Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo

by Ntozake Shange

  Cypress loved looking at them. So soft and delicate. She didn’t listen long; she didn’t want to speak of men in her woman-space. She looked as if she were in a silent film, and watched Azure Bosom dance a female dance. A gender dance. A dance of ovaries and cervix uncovered and swelling, menses falling like waterfalls in a golden forest. A dance of women discovering themselves in the universe. She. Her. Hers. Us. Cypress didn’t listen too much. She felt connected to these women among women as she had never felt around any man. She loved them in a primal way; being able to touch and fondle and kiss as if one body enclosed them all. And they danced and worked, and publicized the Azure Bosom concert: “Vulva Dreams.”

  There was nothing straight at Ovary Studio. Everything was round, curving, textured, and dense. No sense of the possibility of masculinity existed. The ceiling was covered with moss, like pubic hair. The aisles of the theatre arena moved like errant streams. Everywhere there was flow. Azure Bosom had quite a following in New York City. They were regarded as the thrust of the future for women in dance, articulating what women had never acknowledged: our bodies are not our destiny, but all freeing-energy. Azure Bosom brought many women to tears, to joy . . . a sense of quiet easiness they had never known. Because Azure Bosom had given so many women so much of themselves, many many women came to the opening, “Vulva Dreams” was what they were after.

  PLACES

  Azure Bosom moved down the winding aisles in slow motion, making “shhh” and quiet “ahhh” sounds. They seemed to lose all skeletal form. The women were clouds billowing, unfurling smoke rings, and “shhhh” and “ahhhhhh” embraced all souls and caressed and tumbled over lips and there was a holy warmth, another communion. A sensual joining of strangers . . . the sound of women loving themselves.

  As they approached the stage, Azure Bosom began a series of prolonged contractions that pushed their bodies irregularly in space, until the tension in their spines was vigorous and filled with danger. The hushing sounds became screams and the haunting “ahhhh” was a pelvic groan like trembling oceans on a still night. They rolled across the stage erratically, like women possessed, and their sounds were beings collapsing in mirrors, and someone of them sighed for “mama.” Then a chorus of all the different times and voices for that one woman issued forth like the burning bush, and it went on, the cry for “mama,” until Celine made a gesture for silence.

  And then there was celebration. Celebration of menses; of why she can be daughter, why she can be mother. How girl from woman. And the widely esteemed Azure Bosom puberty rite began. The first lighting other than candles blazed out, red. The women began to touch their thighs, make like they were smelling their fingers, seeing something wondrous come from themselves. Their hips cut into space, became familiar with sex. And suddenly Stevie Wonder’s “Here I Am, Babeee, Signed, Sealed and Delivered” blasted throughout the Ovary Studio. Accepting menstruation as the key to womanhood, what made bosoms and ass possible, why mama exists, and love among us. The women in Azure Bosom became the female body exalted. As the Stevie Wonder song faded out, the women made clicking sounds with their tongues and rubbed their thighs and crotches in a moving kick series out of the arena, leaving the audience to continue the ritual until every woman greeted her flowing blood and rounded hips with unbounded thanks.

  CLITORIS

  Choreographed by Ixchell Buenavilla

  Music by the Marvalettes, “Forever”

  From the far right of the round stage Ixchell slithered and waxed, seeming to pull all that was pain and disappointment out of her body. Her hands and feet articulated wanting something that was not there, reaching to place some constantly evasive element in some other than herself, while her torso heaved and contracted toward her heart like she was a cavern or a prisoner. She was the cave and the light. And all women forced to nourish someone other than themselves were dangling in her fingers, watching themselves dissolve in another breath. Ixchell seemed to die right on the stage. So intense and stultifying were her motions that she grabbed the whole of the theatre into her suffering, and allowed no lapses of relief from complete suppression of self. The final posture of the dance was a contracted spread-eagle: hands, feet, knees, and neck flexed. Absolute despair in the archetypal sprawl of the ravaged woman. Ixchell drew out the torture until the last light was off. Her shadow suggested a four-day-old corpse.

  HOW DO SHE DO

  Choreographed by Celine

  Music by the Isley Brothers, “Who’s That Lady?”

  In slightly spangled tights and apache-dancer skirts, Azure Bosom sashayed through the audience like She who is not only looking, but She who has found an eye to taunt, to tease, to promise heaven in the switch of a hip, and bosom bounce. “How Do She Do” is the coquette Erzulie, introduced to modern lovers unaccustomed to pure pleasure of flesh and spirit combined. This She is not a body in silk panties, but a body in silk panties enjoying being in silk panties and surveyed walking down 125th Street in silk panties with sunlight streaming through her legs. This is She to love bright and quick, and hold like a vapor of a lovely woman walking through the subway train, who passed on to another; but when she was there . . . when she was there, there was all woman ever knew to be. Azure Bosom obviously loved this dance. And there was reason to love the freeing of the coquette from the responsibility of breaking men’s hearts, driving them to compulsive desires and guilt. This She was free of all that, and allowed women to linger in their own eroticism; to be happy with loving themselves. Celine was center front in her own dance. She was the awesome and spry carnal connection to the spirit of infinite giving, the flirt gives so much pleasure to those who know how to receive without taking, and Celine led Azure Bosom’s hips, ass, tits, neck, and mouth right into everyone’s soul. She was doing more than all right; she was doing all she could do to make everyone enjoy her simply being beautiful and ready.

  “How Do She Do” grew into a communal “Come Dance with Me.” Azure Bosom pulled folks out of the crowd, onto the stage to be raucous and seduce with women moving. What they wanted in the first place: to be, and share women moving. They worked, and “Vulva Dreams” became real.

  Any woman who liked women at all would have loved them after Azure Bosom’s concert. “Vulva Dreams” was the sucking of a ripe plum or chilled strawberry to any possible woman who likes fresh and natural growing things. And the party at Celine’s, Ixchell’s, and Cypress’ was a delightful buffet. For women, all kinds of women. Not just the super-chic and independent ones like Celine, who were so svelte only the dresses moving in the dark let someone know there was a body, but others rounder than Ixchell and more heavily bangled than Cypress. Women in trousers, gabardine and silk. Women with moustaches and Camels, more subtle types with Shermans and boots. Women with big stomachs and big tits. Women looking like Smokey Robinson and women looking like Miriam Makeba. Somebody being fiery like La Lupe. And some women who didn’t even know this was an Azure Bosom party, and women couldn’t come as women but only as women and: women and jewelry and attitude and talent and ennui and good taste and body. Azure Bosom was one thing, Azure Bosom’s parties were something else; more like a slave market where everybody was selling herself.

  Cypress fit right in. Since she had been in New York City she’d been dancing much harder than in San Francisco; she didn’t have such a peasant figure any more, nor the casual attire she’d craved on the West Coast. She was actually looking very expensive and terribly unapproachable, which was the look for this particular crowd. But Cypress didn’t really know why she should put herself up for auction to be run off with by some woman she didn’t know, any more than she understood what cruelty had to do with a good time. And since she wasn’t having one, she left to take a walk. She was waving goodbye to something Brooklyn and Caribbean in a scarlet satin skirt and golden flowers pasted to her fleeting tits, as something Manhattan and subdued-colored snarled, “I don’t know who it’s gonna be tonite, but I’ma fix her so she won’t never want nothin’ but what I got . . .”r />
  Cypress was so upset she walked all the way to 72nd Street before she realized someone was walking with her. A woman in blue-jeans and gold hoops all the way round her ears was mostly what Cypress saw. They didn’t say anything; they just kept walking, and when they looked at each other, the tension of being strangers lessened. Cypress turned to walk east on 96th, so did the woman. Finally Cypress took a deep breath.

  “Okay. Mama, what’s up?”

  “Well. I saw you leave Ixchell’s before I could talk to ya, an’ I wanted to talk to ya, an’ ya looked like ya needed someone to talk to an’ thought there was no one there. So I followed ya.”

  “What did you want to talk about. I’m not lookin’ for a quick an’ easy, alright?”

  “Hey. Hey. I just wanted to know ya; I don’t wanna do anythin’ to ya. I can’t stand those vampire bitches either, but I was lonely so I thought I’d try to make some new friends, while my lady is in Europe.”

  They were still walking, and now at First Avenue and 86th Street, Cypress and this woman, Idrina, went to have a glass of wine.

  Idrina was a dancer, too. She and Cypress focused most of their attention on being third-world female dancers in the United States, and being disgusted with the way a lot of Celine and Ixchell’s friends conducted themselves in the world. Idrina, who was quite delicate herself, found Cypress’ indignation and disillusionment about being a dancer in New York City charming. Absolutely charming. They had two or three half-decanters of wine, in two or three bars, before Idrina walked Cypress back to the Bowery. Somewhere between the mid-East Side and Canal Street, Idrina found a slightly tousled flower for Cypress’ hair, a perfectly shaped rock for Cypress’ good luck, a stray pigeon feather for Cypress’ ear, an empty window frame for Cypress’ weaving, and a way of putting her tiny hand round the back of Cypress’ neck so Cypress just smiled.

  JOURNAL ENTRY #151

  yesterday my bosoms

  kept fallin out

  my shirts

  move easily when i turn

  the right nipple wiggles

  but/

  idrina say

  “what’s a lil titty ’mong friends?”

  Cypress and Idrina, dancing-growing-loving in New York.

  “Ya wanna dance in New York, huh. Alright, ya do the toe-thang, don’t’cha? Heah we go . . .”

  In a vast and deep studio cluttered with brown women and some men, Cypress tried to enjoy pointe, the lift of ballet. And Idrina made it so easy. Whenever M’sieur Tomas screamed in his Bronxite Southern drawl, “You colored people better get it toooo-gethaaaah. If you caaaan’t dance, Mizzzz Thaaaang, get the hell outta my class, honey,” Cypress would cringe and miss a step. Idrina would touch her arm and whisper, “He’s got to teach whoever comes in here. You know you’re a dancer; you can’t pay him no mind. He knows more than us, and he just trips. Not everybody has enough nerve to dance; that shoutin’ builds it in somebody who’s really gonna dance. Don’t you trip ’cause he’s gone out.”

  During stretches M’sieur Tomas tried to push Cypress’ knee to her ear, and Cypress took as much pull as she could, until she yanked her leg down and cooed, “M’sieur, you gotta give me a few days to catch up on your technique. I know my leg will go up there if I keep comin’ here.”

  And Idrina winked, as Cypress turned back to the barre and pliéd and pliéd, trying to make her leg her own again. From one class to the next Idrina filled Cypress in on the idiosyncrasies of all the teachers:

  “Alfredo is gonna hit on ya, right away. He is the one teachin’ Angolan dance. And Pierre Aubignon teachin’ Congolese doesn’t like inhibited Afro-American dancers. So let your hips go in there or he’ll be on your case from now until. And Miz Wilson’s jazz motto is: ‘loose thighs, women,’ so wear your sweat pants and plastic leggings if ya go to her. And don’t let anyone get you down.”

  “But Idrina. You don’t believe in all this pressure and ‘professionalism,’ do ya? I mean, that somebody should not be able to dance ’cause they can’t remember steps quick, or ’cause they weigh ten pounds more than someone else. And all that hostility. You’ve seen Ariel, haven’t ya? He doesn’t do nothin’ compared to these snotty, nose-in-the-air teachers here.”

  “Well. No. I love dancin’, that’s all. If somebody knows somethin’ that’s gonna make me dance more and better, I wanna know what that is. And yeah, I guess I do wanna be as close to perfect as I can be, but I want as many people to dance as want to. I want the whole world to dance, but dancers are a strange breed, Cypress—don’tchu know that. We are compulsive-obsessive, I think that’s the phrase. We dance all day, move round dancers, in our spare time go see other dancers and for fun we go dancin’. There’s no way to make us less intense, unless we fall in love . . . but not with another dancer.”

  So Cypress learned to see other people as themselves, and not as threats to her person. What somebody was doing was what they were doing, but not necessarily to her. And she waited for Idrina every morning at the 14th Street station, so they could go dance together all day. Eat a light supper. And fall out in each other’s arms at night.

  Idrina knew some things Cypress didn’t know: where to eat in the City; which piers to visit in the wee hours of the night and watch the waves and sunrise. How to love a woman like Cypress—something Cypress hadn’t known; that she could be loved, because she’d never let anyone close enough. Yet Idrina seemed to move right in and slay the dragons Cypress had spouting “don’t touch me,” simply by looking at her. Holding her. Finding little things for her, going to hear music with her. Walking with her. Kissing her scalp, rubbing her legs, making her breakfast, taking her picture. Being there when Cypress came into the room. Idrina knew some things Cypress didn’t know: loving is not always the same as having. And Idrina loved Cypress, but not to have . . . and Cypress didn’t know that.

  But Ixchell knew something more than Idrina had imagined. Idrina’s lady was on her way back from Amsterdam. While Cypress was visiting her house, saying hello to Celine and company, and getting ready to go meet Idrina, Ixchell exclaimed,

  “I just got a letter from Holland. Laura is gonna be home next week. I guess we’ll be seein’ more of ya then, Cypress. Make the next few days last. Idrina and Laura rarely come out, when they are both in town.” There was a vicious silence; then Celine murmured,

  “I’m sure Idrina told you how she hates us ‘vampire girls,’ didn’t she? And how honest carin’ is all that’s important, and that humans shouldn’t use or abuse one another, especially not women, huh? And did she find you a flower and play the very wooden flute on Grant’s tomb . . .”

  Ixchell was watching. From some part of herself she had no control over, she tried to patch the wounds.

  “Oh, Celine. You know Cypress could see through that. She just wanted some attention while she was here. Cypress doesn’t need anybody so much she just can’t leave ’em. She never lets anyone into her.”

  Cypress knew better than to flinch or cry out in the presence of dangerous animals. Celine and Ixchell were gnawing on her bones as she closed the front door.

  Idrina knew something was wrong, but Cypress was a moody woman and kept a lot of secrets. So Idrina left her to herself, even though they were together for hours. Idrina played Kyoto recordings and read to Cypress from the Bhagavad-Gita after class. Cypress had left again for an imagined Shangri-la where she was safe from hurt and her own feelings. She wasn’t with Idrina, and Idrina knew that and didn’t like it. Idrina believed in being where you are when you’re there and someplace else, when you get there. So she confronted Cypress with an unfamiliar tone.

  “I never promised ya anythin’. So what are ya doin’?”

  “I’m being reasonably unhappy, so I won’t have to be ridiculous when Laura comes back next week.”

  “How could I have thought our wonderful friends would let me take care of my own business?”

  Cypress was standing by the window, looking at the cars, becoming steely and attempting to igno
re everything Idrina was saying:

  “Why are ya gonna be unhappy, Cypress? I do love you. I really love you and I’m not abandoning you to some lonesome and miserable life. I’ll be in your life, I just won’t be there all the time . . . but I’ll be there whenever you need me as a friend, or lover. So don’t draw away. Don’t leave.”

  “Oh yeah. You’re gonna be there all right, when Laura goes out of town.”

  “You knew she was comin’ back. I always let you know that.”

  “Yeah. Well. She’s comin’ back and you can have her. But not me, I can’t do it. I can’t do it. Why didn’t you leave me alone . . .”

  Idrina moved closer to Cypress and caressed her face. “You didn’t want to be left alone. I didn’t want to leave you alone, and you love someone now, don’t you. You didn’t hold back and make fun and games. You didn’t ignore your spirit and be someone you aren’t ’cause you didn’t have the faith to be yourself. Ahhhh, Cypress. Can’t you see I’ve been doin’ this ‘us’ with you. With you, not to you.”

  “Then that makes me one big damn jackass, doesn’t it. Helpin’ somebody hurt my feelings. That’s so intelligent and self-sufficient, I oughtta get a award for the Most Asinine Lover of New York City. The one who gave and lost the most in this decade.”

  Cypress swung around the room, flinging her arms and kicking. All her movements were correct; sharp, and unexpected. Her anger pushed through her space. Idrina moved to another room, satisfied Cypress would let her legs scream out her disappointment.

  Cypress fell down in the midst of furious chené turns. At first she wanted to jump up immediately and start again. A mad dance. A dance of expiation. A dance to exorcise Idrina and love and anything but movement. She wanted to get up and shout with her bosom and fingers. Holler with her arms: “I am hurt. I am hurt. I am hurt. HUUUURRRRRTTTT.” But she didn’t move; she was rigid like a forsaken oak. Then she collapsed, refusing to dance—dance was too much joy to bear. She would not dance. She somehow got her things and left Idrina’s in a fearsome silence. Cypress had nothing to say. No dance left.