Praise for Ntozake Shange
“If there are shoulders modern African-American women’s literature stands upon, they belong to Ntozake Shange, who revolutionized theater and literature with her iconic work for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf in the 1970s. Any of us writing today are inheritors of her genius.”
—Sapphire, author of Push
“Shange is a superb storyteller who keeps her eye on what brings her characters together rather than what separates them.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Ntozake Shange is a unique and gifted literary executant and works under strong impulses to do things her own way despite settled conventions of craft.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Shange may well set herself along such writers as Toni Morrison and Isabel Allende—creators of poetic and historical tours de force.”
—Vibe
“A powerful vision and perfect ear . . . Shange brilliant captures . . . disparate places and times.”
—The Boston Globe
“No contemporary writer has Ms. Shange’s uncanny gift for immersing herself within the situations and points-of-view of so many different types of women. No wonder she has achieved an almost oracular status among her female readers. She is a writer of many masks. She can serenade you, and she can cut you; she can chirp, as well as growl; she can delight, as well as antagonize.”
—Ishmael Reed
“Ntozake Shange’s writings compose one long, continuous song: by part blues medley, swaying gospel melody, plaintive torch ballad.”
—The Washington Times
Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo
ALSO BY NTOZAKE SHANGE
THEATER
for colored girls who have considered suicide/
when the rainbow is enuf
Three Pieces:
Spell #7
A Photograph: Lovers in Motion
Boogie Woogie Landscapes
POETRY
Nappy Edges
A Daughter’s Geography
Ridin’ the Moon in Texas
The Love Space Demands
FICTION
Betsey Brown
Liliane
Some Sing, Some Cry (with Ifa Bayeza)
Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo
Ntozake Shange
ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN NEW YORK
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SASSAFRASS, CYPRESS & INDIGO. Copyright © 1982 by Ntozake Shange. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the St. Martin’s Press edition as follows:
Shange, Ntozake.
Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo : a novel / by Ntozake Shange.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-69971-9
I. Title.
PS3569.H3324 S2 1982
813'.54—dc19
82005565
ISBN 978-0-312-54124-8 (Griffin edition)
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press
First St. Martin’s Griffin Edition: October 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo
is dedicated to all women in struggle.
Acknowledgments
This book was made possible by grants from The Solomon Guggenheim Foundation, The New York State Council on the Arts, The National Endowment for the Arts, and the MacDowell Colony.
I thank Bonnie Daniels, who unfailingly assisted me with the varied manuscripts that became the novel. I must also thank my editor, Michael Denneny, for believing the novel was lingering in my soul.
Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo
Where there is a woman there is magic. If there is a moon falling from her mouth, she is a woman who knows her magic, who can share or not share her powers. A woman with a moon falling from her mouth, roses between her legs and tiaras of Spanish moss, this woman is a consort of the spirits.
Indigo seldom spoke. There was a moon in her mouth. Having a moon in her mouth kept her laughing. Whenever her mother tried to pull the moss off her head, or clip the roses round her thighs, Indigo was laughing.
“Mama, if you pull ’em off, they’ll just grow back. It’s my blood. I’ve got earth blood, filled up with the Geechees long gone, and the sea.”
Sitting among her dolls, Indigo looked quite mad. As a small child, she stuffed socks with red beans, raw rice, sawdust or palm leaves. Tied ribbons made necks, so they could have heads and torsos. Then eyes from carefully chosen buttons or threads, hair from yarns specially dyed by her sisters and her mama, dresses of the finest silk patches, linen shoes and cotton underskirts, satin mitts or gloves embroidered with the delight of a child’s hand. These creatures were still her companions, keeping pace with her changes, her moods and dreams, as no one else could. Indigo heard them talking to her in her sleep. Sometimes when someone else was talking, Indigo excused herself—her dolls were calling for her. There was so much to do. Black people needed so many things. That’s why Indigo didn’t tell her mama what all she discussed with her friends. It had nothing to do with Jesus. Nothing at all. Even her mama knew that, and she would shake her head the way folks do when they hear bad news, murmuring, “Something’s got hold to my child, I swear. She’s got too much South in her.”
The South in her, the land and salt-winds, moved her through Charleston’s streets as if she were a mobile sapling, with the gait of a well-loved colored woman whose lover was the horizon in any direction. Indigo imagined tough winding branches growing from her braids, deep green leaves rustling by her ears, doves and macaws flirting above the nests they’d fashioned in the secret, protected niches way high up in her headdress. When she wore this Carolinian costume, she knew the cobblestone streets were really polished oyster shells, covered with pine needles and cotton flowers. She made herself, her world, from all that she came from. She looked around her at the wharf. If there was nobody there but white folks, she made them black folks. In the grocery, if the white folks were buying up all the fresh collards and okra, she made them disappear and put the produce on the vegetable wagons that went round to the Colored. There wasn’t enough for Indigo in the world she’d been born to, so she made up what she needed. What she thought the black people needed.
Access to the moon.
The power to heal.
Daily visits with the spirits.
MOON JOURNEYS
cartography by Indigo
Find an oval stone that’s very smooth. Wash it in rosewater, 2 times. Lay it out to dry in the night air where no one goes. When dry, hold stone tightly in the right hand, caress entire face with the left hand. Repeat the sa
me action with the stone in the left hand. Without halting the movement, clasp left stone-filled hand with the right. Walk to a tree that houses a spirit-friend. Sit under the tree facing the direction of your mother’s birthplace. Hold your hands between your bosom, tight. Take 5 quick breaths and 3 slow ones. Close your eyes. You are on your way.
ALTERNATIVE MODES OF MOON JOURNEYS
(Winter travel/Inclement weather)
In a thoroughly cleaned bathroom with the window open, burn magnolia incense, preferably, but cinnamon will do. In a handkerchief handled by some other woman in your family (the further back the better), put chamomile, an undamaged birthwort leaf, and Lady’s Fern. Tie this with a ribbon from your own hair. Kiss the sachet 3 times. Drop it gently into a tub of warm water that will cover all your body. Place two white burning candles at either end of the tub. Float one fully opened flower in the water. Get in the tub while tickling the water in circles with the petals of the flower. Lie in the tub, with flower over your heart. Close your eyes. You are on your way.
Not all black people wanted to go to the moon. But some did. Aunt Haydee had gone to the moon a lot. She’d told Indigo about the marvelous parties there were in the very spots the white people put flags and jumped up and down erratically. They never did learn how to dance. Been round black folks all these years and still don’t have sense enough to keep in rhythm. But there they were walking on the moon, like nothing ever went on up there. Like women didn’t sidle up to lunar hills every month. Like seas of menses could be held back by a rocket launcher. Like the Colored might disappear with the light of the moon.
“We ain’t goin’ anywhere, are we?” Indigo sat some of the dolls on the inside of her thigh. Her very favorites she sat in her lap. Indigo had made every kind of friend she wanted. African dolls filled with cotton root bark, so they’d have no more slave children. Jamaican dolls in red turbans, bodies formed with comfrey leaves because they’d had to work on Caribbean and American plantations and their bodies must ache and be sore. Then there were the mammy dolls that Indigo labored over for months. They were almost four feet high, with big gold earrings made from dried sunflowers, and tits of uncleaned cotton. They smelled of fennel, peach leaves, wild ginger, wild yams. She still crawled up into their arms when she was unavoidably lonely, anxious that no living black folks would talk to her the way her dolls and Aunt Haydee did.
Everybody said she was just too ornery to hold a decent conversation. But that wasn’t true. What was true was that Indigo had always had to fight Cypress and Sassafrass just to get them to listen to her. They thought they were so grown. So filled up with white folks’ ways. They didn’t want to hear about the things Aunt Haydee knew. Indigo watched her mother over huge vats of dyes, carrying newly spun yarn from the pots to the lines and back again. Sassafrass, throwing shuttles back and forth and back and forth. Cypress tying off cloth, carrying the cloth to the stairway where she began the appliqués the family was famous for. There was too much back and forth going on for anybody to engage little Indigo in conversations about the haints and the Colored. If the rhythm was interrupted, Sassafrass would just stare at the loom. Cypress would look at her work and not know where to start or what gauge her stitches were. Mama would burn herself with some peculiarly tinted boiling water. Everybody would be mad and not working, so Indigo was sent to talk to the dolls. All the dolls in the house became hers. And the worlds Sassafrass wandered in her weaving, and those Cypress conjured through her body, were lost to Indigo, who handled three-way conversations with her cloth companions all alone.
A girl-child with her dolls is unlikely to arouse attention anywhere, same as little boys with footballs or Davy Crockett hats. So Indigo would sneak from the place she’d been put (the corridor around the back porch), and take her friends out visiting. Old ladies loved for Indigo and Company to pass by. They would give her homemade butter cookies or gingerbread. They offered teas and chocolates, as well as the Scriptures and the legends of their lives. Indigo only had colored dolls and only visited colored ladies. She didn’t like Miz Fitzhugh, who fawned over Cypress and Sassafrass like they were ’most white. No, Mrs. Yancey with the low, secret voice and seventeen million hundred braids was Indigo’s friend. And Sister Mary Louise who kept a garden of rose bushes and herbs was Indigo’s cut-buddy, down to the Colored Methodist Episcopal Church.
Streets in Charleston wind the way old ladies’ fingers crochet as they unravel the memories of their girlhoods. One thing about a Charlestonian female is her way with little things. The delicacy of her manner. The force of ritual in her daily undertakings. So what is most ordinary is made extraordinary. What is hard seems simple. Indigo listened to their tales, the short and long ones, with a mind to make herself a doll whose story that was, or who could have helped out. When her father died, Indigo had decided it was the spirit of things that mattered. The humans come and go. Aunt Haydee said spirits couldn’t be gone, or the planet would fall apart.
The South in her.
Rumor was that Mrs. Yancey had a way with white folks. They couldn’t deny her anything. That’s what folks said . . . that she must honey up to them; leastways, smile a lot. That was the only way the beautiful things she had in her house could be accounted for. Mrs. Yancey couldn’t have bought such lace, or that silver tea service. Imagine a colored woman having afternoon tea and crumpets with all that silver. Indigo always carried her doll-friend Miranda over to Mrs. Yancey’s. Miranda had better manners than some of her other dolls. Miranda was always clean, too, in a red paisley pinafore and small black sandals. Indigo let Miranda use her parasol to protect her from the sun. What proper young woman would come visiting faint and perspiring? Only some of Indigo’s more country dolls would have marched to Mrs. Yancey’s with the outdoors all over them.
Indigo walked up to Mrs. Yancey’s front porch, pulled her slip up, and fussed with the hair sticking out of her braids. She’d rinsed her hands off, but re-doing her hair for a short chat seemed to make too much of a regular outing. Besides, Miranda was really dressed up. Indigo had decorated her bonnet with dandelions, and sprayed some of her mama’s perfume under her arms and behind her knees. When she was ready, Indigo rang the bell and waited. Sure enough, Mrs. Yancey was coming to the door. She wore slippers with the heels all beat down that made a sound like Bill Bojangles when he did the soft shoe. Opening the bright white door, while pulling the apron from around her neck, Mrs. Yancey bent down to kiss Indigo on the cheek.
“Now ain’t you looking mighty fresh today, Indigo. And Miranda must be going to a social, all decked out, huh?”
“No, M’am. We just thought you might want some company. I was talking to Miranda and she told me you were thinking on us real hard.”
“Y’all come in and make yourselves at ease in the parlor. Miranda must gotta second sense. She always knows when I wanna see my little girls.”
Mrs. Yancey’s house smelled like collard greens and corn bread, even when she fried oysters and made red sauce. Indigo nudged Miranda.
“Can ya smell that? Mrs. Yancey’s house smells good, doesn’t it?” Her house felt good, too. There were so many soft places to sit and smell other things. Mrs. Yancey liked to make pillows. Oval pillows, square pillows, rectangles, triangles, shapes that had no names but were scented, soft, huggable pillows. These pillows were covered with satins and silks, and embroidered in blinding scarlets and golds, and set off with laces, tassels, and cords. Mrs. Yancey told Miranda that she made the pillows now because all her life she had been living between a rock and a hard place. Even though she didn’t really need any more, something called her to keep sewing herself comforts. Miranda asked Mrs. Yancey the questions that Indigo considered too forward. Why, one time when Miranda and Indigo were having a bit of pineapple-upside-down cake with their tea, and Mrs. Yancey was talking about how the white folks drove down the Colored, drove the Colored to drink and evil ways, drove decent young gals into lives of sin, chasing them up and down the back stairways from Allendale to Hilton Head
, Miranda blurted:
“Well, how come the white people give you so many things? If they so hard-hearted and low-down, why you smile up to ’em?”
Indigo was embarrassed, and gave Miranda a good whack ’cross the face.
“She didn’t mean that, M’am.”
“Yes, she did, Indigo. She did, and it ain’t correct to be slapping on no free somebody. You keep your hands to yourself and listen to what I gotta say.”
Indigo settled back in the love seat, almost disappearing in all the pillows. Miranda finally relaxed and lay next to her, listening.
“Folks in these parts got sucha low idea of the women of the race. They can’t imagine how I come by what I come by ’less they weigh my reputation down with they dirty, filthy minds.”
“Oh, no M’am, didn’t nobody say you did that!” Indigo shot up out of the pillows, dragging Miranda with her to Mrs. Yancey’s lap.
“That’s not what I mean, sweetheart. Those be shooting words. I was suggesting that whoever be announcing that I grin up in the faces of these folks is out of they minds. All I do is go round the house that I be cleaning, waxing, dusting, ironing, sweeping . . . my regular chores. And if I come ’cross something that I gotta yen for, I say to the Mrs., ‘I sho’ do like that.’ Then I stare at her, but with my eyes a lil bit going down and in a crooked direction. I look at what it was I wanted and look back at the white lady. I tell my soul to get all in what I want. Next thing you know the white lady can’t think of no reason why she should have whatever that is. And she turn round asking me don’t I want it, and of course I want it ’cause I done put all my soul in it. And I gotta have my soul in order to come on back round here to my house.”
Indigo and Miranda thought about what Mrs. Yancey had said for days, but not nearly so much as they did about Mrs. Yancey and Mr. Henderson, also known as Uncle John the junk man. He was looking bad most of the time. Indigo figured that before she was born, Uncle John would have been called a fine looking man. Mrs. Yancey found no fault with that. Yet every time Uncle John would come round in his horse and wagon with things everybody didn’t want, Mrs. Yancey would shudder, like the ugliness of whatall he carted startled her. She’d purse her lips, put her hands on her hips, whisper that cursing whisper Indigo had told Miranda about, or she would throw open her screen door and shout:
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