Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo

by Ntozake Shange

  He wasn’t doing it exactly like we all know it, but exactly like it could be, and still smoking. Folks were doing all kinds of dancing, rubbing up and down, showing off, being cool, every old thing was going down. Exactly thirty minutes later, Mitch signalled for a whanging end to the set, and the folks were disturbed; they wanted to keep on dancing and forgetting and dancing. But the management only allowed thirty-minute sets, because on Fridays and Saturdays clients had to buy at least two drinks a set, so Mitch’s group climbed down from the podium (which really reminded Sassafrass of pictures of old slave auction stands, but the thought was so odd she threw it out). Sassafrass sauntered up to Mitch to give the music back to him, round the back of his left ear. Mitch smiled and was actually very proud of himself, but he insisted Sassafrass catch the next act, because it was important.

  Up on the podium, two worn-out not-in-a-hurry old men were getting their act together; the heavyset one standing over the ironing board, the thinner, smaller one sitting on a chair with a washboard in his hands. They were smiling and joking back and forth. Sassafrass looked at Mitch inquisitively. “What they gonna do?” Mitch beamed, and motioned for her to keep watching. Then Slim, at the ironing board, stomped his foot hard on the stage: 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4, and all this music started coming out of the place. With the washboard came the melody, and little riffs and songs like a good woman sings at night. On the ironing board was a mean rhythm section—yes, a rhythm section—and the two old-timers tore the place down. Folks were just hopping, jumping up and down, or making elaborate personal statements about themselves with their bodies. Sashaying or beckoning—daring somebody to come and get it. And Sassafrass was ecstatic; she didn’t know what to do with herself. She was just dancing and falling back to the South, to the shanties and sweet cornbread, and she wanted to kiss the feet and fingers of Washboard Sam and Ironin’ Board Slim, because they were music . . . they were the truth.

  Suddenly Mitch tugged Sassafrass’ sleeve. “Come here, Sassafrass. I gotta talk to ya. Some dudes just came in lookin’ for me. I owe ’em some money from when I was usin’ an’ I gotta get outta here, or pay up. Could I exchange that coke? I swear to ya we’ll still get to Louisiana this year . . . Sassafrass please . . . I don’t wanna haveta deal with these suckers anymore.”

  Sassafrass was stiff and bewildered for a minute. She had lost the evilness of their reality; she hadn’t been part of anything but joy, and here was something else. She kept thinking she was lost in the depths of Hell and nothing would get her out of L.A. Then she looked up almost smiling and surprised herself. She didn’t care about her dreams, if her truth—her real life—was hurting, and Mitch was real life, and needing from her something she could give, and did.

  “Sure. Get rid of it. It’s bad karma anyway. How we gonna go to a new life commune on ol’ dead life money?”

  And the two of them got back to their business of being conjured by the rooted blues. Every once in a while, Washboard Sam would scream:

  “Goddamn chile. Come on. Goddamn babeee, come on. Come on. Heah. Ohhhhhh, goddammmmm chile, come heah. I got it, heah.”

  My dearest Sassafrass,

  I was so glad to hear that you are staying in Los Angeles for a while longer. It’s not that I don’t want you nearer to me, only I don’t think it’s a good idea to take the white folks to court to get back land they’ve owned since before the war, to give to Negroes who are descendants of slaves.

  I think I understand what you are trying to do, but remember we all have to live in this country together, and I believe that the Negro people have enough land to get by with right now. As a matter of fact, did you know that one Geechee after another is selling little parcels of land right off those islands? The white folks are going to build resorts and hotels like in Puerto Rico; won’t that be something?

  Anyway, that should show you that Negroes don’t want any more land, they are selling the land they do have! Why don’t you all get some land from the Colored that are selling? That way you could leave these white folks alone. It seems downright unpatriotic of you, Sassafrass, to attack the white folks in the middle of one of their wars. If you must come back to the South, why don’t you stay here? Charleston is as lovely as ever, and you could go out to eat, or sit anywhere you want, any place, any time. It’s not like when you were a little girl, not at all.

  Maybe this holiday, Kwanza, is not as bad as I thought. When you said you weren’t having Christmas, I kept wondering where I had failed. Still, as long as it’s a religious ceremony with feasts and gifts like Christmas, I guess it’ll be okay. Why does it go on for so many days? You haven’t explained all of it to me yet . . . I was attempting to tell the Bowdry sisters about your goings on, but I just don’t have enough information. Is the Maulana the same as the Savior, or is he like a minister, for you all, I mean?

  Here is a recipe I want you to have, so there won’t be too much heathen in your Christmas this year (I found a wonderful way to make a dressing for turkey with hot sausage, cornbread, and peanut butter that’s supposed to be African but I know you don’t eat pork).

  Mama’s Kwanza Recipe (for Sassafrass): Duck with

  Mixed Oyster Stuffing

  1 duck, 5–7 pounds, cleaned &

  1 medium onion, chopped

  seasoned

  1 teaspoon paprika

  1 pan cornbread

  1 ground red pepper pod

  2 tablespoons butter

  1 dozen oysters (medium)

  ½ cup celery, chopped

  1 cup pecans, chopped

  Salt & fine black pepper to taste

  Wet the cornbread, break into bits and fry in the butter with the celery and onion. Add seasonings. As mixture gets crisp, add oysters & pecans. Stuff your duck & bake in a 450° oven for 15 minutes, then lower to 350° and bake 15 minutes for each pound. Baste every 15 minutes. Don’t forget to cover the bottom of the pan with water, and be sure to keep the duck tightly covered until the last 15 minutes, when the skin can brown.

  Now, that seems like a dish packed full of love and history to me. Send me the other patterns you’ve been working on. I was trying to see if I could set up my warps like yours to make “art” things for Christmas sales to Mrs. Fitzhugh’s friends. Charleston doesn’t have the sophistication of California, but things change, even your mama (smile).

  Love you so much, my oldest daughter,

  Mama

  P.S. Are you sure that Mitch has talent? I looked at those drawings over and over . . . can’t say I know what they are about. You be sure he loves you as much as you love him. It’s better for a man to love you a little more than you love him . . . take my word.

  dancin is the movement of oceans/

  the caress of many lovers in canyons

  laced wit poppies n coca leaves/

  dancin is union of spirits layed

  to rest among splinterin shells

  n fires of adoration in the heat

  of comets n volcanoes/ dancin

  is how i love/ how i share carin

  how did mama say it

  “Cypress, didn’t I tell you to come straight home from school to help me with this cloth? You’ve been standing round that ballet class, haven’t you? Ballet is for white girls; now, can’t you understand? Your ass is too big and your legs are too short, and you can’t afford all those shoes and special clothes . . . but if you must be just like my sister and hanker after classical movements and grace, I’ll send you up to New York. Effie is working with some Negro woman doing ballet; I took care of her long enough for her to take you for a while . . . I’ll write her; see if all that white folks’ mess doesn’t fix your hard-headed behind for a minute . . . Cypress, I don’t want to see any of my children hanging round any crackers down heah to learn anything. If you want to study dance, you’ve got to wait ’til I can send you to Effie. If you don’t, I’ma fix you so you won’t be able to move anything at all, not a muscle! Now get started on that tapestry for Mrs. Fitzhugh, it’s got to be don
e by Spring, before you leave for New York. And I’ll be damned if you don’t come back some kind of ballerina . . . all proper.”

  Then they worked, and Cypress made a secret promise to her mother: to dance as good as white folks and to find out the truth about colored people’s movements, because she knew dancing was in her blood . . . every step.

  Effie wore a lot of makeup and lived six flights up on the East Side in New York City near Brooklyn, sort of. Cypress didn’t go to school, she went to class and rehearsal with Effie, and she sweat and arched and cried because she hurt. She tried to learn French, and the difference between modern and classical ballet.

  Effie was impatient and mean about dancing, because it’s got to be right, and Cypress went on. Her body was tight, her mind astounded by dancing in New York, no fresh food, funny languages, old Ukrainian women looking in garbage cans, the moon hidden by concrete offices, Effie entertaining dancers and singers ’til the next rehearsal . . . and always more to learn, more energy to find; and no congratulations about getting better. She was almost sixteen, and didn’t know anybody under twenty-five.

  Cypress gave her life to dancing, reducing complex actions to the curve of her wrist. Ariel Moröe took her into his troupe, The Kushites Returned, and immersed her in the ways of pre-Egyptian Nile culture, and Cypress was discovering the movements of the colored people that had been lost. Year after year Ariel’s company almost starved, but they danced nine hours a day, and moved all over the country playing audiences rallied behind the sit-in movements and Equal Opportunity for Colored Folks. The Kushites Returned played itsy-bitsy “lil ol Southern towns,” and introduced factory workers, sharecroppers, doctors, and church-women to the brazen mystical motions of black Nile dance.

  Cypress took up with some of the musicians in the troupe, and she would listen and soar toward indefinite heavens when they played. Her dance took on the essence of the struggle of colored Americans to survive their enslavement. She grew scornful of her years of clamoring for ballet, and grew deep into her difference. Her ass and her legs she used like a colored girl; when she danced, she was alive; when she danced, she was free.

  The Kushites Returned were just outside Chicago. In fifteen more hours they were going to hit New York City for the first time in three years. Cypress had started painting her nails aqua and mauve, while the five-car caravan of dancers waited for tire checks and gasoline. She wasn’t really there, on the road; she was still in her house in San Francisco, and everyone in the company sensed her reluctance to join them in eager anticipation of the Only City—New York. She had said no more than thirty sentences in the four days they had been on the road. Ariel Moröe had had her switched from car to car, thinking she needed more variety on the road than anyone else, but it hadn’t worked.

  Cypress wasn’t with them. This decision she’d made, to stop dealing and dance for a living, was more frightening than she had any reason to believe it would be. For months she’d looked forward to the day when she could say, “No, I don’t have a thing,” and mean it. She rubbed her bosoms like she knew her grandma would have on such a hot day. Patting her chest, to remind herself that she had saved enough to stay out of business for a few months; she did have a chance to make it as a dancer; she did not have to worry. She carried traveller’s checks. No more dealing. That was a relief, for a while. When she sat still, she thought of her kitchen, and Lallah and Dulce and Maureen, the women she’d danced with . . . her friends, whom Ariel had decided not to take on tour.

  Cypress was the only woman with Ariel’s troupe doing the swing tour through Washington, Philly, and New York. Ariel had said he could pick up some more girls on a swing basis wherever they worked, but he needed the men. “Humph,” Cypress kept shaking her head. “There’s four dudes wit us couldn’t do a run-run-leap without fallin’ on themselves.” But they were men. And men were prized in dance.

  And men riding in cars for days and days talk a lot, about being prized and sought after, being badder than thunder in the mountains; and Cypress listened and listened. What could she say? Men talking to men about being men who like men and occasionally take a woman. Cypress tweezed her eyebrows, pushed cuticles, braided her hair, slept, stared out the windows, kept quiet, and remembered too many men. Long men standing by trees in parks. Smart men being glib. Men taking off her clothes. Men flirting with each other when they danced with her. Men eating her food; men in her bed. Men holding her, leaving her wet and lonely. Cypress didn’t say much cross-country. She remembered and nestled in the back seat. With her journal, she talked to herself.

  JOURNAL ENTRY #48

  everybody i know has lost they mind

  sometimes i wish i was crazy too/ then i cd get some

  sleep/ this way i keep lookin round

  waiting for X to jump

  tryin to catch Y for he picks up the one-nite-stand/

  for a second time/ imaginin Z cuttin his wrists

  ABC & D runnin naked on 42nd street . . .

  everybody i know is recoverin from a bad affair

  wishin for mister right

  lookin for miz true

  & i cant get any rest

  i’m so tired & nerve worn

  when the antelopes & gazelles peeped thru my

  window

  i invited them in/ the conversations i was havin

  weren’t important enuf to exclude animals of note/

  i bit my tongue for mentionin jean harlow to freddie

  washington

  my friends are ridiculous/ i haveta change my

  associations/

  talk abt fantasy runnin wild/ please dont anybody

  say/

  “& this is yr life.”

  At 5th Street and Second Avenue the company set up house in a three-room draft. When Malik was turned out, then Bruce, then Pedrito, Cypress moved her things into the closet and stayed there at night after rehearsal. The lovemaking was so active and one-dimensional she preferred pulling coats round her ears, and sleeping with her face to the corner. But it was too much, when Ariel screamed across the studio to the new women:

  “You whores go off with Cypress ’til ya know what in the hell you’re doin’. I don’t need no clumsy pussy out in public.”

  Cypress had enough, and moved in with two women she’d met at some dance classes in the West Village.

  Celine and Ixchell belonged to a women’s dance collective called Azure Bosom that worked out of Ovary Studio in the Bowery. Celine adored Cypress and had hit on her to move in the first time they showered together after pointe class. Celine was thin like a puma, with mahogany-tinted, pure flesh. No eyebrows or hair on her head; just rich skin and line. Celine usually painted her cheeks and eyes with bright geometric shapes. Her lips were always deep purple. Ixchell liked crêpe and velvet dresses to sit right on her Panamanian ass, where her two braids bounced when she walked. Ixchell had taken off her eyebrows too; there were tufts of ostrich and macaw feathers above her eyes, and earrings that attached to the ring in her nose, so she was a gliding and jeweled thing. Ixchell and Celine smiled a lot and never covered their bodies with arms, or slumped carelessly into a seat or neglected to breathe evenly and deeply when anyone was looking at their bodies, but they never saw men on a personal basis.

  Actually, someone had said not one of the women in Azure Bosom saw men, at all, anywhere. Celine and Ixchell took Cypress in and gave her the window-room looking at the Brooklyn Bridge. Cypress was beside herself, in a woman’s house at last. Everywhere—in the bathroom, the hallway and living room, all along the studio walls—were photographs, paintings, drawings, and sculptures of women by women. All third-world women. Cypress saw herself everywhere she looked. Nothing different from her in essence; no thing not woman. And she loved it.

  Celine cooked for friends the same as Cypress had in San Francisco, but now for breakfast and evening wine came women. Writers, dancers, printers, painters, and filmmakers, beautiful like a woman appreciates. Courteous, good-smelling and clean, and each o
ne unique. Cypress met more women in three days with Celine and Ixchell than she had ever known. And they talked about art and New York and food. About God and Venus intercepting Uranus and men. Cypress never knew that women as lovely as these appeared to be and as complete as these appeared to be could have so much to say about men. Cypress had nothing to say about them. She wanted to talk to women who were about being women; she didn’t want to talk about men. Not here in her woman-being space. And how they talked so perfectly, in tact, inscrutably desirable and bitter:

  “Well, if ya could’a seen that dude’s face when I kissed Elva on the corner by the theatre. He looked like I had cut off his dick. So I pulled open her blouse a lil an’ licked her titty. God. He looked like he was gonna puke.” (titter, titter)

  “Yeah, but what good would a man do somebody like me? I write my own things and pay my rent. ’Cause somebody’s got a penis mean I gotta want it?”

  “I develop all my own film and mat my own stuff. Can you imagine those fellas in the Puerto Rican collective askin’ me do I wanna help them set up their show in the Super Señor Gallery?”

  “If he ever asks me to dance wit his faggot ass again I’ll tear off alla my clothes an’ sit on his head wit both legs wide open.”

  “I told my daughter if she wanted to be with her daddy she better go on and do it now, ’cause there ain’t gonna be no more men in my life ever, is there, Berte?”

  “Not in my life.”

  “Emotionally underdeveloped species.” (hahahaha)

  “I certainly can’t use one.”

  “What for?”

  “What could they do for us?”

  “I could do that for ya, mama!” (laughter)

  “It’s sad, isn’t it. One-half the world is them.”