by Daniel Black
“And what is that?”
“I don’t know. I said she knew—not me.”
“Somebody needs to tell me, because I’m lost,” I suggested despondently.
“Naw, you’re not lost. You just gotta think about the implications of the gift.”
“I’m not following you.”
“You will. Think about it.”
“I am thinking! And I’m still not following you!” Frustration clouded my words.
“The question is, why would Momma leave you her books? Huh?” David was irritating me like a fly buzzing around my ear.
“Because I’m her long-lost son, right?”
“Oh, please! Momma never was into excessive flattery of anyone. You know that. Don’t be silly.” David moved from his chair with his empty coffee cup and walked toward the kitchen.
“Why do you think she left me the books?” I hollered louder than I needed to.
There was a momentary pause and David reentered the room with a fresh cup of coffee. “You know why. You just don’t want to face it.” He sat in the chair again and nodded his head up and down confidently.
“Excuse me?” I frowned.
“That’s right. You know exactly why Momma left you the books. You just don’t want to say it.”
“Can we please stop playing this game?” I asked painfully.
“Can we?” David smiled.
“Man, whatever you know, just tell me. I don’t have time for all this.”
“The question is, what do you know? Why would someone who believed in education as much as Momma did leave all her books to you?”
I knew where David was going, and I was trying in vain to avoid it. “Because she knows how much I always loved to read?”
“Wrong.”
I sighed heavily. David wasn’t going to give up. He was determined to make me say what I didn’t want to say.
“All right,” I surrendered. “She left me the books because she hoped I would stay in Swamp Creek and teach with them.”
“Bingo!”
“But I’m not staying here. She knew that. I told her so!”
“Yeah, I know.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I agree. I don’t blame you for not staying here. A man’s got to plant himself wherever he feels he can grow. I wouldn’t stay here, either.”
“Why not?” I asked defensively.
“Because Swamp Creek is forty years behind time. I don’t sense activity or life abounding. It appears rather dull and uneventful.”
“It’s probably not all that bad. I’m sure people have fun and enjoy life in their own little way.”
“Then why can’t you do the same?” David said, smiling, proud that his reverse psychology was working.
“Because the things I enjoy aren’t here. I like southern living, but I also like to go to theaters, concerts, and libraries. Swamp Creek offers none of this.”
“That’s undoubtedly true, but maybe your job is to bring those things to Swamp Creek.”
“You must be joking! It would take a lot more than me to put this place on the map. I’d need about one hundred thousand other folks!”
“Raise them up! What if your legacy here were the seed of a great migration back to Swamp Creek? What if, due to your extraordinary gift of teaching, people from all over the black world came here to give their children the best education possible? Wouldn’t that be awesome?”
“No, it wouldn’t, because I’m not staying here. And, anyway, you know as well as I do people are not moving to Swamp Creek simply for their children to attend school under my tutelage!”
“OK, that was a bit much, but still your impact could be far-reaching.”
“That’s true for any teacher anywhere!” I said, feeling like the tide was turning in my favor.
“No, it’s not!” he raged emphatically.
“Yes, it is! Any teacher’s impact could be far-reaching.”
“You don’t believe that. You know as well as I do that ninety percent of people in the classroom are not teachers. They’re boring as hell, trite, unmotivated, and they do not know how to inspire learning. They want to be teachers, but they don’t have the gift.”
“What do you mean, ‘the gift’?”
“Teaching is not a profession, T.L. It’s a spiritual calling. God has ordained some people with the skill to excite the rest of us about learning. These are people whose natural inclination is to search for knowledge and transfer it to the rest of the world in a way that makes us better. Many so-called teachers are smart, but their ability to inspire the rest of us to learn is desperately lacking. Ironically, they think they’re teaching.”
“Amen. I’ve had the worst.”
“I’m sure you have. You probably sat there the whole time imagining what you’d do if you were the teacher. You thought about how you’d stand on top of the desk instead of sitting in the chair or how you’d tie your students up with ropes to make them feel what being a slave was really like.”
“Oh my God! How in the world did you know that?” David’s summation of my pedagogical evolution left me uneasy.
“Because you have the gift of teaching. The gift, not the desire or simply the intellectual training, but the gift. And one with the gift would think of these sorts of things. It’s not complicated.”
“You got me on that one. I used to sit in college classes and wonder why the teachers were so boring! Even then, I imagined a million ways to make the class exciting. I always wondered why teachers didn’t imagine them also.”
“Because they didn’t have the gift of teaching.”
“Right, they didn’t.”
“Yet you do. I can tell it. Momma knew it. That’s why she left you all of her books.”
“Maybe that is why, but I’m not staying in Swamp Creek. Absolutely not.”
“And why not?”
“I’ve already told you!” I set my coffee cup down, vexed. “I can’t breathe here. I feel stifled, unproductive, and hindered. I think it’s unfair of you to ask me to stay in a place that makes me feel that way.”
“You’re right, T.L. I’m sorry. It’s only because I can imagine you transforming the children in this little town in a way most people probably can’t. In my heart, I want Momma’s legacy to live on forever. The Good Lord’ll work it out, though.”
“Yes, He will,” I agreed pleasantly.
We sat in silence as our tempers calmed. I was beginning to like David. He had definitely angered me, but he had also taught me a few things.
“I like you, T.L.,” David said suddenly.
“I was thinking the exact thing! We’ve had our first fight as brothers, huh?”
“Looks that way,” David chuckled. “Brothers are supposed to fight.”
“No, they’re not,” I said sadly. “Brothers are supposed to love and honor each other.”
“We’re on our way,” David said.
“We sure are.”
With that, David rose to replenish his coffee. When he returned, he asked, “So what good book are you reading these days?”
“I’m in the middle of a book called Two Thousand Seasons,” I answered vigorously, glad to change the subject.
“What’s it about?”
“It’s probably the best book I’ve ever read,” I had to say, although that was not his question. “It’s about a community of African people whose way of life gets challenged by outsiders. They are forced to leave their own homeland in hopes of preserving their traditions and their sacred cosmology.”
“What is their sacred tradition?”
“Armah, the author, calls it ‘The Way.’ It’s a bit complicated, but essentially it’s the Law of Reciprocity—the principle that everyone and everything in a community should both give to that community and be sustained by it. As an ideology, reciprocity assures no one gives too much of themselves and no one takes more than his share. It’s about communal balance and harmony.”
“It’s really good?”
“Armah is brilliant! His prose is so lyrical it reads like poetry. I must admit it’s a slow read because it’s very dense, but every line reflects authorial mastery of language. Some of his phrasing is simply magical.”
“Wow. I’ll have to read that one. Any time a teacher goes on like that about a book, it’s worth checking out.”
“Please read it. I promise you’ll love it.”
“I will.”
“You read anything good lately?” I asked in return.
“I’m rereading the Book of Job and it’s making me mad as hell.”
“Why?” I asked, surprised.
“Because I can’t believe God let Satan talk Him into destroying Job’s life just to prove a point.”
“That story is a literary creation, David. It doesn’t reflect the character of the real God. Rather, it’s a story about God and man with the purpose of teaching the fruit of endurance and patience and struggle. I never read Job as an indication of what the Divine God might actually do.”
“You don’t read the Bible literally?”
“Of course not; it’s not supposed to be treated as a compilation of factual events. It’s a set of combined allegorical stories, just as literary and fictive as any other creative text. The character God in the Bible is someone’s perception of what God might do or say. Remember, God didn’t write the book.”
“Yes, but those who did were inspired by Him,” David defended.
“Fine. However, that doesn’t mean what they wrote is exactly what God would have written had He or She assumed the pen. Indeed, I would be disappointed if God had written it, for I would’ve expected more.”
“You’re on thin ice,” he said with an edge of warning.
“Why?” I smiled. “In order for God to have written the Bible, God would have had to embrace the limitations of language. And if God could dwell within such limitations, how could God still be God?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Anyway, I think it’s important to read the character of God in Job as a creation of the writer’s imagination, not as a reflection of the Divine Creator. I’m not sure that such an enormous character could even be conceptualized in words.”
“Is the Bible the Word of God to you?” David frowned.
“Sure. Yet it’s not the only Word of God. God has spoken to everyone on the planet, David, so how could anyone be arrogant enough to suggest that the Bible is the only Word of God? In other words, what makes any text the Word of God? Someone’s declaration of it as such, right?”
David surveyed me cautiously and continued listening.
“Who could dispute whether a writer was inspired by God? How can we know what God has said and to whom? It’s all a matter of belief. Or better, faith. If you believe it, then it’s true.”
“It can’t be that simple,” David said, shaking his head.
“Sure it can. We need, or rather want, God to be complicated in order to rule and control Him. We need for most people to be confused about God and the Bible in order to crown a few scholars as Great Theologians who understand what the rest of us do not. Then we pay them to teach us. If we ever understand the simplicity of God, then God can belong to everyone freely. America fears affording people such religious liberty.”
“Why?”
“Because then rules and laws governing people’s private lives and their thoughts get dismissed as ridiculous. If every man gets to understand God for himself, then God can be anything, even if the perception appears contradictory to what another man believes. In other words, the control element gets dropped and then any person of any walk of life can be holy because ‘holy’ becomes self-defined. Interestingly enough, most people need God to be a tyrant in order to believe in Him. It makes Him powerful, majestic, and awe inspiring. I don’t think that’s how the Divine Creator is, though.”
“No?”
“No. I don’t think God wants to rule anything. I believe God gave us minds precisely because God didn’t want the responsibility of the worth of our lives. He or She gave us life—what we do with it is entirely up to us, and I don’t think God really cares one way or the other. I believe God wants us to live the fullness of our spiritual possibilities, but how we do that is up to us.”
“Amazing.”
“What’s amazing?”
“In a matter of moments, you’ve made me look at God from a totally different perspective. You have the gift of teaching, T.L.”
“Not that again!”
“No, I’m serious. I never considered the possibility that the God in the Job story couldn’t possibly be the true God. When I do, I get instantly freed from trying to understand what seems like poor judgment on God’s part. To see it as a story about God and not a reflection of God makes a lotta sense. Your students will be very lucky.”
“I hope so,” I said modestly.
“The only other thing you need to try to do is figure out what to do with all these books!”
“I know,” I sighed heavily. “I’ll figure out something by this evening. Right now I need to go.”
“Why? What’s the rush?”
“I told my brother I’d give him a hand again today. God knows I don’t want to, but it’s the least I could do. He’s probably half-done by now, so I’d better hurry before I get cussed out. I’ll come back by tomorrow.”
“All righty, T.L. Thanks.”
“For what?” I said as I grabbed hold of the doorknob.
“For the lessons, Mr. Teacher.”
20
People began congregating at the Meetin’ Tree around sundown. Friday evenings in Swamp Creek were community ritual time, when folks gathered and talked about their week or their children or someone who had died recently, and because Ms. Swinton had just transpired, I knew the tree would be crowded. I had asked David to meet me there at eight, and, sure enough, he was there when I arrived. Daddy was already there, too. He loved to hear the stories other people told, and he loved to share Mr. Blue’s grape wine. As long as I can remember, Mr. Blue brought a large jug of that gasoline, as Momma called it, and passed it around like we were having communion service. I always liked Friday nights at the tree because people relinquished their inhibitions freely and shared intimacies otherwise taboo. Folks who were solemn all week laughed easily once they arrived at the tree, for somehow the space released Swamp Creek residents from the confinements and constructs of the world, which told them they were not supposed to have joy. I use to sit under the tree, watch people approach from every direction, and notice how stoic expressions instantly transformed into smiles.
Everyone was there except Momma. She refused to go and watch niggas act a fool, she said. I remember her going to the tree only once when I was young. She arrived dressed like she was going to Sunday morning service. Stockings and all! Folk frowned and asked her where in the world she was going with all those clothes on. Momma murmured, “Ignut niggas,” and turned around and went home. People fell out laughing. “Why was Marion dressed like that?” they kept asking. I saw her leave and ran after her. When I caught up, I noticed she was crying. “Momma, you all right?” I asked, completely confused by her tears. “Oh yes, Son. Some dust blew in my eyes. I’ll be fine. I’m going home to find some eyedrops.” I didn’t think much more about it until the following Friday, when Daddy asked Momma if she was coming to the tree. “I can’t stand dem stupid-ass niggas,” she protested violently. “All dey do is drank liqua and tell lies all night long. I can thank of plenty otha thangs to do wit’ my time.” Her obvious anguish was apparently meaningless to the rest of us, for we went anyway. Daddy, Willie James, Sister, and I would prance around the house searching for something clean to put on because, come hell or high water, we were going to the tree. Usually we walked out of the house together and never said a word to Momma. She would sit in front of the TV, feigning contentment, but nothing could rival the fun and stories shared at the Meetin’ Tree. “She be a’ight,” Daddy said one night as we walked. We never talked about
Momma’s absence from the tree again.
I was excited because I hadn’t been to a meetin’ in over ten years. Knowing Ms. Swinton’s death would resurrect even those who never mingled, I had readied myself for an extraordinary night of clowning, but no amount of preparation could have equipped me for what occurred that Friday night.
David and I sat next to each other after everyone introduced themselves to him. He blended in splendidly and said he felt right at home. Folks told him they were sorry about his momma, and he said, “Why?” Unsure of how to respond, they ignored the reply and took their seats.
Most folk brought their own folding chairs to the meeting. Two or three pews from the church always remained under the tree, rain or shine, serving as the throne of the elders. None of the chairs or pews was arranged in any particular order; people plopped their chairs down wherever they believed the entertainment would be good. One night-light stood some distance away, providing barely enough light for folks to see one another’s faces. No one complained, however, for brighter light would have meant more mosquitoes. The darkness also allowed people to relax and relinquish masks without fear of complete exposure.
“What time’s de fune’ tamorra?” Mr. Blue asked loudly of whoever possessed the knowledge.
“One o’clock sharp,” David volunteered with a smile.
“Sharp?” people began stammering. I started laughing.
“What chu mean, sharp?” Ms. Polly frowned like she was offended. “What’s du hurry? She goin’ somewhere?”
People hollered. You could have heard the laughter for miles. I supposed David realized the wisdom of her reply, for he laughed, too.
“Speakin’ of fune’s, I’member dat time Pa’nella and Nila Faye went to Poo Girl’s fune’.”
“Nigga, dis wuz a lie fifty years ago when you firs’ tole it!” yelled Smoked Neck Johnson. The man loved smoked neck bones, even as a baby, Grandma said, so his love became his name.
“No, no. Dis a true story fu’ real. Y’all ain’t heard ‘bout Pa’nella and Nila Faye?” Mr. Blue was chuckling as he surveyed faces unnecessarily. I knew the story would be hilarious.
