Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now (6 page)

My grandmother would ask the customer, “How are you doing today, Brother Thomas?” And the person would reply, “Not so good.” There would be a distinct whine in the voice. “Not so good today, Sister Henderson. You see, it's this summer. It's this summer heat. I just hate it. Oh, I hate it so much. It just frazzles me up and frazzles me down. I just hate the heat. It's almost killing me.” Then my grandmother would stand stoically, her arms folded, and
mumble, “Uh-huh, uh-huh.” And she would cut her eyes at me to make certain that I had heard the lamentation.

At another time a whiner would mewl, “I hate plowing. That packed-down dirt ain't got no reasoning, and mules ain't got good sense.… Sure ain't. It's killing me. I can't ever seem to get done. My feet and my hands stay sore, and I get dirt in my eyes and up my nose. I just can't stand it.” And my grandmother, again stoically with her arms folded, would say, “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” and then look at me and nod.

As soon as the complainer was out of the store, my grandmother would call me to stand in front of her. And then she would say the same thing she had said at least a thousand times, it seemed to me. “Sister, did you hear what Brother So-and-So or Sister Much-to-Do complained about? You heard that?” And I would nod. Mamma would continue, “Sister, there are people who went to sleep all over the world last night, poor and rich and white and black, but they will never wake again. Sister, those who expected to rise did not, their beds became their cooling boards and their blankets became their winding sheets. And those dead folks would give anything, anything at all for just five minutes of this weather or ten minutes of that plowing that person was grumbling about. So you watch yourself about complaining, Sister. What you're supposed to do when you
don't like a thing is change it. If you can't change it, change the way you think about it. Don't complain.”

It is said that persons have few teachable moments in their lives. Mamma seemed to have caught me at each one I had between the ages of three and thirteen. Whining is not only graceless, but can be dangerous. It can alert a brute that a victim is in the neighborhood.

At Harvesttime

There is an immutable life principle with which many people will quarrel.

Although nature has proven season in and season out that if the thing that is planted bears at all, it will yield more of itself, there are those who seem certain that if they plant tomato seeds, at harvesttime they can reap onions.

Too many times for comfort I have expected to reap good when I know I have sown evil. My lame excuse is that I have not always known that actions can only reproduce themselves, or rather, I have not always allowed myself to be aware of that knowledge. Now, after years of observation and enough courage to admit what I have observed, I try to plant peace if I do not want discord; to plant loyalty and honesty if I want to avoid betrayal and lies.

Of course, there is no absolute assurance that those things I plant will always fall upon arable land and will take root and grow, nor can I know if another cultivator did not leave contrary seeds before I arrived. I do know, however, that if I leave little to chance, if I am careful about the kinds of seeds I plant, about their potency and nature, I can, within reason, trust my expectations.

Sensual Encouragement

We were young and lithe. Our brown bodies shone with heavy applications of baby oil and Max Factor theatrical makeup. Alvin Ailey and I were ardent students of Modern Dance, and when we could, we hired ourselves out as the dance team Al & Rita. Our most frequent employers were the secret and mysterious black organizations. When the Elks, the Masons, and the Eastern Stars gave socials, they always provided small bands, torch singers, and shake dancers for their membership.

Besides makeup, Alvin wore a leopard print G-string and I wore a homemade costume of a few feathers and even fewer sequins. We danced to Duke Ellington's “Caravan.” Alvin had choreographed the routine, and he, as
Pasha, would count out the first four bars of music, then leap from the dark onto the lighted stage. I, as the Pasha's dancing girl, would wait in the dark while he established the mood.

Inevitably, I would find women's hands on my body. Three or four would stroke my back, pat my behind, caress my arms. This was always accompanied by their whispers.

“That's right, honey. You're pretty. Go out there and shake that thang.”

“When I was young, I used to shake it. I mean, shake it.”

“Go on, baby. Get out there and drive him crazy.”

So encouraged, I could barely await my cue, and when it did come, I would explode onto the stage and try to shake my brains out.

Looking back, I realize that the women's strokings were sensual rather than sexual. Because they encouraged me, they participated with me in the dance. Because they had enjoyed themselves when they were younglings, they did not envy me my youth.

Many adults show impatience with the young. They want them not only to grow up, but to grow old, and that immediately. They are quick to chide, criticize, and admonish:

“Be quiet.”

“Sit down.”

“Why are you always wiggling?”

“Keep still.”

Whether consciously or not, those admonishments stem from a vigorous dissatisfaction with life and regret for a misspent youth.

Voices of Respect

African Americans as slaves could not even claim to have won the names given to them in haste and given without a care, but they pridefully possessed a quality which modified the barbarism of their lives. They awoke before sunrise to be in the fields at first light and trudged back to floorless cabins in the evening's gloom. They had little chance for amicable exchange in the rows of cotton and the stands of sugarcane; still, they devised ways of keeping their souls robust and spirits alive in that awful atmosphere. They employed formally familial terms when addressing each other. Neither the slaveowner nor the slave overseer was likely to speak to a servant in anything but the cruelest language. But in the slave society Mariah became Aunt Mariah and Joe became Uncle Joe. Young girls were called Sister, Sis, or
Tutta. Boys became Brother, Bubba, and Bro and Buddy. It is true that those terms used throughout the slave communities had had their roots in the African worlds from which the slaves had been torn, but under bondage they began to have greater meaning and a more powerful impact. As in every society, certain tones of voice were and still are used to establish the quality of communication between the speaker and the person addressed. When African Americans choose to speak sweetly to each other, not only do the voices fall in register, but there is an unconscious increase in music between the speakers. In fact, a conversation between friends can sound as melodic as a scripted song.

We have used these terms to help us survive slavery, its aftermath, and today's crisis of revived racism. However, now, when too many children run mad in the land, and now, when we need courtesy as much as or more than ever, and when a little tenderness between people could make life more bearable, we are losing even the appearance of courtesy. Our youth, finding little or no courtesy at home, make exodus into streets filled with violent self-revulsion and an exploding vulgarity.

We must re-create an attractive and caring attitude in our homes and in our worlds. If our children are to approve of themselves, they must see that we approve of
ourselves. If we persist in self-disrespect and then ask our children to respect themselves, it is as if we break all their bones and then insist that they win Olympic gold medals for the hundred-yard dash.

Outrageous.

Extending the Boundaries