P.S. Be Eleven

by Rita Williams-Garcia

  Dedication

  For Laree, Lisa, Shandese, Kaui, Khari, and Kayla

  Contents

  Dedication

  A Grand Negro Spectacle

  Oppression

  My Girl

  Herkimer Street

  Heckle and Jeckle

  My Darling Daughters

  P.S. Be Eleven

  Meeting Miss Hendrix

  To and from Cecile

  School Shopping

  I Want You Back

  At Madison Square Garden

  Doves

  The Mummy Jar

  Grade Six

  The Subject Was Zambia

  Your Mother. Nzila

  Hooah

  Uncle D’s Bag

  Half-moons and Squiggles

  Brooklyn Magic

  Sonny Bono Has a Big Nose

  Chinua Achebe

  Sick Visit

  Through the Grapevine

  Jack and the Giant

  Twelve

  Hee Haw Square Dance

  Suited to Be President

  Sweetie and Honey

  True-Blue

  Change of Seasons

  Another Drumroll

  Taste of Power

  Never on a Sunday

  My Girls

  I’m Not Muhammad

  Quick-Fast-in-a-Hurry

  Every Good-bye

  Merry Like Christmas

  Real

  On Atlantic Avenue

  Dance, Grade Six

  Who’s Loving You?

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ad

  Also by Rita Williams-Garcia

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  A Grand Negro Spectacle

  You’d think that after flying six-odd hours from New York to Oakland, then flying six-odd hours back, Vonetta, Fern, and I would be world-class travelers, and those bumps and dips would be nothing.

  The 727 still shook, rattled, and rolled from cloud to cloud with no sign of letting up, and we were headed into a storm as we approached New York. The captain said that good old storm was just the thing we needed to cool off the sticky August air waiting to greet us on the ground.

  The last thing my sisters and I needed was lightning bolts seeking out plane metal. I kept the fact about lightning’s love of big metal objects to myself. No need scaring my sisters with what I knew. They were scared enough.

  We had made the best of our flight. For nearly six hours up in the clouds, we couldn’t stop talking about meeting our mother, going to the People’s Center, and getting to know Sister Mukumbu, Sister Pat, and even Crazy Kelvin. We went on and on about Fern and the Black Panthers at the Free Huey rally. We chanted our mother Cecile’s poem—softly, we thought—until the short brunette stewardess came over and cleared her throat. We got the message and stopped softly accusing the world of kidnapping Mother Africa’s children.

  When we wore out those memories, we went on about the Ankton sisters and their swinging dresses, and about meeting Mean Lady Ming for the first time and being afraid of her. Then we talked about our San Francisco excursion, and eating all those dumplings and fortune cookies. And how the police took our mother away in their black-and-white squad car. But then we’d end up yapping about me riding down that big old hill on Hirohito’s go-kart. From there I’d take my fair share of teasing about Hirohito Woods. Then I’d drift off into puffy clouds, thinking a boy liked me, let me ride his go-kart, and promised to be my pen pal.

  You’d think we’d save our summer adventures for later, since we’d have to retell them to Pa and Big Ma, but we couldn’t stop laughing, remembering, and coming up with plans to get our stories straight. We couldn’t tell it all. If we did, we’d never be sent west to see our mother again.

  The captain told us to fasten our seat belts. We were coming in for a landing. We held hands and leaned to the left to watch New York come in closer. The bay, roads, buildings, houses, and bushes that were really trees. One hundred butterflies tickled the insides of my belly as the plane went down, down, down. Vonetta and Fern closed their eyes and covered their ears. We all screamed until we met a big bounce against the tarmac followed by smaller bounces and bumps.

  Big Ma wouldn’t have stood for any screaming coming from her grands, but what Big Ma didn’t know wouldn’t earn us her shame. Instead, the short brunette stewardess wagged her finger at us. “All of that was uncalled for.”

  We were supposed to say, “Yes, ma’am,” but we didn’t.

  Instead, Vonetta said, “That landing was scary.”

  “And bumpity-bump crashy,” Fern added.

  “It sure enough was,” I said.

  The stewardess, who was also our airport chaperone, shook her head and told us to stay put until everyone was off the plane. She’d escort us to the baggage claim after she and the other stewardess did the final tidying up.

  We unbuckled our belts and waited while mostly men in suits, college students, and a few women with children made their way down the aisle and to the front of the plane. We were anxious to go, but the stewardess chatted on with the captain instead of doing her tidying up.

  “We’re ready,” Vonetta announced to our chaperone.

  I shushed her, but the stewardess ignored us, and Fern tugged at my arm and said, “Gotta, gotta,” which was her secret code for “I have to make pee-pee.” The way she squirmed it wasn’t much of a secret.

  “Let’s go back there.” I nodded toward the tail of the airplane, where the bathroom was. I had made her use the airplane toilet while we were halfway through the flight. The flight was too bumpy and she hadn’t forgotten it.

  Fern shook her head no. She wouldn’t go back there again. Not even with the plane parked on the ground.

  We got up and marched down the aisle toward the cockpit.

  “Excuse me,” I said loudly. “We have to get to the bathroom.”

  “Just hold your horses, young lady. You’ve held on for this long. You can last a little longer.”

  Fern’s face was turning colors and her eyebrows reached up to say “please, please” so I grabbed Fern’s hand, said, “Come on,” and we exited the 727 without our chaperone. The three of us went running down the carpeted walkway toward the terminal.

  We heard her shouting, “Stop those Negro girls! Stop them!”

  Vonetta yelled back, “We’re black girls!”

  Who cared what kind of “colored” the stewardess called us? I had to get my sister to the bathroom. Fern kept up as best she could while I trotted fast enough to keep my sisters moving forward but not too fast for Fern.

  I wished we were back in the days when I could scoop Fern up. We spent one summer with Cecile and all of a sudden Fern was too big for Miss Patty Cake, too big for the night-light, and too big for me to pick her up.

  We ran like three fugitives, Vonetta cackling and Fern saying, “Gotta, gotta.” Everyone’s eyes latched on to us, but I kept my eyes open for restroom signs.

  Thankfully we didn’t have far to run. Under the restroom sign was a line of women, teenagers, and kids. The line wound outside, but only Fern hopped from one foot to the other or said, “Gotta, gotta,” so I pulled Fern past the line and inside the bathroom. Vonetta followed. There was a ruckus, starting with a woman and some kids near the front of the line wearing Mickey Mouse ears. A stall door swung open and I shoved Fern inside while Vonetta and I stood guard. A woman said, “I was next!” Then I said, “We claim this stall for the people.” And Vonetta said, “Right on!” and we thought we looked pretty tough standing there guarding the stall for our sister like the Black Panthers guarded the courthouse steps for Huey Newton.

  The
n this other woman stood before us scolding, “‘The people,’ my fanny. No one has the right to be rude. You should have asked politely.”

  A stall door slammed and another woman came out. “Politely? These don’t know from polite.” She glared at us.

  We stood our ground like Panthers standing up to a line of cops.

  A lot of good it did Fern. While the women tried to shame us, and Vonetta and I stood our ground, the worst had happened. A clear pee-pee stream ran from Fern’s stall down the tiles to the next stall. Fern must not have made it onto the bowl, and the squatter next to Fern let out a stream of words of her own.

  Now I was mad at myself for not doing what I should have done: picked Fern up, too big or not, got her in the stall, her shorts down, and sat her on the bowl like I did when she was three.

  When Fern came out I checked her shorts. She had at least managed to get them down in time before she sprayed the floor.

  There were too many eyes and mouths agape, accusing and murmuring. I led Fern to the sink and turned the knob on.

  “Go, Fern. Wash your hands.”

  Fern’s chin stayed pressed to her chest.

  “Go ’head, Fern.”

  Two girls in black Mickey Mouse ears snickered. Vonetta and I cut our eyes at them.

  “Where is your mother?” their mother asked. She also wore Mickey Mouse ears. Then all of the women chimed in, and one said our mother should take a firm hand to us.

  “Our mother is a soldier in the revolution,” Vonetta said.

  No one knew what to make of that.

  Then the washroom lady pushed her way between the women, the laughing girls, and us.

  “Lord, look at that mess,” the woman declared. It was just a little stream but she was no one to fool with.

  That didn’t stop Vonetta. “Lucky thing you have that mop, Miss.”

  I grabbed Fern’s wet hand and Vonetta’s, and we made our way around the angry washroom lady and through the line of waiting tsk-tskers and pointers.

  My sisters and I ran, dodging through travelers with luggage, and airport workers of all kinds. We followed the signs pointing to the baggage claim area, where we expected to find Pa and Big Ma, and somewhere during all that running we began to laugh.

  Sure enough, I saw Big Ma, although I didn’t see Pa. Our grandmother’s sea-green dress with matching hat and white feather stood out among black, brown, gray, and navy business suits. She was hard to miss.

  No one was happier than I was to see Big Ma, who, while I ran with my arms stretched open, didn’t seem as tall as she’d always been. But what would we call her besides Big Ma?

  We were running and giggling, and just before we were in hugging range, my long, flapping arms flapped into a newspaper spread open before a gray suit. The paper flew in two directions and I turned and said, “Sorry!” but kept running toward Big Ma, whose arms weren’t outstretched like mine. Her hand covered her mouth and her eyes widened like she was watching a horror movie in the dark. Then both hands went from her mouth to her hips.

  “Delphine.” The “Del” pulled down low and quick and the “phine” had no choice but to follow like a shamed child.

  The joy of running and screaming got knocked clean out of me. I stopped running while Vonetta and Fern sped past me and clamped onto Big Ma.

  “Yes, Big Ma.”

  “Delphine. Did you see what you just did?”

  My three-second silence went three seconds too long for Big Ma.

  “Go over to that white man and apologize for knocking him down. Go on.”

  “I told him I was sorry,” I said.

  Her face boiled beneath her hat and wig.

  “Delphine . . .” Now the “phine” spoke her mind. “We’re out here in public. . . .” Public meant being out among a throng of white people, and for that I was glad. Their white faces and wide-eyed stares saved me from getting the good side of Big Ma’s right hand. All I needed was for the women in the bathroom—led by the Mickey-Mouse-ears wearers, the washroom lady, and the short brunette stewardess—to come out wagging their fingers and telling all.

  The white man in the gray suit, the one whose newspaper I had sent flying, approached us, and I knew I was in trouble. Big Ma both feared white people and placed them up on a pedestal.

  The man started out using one of Big Ma’s favorite words. “Ma’am,” he said, “it was an accident.” He was full of smiles, one aimed my way.

  “Mister . . .” she told the man, who was older than Uncle Darnell and younger than Pa. “Sir,” she started again. “I don’t know what gets into children, running in the airport like horses on a racetrack.” I doubted the man understood her. Big Ma’s “children” sounded like a “churn” making butter, and depending upon how he heard her, her “horses” watered lawns or housed people. His expression didn’t stop Big Ma from apologizing on my behalf. “She wasn’t brought up to be running in public places. No, sir. She surely wasn’t.”

  The young man was uncomfortable with Big Ma’s pleading and apologizing and said again, “It was an accident, ma’am.” He folded his newspaper and took off as fast as he could.

  If the real Black Panthers and not that fake Crazy Kelvin had seen Big Ma, they would have called her a traitor to her people. They would have drawn an ugly Aunt Jemima picture of Big Ma with a pig snout and tail, and put it in the Black Panther newspaper, the same way they drew cartoons of the police, and Richard Nixon, who was running for president.

  The man’s word wasn’t enough for Big Ma. She went on scolding, “Delphine. What do you mean running through the airport, knocking down a white man, causing a grand Negro spectacle for all the world to see?”

  The more Big Ma carried on, the more she got exactly what she didn’t want in the first place. There wasn’t an eye that could turn away from us.

  Oppression

  Big Ma was still talking about the nice white man who didn’t have me arrested, whipped, or strung up. She assured me that all of the above would have happened if we were down home in Autauga County, Alabama. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why I didn’t humbly and full-out apologize. Didn’t I value any of my eleven years and ten months? She said, “It’s that no-mothering mother we got to thank for all of this.” After paying tribute to Cecile, she swore I had stepped on the known and unknown graves of every Charles, Gaither, and Trotter who had to bow and scrape before the white man to keep from getting strung up in an oak tree or drowned in the Alabama River.

  Our suitcases couldn’t have arrived any sooner. I grabbed the largest bag, and Vonetta grabbed the next. Big Ma went to take the smallest bag, but Fern took the handle quickly. “I can carry it,” she said, and we lugged our suitcases outside.

  The storm over New York had been mild. Barely enough to cool things off.

  By now Big Ma had worn herself out scolding me in the names of our family and my lack of good common sense. She wiped her forehead but looked hot and oppressed under her wig and hat. Her “Second Sunday” outfit was soaked around the neck and armholes. There was nothing left to do with her wet handkerchief but to stick it back inside her purse.

  We stood at the curb of the terminal where taxis pulled up and wives jumped out of station wagons to kiss their husbands and hand over car keys. A bell captain helped two older girls in jeans and T-shirts get a footlocker and two suitcases inside the back of a Chevy. I made out a blue crown on one T-shirt and under it, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY. The bell captain slammed the trunk door down, the word NOW in big, bowl-curved letters above the license plate. The back side of the car sagged but everything fit. The bell captain tapped the trunk and the Chevy drove away. My eyes followed the girls and their Chevy, wanting to drive far. Now.

  I didn’t drift for long. There were people standing a ways off to the side, also waiting. I didn’t have to turn to look at them. The color black atop their heads came through well enough in my side vision. They were the Mickey-Mouse-ears wearers from the bathroom.

  I was glad Big Ma had sto
pped blaming Cecile and me for everything and was now worried about the hot, sticky air and when Pa would drive up “in that car of his.”

  Only days ago Vonetta, Fern, and I were painting protest signs and shouting, “FREE HUEY!” and “POWER TO THE PEOPLE!” Right now, the last thing I could do was to speak up. The last thing I had was any power at all. The only thing I had from being at the People’s Center with Sister Mukumbu and Sister Pat was the word for the opposite of power: Oppression. The power to do nothing but keep my mouth shut.

  I let Big Ma go on and prayed my sisters wouldn’t start talking about the People’s Center, the Black Panthers, our adventures in San Francisco, and most of all, Cecile. I just wanted Pa to drive up in the Wildcat and take us back to Herkimer Street.

  I heard singing. Two of the kids in mouse ears sang while pointing to Fern, “Pee-pee girl, do a dance. Pee-pee girl. Wet your pants.”

  Fern cried out, “I did not wet my pants!” She banged her fists against her sides. This would be the point where she’d leap on Vonetta, they’d tussle, and then I’d have to pry them apart.

  The kids kept singing their “pee-pee-girl” song, locking their arms in a Mexican hat dance, skipping around to the left, then around to the right. The best I could do was stand to the side of Fern to block her from seeing them and them from seeing her.

  Big Ma turned to Fern and said, “Smile at your friends.”

  Fern folded her arms and said, “They are not my friends.”

  Then Big Ma was ashamed of Fern, and I was ashamed of Big Ma.

  The mother said to the singing and dancing two of her three, “That’s enough.” All three kids stuck out their tongues at Fern.

  Big Ma smiled. She didn’t just fear and love white people. She feared and loved their children.

  I wanted Cecile to be standing here next to us and not Big Ma. Cecile wouldn’t tell us to smile at anyone who tried to oppress us. Cecile would scare them like Black Panthers scare people just by being black and not smiling and by shouting words like power and oppression.

  Finally a Volkswagen bus drove up to the curb and the Mouseketeers waved at its driver. The bus was like one we’d seen in San Francisco painted with daisies, peace signs, and Flower Power written in groovy colors. But there were no psychedelic rainbows and groovy words painted on this bus. Just a greenish-blue color with white trim and a white vw below the dashboard. With the bell captain’s help, the family loaded up their bus and, one by one, the kids climbed into the backseats. I was glad we’d soon be rid of them. The father got back into the driver’s seat, but the mother didn’t get in, although the baggage porter was nice enough to open a door for her. She headed straight our way. She walked up to Big Ma and said, “You should have a better handle on these rascals.” To me, she said, “You should be ashamed, young lady.” She marched over to her Volkswagen bus and climbed into the front passenger seat and the baggage porter slammed the door. Pleased with herself, she clunked down a nod, her Mickey Mouse ears still on.