea.”
“Oh, beautiful for patriot’s dream,” we were singing when Mr. Leedy bellowed, “Make way!” And with his words, in a flash of red, the choral group from Second Street Baptist Church materialized. “This is yours!” Mr. Leedy shouted, throwing a red robe high into the air, where it opened up like flower before falling to my shoulders. “Now sing!” he commanded, theatrically shaking his arm like a baton.
Whereupon all of us began to sing, “My country ’tis of thee. Sweet land of liberty. Of thee, I sing. Land where my fathers died. Land of the pilgrims’ pride. From every mountain side, let freedom ring!” Mayor Anglin, who had been frowning, was now lifting his voice in song. And soon, in a transfusion of sound, every group was singing, and every person in front of the courthouse was singing, too. “My native country, thee. Land of the noble free. Thy name I love. I love thy rocks and rills. Thy woods and templed hills. My heart with rapture thrills, like that above.”
I was sweating profusely beneath all five robes—the green, the blue, the white, the gold, and the red. “Our Father’s God to thee. Author of liberty. To thee we sing,” all of us sang. I was singing rapturously when suddenly my eyes met Matanni’s; and, for an instant, my heart froze. Her arm shot up, waved, then she smiled. “Long may our land be bright. With freedom’s holy light. Protect us by Thy might. Great God, our King!” At that moment, a handwritten sign shot up like a crown above the heads of the crowd. Dressed in red, white, and blue, Miss Emily was tilting on top of the bench like an unfurled, massive flag, propped up by the sturdy shoulders of Darrel Lute. WELCOME TO THE WORLD, the sign read. Right then and there, I believed in my future. In front of the whole of Ginseng, beneath that mountain of cloth, my heart was finally beating bright red and strong for all to see.
EPILOGUE
“Tourette Syndrome is a reason for your behavior,” the doctor had said, “but it’s not an excuse.”
That was four years ago at Berea College. I’m twenty-one now.
I got an education and a diagnosis all at the same time—the reason why I am, the reason why I jerk, croak, and tic. A neurological disorder, neurotransmitt
ers gone haywire, lid off the id, computer overload. I suffer from a disorder. A disorder with continental flare. First described in 1885 by Gilles de la Tourette. The good doctor was glad to make my acquaintance.
But why did I say suffer? Let’s say, grow. I have found order in my disorder. I have embraced my difference.
In rocky soil, I, Icy Sparks, have blossomed. My difference has allowed me to flourish. Without it, life would have been easier, but I would not be me.
Look around you. Nowhere in these mountains will you find a stronger family. The photograph on my mantel says it all. Me in my cap and gown. Matanni and Miss Emily dressed in smiles. All of us wearing a legacy of joy.
Nowhere in these mountains will you find a better friend. Just ask Mamie Tillman, or Mrs. Mamie Combs, I should say. For six years, through six birthing blankets, we’ve been fast friends, and now, with my own hands, I’m knitting her a seventh. A blue and pink one for the baby on the way. The rest of Mama’s blankets I’m keeping for myself and my daughter.
Look closely. You’ll never find a more loyal friend. Maizy Hurley Cunningham will tell you so. We talk about nursing, about music therapy. We still talk about empathy.
Just write Peavy Lawson and Lane Carlson in Vietnam, and they’ll tell you about getting a letter from me every week.
Look around you. In this country of coal mines and curves, you won’t find a more openhearted woman—to her old friends and to her new ones.
I’m a caring therapist. Children silent as stone sing for me. Children who cannot speak create music for me.
“And why, frog child or saint?” you might ask. “Why are you so special?”
In just two words, I’ll answer you. In just two words, I’ll give you the reason why. Tourette Syndrome. At first, a curse. Now, a blessing. Frog child and saint. Matanni always says, “The good Lord works in mysterious ways.”
So what do I care if—in these genes of mine—I also carry croaks, curses, and jerks?
So what do I care if I’m led to speak in tongues and in the voices of animals, if I have the urge to flap my arms and fly?
If I sometimes let my feelings show and expose the pokeweed inside me, I say, “So be it,” because in these genes I also carry nourishment, a voice so sweet that it can soothe the angriest spirit, and eyes that not only pop out to look at the sun but also are curious and eager to learn.
So if in these genes of mine I pass down all of these traits—the jerks, croaks, curses, and repetitions—I will not care because my children will be blessed.
And if someday the townsfolk say to my daughter, “You is your mama’s child,” I’ll rejoice knowing that no one can forget the memory of a golden-haired girl who throws back her head, pops out her eyes, and croaks loudly into the dusk of a hot summer day.
Icy Sparks Page 33