Fractal
I like the place before a story. The empty space before the writer fills in setting, or
draws characterization. The blank space where words hang like white rags set on wire
line to dry. Space is important here, quiet havens of sanity.
This story hangs on a line by W.E.B. Du Bois, it reads: "I held all beyond it in
common contempt and lived above it in a region of blue sky and great wandering
shadows." It. It hides behind words, hidden from speech. It is unnamable, unknowable,
unbearable too. I hid from it, sought places away from it. Places to stretch, be free, dream
and create. Later I learned, you can create fiction but you can't fall asleep under it. Like
Du Bois’s blue skies, I ran to empty spaces, plugged in words, punctuation, images,
dreams, the scent of eggs cooking, porkchop's frying, pine trees, silver maples, sienna
smiles and the color brown.
Brown. If Picasso wrapped his thoughts around blue, seeing blue people with
melancholic blue faces tossing blue flowers to a silver-blue moons, if Picasso saw blue,
then my Sara saw brown. Brown faces, her brown body, ashy hands, sepia photographs,
brown dresses (she wears one now as she scrambles her eggs) brown music-- jazz music!
Organic quivers, sonic curls to match the tight spiral knots in her hair. Lonely sad sounds
blue with red touches.
Sara stands alone in the kitchen. A cd is playing, she is silent as the music enfolds
her. Outside the sky is a soft pink glow. She moves among the morning's half-shadows.
Hunched over a frying pan, she shakes, her face tickled by tears.
It was 7:35 when she awoke yesterday morning. Opened her eyes to sunlight
pouring in through the window frame. Squinting in the bright light, she made out a
dresser, then her old pink flower bedspread. At once she remembered coming home to
her mother’s house last night between midnight and morning, then falling asleep in her
old room. Sara sat up and looked out the window. It was bright and cloudless. She stared
at the blue space high above the cars and neighboring houses. She stared as if to find an
answer there. What was this strange sad feeling, this lonely blank state she awoke in?
Why did her belly knot in fear when she imagined her future? Who she was, what she
was doing in life? She felt this way at the graduation party. It had been a warm June
night. She spent it wandered up and down hallways, numb to the buzz around her. She
drank a lot of keg beer, which left her drunk with it’s metallic taste in her mouth. Alcohol
made her fingertips tingle. Around her couples formed, danced, stole passionate kisses,
while she, solo and drunk, tiptoed into buttery softness. She remembered the smooth
young faces sweating in the dim lights, the heat and press of overcrowed rooms. She’d
felt like a character in “The Mist of Avolon” making her way through clouds of cigarett
smoke. Sara was looking for something, not a drug, or a pick-up. She was looking for
something warm. That June night, she walked up and down the hallways searching.
After the party, when she stumbling home and to her room, she caught a glimpse
of her grandmother's photograph. A sepia print of an attractive Negro woman in a long
black dress. She sat down on the bed and stared at the photograph. The clock ticked.
Crickets cherped outside her window, time slowly passed. At last she smiled. Outside the
sky grew lighter.
"Sara, you up?" her mother called from downstairs.
"Yes ma'am." Sara looked away from the window pane.
"You picking Grandma up this morning?"
"Yes ma'am."
She got out of bed. She was taking Grandma to church. She was eager, for she
believed a day in church was all she needed. She longed for black love, black
togetherness. She wanted to be back, basking in community, tradition, smile’s from the
old folks. Sara grinned. This Sunday she would wear her grandma dress, the brown one
with gold threading. She found it at the Thrift Store. It was a simple brown dress, cut like
something her grandmother may have wore in 1940. If you looked close, you saw gold
threading, fabric silky and light. It made her skin glow. To Sara, it was a secret bridge
across time. A fabric connection to black people, to grandma, to jazz music and the
Harlem Renissance.
Dressed Sara made her way downstairs. Her mother was fixing pancakes with
bacon.
“Well Goodmorning.” Her mother greeted her, then frowned. “Sara are you
wearing that to church?” She pointed at Sara’s dress.
“Yes ma’am.” Sara smiled brightly. “It sure smells good.”
“You know we do dress for church round here.”
“I am dressed.” Sara replied. “I think I look pretty.”
“Well I think you look strange…for church. With that hair too, girl!” She
laughted. “You know, you could make more of an effort. People gonna be wondering
what rock you crawled from under.”
“Ma come on, I don’t look that bad. Just because I’m not dressed in a brand new
dresses, wearing nine inch heels…I think I look fine.”
“Well O.K Miss-know-it-all, I can’t wait to see what your grandma has to say.”
Sara stared at her mother, determined to win this one. “I see you’re not dressed.”
“No, lately I’ve been going to the evening service. Here” her mother handed her a
plate of food “eat this ‘fore it get’s cold.”
Sare sat down at the table, glad to be home.
Her mother started again, this time in a quieter tone “You know, we know you are
smart” She paused “you’ve always been a very intelligent girl, and you know we love
you, but you don’t know everything. People around here aren’t put off by a college
education. We do believe in saying our piece. Some of the things you wrote in that
magazine upset your grandma and me.
“Really?”
“Yes. You and your “feminist” friends didn’t think we had anything to say.”
“About?”
“About what you said about marrage. How you don’t plan on marrying, and what
do you mean ‘bout ‘sexual freedom? In my day we called them women whores!’”
“Ma, I was quoting a woman I respect--”
“You went around writing ‘bout touching yourself. Don’t act like I don’t know
what you wrote. We brought you up different. You went to school writing that trash.”
“Wait a minute” Sara felt herself getting angry. “What’s wrong with female
sexuality?”
“Sara, you come from a good family. You know what people talk about and what
they leave home.”
“Hello. Ma to the twenty-first century.” Sara laughed.” I brought that magazine
home so you could see what I’ve been doing with my life”
“Not much writing trash like that. And in public!”
“Is that all you saw?”
“Yes, that’s all I see.”
Sara stared down at her now cold pancakes. The bacon looked greesy and grey.
.
“Well mother, I’ve got to get going before I’m late.” Sara pushed her chair away
from the table. “You know, I didn’t come home to argue. I came home to be with my
family.”
Her mother’s voice softened. “Honey, I’m just telling you the things I know. I’m asking
you to be careful about the things you say.”
Sara gave her mother a slow smile “O.K ma” She left the table to put her makeup on.
black elegance. dignity. i carried your picture away with me. i searched until i found the
perfect frame to hang you in: black wood, paint flaking, smooth and beautiful. you with
your hips cocked, sexy and proud. arrogant. young. i’ve been making art out of you for so
long.
Sara drove down the long narrow driveway leading to her grandmother’s trailor. Pine
trees drew shadows across her car. She rolled down her window letting the fresh morning
air blow through. When she stopped at the trailor she beeped twice. After a moment her
grandmother made her way to the car. Sara’s breath caught when she saw her, she looked
older, thinner. Her face was soft and wrinkled, like a brown paper bag thrown away, but
her eyes, her eyes held fire, and her mouth, a sly tight smile kept breaking upon her lips.
“Grandma, It’s so good to see you” Sara announced warmly. Smiling she reached out
her hand, which was politely ignored.
“Goodmorning.” Her grandmother said. Her voice distant. “I got a run in my stockings,
so I need you to pick me up a pair at the family dollar.”
Sara waited, unable to believe what she had just heard. Surely she would say more, say
something…warmer. Her grandmother looked straight ahead. Sara continued to stare
waiting. When it became obvious she would say no more, Sara fumbled with the radio,
fiddling with the knob until she found a gospel station. Still hurt, she focused on driving.
Both women rode in silence.
It was the white lady with the bird-like hands that caught Sara’s eye.
At the Family Dollar, she waited in the car while her grandmother searched for a decent
pair of stockings. Sara hummed with the radio, Precious lord take my hand, untill her
grandmother got into the check-out line. She stood behind a woman chatting with the
cashier, her hands fluttering bird-like gestures above the counter. Sara watched.
Juxtaposed against her grandmother, this white lady seemed shiny, modern. The cashier
rang a box of condoms, aurburn hair dye, scent of wildflower soap. Her grandmother
stood stoically clutching her coffee tint stockings. So aged, her skin dull beneith the
floresent lights. I am weak I am tired precious lord.
Mt. Zion Baptist Church is the oldest colored church in the county, possibly the
oldest in the state. Although founded in 1865 by the Reverend Joshuh Payne, a black
chaplin in the Union Army, it can truly be said that Mt. Zion was a creation of the entire
community. Back in 1860 Reverend Payne spearheaded a drive to raise funds for the
church. He received help from several white Baptist ministers, as well as donations from
certain Boston philanthropists. The initial congregation was composed of members from
surrounding churches. They supplied free labor every Saturday morning. They dug out
Mt. Zion’s basement, laid the foundation, and built it’s overall framework. The women of
the church also helped, they furnishing dinners to the workers, and carried bricks in their
aprons. After many years and much sweat, Mt. Zion Baptist Church stood, a tiny white
building with lancet windows and colored panes. A grove of Silver Mapels grew
‘longside the church yard shading it’s windows.
Since Mt. Zion began, it has been the center of the colored community. From
birth to death, baptisms to funerals, the people of Mt. Zion have held together, celebrating
their sacred space. For decades people came to be saved, came to find suitable mates,
marry those mates, then die together. In 1930 Mt. Zion served as school for colored
children untill funds for a new school building were raised. By 1950 the church was
renovated with additions. That same year it began it’s annual Easter Egg Hunt. In the
early 80’s part of the church became a daycare center. And, as a response to it’s younger
crowd, Thursdays night is Singles Nite Out! As always Mt. Zion has a proud tradition of
keeping and serving it’s people.
Pulling into Mt. Zion’s parking lot was like walking into a long forgotton dream. The
building, the Silver Mapels in the yard, everything looked the same. A crowd of people
gathered in frount of the church. As a girl this was the best part. Standing outside in the
sun, gossiping with all the other girls. Laughing and chasing each other, trying not to get
grass stains on their Sunday best. Everything was as Sara remembered it. As they
approched the crowd, Sara looked around for familiar faces. She noticed people staring at
her, of course she flashed her brightest smile, but they continued staring, unsmiling. ‘So
much for warmth’ Sara thought as she scanned the crowd. A chill ran down her spine
when she heard her grandmother’s voice “…If we ain’t got the devil here today!”
Turning, she saw her grandmother with an old lady looking her way. Suddenly uneasy,
Sara thought of her Tarot cards. She thought of the zendo and temple’s she’d visited, her
Sufi friends, and the free Hari Krisna lunches she ate on Wednesday’s near campus. How
did she look through her grandmother’s eyes?
Sara rushed into the church, making her way to the bathroom. It was cool and
quiet there. Looking into the mirror she re-applied her makeup.
When she came out, tidy and self-confident, she looked around for her
grandmother. She spotted her near the frount of the church. Quickly she made her way up
the asile and sat down. Service was about to begin. Although it wasn’t hot, she heard the
swoosh of paper fans waving back and forth. A fan laid near her on the pew. The bold
white lettering read “Courtesy Brown’s Funeral Home. A family that prays together stays
together.” A black family smiled from the center of the fan. A woman held a little girl as
a man stood behind her, with a small boy in frount. Sara stared at this picture family,
perfectly neat with pressed shining hair. Were these the brown smiles she longed for?
Just then someone wispered “Go back to Africa”. Shocked, Sara froze, feeling
the wooden pew hard beneith her. Turning she looked back, a woman sat chewing gum.
“Don’t come back here till you comb your hair”. Jerking, Sara’s head shot up, she
frantically looked around her. Her stomach flopped like on a rollercoaster dropping
down. Leaning close to her grandmother she wispered “Did you hear that?”
“shooushhh” her grandmother shushed, placing a finger to her mouth. The room
grew quiet except for someone’s muffled snort. “We liked what you wrote” a voice from
the other side of the room called out. Several people laughed, along with a few scattered
Amen’s. Sara stood up. “Sit down” a voice called. She felt anger moving through every
part of her body. Enraged she reached for her purse. Immediately everyone in the room
stood. Someone in the choir started thumping a slow beat on the tambourine. Several
people started clapped, joining the noise. A voice called out “Let us sing.” A deep male
voice began “Honestly tenderly Jesus is calling” the rest of the room sang back “calling
for sinner’s come home.” Tear’s blurred Sara’s vision. They ran down her cheek as she
ran down the aisle. Ringing in her ears, she heard harmonious voices: “calling for
sinner’s come home”.
did you ever wrap your legs close to your chest and feel like a girl you knew yourself to
be. a girl and a woman. it's warm this way. knees knocking your chest, a circle of
warmth. sanctuary. i swallow. it's a beautiful full moon tonight, night is beautiful, always
beautiful. i press my lips together, buttoned like a zipper. one scream blocked by
trembling lips. grandma i hate you. i hate you so clean it becomes a fire burning
everything, burning itself away, leaving soft lacey ash. i never wanted to hate you. you
use to hold me. rub your hands through my hair. my now nappy hair. i hate it when i cry.
sometimes it gets lonely. nights when you want someone. not just some guy touching, or
saying 'Honey right here’. some nights i want someone to really be there loving me.
grandma you were young once. sexy black lady. a lady who knew fun, and had dreams,
and loved jesus. i bite my lip. she loved me. your love and your beauty. grandma. carrie. i
have a bit of your face. i make art out of us both.