by Pearl Cleage
“Ain’t nobody in here fucking no faggots,” she said. “Excuse my French.”
Joyce didn’t even blink. She just asked them what they thought was the number one killer of young black folks all over America. They guessed homicide, drug overdose, cancer, and car accidents, in that order. When Joyce said AIDS, they thought she was kidding.
“You just trying to scare us into reading this stuff, right?” said a thin, muddy brown girl who I recognized from the nursery, too. She was sitting alone, jiggling a sickly-looking baby across her knees and waving one of the health department pamphlets. The baby didn’t look much happier than he had on Sunday, but at least he wasn’t crying.
“You need to be scared,” Joyce said calmly, “if you want to stay alive.”
That sort of got their attention and they started asking questions. Sitting in the back, holding the peacefully sleeping Imani, my only job for the evening once I reminded Joyce that I was not here to do missionary work, thank you, I was amazed and frightened by how little information they had. A lot of us can chalk our HIV up to innocence or ignorance or Ronald Reagan’s inability to say the word AIDS out loud, but this generation is supposed to know better. The information is everywhere, but it seems to wash right over them.
They wanted to know where it came from, how you could get it, could your kids get it, did you always die from it, and how could you tell who had it and who didn’t.
“You can’t tell,” Joyce said. “That’s why we have to use condoms every single time.”
“My old man ain’t havin’ it,” a woman with a long blond ponytail of somebody else’s hair said, shaking her head. “He said he can’t feel nothin’ when he use ’em.”
She hadn’t even dyed the rest of her hair to match. The front was regular, dark brown, need-a-touch-up Negro woman’s hair. The back was literally a horse of a different color. I wondered who was doing their hair. Probably the same person giving them birth control advice.
“My boyfriend say when we get it goin’ good, he don’t wanna stop and put no rubber on,” somebody else said.
“That’s part of what we have to do,” Joyce said. That’s when she reached into the shopping bag beside her and brought out the juicy jumbo. “We’re going to learn how to put it on for him.”
Aretha had been sitting in the back, but when Joyce said that, she looked at me and grinned conspiratorially. “Don’t want to miss anything,” she said, got up, and walked right up to the front. I laid Imani in her babyseat and moved up a little myself. As long as I was here, I didn’t want to miss anything either. Joyce smiled and reached into the Baggie, took out the hot dog, held it up like she was demonstrating Tupperware, and then plunged it down on the chopstick so it seemed to stand at attention, awaiting her command. The women whooped with laughter.
“That look a little like Junebug!” one giggled.
“In your dreams,” Blond Ponytail teased her.
Joyce reached into the bag again and brought out a box of condoms.
“Putting the condom on for your partner doesn’t have to be a chore,” Joyce said, and I mentally did the next sentence with her. “It can be part of your lovemaking.”
This spiel assumes, of course, that lovemaking is the activity in which the parties are engaged. Safe sex is based on two people agreeing to plan ahead and prepare for their physical exchanges in advance of the moment where everybody is firmly in the grip of their hormones and whatever drugs or alcohol they use to enhance the moment. Looking around at the young women now crowded around Joyce’s demonstration, I was willing to bet that making love is not any more a part of their sex lives than creative, mutually pleasurable foreplay.
First Joyce asked them to tear open a condom and look at it, touch it, roll it around in their fingers, smell it. This was all done with a maximum of giggling, signifying, and eye rolling, but I could see they were intrigued. Even the girl with the unhappy baby moved into the circle, too curious to hang back. By the time Joyce asked for a volunteer, six hands went up, but Aretha was standing right in front of the jumbo on a stick and she grabbed it.
The girl with the new extensions rolled her new eyes and snorted. “You better ask for a Vienna sausage to practice on, little girl. You know you can’t handle nothin’ like this.”
Aretha was cool. She ripped open a packet containing a bright purple condom and smiled sweetly. “You know, Tomika, since I’m the only one in here who ain’t got no baby, or about to have one—” she paused significantly, positioned the condom carefully, and slowly rolled it down the quivering jumbo”—I must be the only one who is handlin’ it the way it’s ‘spose to be handled.” She popped the condom securely in place and turned to Tomika. “Your turn.”
Several of the girls applauded, but Tomika tossed her hair until it swirled around her head like Medusa. “I don’t need no practice,” she said.
“That’s not what Roy say,” the girl at her elbow said with a giggle, and moved quickly out of smacking range.
“We all could use some practice,” Joyce said, handing a packet to the thin girl with the fussy baby. “You want to try, Patrice?”
Patrice looked at Joyce for a second or two like she was deciding whether to go along with the program or scoop up her baby and try to make it home in time to see New York Undercover.
“Go ahead, girl,” said Tomika, glad to be off the spot. “You got it.”
“Shit,” said Patrice, taking the condom from Joyce defiantly and unrolling it, “you ain’t said nothin’ but the word.” She looked at Joyce, who nodded approvingly. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now can I ask you one thing?”
“Go ahead,” Joyce said.
“It ain’t nothin’ to it when it’s sittin’ still like that. But what you ‘spose to do when it’s wigglin’ all over the place?”
This broke up the group, but Joyce didn’t bat an eye. “Use two hands,” she said, a technique that she proceeded to demonstrate to great and vocal delight, but which, from her reaction, the Reverend Mrs. didn’t find at all amusing.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Her voice, which was so beautifully spirit-filled on Sunday morning, sounded like the Devil speaking through that girl in The Exorcist. I turned toward the sound, fully expecting her head to be spinning around and pea soup to be spewing from her mouth. Clustered, guiltily now, around the table at the front of the room, we hadn’t seen her come in. I wondered how long she had been standing there.
The power of her outrage brought an immediate silence. Even the children were suddenly quiet, waiting to see which one had provoked such a response from this woman who was now stalking toward the front of the room where the jumbo stood, safely hooded, in the center of a table scattered with condoms and replacement dogs in case this first one didn’t hold up through the ministrations of all the sisters present.
The force of Gerry’s outrage was so overpowering that the women fell back in her wake, groping behind them for their purses and their children, even while they hoped Joyce could save the situation.
Gerry stood across the table from Joyce now, pointing accusingly at the offending display. “What in the name of all that is holy do you think you are doing with these girls?”
Joyce didn’t flinch. “I’m trying to save their lives.”
“By exposing them to this . . . this filth?” Gerry spit out the words.
“By telling them the truth.”
For a few seconds nobody moved and then Gerry stepped forward and swept her arm across the table, sending hot dogs, condoms, and pamphlets flying. It reminded me of that scene in The Ten Commandments where old Charlton Heston flings down the stone tablets to break up the decadent orgy in progress that greets his return from the wilderness, except I think Gerry was even madder than that. I could see her trembling even from the back of the room, struggling to regain control of her speech.
“This meeting is over,” she said finally, looking sternly from one frightened woman to another. “All of you ge
t your things and get out. Go home and pray to God that you have not marked your children for life by exposing them to such lewd and lascivious things.”
They just looked at her, less in defiance than in confusion. What the hell did lewd and lascivious mean?
“Go NOW!” Gerry’s voice was an angry bellow.
As the women headed for the door, Joyce’s voice rose sweetly above the confusion. “You can pick up extra condoms from my sister at the door,” she said, pointing at me. I remembered I had the other bag full of supplies in the back next to Imani, who was still sleeping, blissfully unaware. I scrambled to break them out and press them into the outstretched hands of the rapidly dispersing Sewing Circus members.
“Tell your sister to hang in there,” Tomika whispered as she accepted a strip of condoms from me. “This was right on time no matter what Miz Anderson says.”
“Thanks,” I said.
When the last woman had grabbed a handful of condoms and gone, Joyce smiled at Gerry like they were neighbors exchanging gossip over the back fence and began cleaning up the mess on the floor. I went to help.
Gerry was staring at Joyce like she was trying to determine our specific degree of insanity before making her next move. Joyce picked up the chopstick, pulled the hooded hotdog off, and dropped it into the trash bag.
“I think it went well,” she said to me as if we were alone in the room. I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.
That was too much for Gerry, who turned on her heel and marched away. She turned at the door.
“This is the very last time you will have a chance to desecrate the house of God with such evil,” she hissed. “I intend to see to it. Immediately!” She swept out with her threat still echoing behind her.
I braced myself for a bolt of lightning to strike me and Joyce down like the sinners we surely were, but apparently the Reverend Mrs. wasn’t as tight with God as she thought or he was busy elsewhere because nothing happened.
Joyce grinned at me. “Did you see her face when she saw that hot dog with a condom on?”
I grinned back. “You have been a very bad girl.” And we sat there in the middle of the remains of the evening and laughed until we cried. Imani looked at us like we were crazy, but what the hell? If you can’t get hysterical in the face of the plague, when can you get hysterical?
july
• 1
dear sister mitchell:
It is with deep regret that I must inform you that the goals and purposes of the Women’s Sewing Circle organization, which currently meets under your stewardship on Wednesday nights here at the church fellowship hall, are no longer in line with the overall goals and Christian purpose of the New Light Baptist Church. The shocking display which was witnessed on Wednesday last by my wife, Mrs. Anderson, during your meeting, had no place within a building dedicated to the glory of God. She was alarmed and appalled, as I am sure any woman of good conscience and high moral character would be.
Both Mrs. Anderson and I are aware of your long history in this community and we value your continued active membership at New Light. However, due to your unwillingness to bring the Women’s Sewing Circle back to its original purpose (and its original name, which more accurately reflected the pursuit of activities befitting Christian women), I am hereby suspending your right to use the church facilities for any gathering without my explicit approval in writing. I am disbanding the Wednesday night women’s group until it can be reshaped more in line with our overall goals of building and strengthening Christian men, women, and children. Mrs. Anderson will assume the directorship of the Sunday morning nursery, which we do feel is a valuable service to the many young mothers within our congregation and should continue.
Let me say in closing, Sister Mitchell, how sorry I am that we have been unable to find common ground on which to meet. I feel that you may be going through some difficult times in your personal life that may have affected your judgment in this and other matters. Your spirit may be tossed in turmoil from which you can find no solace. I urge you to seek your answers in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, not in the foul and deviant solutions suggested by an evil and sinful world. The Lord can, and will, provide the peace you are seeking if you humble yourself to him and ask for his forgiveness. As your pastor, I would be happy, when my schedule clears, to meet with you for further counseling on the difficult matters which may have hardened your heart toward the healing powers of being joyfully washed in the blood of the lamb.
Yours in Christ,
Rev. Jonathan Anderson
Pastor, New Light Baptist Church
• 2
it wasn’t like Joyce had intended to keep the group connected to the church forever, but this sudden parting of the ways couldn’t have come at a worse time. The Sewing Circus had only been meeting regularly for six months and it was already making a difference in these women’s lives. Postponing meetings or trying to move to someplace new was bound to tamper with the delicate balance of things and probably result in a drop-off in active membership. Most of them didn’t have cars and there were no buses, so getting around up here was definitely a consideration.
Joyce wasn’t having it. “It’s working so well,” she said, ticking off a list of recent positive signs, including the fact that Patrice had called after the session with the jumbos to say she had finally gotten her boyfriend to use a condom and even though he still didn’t like it, she had felt so free knowing she wasn’t going to get pregnant that her enthusiasm had, he said, more than made up for any decrease in sensation.
And just this morning, Aretha had come by with the news that she’d gotten her official letter of acceptance into the summer institute at Interlochen and that if she did well, there was a chance she might get the financial aid she needed to spend her whole senior year there. When she showed us the letter, her face was the sweetest mixture of triumph and terror. I knew what the look meant. She had just realized she didn’t have to live and die in Lake County just because she was born there.
“I’ll schedule a meeting, all right,” Joyce said, folding the Rev’s letter and putting it aside. “A meeting to tell them that me and the Sewing Circus are moving on.”
I looked at her and the question in my mind must have been written all over my face because she laughed and shook her head.
“I don’t know where we’re moving on to,” she said, “but we are definitely on the move!”
I told you. Joyce is that kind of a gal. Inertia is death. Forward motion is everything.
• 3
i was an asshole at the grocery store today. I didn’t feel like going, but I didn’t want to stay home alone with Imani either. She’s going through a phase where she doesn’t want you to put her down. She doesn’t cry. She just sort of mews and whimpers like a kitten or some other sweet, helpless little animal.
Joyce put her in the baby seat while she picked through some strawberries that had seen better days. The cart with the seat in it was right up next to Joyce, so it wasn’t like Imani couldn’t see her, but she started that mewing anyway and it was working my last nerve, so I said:
“This damn baby just wants to be held all the time!”
“Don’t you?” Joyce said, reached over, picked up Imani, who was instantly quiet, and went on with what she was doing.
She’s right. That’s why I’m so evil. I had a brief flicker that she might have heard me masturbating downstairs, but that’s crazy. The bed doesn’t creak and I don’t make much noise. I never was much of a screamer, even in my prime, and these days I mostly maintain a ladylike silence.
I’m just lonesome. I’ve even been thinking that when I get to San Francisco, I might be more open to the idea of having a woman lover. Wondering where do the titties go is only one small step from asking, “Which one gets to be the man?” one of the top ten most ignorant questions of all time. Besides, there is another possibility. What if both of them get to be the woman?
The funny thing is, the best sex I ever had was with a broth
er who really liked to kiss it. He wasn’t like most of those Atlanta Negroes who act like oral sex means one way in their direction, period. This brother would start at the navel, kiss his way down, and then linger. He’d kiss up one side and down the other. And you know how sometimes men will make the supreme sacrifice and kiss it a few times like they’re doing you a favor, but they hold their breath the whole time? This brother would breathe. Sometimes he’d just bury his nose and inhale like my stuff really did smell sweet as honeysuckle, a claim he made on more than one occasion.
I knew women who gave up on men after they hit thirty and the pickings were looking kind of slim and the few unmarried, straight men around were all acting like they were God’s gift. Once they found a girlfriend, they never went back. When you tried to ease up on asking them about the specifics, they would smile mysteriously and suggest that if you’ve figured out a way to fuck men and get off, women will be a breeze and a blessing.
But, of course, Imam isn’t interested in all that. She’s busy living out her role as the flesh-and-blood proof of all those scary statistics about crack babies and drug addicts and the wages of sin. Joyce isn’t interested either since she said she hasn’t even thought about having sex since Mitch died. So it’s on me.
Maybe I can reprogram my body to channel all this sexual energy into physical fitness. Maybe my disposition will improve if I start walking a couple of miles a day and do some sit-ups or something. I don’t know, though. The way I’ve been feeling lately, I’ll wind up looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger by Christmas.
When we got home, I apologized to Joyce and she hugged me and got all teary. She started saying how important it is that we love Imani as much as we can since her real family could come and get her any time they want to and we know what kind of life that would be. Joyce said we have to help her build up some good memories in case she’s got some more bad times coming.
