Authors: Susan Vaught
She motions for me to follow. I glance at her face and catch a lingering moment of softness before the rocky lines come back. In the picture Clay has from six years ago, Grandmother Jones’s expression looks like stone, as it does now. What does it really mean? Other than maybe I’m not her only trouble.
I study her from the side, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to ask her.
We seat ourselves close to the front on the end of a pew, so I can stand up easily when it’s my turn. I’ll be able to turn around and talk almost like the preacher, with the choir behind me ready to sing about Jesus. Or heaven. Or something else loud and rhythmic and wonderful.
The mosquitoes in my belly turn to hornets, poking and stinging.
Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I wheel around to find Clay.
“Hey,” he says, and gives me a smile. There’s no sign of a problem with his neck, and he’s not rubbing it anymore.
“Hey,” I say, and smile back at him. I also smile at Miss Hattie-with-the-Amazon-face. She nods, and they sit in the pew behind me. When I turn my attention back to the front of the church, I see that the four visiting men Grandmother Jones spoke to have climbed the steps beside the altar and taken visitor’s seats next to the pastor. Somehow they look even more important, up there in front of us, framed by the blue-robed choir.
Pastor Bickman mounts the steps and walks to his podium.
The church goes silent, except for kids fidgeting, the whish-whish of ceiling fans and hand fans, and the growing roar of crickets and frogs welcoming the darkness
outside. I smell sweat and perfume. Oil and lotion.
Grandmother Jones draws a slow breath and lets it out. Her fingers shift against her knee. Tapping.
Is she worried about what I will say?
I am.
I’ve worked on my words a hundred times in my head, and a few times on paper. I even rehearsed once in front of Gisele. Clay listened only for a minute, then told me I was crazy and stalked off.
Nothing sounds right, no matter how hard I try.
Pastor Bickman opens our service. A prayer, and a song. He introduces our guests. Names I don’t know.
“After the service,” Pastor Bickman says, “Miss Jones, Miss Potts, and Miss Louis will meet with the representatives from the Freedom Democratic Committee, the Mississippi Teachers Association, and the Delta Ministry to finish plans for desegregating Pass Christian High School. We’re trying hard to address the demotion of our principals to positions of no authority or mock authority at best.”
Nervous shifting.
Some nods.
An “Mm-hmm” to my left.
“About time,” from behind. “Don’t want Principal Ellis ending up supervisor of janitors, like Principal Smith over at McComb.”
I try to listen, but my mind sticks on the first thing the pastor said. Grandmother Jones is to meet with these visitors … to help with desegregation.…
…
And this fight, it’s far from over, Ruba. I hope you realize you’ve landed in the middle of a battle bound to last your whole life
.…
Words from our earlier conversation echo like distant thunder. I squirm. A new set of mosquitoes takes flight in my belly, stinging me about the end of the month, when I must go to a Pass Christian school for the first time. A new fight. One I can’t win with arrows or knives. No club or musket will see me through the first day of class in a Mississippi school.
The pastor goes on talking, about a committee to plan for possible riots or mobs.
Whether it would help or not, and even though I can’t run fast, I wish I had a musket like my Amazon foremothers did back in the 1800s. Dahomey’s war women pasted shells on their stocks for each enemy they killed.
“And now,” Pastor Bickman announces, “the newest member of our congregation is ready to tell us her name and talk a little about herself. She’ll even talk about where the struggle began, yes, Lord. Where it began. Stand up, Ruba. Give us some wisdom.”
I feel dizzy. Sure I will fall. I use the bench in front of me to pull myself to my feet. Turn around. My throat
dries and clenches as I look from face to face. Set of eager eyes to set of eager eyes.
They aren’t as blank as I thought they’d be.
Is that good or bad?
I want to faint.
Someone waves from the back pew. A flash of brown between the dozens of cream-colored hand fans.
Gisele.
I see her leaning against Crazy Sardine’s long arm. He’s wearing a gold tunic and blue jeans, and his Afro is combed out as wide and tall as it will go. I’ve never seen anyone wear hair like that, and I wouldn’t know what to call it if Clay hadn’t told me. I can’t help wondering if Crazy Sardine combed it out so big so people would stare at him more and me less.
He smiles. I smile back. Focusing on Gisele’s small face, I begin.
“My name is Ruba Jones. I was born in Haiti. My Grandmother Ba—I mean, Ruba Cleo—taught me a lot. She taught me about weather and tides, shells and fish. She taught me about herbs and plants and trees and nature. She taught me to read and to write. She taught me the history of the world as she knew it, and the history of our family. We are the Fon people from the Kingdom of Dahomey, on the West African coast.”
Gisele’s smile seems to fill her whole face. I breathe to
slow my racing heart and continue. “In the old time, that coast was rain forest. Too thick for walking. Too thick for living, except a stretch of grassland now called the Gap of Benin. Around the time the
Mayflower
landed in America, the Fon people left Africa’s beach and moved inland through the Gap of Benin. Ever after, Dahomey grew as this country did, almost a twin, rising to become an empire. On the backs of slaves.”
Fans stop moving as hands freeze in place. Some people look angry. Others seem fascinated. Absorbed.
“While cotton grew in the United States, Dahomey grew bananas, pineapple, sugarcane, peanuts, yams, coffee—and yes, cotton, and more. All with the labor of slaves.”
The angry people glare and glare. Pastor Bickman clears his throat. I clench my fists and force myself to continue. My throat feels so dry I’m scared I’ll croak instead of talk.
“And later, the Fon built their capital city of Abomey, and inside the city, they made the great fortress of Simboji Palace. Kings ruled from Simboji with their advisers beside them, and fierce war women—my Amazon foremothers—guarded each gate. And even those strong black women had slaves.”
I know Grandmother Jones has become a statue beside me. Granite or marble. Cold and unmoving. I
hope she will let me finish. Her hand twitches, as if to inch toward mine. Words leave my mouth faster, and faster.
“Other African tribes built their empires. Oyo and Egba, and others. All traded in slaves. Black people, using each other for currency. Riches. Power. To gain what white men had to offer. Steel. Guns. Weapons. Better ways to kill each other. Better ways to live white men’s lives. Or die too soon to enjoy them.”
Crazy Sardine nods, and it gives me a spurt of energy.
“Only once in Dahomey did a king try to stop the slave trade. King Agaja was his name. He closed the slave ports. Some think he did it to gain control of the trade, but I think he disagreed with it. And I think he disagreed with letting other countries, other people, tell us what’s right and wrong for us.”
A few more fans stop moving. I blink fast to keep my eyes from watering.
“Agaja couldn’t live forever, and his foolish son opened the slave ports again. And so, while this country fought its Civil War, Dahomey sold hundreds of slaves to the traders, and the foolish new king took even more for himself. This my grandmother Ruba Cleo taught me. Not so I would think less of Africa. Not so I would turn my back on my heritage. So I would remember what happened. Embrace it. And understand.”
“Understand what, Sister?” Crazy Sardine’s voice floats over the stunned faces like a welcome breeze.
“Understand how we almost saved ourselves, and how we tore ourselves apart. Understand that we first have to be loyal to each other, and stand together against those who would use us and kill us, and tell us what’s right and what’s wrong. Wherever we are, we have to live with the values of others, but keep our own. We need to live
black
lives even in a white world. With our own history. Our own traditions. Our own worth. We have to remember what came before guns and steel. It wasn’t perfect, but it was
ours
. I’m Ruba Jones, daughter of Circe Cleo and James Howard Jones, and I remember.”
“Amen,” someone says.
My heart nearly stops.
That someone … it was Grandmother Jones. The very woman who has been telling me to let go of my past.
Her face looks tense and serious, but she is smiling. A real smile. For me.
My hands start shaking.
I realize Crazy Sardine is on his feet. Everyone is standing, and beginning to sing. Grandmother Jones stands, too, and she measures me with her gaze. Opens her arms—and glass explodes into the sanctuary.
Songs turn to screams.
Rocks thrown through the stained-glass windows
gouge the wall beside me.
People duck. Dodge. Drop to the floor. Clay, Gisele—I can’t see them. My hand smacks my waist where my knife would be, if I were in Haiti.
Grandmother Jones pulls me down in front of her, between the first two pews. Pastor Bickman and the visiting men press against a wall and edge toward the door beside the altar. I can see them from under the pew, between the wooden braces.
Hoots and shouts rise outside.
“Y’all listen up in there,” growls a voice I’ve heard once before. On a beach. Talking to his son.
“Listen up and listen nice. No interrupting.”
Frye.
Leroy Frye.
Sunday, 10 August 1969: Night
Pastor Bickman stands between us and the broken windows, his back to the sanctuary and his Bible in his hand, as if to shield us all. He shouts through the gaping holes in windows when he speaks. “We have no quarrel with you. Leave us in peace.”
Through one of the broken windows, dead center in the jagged hole that once had been stained-glass doves and light from heaven, I can see someone out there on the wraparound porch. The height, the arrogant way he stands—I’m sure it’s Leroy Frye in a sheet marked by a red and white cross on the breast. He pushes his hood back, showing me what I already knew.
Frye spits on the porch, slams his hand against the window frame, and laughs as the rest of the jagged glass tumbles ceiling to floor.
He’s made his own door now
, my mind gibbers.
“We got a quarrel with you, boy,” Frye shouts back. “You and yours.”
The choir, still together, rises to its feet. Eyes closed, they join hands.
“Oh, no,” I hear Grandmother Jones whisper from behind me. “Please, God, no.” Her hands hold my ankles. Squeeze my ankles. Tighter. Tighter.
“We went and got soft on local big-mouths like that Potts boy,” Frye shouts. “Guess we should have paid more attention. He’s been up to no good, and it’s a damn shame. Forgot all his manners.”
I hear engines. Motors. Cars or trucks. And many of them. Torches bob into view behind Leroy Frye. Hooded heads, and hooded eyes. Empty holes in the hot evening.
Miss Hattie shifts on the floor. She and Clay must have ducked down in the row behind ours. I can see their arms under the bench as Miss Hattie starts a wheezing chant. “Not my boy. You won’t take my boy. Kill you first, God forgive me, but I’ll kill you first. Not my boy. You won’t take my boy.…”
“But really,” Frye continues, “we got a bigger problem. And she’s right in there. I can see her, crawling on the floor like a big fat ant. Her.”
Leroy Frye leans through the broken window-door and points a dirty finger straight at me.
“We come about her. The juju gal. Send her out so we can have a look at a real A-freek-an witch.”
Terror nearly melts me, but I have to try. These
people—my grandmother, my friends—they could get hurt because of me. I start to stand.
Grandmother Jones slams me to the floor. Covers me head to toe with her own body, breathing hard. I smell fear like sour onions on her breath. On her hand as it covers my mouth.
“Send her out or we’ll burn her out,” Frye says.
Even from the floorboards, I can see the torch in his hand, coming closer to the hole in the glass. And closer.
Grandmother Jones won’t let me go. Won’t let me move. I squirm and make like I can’t breathe, and at least she frees my mouth. Turns loose some of my power.
“Do I need to start counting?” Frye asks.
Pastor Bickman mutters to the visitors.
“Let her up, Mrs. Jones,” Clay says. “Ruba, she can take care of herself.”
Let me up. Yes! Please, let me up.
“Ruba,” Gisele says. “Rain on ’em, Ruba.”
“One,” says Leroy Frye. “Two.”
And he throws his torch through the window.
I fill my lungs and chant as fast as I can, closing my eyes, rocking beneath my grandmother’s weight.
She tries to keep me still.
I rock harder, moving her like a cork on water, chanting and chanting, once more calling on Circe, on Ba, and back, and back. Asking for guidance. Asking for help.
A breeze begins, rising behind the choir. I can see them through the pew’s wooden floor braces still, and a few singers open their eyes. Others hum. Robes billow as the breeze swirls. The breeze shoots forward and snuffs the torch as it rolls across the floor, from dangerous fire to charred rags and a stick.
I keep chanting. The choir keeps humming. From the back of the church I hear Gisele giggle, and I think I hear her clap.
The breeze I called roars in a circle. Like a dust devil in the field. Like a swirl in fall leaves. It moves before me, dancing as I chant. On my command, it heads for Pastor Bickman.
His eyes widen, and he holds up his Bible.
The breeze knocks a wing from the broken stained-glass dove as it leaves the church through the gaping window—still obeying my will.
Leroy Frye steps toward the churning wind, bringing him square into my line of sight. He reaches out. Tries to touch the wind.