Now suddenly this! A white man had just told me he was my father!
Was I really half white? It filled me with such a turmoil of confusion. I suddenly wondered if my name was even Mary Ann Jukes.
Who was I? Had I never been who I thought I was?
Half white! How could such a thing be true?
In the few seconds that we all sat there in silence, such confusion about so many things filled me that gradually I began to get mad. There was no reason for it, but it just happened. And I took it out on Mr. Daniels.
"You mean you were just like William McSimmons," I said, "and my mama was like Emma? You mean ... you mean-" I sputtered.
It didn't occur to me that I was yelling so loud that Emma was sure to hear. I wasn't thinking very clearly about much of anything right then.
Suddenly I stood up, knocking my chair over, "You mean I'm just ... just like little William ... that my daddy wasn't my daddy at all! You did that to my mama!"
My words jolted him. It was the last thing he had expected. But right then I couldn't see the pain I was causing him, or that my words were like plunging a knife into his heart. I was too bound up in my own emotions to think about anything other than what I was feeling. That's something about young people-they don't pay much attention to how they can hurt grown-ups, especially their parents, by what they say and do. All they can think about is themselves, and that's what I was doing right then. I would regret it later, but I couldn't see it then.
I flew around the table and began hitting him. I was so angry. But he just sat there and let me pound on him until I stopped yelling and started to cry and stepped back. As I did I glanced across the room.
There were Emma and Aleta standing in the doorway. All the yelling had brought them downstairs to see what was going on. I saw William in Emma's arms and thought of my poor mama and what disgrace and grief she must have felt. I knew I'd been born a slave, but hadn't figured on being a bastard slave. I couldn't help it-my anger came back to the surface again. I turned back to Katie's uncle.
"How could you have left her!" I cried.
"If I had just known ..." he began.
"You would probably still have left," I shot back, "because you're nothing but a coward."
It was a cruel thing to say. He sat silent as a stone.
"You made my mother into ... into-"
I couldn't even say it but ran out of the house.
HEN I GOT OUTSIDE, I RAN AND RAN UNTIL eventually I found myself at Katie's quiet place in the woods.
Angrily I picked up some small stones and threw them as hard as I could into the stream. Finally I began to tire and crumpled crying onto the ground.
I probably dozed off. Crying does that to you. Gradually I felt something wet on my cheek. It startled me awake. Rusty was licking at the tears that had dried on my face. As I opened my eyes I saw Katie standing behind him.
She sat down on the ground beside me and put her arm around my neck. Neither of us said anything. I felt ashamed. Seeing Katie made me start crying again. She waited while I babbled and cried. I was still pretty mixed up, feeling both guilty and stupid, yet still I couldn't get past the anger I felt at Mr. Daniels for what he'd done to my mother.
Finally Katie spoke. Her voice was calm and steady, and it was the first time she'd ever done anything like this before. It just showed what a friend she was that she loved me enough to tenderly tell me I was wrong.
"You really hurt Uncle Templeton by what you said, Mayme," she said. "I think you wronged him."
I sniffled and halfway nodded. I knew it was true. I was feeling bad enough about it already.
"He was trying to reach out to you, Mayme," said Katie softly. "I think you owe him an apology."
"But what about what he did?" I said, getting defensive.
"What did he do, Mayme-fall in love with your mother? Are you going to hold that against him? Just think about what I'm saying instead of arguing. Think how you'd feel if he had gotten angry at you."
"It's different," I said.
"Maybe it is. But he can't go back and undo it, Mayme. So he's trying to make it right now. Maybe it's taken him a long time, but what else can he do? He didn't know."
I sat in silence trying to sort through it all.
"Besides, Mayme," Katie went on, "if what he said is true, that he's your father, then he gave you life and helped make you what you are. How can you be mad at him for that? If he had never known your mama, you'd never have been born."
Right now I was too confused with so many feelings that it was hard to get my brain to make sense of that. The thought of being half white and half colored had spun my mind around so bad it made me feel like I wasn't even a real person at all.
"What do you want me to do, Katie?" I said finally. "I can't think straight. Just tell me what I ought to do."
"Don't you think you ought to talk to him?" she said. "He is your father."
There was that word again. It felt both warm and hateful at the same time. How could the word father arouse so many conflicting emotions in a young person's heart?
I wiped my eyes and nose, splashed some cold water from the stream on my face, then stood up and tried to smile.
"All right," I said. "I'll try."
Katie and I walked back to the house. Emma was in the kitchen. She glanced up and I saw from her face that I'd hurt her too. I could see that she was both mad at me and hurt by the things I'd said about her and William.
"He's in da barn," she said coldly, then went upstairs without even looking in my direction.
Katie looked at me, and I knew what I had to do.
Slowly I walked outside and across the yard to the barn. It was about the longest that walk had ever seemed in my life. There's no way to describe what I was feeling. I didn't even know myself. My heart was pounding so loud it seemed like I could almost hear it.
I opened the door. It creaked and light poured into the barn. There he was standing on the other side with his horse. He had just thrown a saddle up on its back.
He turned to face me. Again our eyes met. Everything had now changed. The look on his face was different. I saw the pain. And I knew I had caused it.
"I'm sorry for what you think, Mayme," he said. "I suppose you're right about my being a selfish man. I've always been selfish. I don't deny it. And maybe I was a coward too, like you said. Maybe your words bit so deep because they're true. But I loved your mama, that much is true. And when I told you that she was the only woman I ever loved, that's God's truth. There was never anyone else."
My eyes were stinging with tears.
"I don't know what happened with Emma," he went on, "but it wasn't like what you think. I don't know if you can understand. I'd like to think you can. But there's no way for a white man to love a black woman in this country. But we loved each other. I even offered to buy her from Katie's father, but he wouldn't hear of it. After he ran me off, that was just about when the gold rush was breaking. I went out west with Ward. Maybe I shouldn't have, but it was my way of trying to forget. He went to hunt for gold, but I didn't want to work that hard. I discovered gambling in San Francisco and found I was pretty good at it. While Ward stayed on in California I returned east on a ship, gambling my way all the way around South America. But then I really didn't have anyplace to call home. And I couldn't forget. All I could think of was your mother, so I came back to look for her. I never knew for sure whether there had been a child. I always wondered. Rosalind didn't know where she was and I could never find out. And if she couldn't forgive Richard, I don't think she ever forgave me either for taking away her friend. After that I began drifting and have been drifting ever since, but I could never make anything of myself. I reckon I never will. But I always wanted to find her. I never knew until I saw you upstairs a few months ago. Suddenly I saw Lemuela's eyes staring back at me"
"Then why did you leave?" I asked.
"I don't know. I suppose I was afraid ... afraid of what it might mean. I just couldn't cope with th
e idea of having ... having a child ... one that I had never known. I don't know why. Seems like I've always been running from something. But that's why I came back. I'd never been able to find out where your mama was. And ever since I saw that look in your eyes, I haven't been able to sleep nights, wondering ... hoping that maybe she was still alive. And now I find out that you ... and that she's ..."
His voice faltered and he looked away.
When you're young you have no idea how hard it is for a grown-up, especially a man, to open himself up and let people look at what he's feeling inside. I reckon that's what folks call being vulnerable. It's hard to be vulnerable, but it's a gift some people have and it makes them better people. But right then I still had eyes only for myself and I couldn't realize what it meant that he was opening up such a window into himself and allowing me, his own daughter, to look into it. I had no idea how hard that was for him, or what a special thing it is for a daughter to be able to look into her father's heart.
He stared down at the ground for a second, then back up at me. He didn't know what more to say. I didn't either.
We just stood there-a white man and a colored sixteen-year-old girl-neither of us knowing how to bridge the gap between us. The man who had always considered himself footloose and fancy-free had just discovered he had a daughter ... and a black one at that. The girl who always thought of herself as the black daughter of HenryJukes had just discovered that her father was alive after all, and was somebody else ... and that he was white!
After a minute he turned and went back to saddling his horse.
"What ... are you doing?" I asked.
"I reckon it's time I was moving on again," he said without turning around.
"Why?"
"This isn't my home," he said. "I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe it never could be ... not now ... not after this. You're not looking for a father, at least not one who's white, and maybe I was just fooling myself in thinking I was looking for a family. She's dead and you got your own life now. It's probably best we forget this whole thing."
I just stood there like a statue, hot tears stinging my eyes.
He finished with the saddle and led his horse outside through the big door. I turned and took a few steps outside and then stood watching him. He led his horse across the yard, dropped the reins, and went into the house. I knew he was saying good-bye to Katie. A minute or two later he came back outside, Katie following him. Her eyes were red. She glanced over at me where I stood by the barn.
Mr. Daniels climbed up into the saddle, then reined his horse around and walked him slowly in my direction. He stopped and looked down at me where I stood.
"Good-bye, Mayme," he said.
"Good ... good-bye," I said, though my voice was barely a whisper.
This time he didn't look into my eyes. Instead he glanced away, then eased his horse around and toward the road.
I watched him go, my heart exploding in agony inside me, but unable to utter a sound.
Clomp ... clomp ... clomp ... went the hooves of his horse as he slowly disappeared up the road toward the Thurston ranch in the opposite direction from Greens Crossing.
When he was almost to the bend into the woods I heard the kitchen door close. I looked toward the house. Katie had gone inside. I turned back and peered down the road.
Katie's uncle had disappeared from sight.
I stood and stared after him another minute or two more and then went back into the barn. I found a dark corner where I could lie down on some straw. I burst into tears and wept more bitterly than I had even after my family was killed, and finally cried myself to sleep.
HINGS WERE DIFFERENT AFTER THAT.
Emma was mad at me and hardly spoke a word for days. And she had every right to be mad. I'd said terrible things about her and William, but right then the words I'm sorry were too hard for me to say. They ought to be such easy words for people to say to each other, but for some reason they're not. People seem to choke on the two words that would make the world such a kindlier and happier place. And with Emma hardly talking and keeping to herself, Rosewood was quieter than I ever remembered it since the first day I'd come.
Whether Katie was mad at me or not, I couldn't tell. But things were different, that was for sure. She was polite, but we didn't talk anymore. It grew silent and distant between us. My heart ached because of it. Every once in a while I heard Katie and Emma talking in another room and they were talking like Katie and I used to. I found myself thinking that Emma was now going to become Katie's best friend. I wasn't jealous. I was just sad for what I'd lost. Everything about Rosewood had changed, and somehow I knew it was my fault.
The days passed like a sad dream. Now it was my turn to go on long, thoughtful walks by myself. I visited Katie's secret place in the woods a few times, sometimes just to be alone and cry, other times to think and try to figure out who I was. Just when I'd begun to think I had it figured out and when I'd gotten used to the idea of being free and being all alone in the world, I had a lot that was new to get used to.
It felt like love and anger and confusion were all at war inside me. Maybe it was my white side and my black side fighting against each other. If blacks and whites fought between themselves, then imagine what it was like for that fight to be going on inside one person!
As hard as my life had been, as hard as being a slave was, I'd been at peace with it in a way, even proud in a way for the heritage that the color of my skin gave me, proud of my people, proud of their culture even if they had been slaves. I don't exactly know what words to put to the feeling. I reckon it's something only a black person could understand. It's a hard thing being colored. But there was never a moment in my life when I'd have traded it for anything else. I never wanted to be white. It's hard, but still there's a pride a black person feels in who they are.
Suddenly that feeling was turned upside down. Half of me carried the blood of the white masters, the blood of those who had whipped me and hung black men to die and raped their women.
Things gradually came back into my memory too unpleasant things I'd forced myself to forget. I was just a child, but I remembered the talk, the looks, the stares, being made fun of by other kids because of my lighter skin.... Look at her, she's half white. I recalled things that had happened through my childhood and talk around the slave village, and things I'd heard Josepha say. The talk had hurt at the time, but I'd blocked it out of my mind so thoroughly that only now it began to come back to me. It was no different than the way I'd been toward William at first.
I remembered too that other slaves always treated Mama different and seemed to resent that she could do more than them, that she was more polished, more refined, that she could read. Everything Mr. Daniels had told me fit with what I remembered. I knew he was telling the truth. It made it all make sense. Yet it made me hate him for what he'd put me and my mama through.
I couldn't resolve it. It was almost like now I had someone to blame for my hard life, for my being a slave, and for the massacre that had killed my family, for the wrong he had done to my mother both by getting her pregnant and abandoning her. It felt good to hate him. Yet it didn't really feel good because it was eating me up inside. How could I hate him without hating myself at the same time?
One day I was standing in front of a mirror. I began noticing things about my face and nose and hair and cheeks and eyes that I hadn't paid much attention to before. I wasn't as dark as Emma. My skin was a lighter brown, and when I smiled, there was just a hint of Templeton Daniels' smile staring back at me. There was no denying it.
It's hard to put into words what it's like for a black person to find out they're half white. There's just about no shock like it. I suppose it might be the same for anybody learning something about themselves they never knew before, except that black blood isn't so easy to hide as white. Everyone knows if you've got black blood in you. But I'd never known that I had white blood in me.
Suddenly I didn't know who I was anymore. Was I white or was
I black ... or half and half? If so, what did that mean? To realize that I was just like William made me realize that there'd been more ill feelings of prejudice in my heart than I realized.
Maybe none of us knows ourselves as well as we think we do. I guess I'd grown pretty satisfied with who I was, and I reckon that's a mighty dangerous thing to be. Once you're satisfied with who you are, that's when you stop growing inside. Now that I looked down inside I saw some ugly things. I reckon it's our own hearts whose foul colors we're most blind to. I sure wouldn't have wanted anyone to see my heart right then!
The fact that God saw it, and knew what was in it well enough, was none too comforting a thought!
One day I came upon Emma alone in the kitchen fixing William some warm milk.
"Do you mind if I hold him?" I asked.
Emma shot a few daggers at me with her eyes, then said, "No, I reckon not."
I stooped down and picked William off the floor where he was crawling about. "You want to come outside with me for a minute, William?" I said. He just babbled some unintelligible sounds at me and tried to grab my nose with his fat little fingers.
I left the kitchen and walked outside holding him close to me. He was such a pleasant, happy baby. His black hair was as kinky as Emma's, but his skin was obviously lighter, there was no doubt about that. Yes, he was half white and his father was a scoundrel besides. But William was still William and we all loved him, Emma most of all. He was still a little child of God, whoever else's child he might be too.
Then Henry's words came back to me, and they stung me right to my heart for the bad things I'd thought and said.
No, William, I whispered into his ear as I held his little head close to mine, the color of your skin, or your daddy's, ain't the color of your heart, is it? And I reckon if that's true for you, it oughta be true for me too. You and me may be ha !f white, but we're both God's children, ain't we? So maybe we gotta learn to be who God wants us to be, even if we're a little different from everybody else.
The Color of Your Skin Ain't the Color of Your Heart Page 11
