“I left, Cypress, ’cause Mitch broke the only promise he ever made to me. That’s all a matter of trust, that’s all . . . he didn’t keep his word. ’Cause I don’t want to marry anybody—have them own half of all Mama’s stuff, and half of all my stuff, and claim visiting rights for my kids and money and all that mess—I couldn’t stand it. So I’m all right pretending to be kept while I keep up my share, but I can’t abide breaking promises. Honest, Cypress, that’s all.”
Cypress was exercising her arches and her toes, pushing through the calf and heel to the ball of her foot to point, then flex. Point; flex. She heard Sassafrass and nodded her head, concentrating on her form . . . then she was back.
“Well, Sassafrass, what’re you gonna do?”
Sassafrass was charmed by her sister’s dedication and bluntness. “I’m gonna stay here and go to dance with you and show you my new weaving techniques. And I’m gonna write, Cypress. I’m gonna write about Mama, and growing up with all those looms.”
Cypress smiled so wide, like her hips, and the two of them gobbled up some more cottage cheese right out of the box. They began picking up their dirtied dishes and straightening out the kitchen; Cypress turned on the jazz FM station that was still into the apogee of be-bop, but was black, nonetheless, and the two of them offered themselves to the love they had for each other, improvising. Cypress would initiate a movement series and Sassafrass would respond; saucers in hand and crumbs circling their shoulders, they marked the “Sisters Cakewalk Jamboree—Delfonics style.” Sassafrass disclosed her most secret desire to get to the artists’ commune in Louisiana—the single alternative to Mitch’s frustrations and her own. Cypress wasn’t too overwhelmed by the prospect of spending time in the back bush of the South, but Cypress was a schemer too, and started finagling as soon as Sassafrass announced that all she and Mitch needed was about $800.00. Digging around in the drawer she kept all her Chinese cutlery in, Cypress grasped a thin compact with aqua rhinestones and pink-colored pearls. She opened it delicately, and her eyes just beamed. “You want a lil of this, Sassafrass?” Cypress generously held the compact of hoarded cocaine toward Sassafrass’ chin. Sassafrass turned toward her sister, almost astonished at what she had known all along: Cypress was the “Coke Lady.” Sassafrass pushed her chin back to her adam’s apple, and shook her head. “Noooo thanks, loneliness.” Cypress, with razor blade in one hand and straw in the other, had unwrapped a small piece of rice paper and was getting into her stuff. Sassafrass, who never paid much attention to time, suddenly noticed it was getting round the time to leave for the performance. Cypress had a two-hour rehearsal and then a show, and Sassafrass was going to help dress the women dancers in their elaborate costumes and fix anything looking like it might fall down in the middle of a running jump. Sassafrass got up out of her chair and started singing “Tonight’s The Night,” with all the Shirelles machinations: swivelling of hips and arms beckoning whatever lovers. Cypress could hardly stand it, and said, “Come on, girl . . . we goin’ dancin’.”
down to the wharf, there was always sailors/ shippers from all over the world/ daddy was a seaman/ a ship’s carpenter, he was always goin’ round the world/ that’s what mama said/ & he died in the ocean offa Zanzibar/ that’s what mama said the ship just caught fire/ & went on down to the bottom of the ocean/ that’s why she & sassafrass & cypress & indigo/ wd toss nickels & food & wine in the sea down the coast/ so daddy wd have all he needed to live a good life in the other world, sassafrass stayed by the wharf whenever she cd/ after school she watched the men tyin knots/ fixin nets & she figured her daddy knew all that/ & he cd sing too like the sailors & dance like the west indians/ who was crew on a lotta boats in the seamy port of charleston. sassafrass wd sit on barrels wid the men & help ’em straighten out their nets/ & listen to the tales of other colored folks’ lives in the islands & as far off as new guinea. she tried to imagine what they looked like/ if they weren’t tryin to look like white folks/ what did the languages sound like/ & the cloth & the dance & who were their spirits/ did they believe in jesus or were there other gods/ & other heavens/ like there were drums & special dances the bermudans & trinidadian sailors played in the evenin/ & showed sassafrass what they called the “jump-up”/ or the mambo/ sassafrass picked up a slight accent/ & put her hand on her hip the way the men did when they were imitatin’ their girls at home/ & sassafrass prayed she cd live like that/ free in the country/ surrounded by orange trees & men makin drums & goin out to fish & feasts for the different spirits, sassafrass decided/
bein with the colored sailors & dock workers/ that she shd go everywhere there were dark folks at all/ all over the world where her people lived/ & she wd write it all down so other children wdnt feel lost & think they were stupid ninnies/ like miz fitzhugh told her/ “it’s too bad you a lil ninny, sassafrass, or i’d take you with me on this cruise”/ & to the surprise of the spry seafarers/ sassafrass announced/ “i ’ma be a cunjah.” they laughed incredulously/ sayin/ “you awready a geechee/ how much more magic you want?”
sassafrass wished on flowers/ the flight patterns of birds/ the angle of leaves fallin/ & swore to bring the old ways back/ old spirits & their children & any new-fandangled kinda mystic aids that was demonstrated by circumstances. sassafrass stopped hangin round by the wharf & started hangin round the old folks at the church & bars in skinny streets/ learnin how to fix up sick folks/ & spells that so-&-so’s granny used ta murder whoever. & she layed up nights readin’ histories of ancient civilizations that were closer to her than all that stuff abt england & the wars of the roses.
she wrote songs of love & vindication for all the african & indian deities disgraced by the comin of the white man/ & loss of land/ & cities reflectin’ respect for livin’ things.
“i am sassafrass/ my fingers behold you
i call upon you with my song you teach
me in my sleep/ i am not a besieger of yr
fortress/ i am a crusader/ for you are
all my past/ i offer you my body to
make manifest yr will in this dungeon
of machines & carolina blues/ i wanna
sing yr joy/ & make present our beauty/
spirits/ black & brown/ find yr way
thru my tainted blood/ make me one of
yr own/ i am yr child in the new world/
i am yr fruit/ yet to be chosen for
a single battle in yr behalf/ come to
& thru me/ i am dazzled by yr beneficence
i shall create new altars/ new praises
& be ancient among you/”
Before reaching the door, Cypress opened up a large stained-glass box and pulled out four finely embroidered pieces of cloth.
“Hey, Miz Weaver . . . Sassafrass. These are my inheritances for some children I don’t have yet.”
Sassafrass looked over, and saw blocks of minute figures and arrows and circles in different colors. Cypress became terribly excited while she explained that each of the cloths was a complete notation of a dance developed from her own experiences in The Kushites Returned. Sassafrass checked that the stitches were even and the designs exceedingly intricate.
“Cypress, if the white folks knew you were doin’ this, they’d steal all of it and put it in a museum!”
Cypress was wallowing in Sassafrass’ appreciative statement when she recalled what their mama had said: “Whatever ideas you have that’re important to you, write down . . . but write them so your enemies can’t understand them right off.” Feeling triumphant, Sassafrass and Cypress did the time step down Fulton Street.
At the bus stop, the two sisters enjoyed one more childhood pastime: singing rhythm and blues; first, Tina Turner’s “I’m Just a Fool, You Know I’m in Love” and then the Marvelettes: “I saida look, look, heah comes the postman, twistin’ down the avenue . . . he’s gotta lettah in his hand, an’ I know it’s gotta be from you-who ooooooooo.” And Cypress announced plans for a whoop-la get-down after the show at her house, with lots of good wine, and good, g
ood food. Like maybe . . .
Three C’s: Cypress’ Curried Crabmeat
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
Pinch of ground cloves
1 onion, chopped
Pinch ground cardamom
1 fresh or canned green chili pepper,
1½ cups cooked crabmeat
chopped (seed removed)
Salt
½ teaspoon grated ginger
2 tablespoons chopped
(¼ ground)
parsley
¼ teaspoon turmeric
2 tablespoons lemon juice
Pinch of cinnamon
Heat vegetable oil and fry the onion until soft. Add chili pepper and ginger, turmeric, cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom, and fry for 3 minutes, sprinkling with water to avoid burning. Add crabmeat and salt to taste. Stir and cook for 5 minutes. Sprinkle with lemon juice and chopped parsley. (serves 4)
My Mama & Her Mama ’Fore Her: Codfish Cakes (Accra)
4 ounces salt fish (cod)
1 small onion, chopped
2 cups flour
¼ teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon dried yeast
1½ cups warm water
2 blades chives, chopped
1 teaspoon sugar
Put yeast and sugar in bowl with ½ cup water, and set aside. Soak fish for ½ hour, remove skin and bone. Pound fish, chives, onion, and pepper until very fine. Sift flour with yeast mixture and add rest of water; stir until a soft batter is formed. Let stand in a warm place. Add fish mixture and beat for 2–3 minutes. Spoon fish into smoking oil. Drain, and serve with hot floats.
De Floats Be-fore de Fish
1 pound flour
1 teaspoon dried yeast
4 ounces shortening
1 teaspoon sugar
1½ teaspoon salt
Warm water
Mix yeast, sugar, and a little water in bowl and set aside for a few minutes. Sift flour and salt together; add shortening, yeast mixture, and enough water to make a soft dough. Knead until smooth. Put to rise in a warm place for 2 hours or until dough has doubled. Punch down. Knead again, cut dough into small pieces, and roll pieces into balls. Put to rise again for 20 minutes. Flatten balls out to -inch thickness and fry in smoking hot oil. Drain and serve hot.
Cypress’ Sweetbread: The Goodness
Use any kind of cornmeal, add cooked beans and mashed sweet potatoes, baking soda, salt, a dash of cinnamon, and ¼ cup honey. Cook in pan as ordinary cornbread. Eat hot or cold.
Backstage, and the dressing rooms already smelled like sweat and sweet perfumes to mute incipient funk. Cypress just about shoved Sassafrass into Malik’s arms trying to get to a table with a mirror; Sassafrass was feeling in the way, and decided to sit in a corner until the dancers were ready to get into costumes. Cypress sat down and proceeded to pile all different containers of stage makeup in front of her; she had to paint her face for the dress rehearsal, to see how a new design would look. When she finally finished, there wasn’t a flesh-colored speck from her shoulders to her hairline. Cypress was the blue of prize Navajo turquoise, with yellow spirals racing down her cheeks; she was the Milky Way at dawn. And Malik was painted scarlet with comets flaring across his chest. Lallah and Melissa were passionflower orange with flame tips around their eyes; Eddie and Guy were brazen sunlight yellow. In tights and knitted leotards, everyone went through warm-ups on the floor with Ariel, who insisted on wearing his sequined and satin cape for good luck with the spirits. Stretches and lifts were mostly what Ariel had them doing, and Cypress managed to ease over to Malik in the back line, so she could discuss some business. In the middle of the high kick series, Cypress stage-whispered, “Malik, you got any corners on some blow?” Malik smiled, but braced up real quick, because he had missed a kick trying to listen to Cypress. Malik was one of those thin dancing men, but without knobby bones sticking out of every crook of his body. Malik was lithe like nobody since the Step Brothers, and he was in love with Cypress . . . as much as any dancer loves somebody besides dance herself. Malik was puzzled by Cypress’ inquiry; she didn’t ever buy any dope at all, she was just around when somebody had some . . . or maybe she wasn’t. Cypress didn’t yearn for any snow, and Malik was very cool about his business off the dance floor. “I don’t now, Cypress; maybe. I’ll let ya know.” Meanwhile, Ariel had focused on the pair whispering in the rear, and shouted clear across the room, like an unexpected blow-out.
“Malik. Cypress. Get those legs up. And keep your hips front!” Cypress stopped thinking about anything besides her body movement until after the performance.
BLACK OUT
The audience is seated and honeying up to itself. Black men and women in miniskirts and wigs, dashikis and flowing robes, rub tootsies and exchange greetings through the dark. Deep drumming is heard from the street; folks turn their heads backwards. The Kushites Returned leap, sweep down the aisles, silk cloth flies in the air gleaming with silver threads, the painted dancers burst through the darkness. Spotlights follow the sounds of the bells on their wrists and ankles; they scream and sigh, and all is joy, mighty and profound, until Ariel is carried onstage on three male dancers’ backs. He is clad in opulent golden cloth and his head is five feet high with billowing feathers. He jumps to the floor, undulates, and brings the Haitian spirit Damballah to the San Francisco underground theatre. The dancers had been in the aisles doing modern black American contractions and slides and swivels and things, and now they were all ancient and African and wholly non-West Coast California. It’s so magic folks feel their own ancestors coming up out of the earth to be in the realms of their descendants; they feel the blood of their mothers still flowing in them, survivors of the diaspora. Ariel moves across the stage, all on the ground. Not one part of his body more than three inches off the floor—and twitching, and carrying on. The dancers all move toward him to bring his reception of Damballah to an apex—and all of a sudden, the music takes a switch, and two women looking like hootchy-coo carnie girls, 1925, begin doing an incredible belly dance behind Ariel. As they make a slow diagonal toward him from stage left, three others clad in the razzmatazz minstrel outfits of the old southern T.O.B.A. circuit start doing a soft-shoe, and the music goes crazy, and all the movements grow larger and more compelling. And all of Africa in all times is thundering through the dancers, the air. The audience doesn’t exist; everybody is moving, all is not lost. Cypress laughed as she samba’d to the exit . . . niggahs still got rhythm. . . . uh-huh.
Leroy McCullough stationed himself in the corridor of Cypress’ building, drawing folks coming down the street into her whoopla shindig. And drummers went up and down the stairs for a while, until everybody who was supposed to come was there, and smoking. Cypress and Sassafrass coordinated the cooking, and Malik and Guy divvied up glasses of wine: sweet, dry, red, white, tequila; and Leroy held out for keeping the beat to some funky rhythm and blues, to help dancers get into writers, and musicians get into each other, and painters to talk to someone standing next to them, and to clear the air. Because this was going to be a long affair. Women dressed in jewelry pranced around, or posed in doorways waiting to be seen or to see somebody interesting, and children played house in the middle of the foyer, saying, “Daddy is goin’ on a gig tonite . . . lil one you go to sleep and when ya wake up he’ll be back.” Cypress gorged herself on the fullness, the life in her house, and she kept Sassafrass and Lallah busy making salads and celery with cream cheese. New chants to old river and field spirits rose up out of the gyrating crowd in the center of the house; so much clapping and stomping of feet in an Arkansas-Texas emancipation day excitement, and through the open door came the San Juan-Ponce contingent, congas strapped around their backs and clavés and tamborines in hands. Los Jibaritos brought an irresistible guaguanco into the Deep South, and some kind of New York City music evolved out of the funk and salsa. Everybody was dancing and sharing—no partners, just getting moooveddd. Sassafrass wanted to know everyone, but everyone was dancing so hard, until Ariel arrived
in a white satin robe and a silver and lapis headpiece. Then something holy and quiet started happening, and folks began talking to each other . . . and Sassafrass wandered in Cypress’ world.
My two big girls, Sassafrass and Cypress,
Well, looks like you are having a veritable family reunion. I wish I could be there, not just to see you both (which I really would like), but so I could finally be at one of Cypress’ parties! Cypress, you be sure to introduce Sassafrass to some nice young men. She doesn’t get out like she should. And Sassafrass, watch that your sister doesn’t spend up all her money entertaining folks.
Isn’t it wonderful, the two of you together. Cypress doing so well in that dance company and you, Sassafrass, out on your own for a while. I feel relaxed about you for a change. I don’t even get shortness of breath like I used to, thinking about the earthquakes and the drugs out there in California where my two lil babies are all by themselves. Now is a good time for you both to set your minds on a good marriage.
It’s not as hard as you think. Why, you just make up your mind that you are going to find a husband and one’ll come along. I know this from my own experience. I set my mind on that I would be married within a year, and sure enough I was. There’s nothing so heartening as a good provider and companion. And you girls realize, by now, how hard an artist’s life is. So let some nice man help you. Then all you have to worry about is your art. See, I’m not forgetting that you’re both carrying on careers of your own, not at all. So when you have this party, be nice, and gracious. Let them know you’re interested in family life, children, keeping house, and good company. Surely, Cypress, you wouldn’t have all these parties, if you could find yourself a steady beau.
Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo Page 10
