I read the first paragraph of Scorpio.
SCORPIO
OPAL, STEEL, CACTUS, ALOE, BURGUNDY, OYA, HEALING, THE UNSEEN
Scorpio is the second water sign in the zodiac and this rainstorm sista carries her magic and passion like sacred lightning. Very psychologically layered, this passionate sista is not afraid of the mysteries of life and all of whom want to share their deepest self with her. The sistas of this sign are intense and magical, in a highly intuitive and empathic way. They are intentional and tender lovers to all who are lucky enough to enter their lover’s rock and will keep you laughing with their intelligent and penetrating humor. The shadow of her intensity is possessiveness, a side-effect of her deeply sensitive spirit and past broken trust. This star sign rules the most sacred and intuitive parts of our humanity. Sex, the occult, magic, pleasure, religion, death. She protects the divine that is within the shadow and in her own way protects the light. Scorpio symbolizes all that dwells in the magical essence of existence.
I stop reading and let those words marinate for a second. I’m not sure what it all necessarily means to me. I decide I’m going to read as much of these books as I can, even if I don’t understand everything. All of the stuff about houses and planets and degrees is confusing but also a little like geometry with some mythology. I start to fill up my notebook with notes from both of the books and write up some info for each sign. I write another list and it’s with everyone who is close to me, their birthdays, and sun and moon signs, which I was able to figure out from a chart in the back of one of the books called an ephemeris.
In my reading, I learn that people mainly just know about what their sun sign is, but that is only one part of who we are. That the Moon, Venus, Mercury, and all of the planets and where they were in the sky when we were born will tell us the story of who we are. I close my eyes and imagine little baby me coming into the world and all of the planets and stars are imprinted in me like cosmic DNA or something. I wonder if my dying or Afua’s death row and all of the messed-up stuff in life is somehow controlled by the stars? Are the stars like God?
And I don’t even think I understand God or how I feel about him or it. Or maybe she or them? My grandma talks about God and Jesus and the Bible, and my mama is more meditation and the Universe. My dad said he knows God through growing food from seeds and dirt, water and light, and he feels God when he tastes the miracle of fruit in his mouth. Audre told me a story about how when she was little, she thought her grandma might be God. I still don’t know if I know what I believe yet, even now that I’m . . . maybe gonna be gone. I have been praying Afua’s prayer anyway though, to any and everything that might, could help me live.
I look up the Sun and Moon signs for me, Whitney, Audre, Mama, Daddy, and Sahir, and write it down in the book.
I read that Whitney’s sign is the sign of Leo, which is ruled by the Sun and is symbolized by lions and are powerful, creative, giving, and are brave. I write this down in the notebook too. That seems like Whitney. Reading on Audre and her sign is Aquarius, the water-bearer, and that sign is supposed to be freethinking, individual, and inventive. That sounds pretty accurate to her. I decide to skip to the part of the book that talks about the signs in romance and read the compatibility between Scorpios and Aquarius . . . out of innocent curiosity.
AQUARIUS AND SCORPIO IN LOVE:
Both signs are intense in unique and evocative ways. Scorpio’s intensity goes deep and soulful, while Aquarius’s intensity goes wild and into other worlds. They challenge and awaken each other in ways that are curious and at times frustrating. But no blessings come without lessons and love without expansion is not the kind of love that satisfies either of these signs. This love may not be the easiest but when you combine the powers of Scorpio, who goes as deep as a submarine made out of hematite and ancestors’ bones and as far reaching as Aquarius to the birthing of universe itself, you find a love that is dangerous and divine.
The way they describe us feels intense. “Dangerous and divine.” It’s weird to see something written in a book that feels real to your heart. Kind of like when I first read Afua’s book. Either way, Imma continue to write and read up on everyone’s astrology stuff. If I’m going to be learning anything new before I die, I would rather it be stuff like this and other stuff that feeds my soul.
MABEL
MAHAL’S APARTMENT IS SMALL, a single room with a tiny fridge, sink, and hot plate in one corner and a bathtub in the other. The walls are forest- and emerald-green swirls that look like the malachite she wears around she neck, close to she heart. She got a bed that she cover with mosquito netting in the middle and different blankets and weavings and wind chimes that she create in honor of her ancestors and spiritual guides, with collected fabrics, ribbons, copper, bamboo, shells, and branches. She has a sepia-colored picture of she and she grandfather from when she was little on the fridge. He a sturdy dark man with a machete in he hand and she a wild brown child next to him, with a smaller machete in her hand. She has thrift lamps with shades that she created from cutting designs and shapes out of beautiful handmade paper she bought in Chinatown. She fill the space with she spirit and it my favorite place to be. And it got the best heat—almost tropical.
I sitting in my panties on she windowsill, peeking out onto the courtyard with the night snow, that looking like crushed crystal and sapphire in the full moonlight. I finishing a spliff of ganja, lavender, and tobacco. It’s my twentieth birthday, and I is crying. I is officially no longer an adolescent or a kid. I ain’t know why I crying, shouldn’t I be feeling like a big woman? I feel like I is a stchupid lost girl chasing a dream in a strange land. And I crying ’cause I can’t believe I is somebody mommy, when I still feeling so young myself. How is it I a year older and I feeling even less big? I dancing and living in New York, but I miss my own mommy. And I miss my little Makeba so much. And I just miss my island. I miss the smell of the tree and bush and flower and the way the sun knows my skin back home. Mahal brings me a plate of sliced pineapple. She kisses my lips and cheeks that are wet up with my tears like she been doing all day.
“Querida, I know how it feel when your soul is telling you what you need to do to be happy and it seem strange to everybody in the world. You feel like you gotta do it or a piece of your spirit will never be whole,” she say, like we was already talking in our spirits, before she speak aloud. “But, it ain’t easy following your dreams.”
“I decide after I give birth that Makeba would know that she is loved and free to be she self.” I is crying harder. “I just feel so far away from her today.”
“But you’re always with her, in your heart. Trust, even if it’s hard.” Then she kiss each of my feet. “Let’s go to La Palais, in honor of you blessing this earth twenty years ago, and in honor of Makeba, who loves you,” she say.
“Mahal, I ain’t feeling to dance.”
“Minha gatinha, it’s bad luck not to dance on your birthday,” she say swinging she lanky body around me.
“Is that right?” I say, feeling a little softness smile within my chest.
“You an old soul in the body of a young wild woman, and they both need to dance.” She starts to samba for me in she underwear, in the moon’s spotlight.
* * *
• • •
And that night, we reach to the spot after a journey in tundra, in snow higher than we ankles, colder and heavier and wetter, like sand made from ice. We maneuvering through snow and icicles and night. Mahal in a bright-red thrifted snowsuit and me, thick leg warmers over tights, under a golden yellow sweater dress and dark purple coat. We covered in hats and scarves. Snowflakes on my mascaraed lashes and my bright eyeshadow, lipstick, blush, and foundation bought at the only makeup counter that sell hues for Black woman on Fulton Ave. We making tracks for ourselves through the winter wonderland of Brooklyn, passing the other snow-drifters along Nostrand and Marcy. I feeling the snow on my face, frigid and
intense, but invigorating. I laugh because in my core, I is an island girl, and somehow I find myself wrap up in a snow globe of a life. Mahal’s and my brown bodies huddle close. We tropical travelers share a flask of ginger tea that we simmer in cinnamon, orange peel, and some apricot brandy to fill ourselves with hotness for the journey.
We knock on the door of Le Palais de Pum-Pum, also known as our friends Vipasa and Nuemeh’s brownstone, and inside is a full house of people dancing to a blaring fury of organs, trumpets, percussion, and guitar picking scripture, while the Afrobeat King himself, Fela, sings and chastises the Nigerian government in broken English from their speakers.
“YESSSSS! You bring the birthday girl out’cha love den! I is glad you share her with us! Honor to the queen, QUEENIEEEEEE!” It’s Vipasa, in a sexy and slinky satin emerald-green dress, a turquoise lace headwrap and big gold Fulani earrings hanging from her ears. She is a sweet woman from the Virgin Islands—a dancer like me—and as soon as we come to she door she squeeze we up in a hug. She and she lover, Nuemeh, run “SPEAK! Easy . . . ,” a space for artists, for free-spirit type of people, for people who love like me and Mahal. It’s a place to dance, share poetry, sing, shout, and be free.
The room smell like sweat, pelau, plantain, and joyful feelings. The room is filled with skin, in every adornment and sharpness and handsomeness and pretty. People is moving and graceful in they own bodies and rhythms. It is pure magnificence and love.
I see Nuemeh, a dapper and sharp older Cameroonian butch, who came to the States to study architecture. Every Saturday she is behind the bar she designed and built in their garden-level apartment. Behind her is all the elixirs she created out of spirits and herbs and spices, flowing into glasses and into hands and onto the dance floor. The DJ starts playing some house music and we hang up all of our winter heavy and is onto the dance floor.
Mahal bring she Brazilian samba feet and I is swinging and wining my Trini hips and bum bum. When we dancing, it like we souls been dancing together forever. It always feel so right with Mahal. She grab me from behind and snuggle me as we dance together. We sweating and hot, forgetting about winter and ice. In La Palais, it remind me of J’Ouvert in Port of Spain, when we all feeling our most colorful and sensual selves, where you see people evolve into a spirit they abandon their day-to-day selves to become.
On a slow song, me and Mahal wrap up in each other, my arms around she neck, she arms around my waist. Close. She singing along to one of my favorite tunes, “Distant Lover” by Marvin Gaye. It has to be damn near three in the morning, but the music so good it won’t let me leave the spot before I sure I wear myself out.
Then, we is in the corner, sitting with Mahal arm around me, cooling down from the dance with some of Nuemeh’s ginger beer on ice and feeling enchanted. I is tracing invisible designs in Mahal’s skin with the sweat dripping from her.
“You give me the best birthday, thank you, dahlin’,” I say, kissing Mahal on she dimple on she cheek, then she nose, then she lips. She smiling all silly and kissing me back with she soft and sweet lips. Our bodies are snuggled up tight when I notice something catch her attention and I looking to see what she is watching at. It’s a young woman, tall and cinnamon, look like a model with her hair in a ponytail, blue jeans, and a light blue sweater. She smile is broad and intoxicating and I understand why Mahal staring a little. The girl’s friends is pushing she to do something and then all of a sudden I hear something that lick me in the soul.
“I’ve got to be free!” The girl’s voice is so pure, goose bumps lift up on my skin. She start singing to the inside of my heart. She is singing Deniece Williams, and it is a voice that you can feel in your toes, glory in each note. The DJ fade the music and give she the room to take over and she fills it with bewitchment. Her voice is coming from Goddess she self, and everyone is quiet and listening and staring at she. And she beaming wild joy when she is singing. She movement is energetic and excited almost like she blossoming fire from she chest with every note. She is singing and she overcome the room with her soul, and I realize, she is in she own universe. We is quiet, except for moans of feeling and “yes, chile” and “all right, baby” in response as we all filling up our soul with she blessings. When she done, we all quiet for a second and then we all clapping, yelling, and giving she love.
“Give it up for young Whitney! She is already a star, can’t y’all see it?” the DJ says and there is more snaps and claps and yelping.
A coolness walk up behind this Whitney and wrap she up. This coolness was another girl, handsome and tall in a black turtleneck and jeans, her hair curled, short and styled neat. She bring she a beverage. The chanteuse sips it and gives she a kiss and swings her arm around she lover’s neck and they start dancing. With not a care, like she is free. The dapper girl smiles, kinda sheepish, melt into them love and kisses from she sweet singing lovey.
“The soul in that voice . . . she know some blues and hurt,” Mahal say.
“Why you say that?” I say.
“The prettiest voices are kites for the heaviest hearts,” she say.
“Well, it seem she know some sweetness too,” I say. The couple is dancing and watching each other, not noticing or even thinking of we. In La Palais, they were like all of us. All of we being our full self in a world where most of we is told to contort, lie, or die.
AUDRE
“AT CARNIVAL TIME, I does love Trinidad the most. Everywhere yuh hearing drums bumping bass and the pans is beating, and Soca music is everywhere. And everyone is themselves in a way that I wish they would be all year. Everyone acting free and dressing up and masquerading! You does have the jab jab, who paint they skin shiny night black and be talking a silly rough weird voice talk in the streets. And then there be them kind of masqueraders that wear bikini, feathers, and beads, in one of them big groups that is all about looking sexy and pretty and partying. I does love the moko jumbies, which is them on the two stick and they is high above the crowd, dress up like neon and blue aliens.” I am telling all this to Mabel late one night in she bedroom after she shaking of fright and sickness and sweating out the chemo.
She was twisting and turning in she sleep and then she started to mumble and shake up while she was dreaming. When she started to moan and scream, I woke her up. I was awake and unable to fall asleep anyway. Once Mabel was up, she couldn’t fall back asleep, so I decide to tell her about mas time in Trini.
“Carnival is very important to we, especially in my family. Queenie tell me stories about how when she was a kid, her father, my great-grandfather Maceo, would be up all hours of the night, tuning and rehearsing his pan for playing mas,” I say, and the picture of Queenie’s altar comes to my imagination as I snuggle with Mabel and smell the healing mixture of sweet orange, lavender, bay rum, and amber I made for her.
“Leading up to carnival, Queenie would pick me and Episode up on evenings and take us down by the panyards to hear the different steel bands practice, getting ready for Panorama, which is a big competition of all of the different steel bands to see who got the best calypso.” I close my eyes for a second and drift there in my heart. We watching all of the different musicians, jumping up and beating them rhythms, and we is dancing too. The night does feel so sweet with them sounds. Queenie would get us Solos, Trini soda, and she get she a Stag beer and of course we is eating doubles. Gyal, the music is so sweet, Mabel—I mean, it just put this feeling in the air.” I feel my eyes getting wet from even imagining this sacred moment from back home.
“What does steelpan sound like? I don’t think I have ever heard it,” she says.
And I wonder to myself, how do you explain the sound of pan? I pull out my phone and find a mix of steelpan I have. I find an older one, of a Stevie Wonder song, “As,” that used to be one of Queenie’s and me’s favorite. I play it for she and feel my whole self tingling with each note.
She seems to feel it too, as she eyes closed with a smile to the
tune. “Do you got any Whitney on steelpan?” she says, and we both start to giggle and I love how joy between us feels, especially when she ain’t feeling the best.
“Right, your best friend. I bet someone do one of she songs. Let me see what I find on YouTube.” I look and find one and play it for her.
“Oh suki now. Girl, you found a cut too. ‘Saving All My Love for You’ is a classic. Hmm, this is sweet, like a lullaby,” she whispers, her eyes closing. She leans into me and snuggles even closer and I feel she breathe softly on my face. I snuggle up to her a little too. I close my eyes and imagine myself back home in the panyard with Mabel amidst these sounds. I imagine Neri too and us all being there together. This possibility seems impossible for a lot of reasons, but I is imagining it anyway. I look over at Mabel and she has passed out. She looks peaceful again.
“I’m saving all my loving, yes, I’m saving all my love for you . . . ,” I sing to myself and Mabel and no one in particular.
CAPRICORN SEASON
the greatest one of all was a fury of dance and jabs
in honor of those shackled and beaten
he fought for them and giggled while doing it
it was a joy
it was a reminder
that we can climb the mountain
sure-footed,
on crumbling foundations
boogie on them even
even if it is known that Kilimanjaro is surrounded by valleys
it is also known on the summits
The Stars and the Blackness Between Them Page 17
