Shoulda Been Jimi Savannah

by Patricia Smith

  sees the notes rollick black upon black. He snakes his balding head, pretends to look,

  looking like a man who has never watched another man move. Now it’s easy to see—

  eyes would ruin him. Shadow puppets have answered every question. The dark,

  wonderful, forgiving, takes his hand and leads him, like a lover, away from the light.

  Light simply makes us wonder and crave the dark.

  I’ve seen how desperately you look for me.

  THIEF OF TONGUES

  1.

  My mother is learning English.

  Pulling rubbery cinnamon-tinged hose to a roll beneath

  her knees, sporting one swirling Baptist ski slope of a hat,

  she rides the rattling elevated to a Windy City spire

  and pulls back her gulp as the elevator hurtles heaven.

  Then she’s stiffly seated at a scarred oak table

  across from a white, government-sanctioned savior

  who has dedicated eight hours a week to straightening

  afflicted black tongues. She guides my mother

  patiently through lazy ings and ers, slowly scraping

  her throat clean of the moist and raging infection

  of Aliceville, Alabama. There are barely muttered

  apologies for colored sounds. There is much beginning again.

  I want to talk right before I die.

  Want to stop saying “ain’t” and “I done been”

  like I ain’t got no sense. I’m a grown woman.

  I done lived too long to be stupid,

  acting like I just got off the boat.

  My mother

  has never been

  on a boat.

  But fifty years ago, merely a million of her,

  clutching strapped cases, Jet’s Emmett Till issue,

  and thick-peppered chicken wings in waxed bags,

  stepped off hot rumbling buses at Northern depots

  in Detroit, in Philly, in the bricked cornfield of Chicago.

  Brushing stubborn scarlet dust from their shoes,

  they said We North now, slinging it in backdoor syllable,

  as if those three words were vessels big enough

  to hold country folks’ overwrought ideas of light.

  2.

  Back then, my mother thought it a modern miracle,

  this new living in a box stacked upon other boxes,

  where every flat surface reeked of Lysol and effort,

  and chubby roaches, cross-eyed with Raid,

  dragged themselves across freshly washed dishes

  and dropped dizzy from the ceiling into our Murphy beds,

  our washtubs, our open steaming pots of collards.

  Of course, there was a factory just two bus rides close,

  a job that didn’t involve white babies or bluing laundry,

  where she worked in tense line with other dreamers:

  Repeatedly. Repeatedly. Repeatedly. Repeatedly,

  all those oily hotcombed heads drooping, no talking

  as scarred brown hands romanced machines, just

  the sound of doin’ it right, and Juicy Fruit crackling.

  A mere mindset away, there had to be a corner tavern

  where dead bluesmen begged second chances from the juke,

  and where my mama, perched man-wary on a comfortable stool

  by the door, could look like a Christian who was just leaving.

  And on Sunday, at Pilgrim Rest Missionary Baptist Church,

  she would pull on the pure white gloves of service

  and wail to the rafters when the Holy Ghost’s hot hand

  grew itchy and insistent at the small of her back.

  She was His child, finally loosed of that damnable Delta,

  building herself anew in this land of sidewalks,

  blue jukes, and sizzling fried perch in virgin-white boxes.

  See her: all nap burned from her crown, one gold tooth

  winking, soft hair riding her lip, blouses starched hard,

  orlon sweaters with smatterings of stitched roses,

  A-line skirts the color of unleashed winter.

  3.

  My mother’s voice is like homemade cornbread,

  slathered with butter, full of places for heat to hide.

  When she is pissed, it punches straight out

  and clears the room. When she is scared,

  it turns practical, matter-of-fact, like when she called

  to say

  They found your daddy this morning,

  somebody shot him, he dead.

  He ain’t come to work this morning, I knowed

  something was wrong.

  When mama talks, the Southern swing of it

  is wild with unexpected blooms,

  like the fields she never told me about in Alabama.

  Her rap is peppered with ain’t gots and I done beens

  and he be’s just like mine is when I’m color among color.

  During worship, when talk becomes song, her voice collapses

  and loses all acquaintance with key, so of course,

  it’s my mother’s fractured alto wailing above everyone—

  uncaged, unapologetic and creaking toward heaven.

  Now she wants to sound proper when she gets there.

  A woman got some sense and future need to upright herself,

  talk English instead of talking wrong.

  It’s strange to hear the precise rote of Annie Pearl’s new mouth.

  She slips sometimes, but is proud when she remembers

  to bite down on dirt-crafted contractions and double negatives.

  Sometimes I wonder whatever happened to the warm expanse

  of the red-dust woman, who arrived with a little sin

  and all the good wrong words. I dream her breathless,

  maybe leaning forward a little in her seat on the Greyhound.

  I ain’t never seen, she begins, grinning through the grime

  at Chicago, city of huge shoulders, thief of tongues.

  MOTOWN CROWN

  The Temps, all swerve and pivot, conjured schemes

  that had us skipping school, made us forget

  how mamas schooled us hard against the threat

  of five-part harmony and sharkskin seams.

  We spent our school days balanced on the beams

  of moon we wished upon, the needled jet-

  black 45s that spun and hadn’t yet

  become the dizzy spinning of our dreams.

  Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch . . . oh, you

  loved our tangled hair and rusty knees.

  Marvin Gaye slowed down while we gave chase

  then wowed us with his skinny hips, on cue.

  We hungered for the anguished screech of Please

  from soulful throats. Relentless. Booming bass.

  From soulful throats, relentless booming bass

  softened with the turn of Smokey’s key.

  His languid, liquid, luscious, aching plea

  for bodies we didn’t have yet made a case

  for lying to ourselves. He would embrace

  our naps and raging pimples. We could see

  his croon inside our clothes. His pedigree

  of milky flawless skin meant we’d replace

  our daddies with his fine and lanky frame.

  I did you wrong, my heart went out to play

  he serenaded, filling up the space

  that separated Smoke from certain flame.

  Couldn’t comprehend the drug of him, his sway,

  silk where his throat should be. He growled such grace.

  Silk where his throat should be, and growling grace,

  Little Stevie made us wonder why

  we even needed sight. His rhythm eye

  could see us click our hips and pump in place

  whenever he cut loose. Ooh, we’d unlace

  our Converse All-Stars, yeah, we wondered why

  we c
ouldn’t get down without our shoes. We’d try

  to dance and keep up with his funky pace

  of hiss and howl and hum, and then he’d slow

  to twist our hearts until he heard them crack,

  ignoring lonesome leaking from the seams.

  The rockin’ blind boy couldn’t help but show

  us light. We wailed his every soulful track

  through open windows, ’neath the door—pipe dreams.

  Through open windows, ’neath the doors, pipe dreams

  served up bone, bouffant, the serpentine

  and bug-eyed Lady D, the boisterous queen

  of overdone, her body built from beams

  of awkward light. Her slithering extremes

  just made us feel so small. Insanely lean,

  everywhere she stepped she caused a scene.

  We craved her wigs and waist and crafted schemes

  that would insure our hips would soon be thin,

  that we’d hear symphonies, wouldn’t hurry love,

  cause Diana said Make sure it gleams

  no matter what it is. Her different spin,

  a voice like sugar air, no inkling of

  a soul beneath the vinyl. The Supremes.

  That soul beneath the vinyl, the Supremes

  knew nothing of it. They were breathy sighs

  and flowing hips, soul music’s booby prize.

  But Mary Wells, so drained of self-esteem,

  was a pudgy, barstool-ridin’ bucktoothed dream

  who none of us would dare to idolize

  out loud. She had our nightmares memorized

  and like or like it not, she wailed our theme

  while her too-blackness made us ill at ease

  and we smeared Artra on to reach for white.

  When Mary’s My Guy blared, we didn’t think race,

  cause there was all that romance, and the keys

  that Motown held. Unlocked, we’d soon ignite.

  We stockpiled extra sequins, just in case.

  We stockpiled extra sequins, just in case

  the Marvelettes pronounced we’d benefit

  from little dabs of shine. If we could get

  inside their swirl, a kinda naughty place,

  we knew that all the boys would have to brace

  themselves against our heat, much too legit

  to dress up as some other thing. We split

  our blue jeans trying to match their pace.

  And soon our breasts began to pop, we spoke

  in bluer tones, and Berry Gordy looked

  and licked his lips. Our only saving grace?

  The luscious, liquid languid tone of Smoke,

  the soundtrack while our A-cup bras unhooked.

  Our sudden Negro hips required more space.

  Our sudden Negro hips required more space,

  but we pretended not to feel that spill

  that changed the way we walked. And yes, we still

  felt nappy, awkward, strangely out of place

  while Motown crammed our eager hearts with lace

  and storylines. Romance was all uphill.

  No push, no prod, no bitter magic pill

  could lift us to its light. And not a trace

  of prizes they said we’d already won.

  As mamas called on Jesus, shook their heads

  and mourned our Delta names, we didn’t deem

  to care. Religion—there was only one.

  We took transistor preachers to our beds

  and Smokey sang a lyric dripping cream.

  While Smokey sang a lyric dripping cream,

  Levi tried to woo us with his growl:

  Can’t help myself. Admitted with a scowl,

  this bit of weakness was a clever scheme

  to keep us screaming, front row, under gleam

  of lights, beside the speakers’ blasting vowels.

  We rocked and steamed. Levi, on the prowl,

  glowed black, a savior in the stage light’s beam.

  But then the stage light dimmed, and there we were

  in bodies primed—for what we didn’t know.

  We sang off-key while skipping home alone.

  Deceptions that you sing to tend to blur

  and disappear in dance, why is that so?

  Ask any colored girl and she will moan.

  Ask any colored girl and she will moan

  an answer with a downbeat and a sleek

  five-part croon. She’s dazzled, and she’ll shriek

  what she’s been taught. She won’t long be alone,

  or crazed with wanting more. One day she’ll own

  that quiet heart that Motown taught to speak,

  she’ll know that being the same makes her unique.

  She’ll worship at the god of microphone

  until the bass line booms, until some old

  Temptation leers and says I’ll take you home

  and heal you in the way the music vowed.

  She’s mesmerized—his moves, his tooth is gold.

  She dances to the drumbeat of his poem,

  remembering how. Love had lied so loud.

  Remembering how love had lied so loud,

  we tangled in the rhythms that we chose.

  Seduced by thump and sequins, heaven knows

  we tried to live our hopeful lives unbowed,

  but bending led to break. We were so proud

  to mirror every lyric. Radios

  spit beg and mend, and sturdy stereos

  told us what we were and weren’t allowed.

  Our daddies sweat in factories while we

  found other daddies under limelight’s glow.

  Desperate, we begged them to illuminate

  the glitter lives they said they’d guarantee

  would save us. But instead, the crippling blow.

  We whimpered while the downbeat dangled bait.

  We whimpered while the downbeat dangled bait,

  we leapt and swallowed all the music said

  while Smokey laughed and Marvin fell and bled.

  Their sinning slapped us hard and slapped us straight,

  and even then, we listened for the great

  announcement of the drum, for tune to spread,

  a Marvelette to pick up on the thread.

  But as we know by now, it’s much too late

  to reconsider love, or claw our way

  through all the glow they tossed to slow our roll.

  What we know now we should have always known.

  When Smokey winked at us and whispered They

  don’t love you like I do, he snagged our soul.

  We wound up doing the slow drag, all alone.

  They made us do the slow drag, all alone.

  They made us kiss our mirrors, deal with heat

  and hips we couldn’t control. They danced deceit

  and we did too, addicted to the drone

  of revelation and the verses thrown

  our way: Oh, love will rock your world. The sweet

  sweet fairy tale we spin will certainly beat

  the real thing any day. Oh, yes we own

  you now. We sang you pliable and clue-

  less, waiting, waiting, oh the dream you’ll hug

  one day, the boy who craves you right out loud

  in front of everyone. But we told you,

  we know we did, we preached it with a shrug—

  less than perfect love was not allowed.

  Less than perfect love was not allowed.

  Temptations begged as if their every sway

  depended on you coming home to stay.

  Diana whispered air, aloof and proud

  to be the perfect girl beneath a shroud

  of glitter and a fright she held at bay.

  And Michael Jackson, flailing in the fray

  of daddy love, succumbed to every crowd.

  What would we have done if not for them,

  wooing us with roses carved
of sound

  and hiding muck we’re born to navigate?

  Little did we know that they’d condemn

  us to live so tethered to the ground

  while every song they sang told us to wait.

  Every song they sang told us to wait

  and wait we did, our gangly heartbeats stunned

  and holding place. Already so outgunned,

  we little girls obeyed. And now it’s late,

  and CDs spinning just intimidate.

  The songs all say, Just look at what you’ve done,

  you’ve wished through your whole life. And one by one

  your trusting sisters realize they don’t rate.

  So now, at fifty-plus, I turn around

  and see the glitter drifting in my wake

  and mingling with the dirt. My dingy dreams

  are shoved high on the shelf. They’re wrapped and bound

  so I can’t see and contemplate the ache.

  The Temps, all swirl and pivot, conjured schemes.

  The Temps, all swirl and pivot, conjured schemes

  from soulful throats, relentless booming bass,

  then silk where throats should be. Much growling grace

  from open window, ’neath the door, pipe dreams—

  that soul beneath the vinyl. The Supremes

  used to stockpile extra sequins just in case

  Diana’s Negro hips required more space,

  while Smokey penned a lyric dripping cream.

  Ask any colored girl, and she will moan,

  remembering how love had lied so loud.

  I whimpered while the downbeat dangled bait

  and taught myself to slow drag, all alone.

  Less than perfect love was not allowed

  and every song they sang told me to wait.

  COLOPHON

  Shoulda Been Jimi Savannah was designed at Coffee House Press, in the historic Grain Belt Brewery’s Bottling House near downtown Minneapolis.

  The text is set in Caslon with titles in Protege.

  FUNDER ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  Coffee House Press is an independent nonprofit literary publisher. Our books are made possible through the generous support of grants and gifts from many foundations, corporate giving programs, state and federal support, and through donations from individuals who believe in the transformational power of literature. Coffee House Press receives major operating support from the Bush Foundation, the Jerome Foundation, the McKnight Foundation, from Target, and in part by a grant provided by the Minnesota State Arts Board, through an appropriation by the Minnesota State Legislature from the Minnesota Arts and Cultural Heritage Fund with money from the vote of the people of Minnesota on November 4, 2008, and a grant from the Wells Fargo Foundation of Minnesota. Coffee House also receives support from: several anonymous donors; Elmer L. and Eleanor J. Andersen Foundation; Suzanne Allen; Around Town Literary Media Guides; Patricia Beithon; Bill Berkson; the James L. and Nancy J. Bildner Foundation; the E. Thomas Binger and Rebecca Rand Fund of the Minneapolis Foundation; the Patrick and Aimee Butler Family Foundation; Ruth and Bruce Dayton; Dorsey & Whitney, LLP; Mary Ebert and Paul Stembler; Fredrikson & Byron, P.A.; Sally French; Jennifer Haugh; Anselm Hollo and Jane Dalrymple-Hollo; Jeffrey Hom; Carl and Heidi Horsch; Stephen and Isabel Keating; the Kenneth Koch Literary Estate; the Lenfestey Family Foundation; Ethan J. Litman; Carol and Aaron Mack; Mary McDermid; Sjur Midness and Briar Andresen; the Rehael Fund of the Minneapolis Foundation; Deborah Reynolds; Schwegman, Lundberg & Woessner, P.A.; John Sjoberg; David Smith; Kiki Smith; Mary Strand and Tom Fraser; Jeffrey Sugerman; Patricia Tilton; the Archie D. & Bertha H. Walker Foundation; Stu Wilson and Mel Barker; the Woessner Freeman Family Foundation; Margaret and Angus Wurtele; and many other generous individual donors.