They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel (13 page)
Read They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel Online
Authors: Daniel Black
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Literary, #United States, #Women's Fiction, #Domestic Life, #Contemporary Fiction, #American, #Literary Fiction, #African American, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Psychological
“No!” I screamed, more because I had no counterargument than because I disagreed.
“Sure it does,” Nzuri noted coolly. “The idea only appears ridiculous because most men are sufficiently homophobic never to consider it. Yet if homophobia disappeared and men could carry a child, I have no doubt, even if women could still have babies, most men would much rather reproduce without having to tolerate a woman’s shit, as y’all call it.”
“OK. You have a point, but God didn’t give men the ability to have babies.”
“And most sistas I know are glad She didn’t’cause they know they would have little value to men if She had.”
“If men didn’t have penises, women wouldn’t want us, either.” Somehow I knew this argument wasn’t going to fly.
“Not true at all. Women believe maleness to be divine in and of itself. Most sistas would love to have relationships with men without having to worry about the sex element. Don’t get me wrong. Women love sex, too. Yet most of us don’t want sex with every male we befriend. In fact, we don’t even want the possibility to arise in most instances. Actually, most women I know argue they get along better with men than with women. They aren’t saying the sex is better; what they’re saying is they revere male company over female company. This is no surprise in a patriarchal society, for everybody prefers the male, men and women. Being in his presence alone allows women to share in his divinity.”
“Share in his divinity?”
“Yes. Men are seen as agents of the Most High God, made in His image, and given the responsibility and privilege of governing humanity. Yet not humanity alone. The Bible suggests God gave males dominion over the entire universe! Fish, fowl, beasts, and women are supposedly under their command. Who wouldn’t want to be in the presence of one who boasts such divinely ordained power? Women having babies is simply a service rendered unto earthly gods called men.
Nzuri studied my face, challenging me to a brawl. I threw my hands up in surrender, but she wouldn’t let up.
“Let me ask you this: How many women friends do you have whom you have never had sex with and never wanted to?”
“A lot!”
“Like who?”
“Like Jasmine.”
“You don’t find Jasmine physically attractive?”
“Yes, but so what?”
“Isn’t she someone you
would
have sex with, whether you actually do or not? Who are the women you don’t find physically attractive with whom you are friends?”
would
have sex with, whether you actually do or not? Who are the women you don’t find physically attractive with whom you are friends?”
“Why is it necessary for me not to be attracted to them?”
“You have male friends you’re not attracted to, right? I’m trying to find their female equivalents.” Nzuri smiled sarcastically.
“Opposite-gender relations are different from same-gender relations.”
“My point exactly. I’m trying to explain how they’re different. It’s like this: the only thing I can do George can’t is give you pussy and have your babies.”
“That’s not true! I love you for your female energy alone.”
“George has as much female energy as any woman I know.”
“Here you go criticizing George again.”
“No, no. This isn’t about George.”
“Somehow, everything we talk about concerns George.”
“And why is that, you think?” Nzuri asked derisively.
“I know what you’re implying and I’m not going to entertain it.”
“That’s fine,” she laughed confidently. “Let’s get back to this ‘female energy’ thing.”
“Don’t you think women have a different cosmic energy than men?” I asked desparately.
“No, I don’t. Energy and spirits are not gender constructed. If there is such a thing as ‘female energy,’ then I believe some women have it and some men have it. I believe the same for male energy. I also believe for us to appropriate our gender categories and limitations onto the spirit realm is an act most arrogant and juvenile. When a little girl is born, for example, I do not believe she is born with the propensity to be dainty, emotional, and everything else people perceive as feminine. I believe she is born with the propensity to be whatever she was carved out to be in the spirit realm. However, the way a spirit gets constructed in the spirit realm has to do with the necessity of what the world needs spiritually, not whether or not the spirit is going to come via a male or female body. For instance, if the world needs love—”
“All right, Diana Ross!” I hollered, throwing lots of imaginary hair over my shoulders.
“I’m being serious.”
“Sorry.”
“Like I was saying, if the world needs love, I believe a spirit will be sent to bring love, regardless of whether the body is male or female. I do not believe God disperses spiritual missions dependent upon gender. Every soul that comes to the earth is here to complete a spiritual task. The categories and dichotomies into which people and characteristics get placed are not spiritual but socially constructed because of humans’ limited sight and our inability to comprehend spiritual ideals outside of social dogma. This notion of ‘female energy’ is another way of keeping women in a place that ultimately serves the interests of men. Ironically, even women believe in it. Phrases like ‘boys will be boys,’ spoken by mothers across the world, are simply another way of saying boys will be allowed parameters girls won’t get.”
“Oh, come on Zu! You’re interpreting the statement incorrectly! All it’s saying is boys do things differently from girls.”
“Only because we teach them to! Most boys would play with dolls if they weren’t taught they shouldn’t. A boy with a doll is a social taboo, not a spiritual one that boys bring with them from the divine realm! I agree with you in your insinuation of the differences of spirits, yet those differences are not gender based.”
“Why not?”
“Because gender is not a spiritual phenomenon; it’s a social one. Most humans can’t conceive this possibility, since gender colors everything we do and conceptualize.”
“Are you saying gender has no place or function in the world?”
“I’ve implied no such thing! Gender could help people understand the differences between male and female in both a biological and a socially productive way. As it is, however, gender teaches children to honor maleness over femaleness and results in social and spiritual hierarchies that often leave women oppressed. My point is that gender is a social thing—not a spiritual one.”
“You do agree that men and women are different?”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, T.L. Any fool knows the differences between males and females. I know, for example, the average man is taller than the average woman and the fastest man is faster than the fastest woman. These are biological differences that, if we were smart, could be utilized to make all of us better by assigning tasks unto people based upon their physical capabilities. I am also clear women can carry babies and men can’t. Yet, again, that’s a biological issue. This does not signify women are better parents than men or women love children more than men or women are natural nurturers.”
“Some people believe the mother is more critical to the child’s physical and emotional development in the formative years than the man.” I had thought this at one point, but I sure wasn’t about to admit it.
“How ridiculous! Sure, the mother breast-feeds, so this makes her biologically necessary, but this function, or any other, does not make her more critical than the father to the child’s spiritual development. The problem is we try to correlate biological differences with spiritual ones and the juxtaposition does not work. In a patriarchal society, seeing the spiritual as merely a reflection of the physical is necessary to justify and help sustain the oppression of women. For example, when a girl grows up playing with boys she is called a tomboy, and will tell others later in life that she was a tomboy. She often speaks of this reality very nostalgically. No one dismisses her for this and, indeed, she is believed to be tough and strong because of the experience. However, if a boy grows up playing with girls he is called a sissy or fag or some name demeaning to his character. He never proclaims with pride that, as a child, he was a ‘sissy.’ Heaven knows the repercussions of his experience will haunt him the rest of his living days. Male experiences and characteristics are valued in Western society while female influence in anyone but a female is frowned upon greatly. To be sure, female influence is tolerated in women because we supposedly can’t help it. However, for a man to be feminine is an insult to other men because he had the choice to be greater.”
“Honestly, I never thought of it that way.”
“It takes lots of analysis to put all the pieces together, but when you do, the picture is pretty clear. The bottom line is that we, as humans, have created lots of definitions and categories that we use as the basis of our spiritual understandings. Unfortunately, we have put words and concepts into God’s mouth and God’s realm that don’t belong to God. We will never understand spirituality until we relinquish our own limitations and accept God’s wisdom and insight. The first step, I believe, to knowing God’s wisdom is abandoning our own homemade exegesis, and most people simply won’t do that. We use God to confirm foolish thinking by devising spiritual equivalents of our social and personal limitations. We’ll have to answer for it one day.”
“To God?”
“No. To each other.”
I
decided not to go to the field on Tuesday. The old tractor had whipped my ass the day before, and I wasn’t in the mood for more torture. When Willie James asked me if I would help him again, I told him I couldn’t because I had to go see Ms. Swinton. She was real sick, I said, and I was afraid to postpone my visit any longer. Willie James gazed at me pitifully. He knew I was lying.
decided not to go to the field on Tuesday. The old tractor had whipped my ass the day before, and I wasn’t in the mood for more torture. When Willie James asked me if I would help him again, I told him I couldn’t because I had to go see Ms. Swinton. She was real sick, I said, and I was afraid to postpone my visit any longer. Willie James gazed at me pitifully. He knew I was lying.
Actually, I hadn’t planned to see Ms. Swinton until Wednesday, but since she was the excuse I gave, I decided to go see her Tuesday morning. She lived off of Highway 64, about a mile west of the Meetin’ Tree, in the nicest house in Swamp Creek. I had to walk because Daddy was already gone in the truck, and I could hear the sun laughing as it prepared to bake me, again, two or three shades darker.
After grabbing my writing journal and hat, I set out walking down the road. The air was scorching hot and dusty. Every now and then a breeze would come by, but, for the most part, I sweated profusely. I saw a fawn along the way and wondered how great life must be without worries. Yet the possibility that the fawn was running from a predator put into perspective how everybody’s life is up for grabs. All living beings are hunted, or at least haunted, by a foe or a memory
that has the potential to kill them. Often, the best we can do is run. I wished the animal the best and continued my journey.
that has the potential to kill them. Often, the best we can do is run. I wished the animal the best and continued my journey.
By the time I saw Ms. Swinton’s house, I was dying of thirst and miserable from the heat. The house had a gloom resting upon it that startled me. It had once been my dream mansion. As a child, I rode by her big, beautiful yellow A-frame house and dreamed of owning such a dwelling with lots of books, flowers, and floral-print curtains in it. At times, I would see Ms. Swinton walking around inside, dressed like she was going to church, as she tended to things very meticulously. In the spring years ago, her house looked like a picture in a
Better Homes and Gardens
magazine. Jonquils covered her yard and outlined her porch impressively. In the evenings, she moved among her flowers angelically, watering them and singing in her highest soprano “Let There Be Peace on Earth, and Let It Begin with Me.” Like a conscientious mother, she fertilized her babies regularly and gave them the attention they needed in order to prosper. The yellow paint on her house never weathered because Old Man Blue painted it annually, whether it needed it or not. The white picket fence that separated Ms. Swinton’s yard from her neighbor’s served as the dividing line between manicured perfection and a failing attempt at such. Potted marigolds, geraniums, and abenas decorated her front porch in a reverie of purple, red, orange, and magenta. People drove from miles around in the springtime to admire the proud blossoms standing perfectly erect and aligned in rows like soldiers. Sometimes folks would park and ask Ms. Swinton if they could takes pictures of themselves with her flowers in the background, and she usually obliged, warning them not to pick or step on any of the blooms. I often slowed my walk as I passed, amazed at Ms. Swinton’s ability to transfer her academic standards to the maintenance of a flower garden. Her long, wide porch supported two white lounge swings that swayed constantly, even if there was no breeze. Grandma said ghosts swung in them, keeping watch over the house, for Ms. Swinton was the diva of Swamp Creek.
Better Homes and Gardens
magazine. Jonquils covered her yard and outlined her porch impressively. In the evenings, she moved among her flowers angelically, watering them and singing in her highest soprano “Let There Be Peace on Earth, and Let It Begin with Me.” Like a conscientious mother, she fertilized her babies regularly and gave them the attention they needed in order to prosper. The yellow paint on her house never weathered because Old Man Blue painted it annually, whether it needed it or not. The white picket fence that separated Ms. Swinton’s yard from her neighbor’s served as the dividing line between manicured perfection and a failing attempt at such. Potted marigolds, geraniums, and abenas decorated her front porch in a reverie of purple, red, orange, and magenta. People drove from miles around in the springtime to admire the proud blossoms standing perfectly erect and aligned in rows like soldiers. Sometimes folks would park and ask Ms. Swinton if they could takes pictures of themselves with her flowers in the background, and she usually obliged, warning them not to pick or step on any of the blooms. I often slowed my walk as I passed, amazed at Ms. Swinton’s ability to transfer her academic standards to the maintenance of a flower garden. Her long, wide porch supported two white lounge swings that swayed constantly, even if there was no breeze. Grandma said ghosts swung in them, keeping watch over the house, for Ms. Swinton was the diva of Swamp Creek.
However, Tuesday morning when I saw her house, my anticipated joy waned. It had lost its luster. The paint was peeling a little and the window shades were drawn, giving the house a mournful aura. Most of the old flower beds were weed infested, although a few blooms managed to survive, and neither swing was moving. They appeared frozen in time. I studied them, hoping to make them sway via mental anguish alone, because I needed some memory of home to remain constant. Yet the stillness of the swings confirmed a lot had changed since I was a boy.
I rested for a moment on the front porch, attempting to prepare myself and my heart for a deteriorated Ms. Swinton. Failing inordinately, however, I resolved to knock on the door and face whatever fears I had conjured.
“Come in,” a voice called weakly from a distance.
I shoved the heavy mahogany door open and stepped into a literary gold mine. There were books everywhere. I found myself gawking around the room in awe, amazed to see books on the floor, on the sofa end tables, on shelves, and on the dining room table. I had never seen a million books in one room in my life. My mouth was open like a child at Disney World for the first time. I saw
Native Son, The Street, Banjo, Their Eyes Were Watching God, and Invisible Man.
I noticed on the floor the entire canon of James Baldwin and smiled to remember her having given me
Go Tell It on the Mountain
years before.
Native Son, The Street, Banjo, Their Eyes Were Watching God, and Invisible Man.
I noticed on the floor the entire canon of James Baldwin and smiled to remember her having given me
Go Tell It on the Mountain
years before.
“Who calls?” Ms. Swinton asked in a whisper.
I followed the voice and discovered her lying in the most beautiful bed I had ever seen. It was covered with a snow-white lace bedspread, several big throw pillows, and an overhead canopy, which gave it a dreamy appearance. The bed accented beautifully the hardwood floors, which would have shined more resplendently had Ms. Swinton had her strength. She was much thinner than I remembered, but her spirit was very much the same.
“It’s me. Thomas,” I said, beaming at her.
She gasped at me in total shock. Her mouth was agape and her eyes were three times their normal size.
“Precious Jesus!” she hollered, and reached for my hand. Ms. Swinton pulled me next to her on the bed and began to cry softly.
“Lord have mercy! No one informed me of your return, Thomas. I had determined I’d see the Lord before I saw you again.” She was patting my hand, very motherly. “My, my, my. You’re all refined and polished now. What a handsome young man you’ve become.” Ms. Swinton endeavored to sit up, but her strength failed her.
“Take it easy,” I urged sincerely. “I don’t want you troubling yourself because I’m here. I thought I’d come around and surprise my favorite teacher.”
Ms. Swinton smiled as her grip on my hand loosened.
“You have a beautiful house, Ms. Swinton. And all these books! Maybe I’ll have such a collection one day,” I said, feeling overwhelmed with even more books in the bedroom.
“First of all, this is a home, Mr. Tyson—not a house. You remember the difference?”
I laughed aloud, for Ms. Swinton had taught us as children that a home is where people live. A house, on the other hand, is a structure meant for human dwelling.
“Yes, ma’am, I remember. Actually, I remember almost everything you’ve ever taught me.”
“Almost is not sufficient, young man,” Ms. Swinton admonished lovingly. “You must remember every lesson in order to endow your students with your best.”
I gasped, surprised. “How did you know I teach?”
“I knew you’d be a teacher and scholar when I first met you. Your intellectual acumen and zeal could lead you to nothing else.”
“You were right,” I yielded. “I finished my Ph.D. in black studies a month ago and am anxiously anticipating joining a prestigious faculty this fall.”
“Marvelous! Congratulations, Dr. Tyson. Go conquer the world!”
Ms. Swinton started coughing and couldn’t stop. She signaled for me to pass her the glass of water resting on the nightstand, and I did so, although my unsteady hand resulted in a teaspoon of water being
spilt on her bed. Motioning for me not to worry about it, she swallowed the tepid water and recuperated arduously, her head falling back on the pillow like a heavy weight. “I shall surely miss this old home,” she commented after perusing the room slowly. “It has brought me great joy and comfort for almost forty years. I ran out of bookshelves years and years ago, so I simply placed books wherever I was when I completed them. Usually my home does not resemble a jungle, but poor health has brought the unusual.”
spilt on her bed. Motioning for me not to worry about it, she swallowed the tepid water and recuperated arduously, her head falling back on the pillow like a heavy weight. “I shall surely miss this old home,” she commented after perusing the room slowly. “It has brought me great joy and comfort for almost forty years. I ran out of bookshelves years and years ago, so I simply placed books wherever I was when I completed them. Usually my home does not resemble a jungle, but poor health has brought the unusual.”
She began to cough again, this time more violently. I braced her back as she drank more water. My misty eyes almost spilled over as I remembered how much I adored Ms. Swinton and her once-statuesque form.
“We shall all go one day, son,” she whimpered and relaxed onto the pillow again. “And my day approaches.”
“Ms. Swinton, don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” I lied. I couldn’t find anything comforting or truthful to say.
She smiled weakly and corrected me, “You mean aren’t. And of course I am going somewhere. You’d better hope I’m going to the right place.” Her hand touched mine affectionately.
I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. I had promised myself not to usher gloom and sadness into the room, but they overcame me.
“Why do you weep, son?” Ms. Swinton asked compassionately. “This is God’s will. I never expected to be here forever, and I hope you don’t, either.”
“I know, Ms. Swinton, but—”
“Aw, it’s OK, baby. Tears are signs of love. I’ve always known you loved me.”
The frog in my throat was relentless. “You meant the world to me as a child, Ms. Swinton.” My head, like a shy puppy’s, dropped diffidently between my legs.
“Raise your head, boy,” Ms. Swinton insisted. “I’ve taught you never to hide anything, including your feelings. Black people are a proud people, and we surrender our dignity to no one.”
“I know, Ms. Swinton, but I can’t help it. You believed in me and
loved me. You made me work hard because you saw brilliance in me everyone else ignored. You wanted success for all of us and you demanded the best. I would never have made it without you.”
loved me. You made me work hard because you saw brilliance in me everyone else ignored. You wanted success for all of us and you demanded the best. I would never have made it without you.”
I leaned my head on her shoulder and cried freely. I was a grown man, but I felt no embarrassment. I wanted her to know what she had meant to me, and I had a feeling this would be my last chance to tell her.
Regaining my composure, I apologized.
“For what?” she asked, sounding truly puzzled.
“I don’t know,” I muttered. “I’ve missed you terribly in the last ten years. I can’t even explain how much.”
“I’ve thought of you often as well, but I knew you were doing fine. I knew it.” She smiled as she blinked slowly. “I also know why you left.”
The statement didn’t surprise me. Ms. Swinton knew everything.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see this place again,” I said as I rose and paced the bedroom floor.
“Oh, I knew you’d come back. You had to. I only hoped it would be before my time was up.”
“Why were you sure I’d return?”
“Because you had no choice. A tree can never escape its roots. The day it does, it dies, and you weren’t about to die. You had too much life in you. Oh yes, I knew you’d return.”
She coughed again, but this time less impetuously.
“See, son, all that abuse, heartache, and pain you carried away from here is part of you. These country folk, these trees, and those chitterlings you love so well all combine together to form your identity. And a person can never escape his identity. Indeed, a smart man learns to embrace his, the good as well as the bad. You had to come back to connect with the people and the place that shaped your initial identity. You can’t find it anywhere else because it does not exist anywhere but here. When you left years ago, you were running too hard to come to terms with yourself. But then I thought about it
awhile and knew you were too smart to let your folks strip you of your self.”
awhile and knew you were too smart to let your folks strip you of your self.”
Ms. Swinton’s insight was astounding. My subsequent silence resulted from an inability to comprehend how she could possibly have known the workings of my heart, and, more significantly, why she cared.
“You’re right,” I surrendered, “but also I came to see Sister. And the rest of my folks, too.” I was definitely lying.
“No, you didn’t,” Ms. Swinton whispered emphatically, struggling to sit up in bed. “You came back because the world never gave you what you were looking for.” The cough languished to a wheeze, allowing Ms. Swinton to continue. “You thought you would leave Swamp Creek and, eventually, the memory of it would evaporate. You tried hard to repudiate this place and forever be free. But, Thomas, freedom never comes to anyone. Freedom is a creation, and the first step in creating it is knowing and embracing your past. You had no choice but to come back here to do it.”
Ms. Swinton was reading me. She knew the outline of my entire personal evolution and was speaking about me with an authority usually reserved for a parent. Actually, the ease with which she described the complexities of my life implied her knowledge of me to an extent most remarkable.
I didn’t argue. Instead, I stood in the middle of the floor with my head bowed like a man on trial without a jury.
“Look, baby, it’s all right. I ran, too. I escaped Swamp Creek at sixteen and didn’t come back until I was twenty-six. I refused to tolerate the intellectual indolence of these folks. Reading was a disease to be strictly avoided back then, and a good, well-informed discussion hardly ever came to fruition. Leaving was my only option. Yet I didn’t stay away. The people and things I had to come to terms with were here. I knew they weren’t coming to me, so I had to come back to them. Because it took me more than ten years, however, to establish a viable identity, I never left again.”
Her pitiful stare comforted me. She then closed her eyes and attempted to regain strength as she afforded me time to digest her words. Illness did not suit Ms. Swinton, for lying in bed weak, she had lost her pizzazz and enormity. I never imagined she could be vulnerable and dependent.
Other books
Absolution River by Aaron Mach
The Amazing Life of Cats by Candida Baker
35 - A Shocker on Shock Street by R.L. Stine - (ebook by Undead)
Flights of Angels (Exit Unicorns Series) by Brandner, Cindy
That Night at the Palace by Watson, L.D.
The Bull Slayer by Bruce Macbain
Fervent Charity by Paulette Callen
Goblins on the Prowl by Bruce Coville
Hammer Down: Children of the Undying: Book 2 by Moira Rogers
Bryson City Tales by Walt Larimore, MD
