by L. Divine
“The story of your birth helps you to understand your place in the world. If you would remember it when you have these problems I wouldn’t need to repeat it so much. Now, shut up and listen. This is also part of your homework: listening for your lesson. Hand me that wooden spoon over there.”
I walk over to the overly crowded kitchen counter and grab the wooden spoon. I sit down, pull a paring knife out of the raggedy blue plastic dish rack and start cutting onions for the red beans and rice.
“You almost didn’t make it,” Mama continues. “Your mama and daddy had been married for only seven months, and they were breaking up already. Oh, those two could fight and make up. But, this time was different. Your mama couldn’t take it anymore. She moved in with him to get away from home, so in her mind she couldn’t come back here. So, she went and stayed with your aunt Vivica.
“Your aunt Vivica, her husband, and your mama all went to Vegas for a weekend getaway. Well, your daddy went down there to get away too. As the universe would have it, they ran right into each other for one more night in Vegas. That, my child, is when you decided to be conceived. In the middle of the desert, on a hot night in late June.
“You were born on your mama’s birthday. She wasn’t happy at all. Oh, I remember that. Your mama complained during the whole pregnancy. She said you took everything—her beauty, her energy, her waistline. But, more importantly, you took her birthday, which y’all now have to share.”
I’ve always had these daydreams, or premonitions, if I can call them that. Anyways, right before something is about to happen, I have a déjà vu type experience, sometimes preceded by a hot flash, like the one I had in the mall earlier. Mama’s the only person I can talk to about these things. She says it’s because I was born with a caul on my head.
It was my mom’s twentieth birthday. She was out celebrating with my aunts. Mama said my mom had just gotten her hair done, her shoes were new and her nails were fly. She was rocking a fresh new miniskirt with one of them big loose off-the-shoulder shirts that fit tight at the hips. At nine-months pregnant, my mom was looking hot. She said she wasn’t lettin’ no baby get in the way of her celebrating her birthday.
They were all dancing and having a good time when my mom’s water broke. She went into labor right there on the dance floor. I guess that’s why I like music so much. Well, by the time we all got to the hospital I was on my way, and Mama was right there. It was just before midnight and the doctors were amazed at how easily I came into this world. Smooth as silk, because of the caul on my head, if you let Mama tell it.
A caul has superstitious tales associated with it that date way back past slavery to our time in West Africa. Mama says that where she grew up, cauls are respected for their powers and their uniqueness. Children born with cauls are seen as special because they have a direct link to their ancestors, which gives them the gift of sight. Children born with cauls are usually girls. These children also suffer during their childhood because of their uniqueness and because they seem to always have drama happening all around them.
“You would have been a queen had we stayed in Nawlins, Jayd. You and your mom, because you’re my daughters and your blood is strong. Understand that there will always be drama in your life. Always. As long as you’re Jayd Jackson, granddaughter of mine. You just have to deal with it.”
There are good caul stories and bad caul stories. Mama always tells me both sides to everything. She also says the responsibility of the caul is in the hands of the mother. The mother is supposed to take the caul, wrap it carefully in a clean piece of cheesecloth or another cotton garment, and bury it in the garden of the house the child will live in.
“If this ritual of reverence and respect is performed, the child and her powers will be protected always and she will have guidance from the ancestors. If this is not done, she won’t have her rightful protection and guidance, and she’ll have to learn her power by way of wisdom, which comes out of suffering and drama, in your case.
“Considering the circumstances of your birth, your mama wasn’t trying to hear too much else, especially not about something wrapped around her baby’s head. The doctor saw the thin, purplish-blue membrane covering your head and thought it was choking you. He took it and threw it in a pile of biologically hazardous waste to be burned. Your caul never received a proper burial.
“It was burned, my little fire child, and your destiny cannot fulfill itself in any other way. This is why, I suspect, your visions are limited to your dreams, unlike your mother and me.” My grandmother pours the last of the tomatoes into the huge boiling pot of beans, and turns to me with a warm smile on her face.
“I cried for a month when they told me they burned it. Then one night when you were almost a month old, I had a dream of a child bursting out of a ball of flames that seemed it was big enough to fill all of eternity. This child emerged with some scars, but overall, she was healthy and stronger for it. I never feared for your survival after that.
“I knew that your path would be rough, yes, but impossible, never. Instead of the power of sight, you have the power of words. Like the charm bag I gave you. There are words written on them you need to pay close attention to. You’ll learn of your special path and powers as time passes. Now, chile, it’s time to make the corn bread.”
Mama may have been trying to make me feel better and maybe even a little special by telling me about my path and powers, but the first time she told me this story I was scared. The first power I need to learn about is how to squash this mess with Trecee without getting into combat with her. I really need a way to make it through the rest of this week without any more bull from Misty, Trecee, or KJ.
“But, Mama, you ain’t helped me figure out what to do,” I say, passing her the sifted cornmeal. She starts to melt the butter in a cast-iron skillet while shaking a little of the cornmeal over the melting butter. It gives her corn bread a special crispy crust that melts in your mouth. Mama can throw down in the kitchen.
“Jayd, what do you want me to say? Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do. In your case, you also have to be careful of wishing bad things on people.” Mama picks up the bowl of corn bread batter and pours it into the skillet, which she puts in the oven to bake. The scent engulfs the entire kitchen, and so does the heat.
“It’s hot in here. I need to get some air,” I say, moving toward the back door. I can’t deal with any more mystical homework or cleansings or anything. I’ve got to figure out how not to whip this girl’s ass in two days.
“You’re a fire child, Jayd. I’ve told you that many times, and yet you still don’t hear the lesson in the story,” Mama says. “You may regret the circumstances of your birth but you can choose how to react to the story of your birth, just like you can in this situation with Trecee.” Mama stops talking to take a sip of her water. “Keep a cool head, listen, and be patient. You can control your powers like you can control your actions. Now go think about that for a while,” Mama says, shooing me out the door.
I love my grandmother, but she can confuse a sistah at times. That’s why I got my girls. They kept it real, especially Nellie. I’ll have to speak with them again tomorrow about what to do. They don’t always give the best advice, but at least I understand exactly what they’re saying, when they say it. Now, it’s time to think about my homework. I have three chapters to read for Government, and I ain’t even thought about my other classes yet. Oh well, tomorrow will come whether I’m ready for it or not.
13
Fire Child
“Fire, fire, fire, burning fire
It’s burnin’ so high and they can’t put it out.”
—SIZZLA
My mouth has always been my biggest problem. If it isn’t getting me into trouble at home, it’s always getting me into some mess at school. I don’t really talk about anyone behind their back, but rather I tell people what I feel to their face. They usually don’t appreciate the directness of my ways, so I’m confused. Am I supposed to keep my opin
ions to myself, even if it just needs to be said? I don’t think so.
“Are you going to talk to Trecee, or are we going with Mickey’s plan?” Nellie asks.
“Jayd, you ain’t gone get nowhere with that girl,” Mickey says as we walk toward her locker. We’re in the Main Hall and it’s packed, as usual. It’s five minutes before fourth period and I need to get to class. We’re walking against the majority of the oncoming student traffic and people keep knocking into me.
“I don’t know about fighting Trecee tomorrow, but if one more person bumps into me without saying ‘excuse me,’ I’m gone whip somebody’s ass,” I say. That’s one thing about these White folks—they don’t say excuse me when they bump into you. They can almost knock your butt down and never even look back.
“Then why don’t you say something to one of them?” Mickey suggests, teasing me. She knows I ain’t gone say nothing. I’d say something, but I don’t want any more negative vibes, know what I mean? “Whatever, Mickey,” I say, rolling my eyes at her. She can be rude when she wants to be. Her little attitude is what gets her hated on by other broads. Like I said before, it’s my mouth that gets me into a whole heap of mess.
Take for example this whole situation with Trecee. On Tuesday, she tried to jump me in front of my locker. On Wednesday, she sent a little note to Misty saying she’s going to jump me on Friday. Well, it’s Thursday now and I don’t want to waste any more time. So I’ve decided to be the bigger person and step to her to squash this mess.
“I think you should just walk right up to her and knock her ass out. That’s what I’d do,” Mickey says while inspecting her extra-long, airbrushed, acrylic nails. She’s obsessed with her looks. She gets her nails done every Friday, so I know she’s bugging out by now because her polish has moved up from the cuticle just a tiny bit, indicating that her nails ain’t fresh.
“Mickey, how the hell I’m just gone walk up to someone and sock them in the face? This ain’t no beat-down,” I say, knowing Mickey don’t feel me. She’s straight gangsta when she has to be. No warning. No talking. Just straight blows. As bougie as Nellie is, I don’t know how she and Mickey ever became friends.
“Thanks for the sound advice, home girl, but I think I’ll do this my way,” I say. We get to Nellie’s locker and wait for her while she gets her books out.
“And what way is that?” Nellie asks. “Avoiding her or just telling her off so tough that she can’t say nothing back?”
Nellie, who hates arguing, always admires the way I can tell people off, especially girls. She’s not good with confrontation.
“Nah. I’m just gone try reasoning with her,” I say. I’ve given this a lot of thought, especially since my hot-flash episode yesterday and I don’t want to hurt anyone if I don’t have to. I don’t want to be responsible for what happens to Trecee as a result of her stupidity and my impatience. I also don’t want to get hurt myself. I just need to reason with her, if that’s at all possible.
“Reasoning with her?” they ask in unison.
“Yes, reasoning, vibing, getting her to listen to me.”
Nellie and Mickey both look dumbfounded.
“Why are y’all so shocked? Have people completely forgotten how to talk to one another?”
“Jayd, this ain’t no damn meeting. This is a fight. A hair-pulling, lip-busting, shirt-ripping fight. You the only one who don’t see that and that makes you stupid,” Mickey says.
The bell rings for class and everyone is rushing through the halls. So far, no one else has bumped into me, but my guard is up and ready.
“I’ll see y’all later. Thanks for the advice,” I say sarcastically.
“Whatever, Jayd. You better get with the program or she gone catch you off guard,” Mickey says while checking her text messages from her man.
“We’re out. See you at lunch,” Nellie says. Nellie and Mickey are off to fourth period and I’m left to plan my meeting with Trecee. In order to talk to Trecee, I’ll have to wait until lunch and go over to South Central. I’ll think of how to say what I want to say while in Government.
I walk away from Nellie’s locker and turn back down the Main Hall toward class.
“Hey, Jayd. How’s it going?” Jeremy asks, sneaking up behind me. “Did you do last night’s reading?”
This boy’s got me so nervous I can hardly speak. “Yeah, I managed to get through it. How about you?” I ask, amazed that I’m walking to class with one of the most sought-after boys on campus.
“It was boring. But I’m kinda used to Mrs. Peterson,” he says with the biggest smile on his face. He’s so cute. “She can be a real witch sometimes. If you get on her bad side, kinda like you did yesterday, she’ll never forget it.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I say, remembering yesterday’s battle over the Constitution. “It’s just that it gets under my skin how some teachers can ignore history.”
“Hey, I feel you. Last year she actually doubted the Holocaust ever happened, and my great-grandmother’s whole family was wiped out. Like I said, a witch.” Jeremy opens the classroom door and follows me to our seats. As soon as we sit down, the late bell rings and Mrs. Peterson starts right in on me as if I’m the only person in this classroom full of students. I try to stay calm and not trip, but Mrs. Peterson is sweating me hard.
“Miss Jackson, what do you think of the U.S. Constitution? Is it a waste of paper, like you said yesterday?” I look at her with such intensity I think she’ll burst into flames. Then I check myself, remembering yesterday’s ice-cream incident.
“Or,” she continues with a twisted grin, “would you like to retract your statement after doing last night’s reading assignment on the amendments?”
My initial response is a resounding “hell no” but I don’t want to go there and she isn’t finished yet.
“Is it a waste of paper, and therefore trees, and therefore a waste of the very air we breathe, as you so eloquently stated yesterday, or not, Jayd?” Her dramatics are finished and now it’s my turn.
Man, she’s got a great memory, or else she writes down everything we say for later use. Either way, she’s got me on this one, and because she’s being so snide about it, I have to give her a run for her money.
“I didn’t say it was a waste of paper,” I say with all of the attitude meant for Trecee. “I said that paper and ink were both wasted on writing the Constitution because it states that slaves—Black people, in case you forgot—were said to be only three-fifths of a person for tax purposes, and they’re otherwise referred to as property. This document demeans and offends the same citizens who are supposed to abide by these laws, the same document that’s now supposed to protect them. The entire document is tainted. Because of these facts, I think the Constitution—in order to be effective and fair—needs to be rewritten so that none of the citizens mentioned in the Constitution feel degraded and instead feel valued and protected.”
Everyone in the classroom starts clapping and whistling, including Jeremy, who looks very impressed. Mrs. Peterson, on the other hand, doesn’t look impressed in the least. In fact, she looks upset.
“Are you down off your soapbox now, Miss Jackson?” She doesn’t really give me a chance to respond; she doesn’t even look my way. “Good. Well, Miss Jackson, I do understand how you might be upset. However, I don’t think that one little portion of the entire document should be a cause to rewrite the entire Constitution. Moving on. . . .”
I can’t help myself. She always has the last word, and this time, it’s not happening. I raise my hand and respectfully, but with attitude, say, “Excuse me, but first of all, I don’t think I’m the only person who should be upset.
“And by your exaggerated you I assume you meant because I’m Black, and I resent that. Everybody should be upset that we were even slaves, including you. And we all need to understand that it’s not one little portion—it’s a soiled document, plain and simple, and it has committed far more than one offense.”
I thought she’d have a heart
attack right then and there—just die on me. Flat out, on the floor, glasses and all. You see, Mrs. Peterson don’t like me too much already and it’s only the third day of school. She’s already accused me of “insubordination”—one big word for saying I don’t respect her, and she’s right. Most of the teachers up here are just like her. They’re White, upper-middle class, either overweight or underweight (in her case, over), and they don’t tolerate different people. That’s South Bay High.
Mrs. Peterson also has a thing about her “rules.” She likes to run her class like Congress, where she’s the House Speaker, and we’re her little representatives. Well, I’m a “rebel with a mouth” as Mama would say, so she can’t speak for me—I speak for myself. And I don’t appreciate her making light of this issue. I’m already upset that Trecee is tripping off some stupid mess, now this.
“Miss Jackson,” Mrs. Peterson says with her teeth clenched, her jaw tight and her gray-dyed-red hair standing straight on end. She’s tapping her foot and her hip is moving up and down. She’s so short and wide though, you can hardly see it. So far, I’ve learned Mrs. Peterson only taps her foot when she’s talking about the Kennedys in Congress (she’s a Republican) or when she’s had enough of a student and is about to bring her wrath down upon them.
“Miss Jackson, you speak of things you know nothing about, and you also speak out of turn, rudely interrupting me.” Just then, Mrs. Peterson does something Jeremy says she rarely does: She smiled at me. Because this was unexpected, I didn’t know what to think. I just knew it couldn’t be a good thing.
“You seem to have a profound interest in the Constitution, Jayd, so therefore, I’ll allow you to handwrite the entire Constitution, highlighting all portions dealing with slavery, or so you think. You may go to the library and stay there until you’re done.”
No, she didn’t. I can’t believe her. She’s so unpredictable. Now, what do I do? I guess to the library I go.