A spellbinding memoir, a collection of stories about a Black woman's struggle to free herself from the many prisons that bound her. Order it at www. amazon.com or www.borders.com
Excerpt from "Tales of Jim Crow"
Copyright 2007
When I was coming up, your Mama and Daddy told you trickster stories, like those of B'rer Rabbit or Ananzi, the spider, stories that, for your own good, taught you the tricks of how to survive living with White folks. Since Jim Crow practices were the everyday norm in Knoxville, Tennessee, and elsewhere in the South, back then, you learned from your elders how to let your face and hands and head and shoulders speak in the passive language that White people wanted to hear. You learned that you better wear a mask, put on a blank face that never revealed your feelings. You listened to grown folks whispering about the stories of Colored folk who had to run for their lives in the middle of the night because White men took a notion to put on their white hoods and go coon hunting; you heard about smart-mouthed Colored folks who got burned out of their homes, or who ended up dead in the river, like fourteen-year-old Emmett Till. Yes, you took it all in, and learned to swallow the words that might land you hanging from a tree, your neck in a noose, and the crows picking at your beaten, bloody, half-burned body. You took it all in, and you learned what to do to keep on living.
In those days, our battles with Dr. King urging us forward on fields of honor, at Montgomery and Selma and Nashville, were yet to come. Those battles to open up bathrooms, water fountains, swimming pools, bus seats, restaurants, movies, train cars, public schools, and colleges. Those battles that would get us voting rights, marriage rights, and Miranda rights were yet on the horizon. And until that time, you walked in Jim Crow's shadow. To the beat of his drum.
1. Chilhowee Park
As a child, I adored Chilhowee Park. Located on the east side of Knoxville, it combined an amusement park, a zoo, a coliseum, a skating rink, and grounds for picnics and fairs. Going to Chilhowee meant glorious summertime was here, meant Mama would buy me mustardy dip dogs on a stick, blue raspberry snow cones, and, best of all, pink cotton candy that melted the moment my tongue touched it. The rides thrilled me though I dared not venture on the Tilt-A-Whirl because rides like that turned my equilibrium upside down and gave me an unbearable case of "the tickles"—butterflies on my stomach. I was especially taken with the Merry-Go-Round—all gaudy ornamentation, garish mirrors that sparkled in the sunlight, and huge pastel-painted horses. Mama would lift me up, sit me on the fake, painted saddle, then stand beside me so I wouldn't fall. Gripping the reins, I'd pretend I was a cowgirl hunting down outlaws, making sure justice was done. Along with the Ferris Wheel, that was my very favorite ride. After the rides, I looked forward to the wondrous sights awaiting me at the zoo. Where a regal-looking lion paced back and forth in his cage, and a slimy-looking alligator wiggle-waggled into swampy water; where chattering monkeys scampered across the trees, or hung upside down by their tails, and where humongous elephants showered themselves in water they blew out of their trunks. Chilhowee was my Disneyland. What more could I ask? Except maybe for fireworks.
One summer day, Mama and I were standing in line for one of the rides. She was holding my hand and I was holding a snow cone. I looked up and noticed a white banner draped on a fence. I must have been in kindergarten by then because I had begun to read signs aloud. Mama, ever the teacher, had taught me to sound out the syllables, and put them together. When I caught sight of the banner, I, automatically, began to sound out the words.
"Jul... July...four...th. July fourth," I read. Having gotten through the first two words, I started on the next word. It was a long one. "Cel...cela...brey... shun. Celebration."
I paused to take a bite of my icy, sweet snow cone before I went back to work. “Come...see the...fy...fire...wu...works. Fireworks." I had been so busy sounding out the words that I hadn't really taken in their meaning. Until now. It took only seconds for the message to sink in. They were going to have fireworks! Oh, boy! Oh, boy! I started to jump up and down, jerking Mama's hand. "Mama, Mama, can we come to the fireworks? Please? Pu-leese?" I pointed at the banner.
Mama looked down at me, smiling, and then up at where I was pointing. As she read the sign, I saw her face change. Not all at once, gradually. It was sort of like watching vanilla ice cream melting down. She blew out a breath and hunkered down beside me, still holding my hand, her black hair shining in the sun. "Honey, we can't come." Her voice cracked, like something was in her throat, and her dark brown eyes had turned into storm clouds.
I didn't understand what was wrong. "Why?" I whined, getting ready to bawl my eyes out.
"We can't come," she answered me, "because they don't allow Colored people to come to the park on the fourth of July. Only White people can come."
My heart plunged to my toes. "Only White people?" I asked. I knew already who they were and I knew already that they didn't want us in places where they went unless we were there to work for them. I felt a sob hitching in my throat.
Mama tried to make it up to me by saying, "We can come to the park on August eighth because that's our holiday. The day we got word Mr. Lincoln had freed us." She stopped and silence hung heavily as if the whole world had stopped with her. Stopped and gone silent.
I wondered how we could be free if I couldn't come to see fireworks on the fourth of July? And why was their freedom day different from ours? But I didn't say any of that; I just stood there holding Mama's hand.
At last, she spoke again: "Maybe there'll be fireworks then." She tried to put a wistful, little smile on her lips as she added, "And anyway, who cares about the fourth of July? We can come to the park any Thursday we want, all summer long."
Her voice tried to convince me that it didn't matter, but her tone didn't match her eyes. They were very dark, flat, and unreadable. I think she was angry, though, because she was squeezing my hand so tightly that I thought my fingers would break. She finally let go when she stepped up to the ticket booth for the Ferris Wheel.
I wanted to cry with disappointment, but I didn't want to be a baby out here at the park, so I sniffed back the tears. While Mama was paying for the tickets, I took a big swallow of my blue raspberry ice cone and gagged. It tasted different now. Like I'd swallowed something gone-over spoiled. Something old and maggoty. I deliberately let the cone I was holding fall to the ground because I could suddenly hear the loud rumble of mustardy dip dog, sweet cotton candy, and raspberry ice churning wildly in my stomach. Before I could help myself, my special, summertime treats gushed up from my belly like a geyser, and as I bent over, throwing up on my new Mary Janes, my eyes caught sight of the bright blue, raspberry ice spilling out of its red cup on the painted, white, concrete steps.
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