“Jonathan, Jonathan, help your father! Help me, my son!”
This was a choice no child should be forced to make. Micco didn’t know what to do as he watched the struggle. He didn’t want to choose, but he remembered how Bushy Hair had always made him feel good inside with his loving words. And he remembered how Dylan had hurt his mother, leaving bruises that she’d had to cover with long sleeves, even in the heat of summer. So the boy made a choice: He trotted to the site of the struggle and kneeled at the head of his father. The boy took out his knife, grabbed hold of his father’s chin, and slit his throat. Then Micco sat there on the ground and wailed, rocking back and forth with blood covering his hands.
His uncle let his nephew cry for a long time before touching the boy’s shoulder. Bushy Hair told him, gently, that they had to bury his father according to white men’s ways. They could not leave him for the wild animals. That would not be right. After the body was put into the grave hole, Bushy Hair told Micco that he had not wanted things to go this way, but Dylan had jumped him in his sleep. Micco looked at his uncle for a long time before asking, was this the truth? And Bushy Hair told him he would never lie to him. Yes, it was true, and he did not know why Dylan had attacked him.
Uncle and nephew spent a moon hunting and sleeping late. Bushy Hair told stories of the wily rabbit that constantly found himself in trouble with the wolf, but who always found a way to get loose, because the rabbit was a very smart creature who could not be caught. During that moon, there was a peace that Micco had never known, and he was happy, though he awoke sometimes with his face wet: his father now came to him in dreams.
When Micco and Bushy Hair returned to their village, it was Micco who decided to tell his mother that his father had died from eating tainted fowl, prepared by a white man at a trading destination. Micco said it was too difficult to bring his body back. He did not need to pretend sadness at the death of his father, for he did grieve. Yet his mourning ran alongside relief that his father never would hurt his mother again.
Nila was no fool. She had shared a womb with Bushy Hair and had carried Micco inside her body and fed him from her breasts. She saw the glances her brother and son gave one another, and she knew that one or the other had killed Dylan. Yet her own grief wasn’t over her husband. She only mourned the guilt of her son. Nila made a long face and cried and beat her chest over Dylan, but inside she was leaping. Though no longer young, Nila still visited the moon house for her bleeding times and reckoned she had two or three summers before her woman’s change. She was of high status, and there were younger men in the village already giving her nice looks, even at her age. The elders of the village told her her husband had been a white man and not of the people. Therefore, Nila didn’t have to mourn Dylan for four years, as Creek women were required to do when they became widows. She could shorten her grief time to four moons, as Creek men did. After her mourning period, Nila intended to choose a Creek man as her second husband, for a Creek man understood the responsibilities of the people and knew about the requirements of loyalty to the family of his wife.
Nila warned Micco that no matter who his father had been or how friendly white men might seem, they would never truly love or respect the Creek people. That was her first gift to her son. The second was the cow that her brother had given to her from the five head of cattle that had been split up among him and the others, after the killing of the cracker. Nila wanted no part of that bounty. She wanted to be free of the possessions of white men.
The Scourge of Mr. Whitney
And so the sin was intrusion, as when a neighbor calls at the entryway and when there is no answer walks inside anyway. Or when there is an answer, he kills his neighbor and pretends the dwelling was empty. When the Englishmen and Scotsmen came to the land of the people, cattle took over. It was no paradise before, but there were rules followed by the Creek, the descendants of beings who built Rock Eagle and hunted the deer and gave thanks before they dressed the meat. Who ate the corn and kept its season sacred.
And then the treaties, the agreements between these intruders and the people, all of which would be broken, and the land that would be taken—and taken again.
There was the Treaty of Savannah in 1733.
The Treaty of Coweta in 1739.
The Treaty of Augusta in 1763. Ten years later, a second treaty in that same place.
The Treaty of New York in 1790, and the realization that our land would be fertile for short-staple cotton, and after this, there came an invention by a man named Eli Whitney. Think of him, a man stewing in the juice of mediocrity, the blankness of his legacy breathing down his neck, tinkering with his rude invention. Or did a slave invent the gin, as some have said? Workers tend to have more genius than the boss, to reduce the strain of labor. Whoever its inventor, before the gin, one daily pound of cotton. After, fifty pounds, more slaves, very few deer, many cattle and pigs, and running talk of planting, for the gin was a way to separate good from evil. More specifically, cotton bolls from seeds.
The intruders on the land weren’t Englishmen or Scotsmen anymore, because a revolution had been fought. Now they were “Americans,” “white” men, and though to the Creek the color white meant peace, that word meant something else to the intruders.
And now those called Coromantee or Igbo or Wolof or Fula were “Negroes” or “slaves.”
And now the Creek were “Indians.”
And there was the Treaty of Colerain in 1796.
The Treaty of Fort Wilkinson in 1802.
The Treaty of Washington in 1805, and our land was no longer what the people called it.
Now the white men called us “Georgia.”
The Tracing of the Line
When we follow the centuries to come, a family will remain in our same place. Here on our land. The-Place-in-the-Middle-of-the-Tall-Trees will be called another name: Chicasetta.
The family won’t know the original name of our land, nor the name of that first, taken African of their line, the one whose mother had traveled over water. Nor will this family know about the Creek woman who was already here. They won’t know the names of Coromantee-Panther, of Woman-of-the-Wind. Those will be lost to everyone but us.
There will be generations that lie between the people of The-Place-in-the-Middle-of-the-Tall-Trees and their descendants: a woman who will be named Eliza Two Pinchard Freeman, also called Meema. She will marry a man named Red Benjamin, and he will take her last name.
And Meema will bear a daughter named Sheba, who will grow up to be free with her love.
And Sheba will bear Clyde, a son. His father’s name will not be known by her family.
And Sheba will bear Benji and Charlie, twin boys, for a different, unknown man.
And Red Freeman will pass away, his death making Meema a widow woman and Sheba a half orphan.
And Meema’s daughter, Sheba, will continue to be free with her love: for another unknown man, she will bear Adam and Abel, also twins. And for a last man, Sheba will bear a girl named Maybelline, called Lil’ May. Hours after this baby is born, Sheba will die in a lake of blood.
And Lil’ May will give birth to Pearl. And ten years after Lil’ May bore her daughter, she will bear a second child. A boy, Jason, though his family will call him “Root.”
And Pearl will marry Henry Collins. She will bear the twins Miss Rose and Henry Jr., called Huck. After many childless years, she will bear Annie Mae.
And Annie Mae will bear a daughter, Pauline, for an unknown man, and then she will leave this child behind in Chicasetta.
And Miss Rose will marry Hosea Driskell, and she will bear Roscoe, a troublemaking handsome boy. And Miss Rose will bear Jethro and Joseph, the twins who will die in their cribs.
She will bear Norman, another son.
And finally, Miss Rose will bear a daughter, and she will rejoice. This girl will be named Maybelle Lee, though she will insist that her family call her “Belle.”
And Belle will bear three girls: Lydia, Carol, and fin
ally, a last daughter: Ailey, who will learn to honor a line reaching back to people whose names she never will know. To praise the blood that calls out in dreams, long after memory has surrendered.
I
If a man die shall he live again? We do not know. But this we do know, that our children’s children live forever and grow and develop toward perfection as they are trained. All human problems, then, center in the Immortal Child and his education is the problem of problems. And first for illustration of what I would say may I not take for example, out of many millions, the life of one dark child.
—W. E. B. Du Bois, Darkwater: Voices from Within the Veil
Dream and Fracture
I’m three going on four, and there’s a voice. Like that song my mama sings sometimes.
Hush, hush
Somebody’s calling my name
But it’s not my mama calling me. It’s Lydia, my big sister. She’s the one calling and I love her very much.
“Ailey, baby, it’s time to get up. Come on now. We’re going to Chicasetta today. Don’t you remember?”
Her voice pulls on me, but somebody else holds on. Somebody’s calling my name. It’s the long-haired lady. I love her very much, but I don’t know what she’s saying. She’s rocking me in another place. She’s singing to me, but I don’t know the words, and the long-haired lady tells me pee-pee. Go ’head, right now. Let it go.
But I don’t want to. I don’t want to pee-pee ’cause it’s gone be a yellow wet spot in my bed and Lydia’s gone feel sorry for me. She’s gone say, “Oh, it’s all right, baby sister. I’m not mad.” But I don’t want nobody to feel sorry for me. I want to be a big girl, but I can’t hold it and the wet spot’s here and I’m awake and the long-haired lady’s gone.
* * *
I’m four going on five, and I’m riding in the brown station wagon. Mama’s got her hands on the round thing, and we’re going and going. I’m screaming for Daddy. Where is he? Lydia’s touching my head, rubbing.
“Don’t cry, baby,” she says. “We had to leave him home. He has to work at the hospital to make money for us. Remember what I told you?”
But I don’t remember.
Coco’s in the back with all her books. She’s nine already. Lydia’s eleven going on twelve, but Coco’s in the same grade. She’s smarter than everybody, but Mama says she loves all her girls the same. And we are going and going, and I’m screaming, and Coco’s pulling at my braid.
Mama turns that round thing and we’re on the side of the road. We ain’t going no more and the cars go by and make the station wagon shake.
She says, “Coco, give me that paper sack.” She pulls out a chicken leg and I’m hungry. I reach for the chicken and Mama pulls back. “Are you going to be a good little girl?”
And I say yes, and she gives me the chicken and I eat it, and I love her very much, even though she yells sometimes. Then we are going and going for a long, long time. There’s a long dirt road and there’s a house and a bunch of people on a porch. A bunch of grown-ups and everybody stands and waves except for an old, white lady sitting in her chair, and I say, “Why’s that white lady there? Is that Aunt Diane’s mama?”
And Lydia tells me, “No, baby. We left Auntie at home. That’s Dear Pearl, she’s our great-grandmother, and she’s only light skinned. Please don’t hurt her feelings.”
Mama’s getting out the car and everybody here knows everybody, but I don’t know nobody and I’m real, real mad. Then a man with white hair comes down into the driveway, and he looks white, too, but I remember what Lydia told me. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.
I say, “Are you a Black man?”
Mama says, “You should remember him, Ailey, you’re a big girl now.”
The man says, “All right, now, give the child some time.”
I say, “My name’s Ailey Pearl Garfield. My mother’s Mrs. Maybelle Lee Garfield and my father’s Dr. Geoffrey Louis Garfield.”
The man says, “My goodness! That’s a lot of information.”
He has eyes with all kinds of colors. Real strange eyes, but I think I remember him.
I say, “Is your name Uncle Root?”
He says, “What a brilliant child!”
He picks me up, and he holds me, and I feel safe, and I love him very much.
* * *
I’m six going on seven in the big kitchen in Chicasetta. I know everybody now. I know my granny’s Miss Rose and she lives in one house. Her sister’s Aunt Pauline and she lives in another house. Their brother’s Uncle Huck, but he only comes out of his house once a week. He has a boyfriend that he kisses on the mouth, but I’m not supposed to know that. I know their mama is Dear Pearl and her brother is Uncle Root. I know my mama’s brother is Uncle Norman. All the grown folks can tell me what to do, even if I don’t want to listen.
It must be a Saturday or maybe a Sunday, because Baybay and Boukie ain’t here. Aren’t. They come during the week and play with me. Baybay’s mama drops them off and we run and we play, but they don’t talk proper. And my mama says I have to talk better, but sometimes I forget. In the kitchen my granny is putting biscuits and grits and sausage on a plate, and Mama tells her that’s too much food. I’m already chubby.
Miss Rose says, “You leave this baby alone and let her eat in peace.” She pours coffee for Mama, but my sisters and me can’t have no coffee. Any coffee. We have hot chocolate.
Coco says, “Actually, there are stimulants in chocolate as well, similar to caffeine in the coffee.”
Mama says, “Stop talking back to grown folks. Just be grateful for the plentiful food on this table and the hands that have prepared it.”
It’s time for the grocery store, ’cause Mama ain’t gone eat folks out of house and home. Isn’t. But Coco don’t want to go to town. Doesn’t. She wants to stay with Miss Rose to help make preserves. She promises she will be well behaved and try not to be rude.
Then, we are in the station wagon, I’m sitting between Lydia and Mama. I’m full of breakfast, and my mama and sister smell real good, like grown ladies do. I’m happy listening to the radio, but then that white lady sees us at the Pig Pen. She don’t know that Lydia is with us. Doesn’t.
Lydia don’t look like none of us. Doesn’t. Daddy’s got brown eyes, but he looks like a white man. Mama’s dark like chocolate and little and pretty. She makes her hair straight with a hot comb and blue grease. I’m dark, too, but not like Mama. I got red in my skin underneath the brown like my granny. Coco’s eyes and skin match, like caramel candy. Her nose is wide like Mama’s, and she’s real short, too. Her hair’s like Mama’s, and it grows real long. Lydia’s hair is long, too, but won’t hold a curl. But in the back of her head, she’s got a kitchen. It grows in curls like mine. That’s how you can tell that she’s a Black girl. She’s got a gap in her teeth like Mama’s too. Her skin is light but not like Daddy’s. She looks like she went out in the sun and stayed a long time and got a tan. But Mama says Black folks don’t get tans. We already got some color. And Mama don’t care if folks are ignorant about her children. Doesn’t. She carried all of us in her belly and we belong to her and we should love her very much.
It’s cold in the store. When Mama pushes the cart up the aisle, the white lady waves at us. Mama waves back and says good morning, and the lady and her cart come our way. She’s old like my granny and has a pink shirt and a jean skirt. Her brown shoes are ugly. I don’t like those shoes.
The white lady says, “You are so good with children.”
Mama says, “Thank you, ma’am. I try my best with these two. There’s another one at home.”
“How long have you been in service?”
“Ma’am?”
The lady touches Lydia’s shoulder. “This one won’t need a nanny soon, and my daughter has a little boy who’d just love you. Let me give you her number. She’ll pay well.” The white lady puts her hand in her purse and pulls out a pencil. She puts her hand in again and has a smooshed piece of paper, and Mama frowns, but
then she smiles. She says Lydia is her daughter. They have the same teeth, but Lydia is getting braces next year.
“Gal, you’re funning me!” The white lady shakes her finger close to my mother’s face, and I say, “Ooh,” ’cause you ain’t never supposed to put your hand in somebody’s face. Aren’t.
Mama steps back. She’s still smiling.
“I promise I’m telling the truth. This is my daughter, and I ought to know. I was there for the labor, all seventeen hours of it.”
The lady points her finger at my sister. “Are you telling me this here is a colored child?”
Then Lydia starts singing our favorite song about how she’s Black and proud. I start dancing, shaking my booty. Mama tries to grab my hand, but I run behind Lydia. The white lady turns pink. Then she pushes her cart away.
Lydia says, “I’m Black.”
Mama says, “Don’t you think I know that? And who’re you talking to? You know better than to cause a scene in public!”
Mama walks away, and Lydia pushes the cart and puts our groceries back on the shelves. The bacon and the cereal and the mushy, light bread. At the checkout, she buys me a candy bar and says she’ll hide it for me so Mama can’t see, but in the parking lot the station wagon is gone.
Lydia holds my hand and we wait for Mama. We wait and wait, and then Lydia says we’re going for a walk. My legs start hurting, and Lydia kneels and tells me climb on her back. She starts walking again. There is a house, and I think I remember this place. The red flowers. The bird in the tree: coo-coo, coo-coo. I climb off Lydia’s back, but before we knock Uncle Root opens the door.
“Young lady, before you start, my name is Bennett, and I’m not in this mess. This is supposed to be my summer vacation, so I’m not getting in the middle of this. And I told your mama the same when she called and woke me from my very enjoyable nap. Come on.”
The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois Page 3
