Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo

by Ntozake Shange

  “Show me too. I wanta know too.” Indigo stuck a needle in the bosom of the dollie & stood up, ready for her first lesson at the barre.

  Hilda wisht her husband Alfred could see the girls lined up by the kitchen sink, taking a ballet lesson from Cypress, while Sassafrass recited Dunbar. They were so much his children: hard-headed, adventurous, dreamers. Hilda Effania had some dreams of her own. Not so much to change the world, but to change her daughters’ lives. Make it so they wouldn’t have to do what she did. Listen to every syllable come out that white woman’s mouth. It wasn’t really distasteful to her. She liked her life. She liked making cloth: the touch, the rhythm of it, colors. What she wanted for her girls was more than that. She wanted happiness, however they could get it. Whatever it was. Whoever brought it.

  “Oh. I can’t imagine how I forgot. I think that Skippie Schuyler boy is having a party on Christmas Eve. & I do believe there’s an invitation on the table by the front door.”

  “Skippie Schuyler, the doctor’s son, invited us, Mama?”

  “Well, I don’t see why not. You’re getting better training & education than anybody else in Charleston. You certainly are the prettiest girls I’ve seen round here for a long time.”

  Sassafrass ran to get the invitation. Firm white paper with gold printing.

  * * *

  Eugene Alphonso Schuyler, III

  invites

  Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo

  to a

  Christmas Eve Wassail

  Six to Nine O’Clock Chaperoned/R.S.V.P.

  * * *

  Indigo jumped up & down. “Mama, Mama, he invited me! Me! He doesn’t even know me!”

  “No, but he might have heard there was a beautiful child gone astray with those Geechee Capitans,” Hilda remarked.

  Sassafrass & Cypress looked hard at Indigo. “You’ve been being a what?” Cypress screeched.

  “A Jr. G.C., but I resigned. I resigned.”

  “Well, I don’t see anything so bad about it, Mama. She’ll never meet those kinds of fellas at Eugene Alphonso Schuyler III’s house. Thank God for the colored people.”

  “Sassafrass, are you crazy? Indigo can’t be runnin’ the streets with those hoodlums.” Cypress was incensed with her sister’s cavalier attitude. Those kinds of fellas killed people, maimed people. She’d seen it where she lived on the Lower East Side.

  “Look, Cypress, except for some rich little colored boys just like Skippie at our ‘Brother’ school, I haven’t seen any Negroes in over 5 months. Any Negro whose color don’t wash off is a treasure now. Believe me.”

  “But, I said I had resigned. I want to go to Skippie’s party. Really I do.” Indigo couldn’t understand the tension between her sisters. What was the matter? They were all going. Then Indigo remembered the Wheeler girls. Those skinny yellow girls.

  They were more like honey in a wolf’s body, arsenic in a chocolate. As a Jr. G.C., Indigo’d put those children in their places. What would they do, if she were at a party with them?

  Sassafrass just wanted to go. Some Negroes. Three hours of solid Negro conversation. Not having to explain to anybody what it was she actually meant. A dance. A dance with somebody who knew the rhythm of the song. A hand that was not afraid to touch hers. She wanted to go.

  Cypress kept saying the word “wassail” over & over in her mind. “ ‘Wassail’ has nothing to do with where I’ve been. I don’t think. ‘Wassail’ is non-alcoholic for these children. How can Mama expect me to go have some wassail with some rich little colored children. I’d rather see a grown man or Giselle.”

  Hilda Effania knew her children. She knew Indigo was a little nervous that her escapades with Spats & Crunch would spoil her entry to society. She knew Sassafrass didn’t give a damn what kind of Colored she saw, so long as she saw a colored somebody. She knew Cypress knew too much.

  Indigo’s freshly curled & pressed hair was standing all over her head when she came in the door. “Mama, I danced with Charlie, Edward, Butch, Skippie himself, and Philip.”

  “That’s not all she did, Mother. She invited Spats & Crunch into the Schuylers’ house,” Cypress slurred. “They seemed to have a good time, with their hats on.”

  “Oh, they did. We all did. Didn’t we, Sassafrass?” Sassafrass was on the porch tongue-kissing Skippie Schuyler’s second cousin from Richmond, who was also a doctor’s son.

  “Mama, you know none of the Wheeler girls had on a specially made for them dress. Can you believe that?”

  Hilda Effania gave Cypress one of those looks that means you-&-I-will-talk-later. That child had gotta hold of some liquor somewhere. In the meantime, Hilda Effania was experiencing being tickled. Her girls were great successes. They knew. Everybody else knew it. She knew it. She tried to be very serious as she called Sassafrass in from the porch, but it was all so exciting. Sassafrass finally came in from the cold.

  “Aw, Mama, isn’t love wonderful?”

  Cypress stood in the corner doing battements with the grace of a panther. “Mama, I want to go back to New York.”

  “Mama, I think I need to go see Aunt Haydee. She tol’ me one time that all I had to do was watch the moon. & I couldn’t even see the moon tonight.”

  “Don’t worry ’bout that, darling. Tomorrow we’ll all have our Christmas. We’ll see what we have to do, after Santa pays us a visit.”

  “Aw Mama, not Santa Claus.” All three together.

  “Yes. Santa Claus.” Hilda Effania gave a hot toddy & a piece of pound cake to each & every one. She listened to the five & ten minute courtships her daughters recounted.

  “& then he said . . . you know what Billy said to me, I know I was chosen . . . Go on, Mama, guess what happened then . . .”

  Hilda Effania couldn’t wait till Christmas. The Christ Child was born. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. The girls were home. The house was humming. Hilda Effania just a singing, cooking up a storm. Up before dawn. Santa’s elves barely up the chimney. She chuckled. This was gonna be some mornin’. Yes, indeed. There was nothing too good for her girls. Matter of fact, what folks never dreamt of would only just about do. That’s right, all her babies home for Christmas Day. Hilda Effania cooking up a storm. Little Jesus Child lyin’ in his Manger. Praise the Lord for all these gifts. Hilda Effania justa singin’:

  “Poor little Jesus Child, Born in a Manger

  Sweet little Jesus Child

  & they didn’t know who you were.”

  BREAKFAST WITH HILDA EFFANIA & HER GIRLS

  ON CHRISTMAS MORNING

  Hilda’s Turkey Hash

  1 pound diced cooked turkey meat

  (white & dark)

  1 tablespoon cornstarch

  3 tablespoons butter

  2 medium onions, diced

  Salt to taste, pepper too

  1 red sweet pepper, diced

  (A dash of corn liquor, optional)

  1 full boiled potato, diced

  In a heavy skillet, put your butter. Sauté your onions & red pepper. Add your turkey, once your onions are transparent. When the turkey’s sizzling, add your potato. Stir. If consistency is not to your liking, add the cornstarch to thicken, the corn liquor to thin. Test to see how much salt & pepper you want. & don’t forget your cayenne.

  Catfish/ The Way Albert Liked It

  ½ cup flour

  3 beaten eggs

  ½ cup cornmeal

  Oil for cooking

  Salt

  Lemons

  Pepper

  6 fresh catfish

  ½ cup buttermilk

  Sift flour and cornmeal. Season with your salt & pepper. Mix the beaten eggs well with the buttermilk. Dip your fish in the egg & milk. Then roll your fish in the cornmeal-flour mix. Get your oil spitting hot in a heavy skillet. Fry your fish, not too long, on both sides. Your lemon wedges are for your table.

  Trio Marmalade

  1 tangerine

  Sugar

  1 papaya

  Cold water

  1 lemon

&nb
sp; Delicately grate rinds of fruits. Make sure you have slender pieces of rind. Chop up your pulp, leaving the middle section of each fruit. Put the middles of the fruits and the seeds somewhere else in a cotton wrap. Add three times the amount of pulp & rind. That’s the measure for your water. Keep this sitting overnight. Get up the next day & boil this for a half hour. Drop your wrapped seed bag in there. Boil that, too. & mix in an exact equal of your seed bag with your sugar (white or brown). Leave it be for several hours. Come back. Get it boiling again. Don’t stop stirring. You can test it & test it, but you’ll know when it jells. Put on your table or in jars you seal while it’s hot.

  Now you have these with your hominy grits. (I know you know how to make hominy grits.) Fried eggs, sunny-side-up. Ham-sliced bacon, butter rolls, & Aunt Haydee’s Red Pimiento Jam. I’d tell you that receipt, but Aunt Haydee never told nobody how it is you make that. I keep a jar in the pantry for special occasions. I get one come harvest.

  Mama’s breakfast simmering way downstairs drew the girls out of their sleep. Indigo ran to the kitchen. Sassafrass turned back over on her stomach to sleep a while longer, there was no House Mother ringing a cow bell. Heaven. Cypress brushed her hair, began her daily pliés & leg stretches. Hilda Effania sat at her kitchen table, drinking strong coffee with Magnolia Milk, wondering what the girls would think of her tree.

  “Merry Christmas, Mama.” Indigo gleamed. “May I please have some coffee with you? Nobody else is up yet. Then we can go see the tree, can’t we, when they’re all up. Should I go get ’em?” Indigo was making herself this coffee as quickly as she could, before Hilda Effania said “no.” But Hilda was so happy Indigo could probably have had a shot of bourbon with her coffee.

  “Only half a cup, Indigo. Just today.” Hilda watched Indigo moving more like Cypress. Head erect, back stretched tall, with some of Sassafrass’ easy coyness.

  “So you had a wonderful time last night at your first party?”

  “Oh, yes, Mama.” Indigo paused. “But you know what?” Indigo sat down by her mother with her milk tinged with coffee. She stirred her morning treat, serious as possible. She looked her mother in the eyes. “Mama, I don’t think boys are as much fun as everybody says.”

  “What do you mean, darling?”

  “Well, they dance. & I guess eventually you marry ’em. But I like my fiddle so much more. I even like my dolls better than boys. They’re fun, but they can’t talk about important things.”

  Hilda Effania giggled. Indigo was making her own path at her own pace. There’d be not one more boy-crazy, obsessed-with-romance child in her house. This last one made more sense out of the world than either of the other two. Alfred would have liked that. He liked independence.

  “Good morning, Mama. Merry Christmas.” Sassafrass was still tying her bathrobe as she kissed her mother.

  “Merry Christmas, Indigo. I see Santa left you a cup of coffee.”

  “This is not my first cup of coffee. I had some on my birthday, too.”

  “Oh, pardon me. I didn’t realize you were so grown. I’ve been away, you know?” Sassafrass was never very pleasant in the morning. Christmas was no exception. Indigo & her mother exchanged funny faces. Sassafrass wasn’t goin’ to spoil this day.

  “Good morning. Good morning. Good morning, everyone.” Cypress flew through the kitchen: coupé jeté en tournant.

  “Merry Christmas, Cypress,” the family shouted in unison.

  “Oh, Mama, you musta been up half the night cooking what all I’m smelling.” Cypress started lifting pot tops, pulling the oven door open.

  “Cypress, you know I can’t stand for nobody to be looking in my food till I serve it. Now, come on away from my stove.”

  Cypress turned to her mama, smiling. “Mama, let’s go look at the tree.”

  “I haven’t finished my coffee,” Sassafrass yawned.

  “You can bring it with you. That’s what I’m gonna do,” Indigo said with sweet authority.

  The tree glistened by the front window of the parlor. Hilda Effania had covered it, of course, with cloth & straw. Satin ribbons of scarlet, lime, fuchsia, bright yellow, danced on the far limbs of the pine. Tiny straw angels of dried palm swung from the upper branches. Apples shining, next to candy canes & gingerbread men, brought shouts of joy & memory from the girls, who recognized their own handiwork. The black satin stars with appliqués of the Christ Child Cypress had made when she was ten. Sassafrass fingered the lyres she fashioned for the children singing praises of the little Jesus: little burlap children with lyres she’d been making since she could thread a needle, among the miniatures of Indigo’s dolls. Hilda Effania had done something else special for this Christmas, though. In silk frames of varied pastels were the baby pictures of her girls, & one of her wedding day: Hilda Effania & Alfred, November 30, 1946.

  Commotion. Rustling papers. Glee & Surprise. Indigo got a very tiny laced brassiere from Cypress. Sassafrass had given her a tiny pair of earrings, dangling golden violins. Indigo had made for both her sisters dolls in their very own likenesses. Both five feet tall, with hips, & bras. Indigo had dressed the dolls in the old clothes Cypress & Sassafrass had left at home.

  “Look in their panties,” Indigo blurted. Cypress felt down in her doll’s panties. Sassafrass pulled her doll’s drawers. They both found velvet sanitary napkins with their names embroidered cross the heart of silk.

  “Oh, Indigo. You’re kidding. You’re not menstruating, are you?”

  “Indigo, you got your period?”

  “Yes, she did.” Hilda Effania joined, trying to change the subject. She’d known Indigo was making dolls, but not that the dolls had their period.

  “Well, what else did you all get?” Hilda asked provocatively.

  Cypress pulled out an oddly shaped package wrapped entirely in gold sequins. “Mama, this is for you.” The next box was embroidered continuously with Sassafrass’ name. “Here, guess whose?” Cypress held Indigo’s shoulders. Indigo had on her new bra over her nightgown. Waiting for her mother & sister to open their gifts, Cypress did tendues. “Hold still, Indigo. If you move, my alignment goes off.”

  “Oh, Cypress, this is just lovely.” Hilda Effania didn’t know what else to say. Cypress had given her a black silk negligée with a very revealing bed jacket. “I certainly have to think when I could wear this. & you all won’t be home to see it.”

  “Aw, Mama. Try it on,” Cypress pleaded.

  “Yeah, Mama. Put that on. It looks so nasty.” Indigo squinched up her face, giggled.

  “Oh, Cypress, these are so beautiful. I can hardly believe it.” Sassafrass held the embroidered box open. In the box lined with beige raw silk were 7 cherrywood hand-carved crochet needles of different gauges.

  “Bet not one white girl up to the Callahan School has ever in her white life laid eyes on needles like that!” Cypress hugged her sister, flexed her foot. “Indigo, you got to put that bra on under your clothes, not on top of ’em! Mama, would you look at this little girl?”

  Hilda Effania had disappeared. “I’m trying on this scandalous thing, Cypress. You all look for your notes at the foot of the tree.” She shouted from her bedroom, thinking she looked pretty good for a widow with three most grown girls.

  Hilda Effania always left notes for the girls, explaining where their Christmas from Santa was. This practice began the first year Sassafrass had doubted that a fat white man came down her chimney to bring her anything. Hilda solved that problem by leaving notes from Santa Claus for all the children. That way they had to go search the house, high & low, for their gifts. Santa surely had to have been there. Once school chums & reality interfered with this myth, Hilda continued the practice of leaving her presents hidden away. She liked the idea that each child experienced her gift in privacy. The special relationship she nurtured with each was protected from rivalries, jokes, & Christmas confusions. Hilda Effania loved thinking that she’d managed to give her daughters a moment of their own.

  My Oldest Darling, Sassafrass,


  In the back of the pantry is something from Santa. In a red box by the attic window is something your father would want you to have. Out by the shed in a bucket covered with straw is a gift from your Mama.

  Love to you,

  Mama

  Darling Cypress,

  Underneath my hat boxes in the 2nd floor closet is your present from Santa. Look behind the tomatoes I canned last year for what I got you in your Papa’s name. My own choice for you is under your bed.

  XOXOX,

  Mama

  Sweet Little Indigo,

  This is going to be very simple. Santa left you something outside your violin. I left you a gift by the outdoor stove on the right hand side. Put your coat on before you go out there. And the special something I got you from your Daddy is way up in the china cabinet. Please, be careful.

  I love you so much,

  Mama

  In the back of the pantry between the flour & rice, Sassafrass found a necklace of porcelain roses. Up in the attic across from Indigo’s mound of resting dolls, there was a red box all right, with a woven blanket of mohair, turquoise & silver. Yes, her father would have wanted her to have a warm place to sleep. Running out to the shed, Sassafrass knocked over the bucket filled with straw. There on the ground lay eight skeins of her mother’s finest spun cotton, dyed so many colors. Sassafrass sat out in the air feeling her yarns.

  Cypress wanted her mother’s present first. Underneath her bed, she felt tarlatan. A tutu. Leave it to Mama. Once she gathered the whole thing out where she could see it, Cypress started to cry. A tutu juponnage, reaching to her ankles, rose & lavender. The waist was a wide sash with the most delicate needlework she’d ever seen. Tiny toe shoes in white & pink graced brown ankles tied with ribbons. Unbelievable. Cypress stayed in her room dancing in her tutu till lunchtime. Then she found The Souls of Black Folks by DuBois near the tomatoes from her Papa’s spirit. She was the only one who’d insisted on calling him Papa, instead of Daddy or Father. He didn’t mind. So she guessed he wouldn’t mind now. “Thank you so much, Mama & Papa.” Cypress slowly went to the 2nd floor closet where she found Santa’d left her a pair of opal earrings. To thank her mother Cypress did a complete port de bras, in the Cecchetti manner, by her mother’s vanity. The mirrors inspired her.