He crossed to the center of the room and pulled the map of the world down over the blackboard. He grabbed the long, wooden pointer from the chalk ledge and aimed it at an area that looked like a bitten-into golden pear, near the middle, southern part of Africa. “This is my country. Zambia.
“Four years ago at the Olympics, our athletes went to France as Northern Rhodesians while a revolution was under way in our country. By the end of the Olympic Games, those same athletes left the stadium with a new flag and a new name: Zambia.”
He said revolution on the first day of class, just like Sister Mukumbu had taught us about revolution and spinning and changing on our first day at the People’s Center. But he didn’t ask us if we knew the meaning of revolution, so I couldn’t raise my hand and define it for the class. It was as if he expected us to know the meaning, along with the other words he used, like decorum.
Instead of asking us how we spent our summer, he told us more about his country. He answered questions about mining, and silly Tarzan questions about witch doctors and wild animals. While things were going well, he said, “Now class, suppose Zambia was the main subject of a report. . . .”
We all groaned. Our new teacher expected us to think about writing reports while Miss Honeywell’s new class was making papier-mâché volcanoes with bicarbonate lava.
“What could some of the minor topics of our report be? I will give you a hint. I spoke of at least five subtopics. Who can name a subtopic?”
Mr. Mwila’s eyes shone brightly at us. He expected twenty-four hands to shoot up, but not one hand rose. Not even Rukia’s or Michael Sandler’s. We thought we were learning about the place where Miss Honeywell was, not preparing to write a report on a country we hadn’t heard of before Mr. Mwila brought us up to our classroom. The room went silent.
“Come, come, grade six,” Mr. Mwila said. “You know these subtopics. Jump in. Name one.”
Rukia raised her hand. Mr. Mwila glanced down at his classroom sheet and said, “Rukia.” He said it with the same teeth-baring smile he used to say his own name.
“Can one of the subjects be the early settlers in Zambia?”
“Indeed it can,” Mr. Mwila said. “Early settlers in Zambia. Who else will we hear from?” He searched the room for another raised hand, but everyone kept their hands down, and Rukia knew better than to raise hers again.
“Ah!” he said. He pulled the map back up, took a piece of chalk, and made two horizontal lines on the board. A vertical line went under the horizontal line on the right side of the board. “Girls’ team, one point.”
I knew what he was doing. The Black Panthers warned us about this in summer camp. Divide and conquer. Separate the people and make one side think they are different or better than the other.
But girls were better than boys.
Mr. Mwila’s plan worked. Hands shot up on the boys’ side, starting with the Jameses, Enrique, Anthony but not Ant, Upton, and Michael Sandler, the smartest of the three Michaels. Then Ellis Carter raised his hand to show boy-team solidarity although he sat on our side. It was a wonder Mrs. Peterson had promoted him to the sixth grade with the rest of us. Ellis did his homework and passed his quizzes fine. But call on him to speak and you could barely hear his voice. Except when he sang that stupid dolphin song at me. I put an end to that dolphin singing.
“Ellis Carter.”
Ellis, who was caramel red to begin with, got a little redder. He stamped his foot.
“Come, come. The boys have yet to score a point.”
Ellis mumbled, “I lost my . . . lost my . . . forgot my . . . what I was going to say.”
“Girls,” Mr. Mwila said.
The chorus of Jameses, Michaels, Anthonys, and the rest told Ellis he stunk now that he was a girl.
“What about our turn?” Michael Sandler asked Mr. Mwila.
“Your representative has spoken,” Mr. Mwila said. “In your football terms, he punted.”
We girls didn’t really know football terms—American or any other kind—but we understood our teacher. Then all of us girls raised our hands. My subject was going to be political change and revolution. I couldn’t wait to say exactly that.
“Frieda,” Mr. Mwila said.
“Is another subject foot—” She stopped in the middle of her thought. “Is another subject the national pastimes in Zambia?” After all, Mr. Mwila spoke of more activities than football, and Frieda must have figured out how a list of activities made one subject.
Mr. Mwila made another tally under “girls” and we began to cheer. Ellis put his head down on his desk.
“Boys,” Mr. Mwila said, “there is still an opportunity for redemption.”
The boys shouted, “Redemption!” when I knew half of them didn’t know what redemption meant.
“If you correctly supply another subtopic, you’ll be rewarded with a bonus point and you’ll be equal to the girls.”
The girls’ team called out that it was unfair to give the boys a bonus point. Mr. Mwila only said, “Decorum,” and the boys laughed.
“Who will take up the call for the dignity and redemption of the boys?”
The girls booed but the boys waved their arms like flags. Then Michael Sandler called out to his side like a football coach, “Only if you know the answer,” and half of the boys lowered their flags.
“Well then,” Mr. Mwila said, “perhaps you’d like to supply another subject for the point and the bonus point. You are . . . Michael Sandler.”
“That’s my name,” Michael said.
“Mr. Michael Sandler,” Mr. Mwila said. Lucy grinned.
Michael cleared his throat. “A subtopic to a report about Zambia is: What are the chief exports of Zambia?” His answer sounded so right, and he said it like Huey Newton addressing the masses. The boys cheered. Mr. Mwila raised his hands and we immediately got quiet.
Lucy turned to me and winked. Didn’t she know that Michael S. liked Evelyn Alvarez?
“Michael Sandler,” he said, “I didn’t say ‘export’ and yet you used the right term. You have earned the point and the bonus, and the boys are now equal to the girls.”
The boys cheered, but Michael Sandler didn’t join in because he caught Mr. Mwila’s joke.
But then the joke was on us. We spent the next period writing paragraphs about Zambia, choosing one minor subject.
I didn’t want to be the class goody but I couldn’t help myself. At the end of our first day I told Mr. Mwila, “My mother’s name is from Africa.”
He smiled and said, “Miss . . .” He didn’t have his name sheet and hadn’t learned my name.
“Delphine. Delphine Gaither.”
“Yes, yes. Delphine.” Another smile. His eyes were kind. “What country is your mother from?”
I was a little confused but answered, “America.”
“I see,” Mr. Mwila said, although I wasn’t sure what he could see.
I couldn’t remember the country she’d said her name was from but I knew it was the land of our ancestors. I knew it sounded like Aruba but I didn’t think that was right.
I gave the only answer I could give with certainty. “Her name is Nzila.” And when I said it I smiled without meaning to.
“Ah!” said Mr. Mwila, recognizing the name instantly. “Your mother was born on the road. It must be a fascinating story.”
I looked at him strangely. I didn’t know what to say.
“The hospital is far if you live on the outskirts, so many children are born on the way. Nzila’s also popular if your parents travel. Some stories about the name are funnier than others.”
I was still stunned and asked, “Doesn’t it mean blowing away the dust from the surface, or something about truth?”
Mr. Mwila said, “Is that what your mother said?”
There I was nodding, because I couldn’t speak. That was what I deserved for throwing myself and my mother on display like Vonetta would. All it got me was a mother who lied about what her stupid poet name meant. Big Ma and Pa
were right to keep Cecile from naming Fern any ooga-mooga names.
Dear Cecile,
How are you?
I am not fine.
My new teacher is Mr. Mwila from Zambia in southern Africa. Mr. Mwila told me the truth about Nzila when I told him your African name. He said Nzila means born on the road. It does not come from Aruba, the land of our ancestors. It comes from Zambia. It has nothing to do with the truth.
It isn’t fair to tell us your name means blowing the dust off of surfaces when it means born on the road.
At least I know better.
Sincerely,
Delphine
Your Mother Nzila
It took no time at all for me to turn against my mother when I had scolded Vonetta and Fern for wanting to be flower girls at Pa’s wedding to another woman.
My letter yelled at my mother. It said she didn’t tell us the truth about her name. That was the same as calling my own mother a liar.
I thought Cecile would send a letter to Vonetta, one to Fern, and no letter to me. The next week her letter came addressed to me. Airmail.
Dear Delphine,
I am a human being. A black human being. A female. A woman. A poet. That is the order I came into the world. I see as only I can see things. As only a poet would see things.
Words do more, mean more, than how they are defined.
I see things visible, invisible, ordinary, and extraordinary in the world.
If a child born on the road is named Nzila, then I can call myself that.
If that child grows into a girl who sleeps out in the street, then that is who I am. My name is growing up with me. As I am defined, then my name is defined and shaped around me like clothing.
If that woman finds her road hard, but full of meaning that she makes sense of and sees clearly through lines of poetry, then she can say she has found truth.
She blows dust off the surface of a clouded path. She can call herself that.
One day you’ll see the truth in things. Until then, study hard.
Your Mother.
Nzila
P.S. You are not grown. Be who you are. Eleven.
Hooah
A few weeks sped by, but the leaves on the trees were still green. No one was happier than Big Ma that time was moving along. You’d think she’d be singing a song and doing the Charleston, but happiness didn’t stop Big Ma from picking a fuss with Pa. I wasn’t supposed to hear what Big Ma said to Papa that morning, but I did. In spite of Big Ma saying “Welcome to the family” to Miss Hendrix, my grandmother put her foot down about Miss Hendrix coming along with us. “There’s only room for family,” she told Pa. “It’s only right.”
It didn’t take much to put together what I overheard. Papa wanted Miss Hendrix to come with us to bring Uncle Darnell home from Fort Hamilton, but Big Ma was against it. Even though we’d be driving down Fourth Avenue through Bay Ridge in the car Pa paid for, Big Ma got her way. Before we left, Pa called Miss Hendrix and spoke really low on the phone in the kitchen.
It’s strange to remember that your grown father is someone else’s child. Even in the house he built up nearly from scratch, he was still Big Ma’s child. Though he often made like he didn’t hear her, he did mind her. With most things. Not everything. He sent us out to Oakland to get to know our mother, even when Big Ma spoke against it every day until we went, and every other day after we returned. That time, it didn’t matter what Big Ma said. Pa had made up his mind and we flew to Oakland to get to know our mother.
That day Big Ma won. Or Pa let her win. I didn’t want Miss Marva Hendrix to come with us, but I didn’t want anyone to be over my father. Not even his mother.
We’d been to Fort Hamilton once before. We came last year to wave good-bye to Uncle Darnell as he stood along with the other soldiers, most of them probably like him—fresh out of high school. It was easy to lose sight of him, but I could pick out my uncle among the rows of soldiers in those sad green uniforms. His ugly green army bag lifted on his back along with a rifle. When the soldiers marched and made a sharp left turn, I saw that hat sitting on top of my uncle’s shaven head. I was filled with the last feeling I expected. Pride.
All of us except for Fern waved furiously as the trumpets, trombones, tubas, flutes, and percussion instruments played the marching tune. The booming drums and clashing cymbals frightened Fern, and she clung to me. But each time the drums boomed and the cymbals clashed, the soldiers marched harder and seemed taller. Like those thundering drums, their hearts were booming through their sad green uniforms. They marched straight ahead and made crisp turns without looking over to family members, girlfriends, and even a high school football team that had come in team jackets to wave them off. The brass horns and booming drums marched the soldiers onto army trucks covered in the same green material as their uniforms and army bags. Then the trucks drove away while we waved and Fern and Big Ma cried.
It was now a year and two months later. Pa showed the soldier at the guardhouse his driver’s license and asked for the “discharge site.” The soldier wore a black MP band around his arm, “MP” for military police. He tried to meet Pa with eagle eyes, but he seemed young. Much younger than Pa’s thirty-two years. I wondered if he had ever aimed his rifle and stared down a flower girl eagle-eyed at a protest rally when he really wanted to dance with her at the senior prom.
He directed Pa where to go, and Pa gave him a sharp nod.
We drove by redbrick buildings and white buildings, an army tank with a big white star painted on it, and long, iron cannons. They were old cannons from old wars, now just army decorations.
Pa parked the Wildcat and we walked toward the field of grass the young MP had pointed out. Fern held Pa’s hand while Big Ma, Vonetta, and I lagged behind without talking. Big Ma was talking silently. Just not to us. She was filled up with prayer and had been talking to the Lord all morning. She had only broken prayer to fuss with Pa about Miss Marva Hendrix.
At least the grass was a pretty green.
When we made it across the field, the soldiers were already standing in lines. Some used crutches, and I counted at least five soldiers in wheelchairs. I thought all of the soldiers were men until I made out a line of women in those green army uniforms and boots. When I asked Pa, he said they were probably nurses.
Not long after we were seated, the ceremony got started. The band played “The Star Spangled Banner.” We stood and said the Pledge of Allegiance as if we were in class. The army chaplain said a few words and a councilman from the mayor’s office thanked the soldiers for their service. A soldier, probably a leader or sergeant, gave what sounded like three deep chest coughs, and at each cough the soldiers moved. Then he said, “Company: discharged,” and some of the soldiers shouted a big “Hooah!” or yelled, and some said nothing. The band played, and even though there were more fifes, clarinets, and flutes than booms and brass, Fern held on to Pa tighter.
I knew Uncle Darnell’s head from all the rest. Even though he didn’t have to kneel, Uncle Darnell got down on one knee and held out his arms. Fern forgot how scared she was and went running to him and jumped up into Uncle Darnell’s arms. It was the first time I saw that Fern was getting too big to be jumping in someone’s arms. Vonetta only saw that she wasn’t being hugged and said, “What about me?” tapping her toe. Uncle Darnell said, “Get over here, Net-Net. Sugar me up.” Uncle Darnell had been saying that to us for as long as I could remember. It was funny because his skin tasted of salt when my lips finally reached his cheek.
I was so glad to see my uncle and to just have him here. Here, right here. Standing before us with everything he went overseas with. Arms and legs. No bandages or crutches.
Big Ma could walk perfectly well, but she moved like she was hurt, and Pa had to help her along. When she reached Uncle Darnell, he stood up and wrapped himself around her or she wrapped herself around him and they didn’t let go for a long, long time.
He and Pa embraced, but only for a few seconds. Then Pa slapped Darnel
l on the back and they shook hands.
He took off his hat and put it on Vonetta’s head, and boy, did she like that. She said, “Uncle Darnell, I’m bringing you to school for show-and-tell.”
Then Big Ma said, “Oh, no, you’re not. Take that army hat for show-and-tell and be glad you have that. And that your uncle is home.” Then Big Ma started to cry again. I could have kicked Vonetta.
Pa was about to grab his green army bag but Uncle Darnell reached and got it, as if Pa was too old and too weak.
When we all walked across the field toward the Wildcat, I kept looking at us. All of us. I couldn’t help but see how much Uncle Darnell looked like Pa and Big Ma. Then, how we looked like him. And how we looked like Pa and Cecile. And Big Ma. How we all fit together even though Cecile was thousands of miles away. But I knew Cecile and Pa didn’t fit together. And she and Big Ma never fit together. But at least I could see how my sisters and I were both Gaithers and Johnsons. And that was just fine. For now, walking with my family, I felt good and selfish, which was how Cecile told me to be, one night in Oakland. I enjoyed having my uncle, my father, my grandmother, and my sisters all to myself. I enjoyed the way it used to be in our house on Herkimer Street.
Uncle D’s Bag
Uncle Darnell had things he didn’t have when he left for boot camp and then Vietnam—and I’m not talking about things in his duffel bag. He had a harder, older look on his face, like he’d never do the Watusi again. I could see it in his eyes the same way I could see Big Ma filling up with prayer even when she wasn’t saying a word. Uncle D was darker. Probably from being out in the sun. His brows sat atop his eyes, protecting them like he still needed shade. Veins I’d never noticed before streamed along his arms and legs. He had hard and sharp muscles where he was lean and smooth. I didn’t know how the jungle smelled, but whenever I hugged him I smelled wild tree vines beneath his shaving cream and toothpaste. One thing was for sure. He had given Pa all of his dimples, and Pa had given Uncle Darnell his long face.
P.S. Be Eleven Page 7
