“My name is John Paul Boudreaux the Second and I’m eight years old.”
“Na’. Empty out that thermos.”
“Unh-unh, I got Kool-Aid in there.”
“Boy, empty that thing out.”
I poured out the sweet water. He dried the thermos with a handkerchief, then gave it back.
“Na’, grab you a handful of that dirt.”
I did.
“Smell it.”
No smell, really.
“Na’ put it to your ear and listen.”
“Listen to what?” I asked.
“Listen to your people. They in that dirt.”
Honestly, I didn’t hear a damn thing but, since we were playing make-believe, I went along.
“Na’ put that dirt in that thermos and tighten the cap.”
I poured the dark soil into the Star Wars thermos, then twisted it shut.
“Bon,” he said, then put me on his shoulders.
“Nonc Manuel brought us here after the Civil War. You learned about the Civil War yet?”
“Kinda.”
“In those days, we was all farmers. It was just us and Indians and the slaves and half of them was our cousins. We took to the land real quick, made use of it. Had to. Wasn’t no grocery stores or hardware stores. Nothing. Just land. This is what we had to work with and become something. This land. Louisiana. This is where we were supposed to be. Nous sommes La Louisiane.”
“Huh?”
“We are Louisiana, Sonny. Always will be. Never forget that,” he said.
With dirt stored in my thermos, we headed back to Mother and the truck.
“You gonna have to treat on your cousin today. You momma’s people. You remember what I did with my hands?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, then. I’m gonna whisper in your ear what you need to say in your mind, but don’t say it aloud, not even a whisper, ’cause then it ain’t gonna work. Can you do that?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said.
“Either you can do it or you can’t. Can you do it?” he asked again.
“Yep. I can do it, Daddy. If you show me,” I answered.
We continued along U.S. 190 to State Highway 13 northbound until we reached the outskirts of a small town called Mamou. We moved from asphalt to gravel to dirt back to asphalt until we stopped at a large white house in an area called Pin Claire. Father parked the truck behind an old station wagon, then looked at Mother. Her recitations of the Rosary became jumpy and forced, confusing lines between prayers to yield to her own secret prayers. She was terrified.
“You sure you wanna do this? ’Cause we can turn around right now,” Father asked.
“Yes. We here,” she said.
This was her aunt’s house, Tante Sy-belle Gagnier. Apparently, Tante Sy-belle’s daughter, Cozette Augustine, was gravely ill and the doctors at Lourdes Hospital and Opelousas General had given up hope. Somehow it was suggested that Father and I treat her, so here we were.
The white house sat on three-foot cinder blocks with a worn tin roof that covered a massive front porch that creaked as we followed Mother to the front door. She stood at the door for the longest seconds until Father finally knocked. Small talk inside chirped like chickadees until the door slowly opened and a little blond, blue-eyed girl about my age peeked around, then turned back inside with “Nenaine! They here!”
The door opened wider. I began to take a step forward until Mother threw her arm in front of me.
“Wait right here,” she ordered.
From the dark room, an old gray-eyed woman in a wheelchair rolled to the front door and looked at Mother with a smile.
“Well, glory be. Lil’ ’Trice. Well, come on in, chère. Come see your people,” said the old woman.
But Mother was stuck. She couldn’t move. This was the first time she’d been invited in.
Opelousas, Louisiana, c. 1955
Little Patrice Malveaux, all of eleven, was having a fit near the playground at Holy Ghost Catholic School. Her older brother, Herman, and their cousin Paul Gagnier had been entertaining three teen girls for nearly fifteen minutes in the sultry afternoon heat of Opelousas, Louisiana.
“Herman, hurry up,” she protested, finding a cool breeze under an aged cypress. And although cool breezes were a hot commodity in the summer months, she wasn’t seeking relief from the heat but cover from the sun. It was her new habit, confining her afternoon strolls to shaded areas, prisoner of eaves, trees, carports, overhangs, canopies, and the like. And for added measure, she had adopted a dainty new habit of carrying a little pink parasol at all times, whether or not rain was in the forecast. Her mother thought it was cute and her father thought it was silly, but she was resolute. She couldn’t stand for her skin to darken.
Herman rejoined his sister with Paul in tow. Paul had long since ditched school for work at the oil mill and high-stakes dice games in Lafayette. Patrice’s parents normally didn’t approve of Paul hanging around Herman, but he was family. Plus, the corner of Church Street and Railroad Avenue often required backup for any black kids walking by.
“What you doin’ Friday night?” she asked Herman.
“I don’t know, why?” he responded while eyeing a brand-new, candy apple red Bel Air that drove past.
“Can you take me to Cozette’s birthday party?”
“Nope,” Herman said matter-of-factly.
“Why not?” she protested, but she knew the answer.
“Momma ain’t gonna let you.”
“But I wanna go . . .”
“ ’Trice!” Herman stopped and faced his little sister, who stood holding her pink parasol with anxious eyes. He didn’t want to say it, but she knew the answer and she knew why. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings but protect her from the evils of the world, the abuses that would be directed toward her. One day she’d have to face it alone, but for now, he was her protector. And somehow she’d decided that she wanted to attend Cozette’s party knowing that she couldn’t. Sure she was well behaved and made good marks. Margaret would sometimes say that she was a perfect child as mothers do and it may have been true. But none of that mattered.
“You know you cain’t go.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause you too dark.”
Ma Negrisse.
• • •
“Young ladies do not attend parties uninvited, Patrice,” Margaret told her daughter at the dinner table.
Patrice pouted and refused to eat. Joseph Malveaux put down his fork and stared at his daughter, warmed by her predicament. It was his darker skin that cast her with a caramel hue. And it was his wife’s family, the Lemelles, who didn’t really accept her nor him. When he married Margaret only half of her family showed. He was a darker Creole with a hint of Native American blood. And despite the good name and the large landholdings, Joseph Malveaux’s skin was a pebble in the Lemelles’ shoe.
“We eatin’ at this table, not poutin’. So you can go ’head and ’scuse yourself,” Joseph said, although he wanted to give her a hug.
Patrice excused herself from the table and went to the front yard to count fireflies. Five.
The next afternoon, Joseph took Patrice for a long drive in the country. Maybe a drive out of the city would calm the anxious preteen, he thought, a short break from Chuck Berry, picture shows, and malt shops. Both were quiet in the car. His favorite song came on the radio. He turned up the volume, laughing along as Louis Jordan signified. Patrice wasn’t amused, rather bored and hoping that Cousin Cozette may have realized that she’d erred and forgot to invite her little cousin. She imagined the phone ringing and Cousin Cozette telling her mother that she couldn’t imagine having a party without Patrice in attendance.
“When we going home, Daddy?” she asked politely.
“Aah, black gal. You don’t wanna ride with your daddy?”
Black gal. That was his nickname for her; a moniker that highlighted their special bond. Herman favored his mother’s creamy beige that re
ddened with exposure to the sun. But Patrice had a darker, olive tone that browned under the sun’s rays. Of course Joseph was aware of his daughter’s insecurities about her complexion, but he only meant the benign sobriquet in jest. Either way, Patrice hated that name. Every time he said it, the hair on her arms stood up and her stomach knotted even when he said it while embracing her. She didn’t love him less for the name and he never used it in anger or reprimand. But she wasn’t too young to know that there wasn’t any decent place in the world for a black gal, any black gal. She gripped the parasol tighter, staring blankly out the window.
She turned to Joseph, whose smile had faded as he bit off the end of a cigar and flipped out a flame from a brass Zippo. He took off work to spend the day with her, his only daughter, yet she was still resolute to pout.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, baby.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, baby. Tell ya what. We’ll stop and get some ice cream before we go home,” he said as he slowed his brown Ford on the empty country road and made a U-turn.
“Oooh, Daddy! Pull the car over,” she exclaimed.
A field of dandelion seed heads resembled a white blanket along the road. She jumped out of the car, pink parasol in hand, and took off into the field. Joseph eased out of the car and leaned against the fender enjoying the cigar, relieved that his troubled daughter had found a small moment of joy. This wasn’t a paid sick day at the oil mill but damn money, he thought, my little girl is smiling again.
She plucked the perfect dandelion, closed her eyes, and held the seed head up to God as she made a wish, then said, “Amen.”
She blew the fluff into white, dancing fibers that fell at her feet. Joseph watched from afar as she grabbed her parasol and headed back to the car. He quickly wiped tears with his sleeve that smelled of LouAna cooking oil. He knew her wish.
Meanwhile, Herman and Paul had gotten themselves into a bit of a pickle with the Ribodeaux Brothers on the corner of Church Street and Railroad Avenue. And even though the Ribodeaux family were Cajuns who could easily be mistaken for fair-complexioned Creoles, they hated niggers, light or dark, which Herman thought was a bit ironic as the Ribodeaux Brothers surrounded him and Paul. White folks passing by pulled their cars over to watch the two negra boys get beaten. Chuck Berry rattled from car radios. The manager at the nearby Piggly Wiggly passed out cold Pabst.
“Get ’em! Get them niggers!”
Paul pulled out a straight razor to even the odds. Swinging wildly, he managed to literally carve out an opening for him and Herman to escape, but not without giving little Aubère Ribodeaux a parting gift across his cheek. Poor cher. Lil’ Aubère was traumatized and sent to New Orleans the next day where he later became an internationally renowned chef.
Herman and Paul hightailed it along Duson’s railroad tracks until they reached the New Editions. They fell onto the grass in Herman’s front yard on Joseph Street—spent, bruised, and dirty.
“As soon as I get old enough, I’m goin’ up North,” Herman said.
“You don’t know nobody up there,” Paul countered.
“Don’t matter none. I know damn near everybody here and look what just happened,” said Herman.
Joseph and Patrice pulled into the driveway. Patrice skipped out of the car holding a messy ice cream cone and dashed into the house. Joseph approached the boys.
“You gotta leave them white boys alone,” he advised, but the boys were oblivious. Joseph understood.
“Eh, Malveaux! Dem boys been cuttin’ up?” Doris Chenier1 yelled from across the street as he loaded ice into his café.
“He don’t know. I’m gonna send him to the country to pick peas,” Joseph said with a laugh.
Herman wasn’t amused. Damn the country, I’m going North, he thought.
Hours later, after supper, Herman sat alone in the front yard by the ditch watching lively colored people going to Chenier’s café across the street. He was still angry.
“I saw the prettiest sweater today at Abdalla’s, Herman,” Patrice said as she sat next to him, trying her darndest to sound like a movie star or at least one of the girls from La Jolie Blanche. He ignored her.
“It would be perfect for Cozette’s party.”
He turned to his sister.
“’Trice, why you wanna go to that party? They don’t want you over there.”
“Ain’t you ever wanted to be somewhere you wasn’t supposed to be?”
He put an arm around her.
“What color you think Slim gonna be tonight?” Herman asked.
She thought about it.
“Hmmmm. Pink.”
“Pink?”
“Okay. Orange.”
“Maybe.”
They waited. Forty minutes later, a yellow Cadillac pulled up to the café as the band started thumping a heavy blues stride.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, from New Orleans, put your hands together for Guitar Slim!”
On cue, the Cadillac door opened and he stepped out. Lime green. Suit, shoes, and conked hair—all lime green.
“He looks like a Popsicle,” Patrice said and laughed, watching the famed blues man step into the packed club.
The next morning, the whistle at the LouAna Oil Mill blew. No one heard it. Yet the day began anyway. Cotton don’t wait on nobody, the whistle said. The Jolie Blanche girls giggled, cackled, behind silk curtains filtering the wholesome scent of ham and eggs. Breakfast for hookers. Still, the LouAna whistle competed with prayers for the dead and bedridden petitioned by the distant church bells’ Catholic lament tuned in B flat at Holy Ghost where black folks make their sacraments. By afternoon, the bells will rejoice off-tune and lazily, and the mill whistle will sound, strong and certain, minding time, minding obligation. Elvis Presley will replace the morning mirth of the working girls’ afternoon hour. And downtown Opelousas will find two of its children wandering about, ignoring all of it.
“That’s it right there,” Patrice exclaimed.
The mannequin in the window at Abdalla’s department store sported a gray wool pleated skirt complete with a stiff cancan slip, a red three-quarter-length wool sweater with collar, and a black four-inch-wide elastic belt. This was her outfit, she thought, and this is what she pointed out to Herman with a little note listing her sizes.
Later that day the men’s section of Abdalla’s department store mysteriously caught fire, and magically Patrice had her outfit, tucked deep in the bottom of a Piggly Wiggly grocery bag underneath a package of bologna and a loaf of Evangeline Maid bread. Paul had called in the threat five minutes before, giving his best impression of a St. Landry Parish Klansman—protesting Abdalla’s forward-thinking policy of servicing coloreds. It was Herman’s idea—a perfect opportunity to strike out against Jim Crow and nearby Klansmen who had left a burning cross in Joseph Malveaux’s front lawn to discourage customers, particularly the girls from La Jolie Blanche. With blame securely laid on the KKK, Herman had no problem committing larceny.
• • •
Hot thick bayou air.
They caught a ride with Mr. Prejean to Pin Claire. Paul came along in case things got testy and, also, he was invited—Cozette was his sister.
Patrice rode in the front cab of the truck so as not to dirty her new outfit. Herman and Paul sat in the back payload finishing off a pint of rye. As they turned off the blacktop for gravel, they could hear the music—boogie-woogie. Cars lined the gravel road. The truck stopped at the driveway and they got out. Paul passed Mr. Prejean a few coins with “Come back in two hours.” Mr. Prejean tipped his hat and drove off.
Patrice was nervous, still clutching her parasol.
“You ready?” Herman asked her.
She wasn’t sure.
“Aah, come on, ’Trice. We’re here now.”
“Yeah, ’Trice. Don’t you worry ’bout nuthin’. Them your people,” Paul added.
Herman took her hand. “Let’s go.”
They approached the front door, where a gr
oup of older Lemelle and Gagnier women sat in chairs cutting okra—her aunts.
“Paul, cher. You done come see your maman,” Tante Sy-belle said with a warm smile. Paul gave his mother a hug and a kiss. She hadn’t seen him in two months.
“Hey, Auntie,” Patrice managed.
“Eh?” Tante Sy-belle responded with a questioning look. “Your mama know you here?”
“She came for her cousin’s party,” Paul interrupted.
Tante Sy-belle looked at the other women, then focused on the pile of okra in her apron.
“This party not for you,” Tante Sy-belle said, avoiding her niece’s eyes.
“Maman, this is Cozette’s cousin, your niece,” Paul argued.
“I know who she is. This party not for her,” the ornery gray-eyed old woman spouted.
The door opened. Laughter and music spilled out. Cesaire and Louis, Paul’s older brothers, came to the door.
“Well, look who showed up. You forgot about your baby sister’s birthday, Paul?” said Cesaire. He hated Paul.
“You see me here now,” Paul chided and took a few steps toward the stairs leading into the house with Patrice and Herman in tow.
“Eh, na’! She ain’t invited,” Cesaire asserted with a defiant arm blocking the door. Paul took another step up the stairs, but Cesaire pushed him back, sending his brother to the ground.
“Eh! Fais pas ça!” Tante Sy-belle yelled.
Paul let off a little laugh to himself, then slowly stood up. A small crowd of beige teenagers gathered by the door. Patrice held Herman’s hand tighter.
“ ’Trice. Go wait over there,” Paul ordered as he started taking off his shirt. Herman followed suit. This fight had been brewing for years.
“Don’t fight with your brother, Cesaire, you know he’s crazy,” Tante Sy-belle advised.
“Nawh, Maman. He been had this coming,” Cesaire responded, walking down the stairs rolling up his sleeves. A few other boys rallied behind him.
“No black gal in here tonight, Paul. You know that,” Tante Sy-belle reminded her son, but it didn’t matter.
Paul threw his shirt on the ground. The crowd hushed. Some made a sign of the cross in disbelief.
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