This story, in short form, was shared on a Book Woman Book Club book-mark in 2009.
Let me introduce you to a new-old character, "Dee-Dee",
Yes - she too has a story to tell! Enjoy!
They were late. Dee-Dee had planned it that way. Dee-Dee had invited her friend, Georgia to the Book Woman Book Club meeting. She held her breath as they walked in the door, and as Dee-Dee had expected...all hell broke loose. Not the kind of shouting and yelling, or crying and sighing hell that usually broke out from her book- reading sistahs when chaos visited them. No. This was a silent acting out. Eyes threatening and necks rolling. Slapped thighs and stiffening backs. Cleared throats and eyebrows signaling. Oh yes....this was going to be an interesting afternoon!
She felt Georgia reaching for her arm with a quick intake of her breath, but Dee-Dee moved on into the room, ignoring Georgia's huff and puff, and sat down in a french-provincial chair. "Cora's bad taste just goes on and on!", Dee-Dee thought to herself! Dee-Dee pointed out another gaudy chair for Georgia to sit on and greeted everyone with a "How are my sistah's doing tonight?" Kadi-jah jumped on her greeting, "Sistahs? What..." but Bessie Davis Hudson cut Kadi-jah off with a "We are all doing fine, Dee-Dee! I see you brought a friend to the Book Club meeting. Why don't you introduce her?"
"This is my friend, Georgia. She's a poet. I told her we were reviewing poems from I am the Darker Brother and I thought she might enjoy sitting in." Dee-Dee caught Georgia's pointed stare and winked!
"Well, welcome! Ladies, let's get started. " Cora, the host for this days Book Woman Book Club meeting, began to read the poem, "I, Too, Sing America". Dee-Dee settled back in her chair.
This silent acting-out had taken place at her wedding. They all came. How could they have explained it if they didn't come. They all knew that she would still continue coming to the Book Woman Book Club. Dee-Dee's skin was thick. She had had to grow layer upon layer of skin to survive. She had grown the first new layer when her family moved to Camillus, a suburb of Syracuse, in the late 60's. White folks...all the nigger name calling, and spitting and abuse. Because of that first layer of skin. Because she was black. And then she grew that third layer of skin when she went to college. "Are you white? You talk like you white." This time Black folks. Like she had to somehow prove her blackness because she didn't know the dances, or the slang or the Black English. Oreo, they called her...black on the outside, white on the inside. Dee-Dee had grown layer after layer of skin over her 54 years of life in America - never feeling at home anywhere. Not in Black world and not in White world. She grew layer upon layer of armor. Some to protect her from white-folks and some to protect her from black-folks. And when she married Christoper, a white man, and he folded her inside of him with his love. Not black love or white love. Love.
"Well, let them be mad!" Dee-Dee thought. A bunch of these women had marched with King. They had fought against segregation and had put their lives on the front line for integration. It was time for the Book Woman Club to integrate. "Now maybe I should have forewarned Georgia that she would be the only white girl at the Book Woman Book Club meeting!" Dee-Dee admonished herself, but then thought about it again. "No, Georgia just gonna have to deal with this reality, just like the sistahs are going to have to deal with it!"
Dee-Dee tuned into the discussion and ignored Georgia's eyes throwing daggers!
Thursday, September 29, 2011
"Erica"
(Dear Reader - Refresh you memory with "Erica" dated 7-12-11....enjoy!)
Erica watched the old woman, Mrs Warner - Celeste? - leave the hospital room. She felt her heart race as the door closed. She knew what was coming next, and her head began throbbing as Dr. Swanzy started her exam. First the shiny, bright pin light in Erica's eyes, then the back and forth movement of Dr. Swanzy's long brown index finger. Erica followed the doctor's moving finger with fear-filled eyes as she formulated the answer to the question that she knew the doctor would inevitably ask. Dr. Swanzy lifted the arms of her stethoscope to her ears. Erica closed her eyes. Dr. Swanzy tugged Erica's gown down and Erica stopped breathing. Dr. Swanzy planted the stethoscope just over Erica's heart and said, "Breath." Erica took a long, deep, breath. She exhaled. She took another breath, and as she exhaled, Dr. Swanzy untied the opening of Erica's hospital gown and gently moved the stethoscope to another spot on Erica's chest. "Now, my dear child, tell me about these bruises."
"I slipped getting out of the car." I walked into a wall." "I fell in the bathtub and hit the side walls."
"I slipped getting out of the bathtub." I walked into the car door." I tripped on a rug and fell into the wall."
"Iwasn'twatchingwalkedintowallhitchestopeningcardoorslippedcleaningoutbathtubfellslippedtrippedslippedfell."
All of the excuses that Erica had ever used poured out of her mouth! They tumbled over and over each other, rushing to tell the truth that had been silent for so long. Every excuse used to cover up the fact that, starting on the night of their honeymoon, Pedro had abused her almost every day of their twelve year marriage ran, jumped, escaped from her lips!
Pinches, slaps, hits, punches, bites, kicks! Ears grabbed, arms twisted, wrists bent, steps tripped! Shoving, choking, biting! Shouting, yelling, screaming, whimpers, whispers...whisperings...pleading...please baby, please baby! Please! Don't! Pleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tplease......
Erica blushed, pink filling in the cafe ole spaces between the red and purple fist size bruises splattered across her breasts. She reached up and pulled the hospital gown up to her neck, knocking the stethoscope from her chest, and turned her body away from the doctor. Tears rolled down Erica's face, unchecked, as she begin to eat at herself, tear at the inside of her cheek with her tongue. Dr. Swanzy reached out and gently rolled Erica towards her, murmuring, "Oh, my poor, poor child! When did this happen?" Erica's eyes met and held Dr. Swanzy's eyes. She heard the bell clock down on Montgomery Street, below the hospital where it stood on "the hill" mark time, and then time again and again..."Tell!, Tell!, Tell!, Tell!,Tell!, Tell!, Tell!
It was time to Tell! "Last night.", Erica whispered.
"And so, my dear, what is it that we are going to do about this?" asked Dr. Swanzy, "...especially in light of your pregnancy?"
Erica watched the old woman, Mrs Warner - Celeste? - leave the hospital room. She felt her heart race as the door closed. She knew what was coming next, and her head began throbbing as Dr. Swanzy started her exam. First the shiny, bright pin light in Erica's eyes, then the back and forth movement of Dr. Swanzy's long brown index finger. Erica followed the doctor's moving finger with fear-filled eyes as she formulated the answer to the question that she knew the doctor would inevitably ask. Dr. Swanzy lifted the arms of her stethoscope to her ears. Erica closed her eyes. Dr. Swanzy tugged Erica's gown down and Erica stopped breathing. Dr. Swanzy planted the stethoscope just over Erica's heart and said, "Breath." Erica took a long, deep, breath. She exhaled. She took another breath, and as she exhaled, Dr. Swanzy untied the opening of Erica's hospital gown and gently moved the stethoscope to another spot on Erica's chest. "Now, my dear child, tell me about these bruises."
"I slipped getting out of the car." I walked into a wall." "I fell in the bathtub and hit the side walls."
"I slipped getting out of the bathtub." I walked into the car door." I tripped on a rug and fell into the wall."
"Iwasn'twatchingwalkedintowallhitchestopeningcardoorslippedcleaningoutbathtubfellslippedtrippedslippedfell."
All of the excuses that Erica had ever used poured out of her mouth! They tumbled over and over each other, rushing to tell the truth that had been silent for so long. Every excuse used to cover up the fact that, starting on the night of their honeymoon, Pedro had abused her almost every day of their twelve year marriage ran, jumped, escaped from her lips!
Pinches, slaps, hits, punches, bites, kicks! Ears grabbed, arms twisted, wrists bent, steps tripped! Shoving, choking, biting! Shouting, yelling, screaming, whimpers, whispers...whisperings...pleading...please baby, please baby! Please! Don't! Pleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tplease......
Erica blushed, pink filling in the cafe ole spaces between the red and purple fist size bruises splattered across her breasts. She reached up and pulled the hospital gown up to her neck, knocking the stethoscope from her chest, and turned her body away from the doctor. Tears rolled down Erica's face, unchecked, as she begin to eat at herself, tear at the inside of her cheek with her tongue. Dr. Swanzy reached out and gently rolled Erica towards her, murmuring, "Oh, my poor, poor child! When did this happen?" Erica's eyes met and held Dr. Swanzy's eyes. She heard the bell clock down on Montgomery Street, below the hospital where it stood on "the hill" mark time, and then time again and again..."Tell!, Tell!, Tell!, Tell!,Tell!, Tell!, Tell!
It was time to Tell! "Last night.", Erica whispered.
"And so, my dear, what is it that we are going to do about this?" asked Dr. Swanzy, "...especially in light of your pregnancy?"
Saturday, September 17, 2011
"Celeste"
Dear Readers:
It has been a busy, busy summer and I have not been blogging! I went to the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival the first two weeks of August, (deep wood camping and no internet), and then returned to get totally engulfed in my work at the New York State Fair's Pan-African Village. Twelve days of 12-16 hour days of work! I still have laundry from Michigan and from the State screaming at me from my back hallway! I just got caught up with paperwork from my job, artwork is crying for completion of an October-November show and characters in my next play are talking up a blue storm in my head demanding that they be written.
Excuses and excuses for not writing my blog. But today, I wrote Celeste - cause she too has been causing a ruckus in my head! In fact, the Book Woman Club women are in rebellion and are threatening silence if I don't write!
I hope that you will again read my blog...and have not lost interest! Please come back! Don't leave me and the Book Woman Club! I say this humbily, for it is I who have deserted you, and I am sorry! Please forgive me! (Refresh yourself to this story line by reading "Erica" dated July 12th, 2011) Enjoy!
Celeste Warner paced the hall outside of Erica's hospital room. A deep frown-line appeared in the center of her forehead. "Oh yes, my dear, you'd be surprised the things I know!" Celeste drew upon memory and intuition. Memory and hearing. Memory and taste. Oh yes, Celeste knew the nature and meaning of Erica's fears! Erica's fear...and Erica's husband nature! "What did she say his name was? Oh yes,....Pedro!" Celeste rolled Pedro's name around on her tongue, spitting it out, the taste offensive. "Pedro!" His name tasted like the odor of the fertilizer that she used in her gardens. She spat again. "I know, my dear. Oh yes, I know!"
Celeste felt burning heat and anger rise in her head. She stopped pacing and moved towards Erica's hospital room door, the anger forcing her to action; anger demanding her to take charge and fight, protect, love, rescue and, this time, triumph against an evil that had marked her life with loss...forever. Celeste grabbed the door handle, her grip tightening in super-human strength as an intense pulse of pain flowered in her head. She felt brain cells erupting, destroying the fragile dams of sanity that fought to hold unchecked-long-buried-deadly-fury. She felt unfettered-long-armed-hatred battle through gray-matter to ride the boiling surface of scorched and forgotten memory; felt the long-dead - un-forgettable - un-forgivable overflow into a cascading blood-red waterfall that pooled in the pit of her sorrow filled soul. She felt scorched vomit spew upward, riding upon torrential waves of regret. Regret upon regret riding regret upon regret. Regret riding regret upon regret. Regret riding regret. And... regret, regret carved a blistering, bitter path through Celeste's mouth. It slashed upward through the soft flesh of her throat, carved deep canyons through her tongue and brutally knocked out a lifetime of teeth. Silent screams tumbled from Celeste's lips. Pain-filled. Primal. Primitive. Felt and not heard, those in charge of pain, those sitting at the near-by nurses station looked up, foreheads filled with lines of concern. They looked up from Styrofoam coffee cups and charts demanding completion. They looked up with professional concern...and with fear. They sniffed the air, trying to locate the source of this silent, ragged, cry of pain.
Celeste force-closed her emotion-filled mouth. "Calm yourself, girl! Act like a lady and just calm yourself down!" She released the door handle. The delicate joints of her aged fingers throbbed as they loosed their grip. Opening her hand, she stretched out each finger, one by one. The red indentation of the door handle stained the inside of her palm, and Celeste pressed her hand into the soft pillow of her round, matronly stomach. Unsteady, she backed up, her age-spread-behind finding the solid strength of the wall opposite Erica's hospital room. Celeste began to rock along the wall as tears flowed down her face, and like her tears, memory and regret fell. They fell hard, crashing onto the scuffed hospital floor - momentum forcing them upward to the ceiling. Gravity then wrangled them downward in an ebbing, restless, sorrow-filled tide........that pushed its way under Erica's door.
It has been a busy, busy summer and I have not been blogging! I went to the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival the first two weeks of August, (deep wood camping and no internet), and then returned to get totally engulfed in my work at the New York State Fair's Pan-African Village. Twelve days of 12-16 hour days of work! I still have laundry from Michigan and from the State screaming at me from my back hallway! I just got caught up with paperwork from my job, artwork is crying for completion of an October-November show and characters in my next play are talking up a blue storm in my head demanding that they be written.
Excuses and excuses for not writing my blog. But today, I wrote Celeste - cause she too has been causing a ruckus in my head! In fact, the Book Woman Club women are in rebellion and are threatening silence if I don't write!
I hope that you will again read my blog...and have not lost interest! Please come back! Don't leave me and the Book Woman Club! I say this humbily, for it is I who have deserted you, and I am sorry! Please forgive me! (Refresh yourself to this story line by reading "Erica" dated July 12th, 2011) Enjoy!
Celeste Warner paced the hall outside of Erica's hospital room. A deep frown-line appeared in the center of her forehead. "Oh yes, my dear, you'd be surprised the things I know!" Celeste drew upon memory and intuition. Memory and hearing. Memory and taste. Oh yes, Celeste knew the nature and meaning of Erica's fears! Erica's fear...and Erica's husband nature! "What did she say his name was? Oh yes,....Pedro!" Celeste rolled Pedro's name around on her tongue, spitting it out, the taste offensive. "Pedro!" His name tasted like the odor of the fertilizer that she used in her gardens. She spat again. "I know, my dear. Oh yes, I know!"
Celeste felt burning heat and anger rise in her head. She stopped pacing and moved towards Erica's hospital room door, the anger forcing her to action; anger demanding her to take charge and fight, protect, love, rescue and, this time, triumph against an evil that had marked her life with loss...forever. Celeste grabbed the door handle, her grip tightening in super-human strength as an intense pulse of pain flowered in her head. She felt brain cells erupting, destroying the fragile dams of sanity that fought to hold unchecked-long-buried-deadly-fury. She felt unfettered-long-armed-hatred battle through gray-matter to ride the boiling surface of scorched and forgotten memory; felt the long-dead - un-forgettable - un-forgivable overflow into a cascading blood-red waterfall that pooled in the pit of her sorrow filled soul. She felt scorched vomit spew upward, riding upon torrential waves of regret. Regret upon regret riding regret upon regret. Regret riding regret upon regret. Regret riding regret. And... regret, regret carved a blistering, bitter path through Celeste's mouth. It slashed upward through the soft flesh of her throat, carved deep canyons through her tongue and brutally knocked out a lifetime of teeth. Silent screams tumbled from Celeste's lips. Pain-filled. Primal. Primitive. Felt and not heard, those in charge of pain, those sitting at the near-by nurses station looked up, foreheads filled with lines of concern. They looked up from Styrofoam coffee cups and charts demanding completion. They looked up with professional concern...and with fear. They sniffed the air, trying to locate the source of this silent, ragged, cry of pain.
Celeste force-closed her emotion-filled mouth. "Calm yourself, girl! Act like a lady and just calm yourself down!" She released the door handle. The delicate joints of her aged fingers throbbed as they loosed their grip. Opening her hand, she stretched out each finger, one by one. The red indentation of the door handle stained the inside of her palm, and Celeste pressed her hand into the soft pillow of her round, matronly stomach. Unsteady, she backed up, her age-spread-behind finding the solid strength of the wall opposite Erica's hospital room. Celeste began to rock along the wall as tears flowed down her face, and like her tears, memory and regret fell. They fell hard, crashing onto the scuffed hospital floor - momentum forcing them upward to the ceiling. Gravity then wrangled them downward in an ebbing, restless, sorrow-filled tide........that pushed its way under Erica's door.
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