Excerpts from
Excerpts from
The Black Vineyard
words by
Wendy Woods Jackson
“Mama Jean’s”
I have a deep appreciation for black and white photos, black and white movies, and clear-cut choices in life spelled out in black and white; simple, uncomplicated, and raw enough to see the edges fringed ever-so-slightly. As I drove around in circles looking for my son’s new summer school the other day, I saw a scene that reminded me of one of my unplanned adventures many years ago. There were several older black men sitting in front of a store, drinking coffee and probably telling a few lies to entertain one another. It reminded me of some of the black and white photos I took of a place in Yazoo county, Mississippi about ten years ago.
I was a sports car lovin’ fool; growing up in Indianapolis sealed my fate therefore speedy cars were my “thang” as I used to say in my “fast little heffa days”. Now, several years later I drive a Jeep, but I didn’t give up the two-seater without a fight. I struggled for weeks to fit the newborn twin car seats legally into the tiny backseat of my 1996 Dodge Stealth; I mean I struggled. Soon it came down to a practical solution. Keep the kids or sell the Stealth and get a mommy car. “Gee – the Stealth was paid for – humm”. Just kidding – the kids stayed.
Traveling in a sports car back in the day with my long, curly brown locks blowing in the wind, my lips lathered up with coral reef colored lipstick, tight stone washed jeans and a white tank top – I was a vision of both youth and stupidity. Coral reef was not my color. Just the same, I ventured off on a road trip down I-20 east and drove through the entire state of Louisiana into Mississippi, and found myself pumping gas in Jackson before I even considered stopping to rest for the night.
The music in my newly installed “trunk space” CD player was Will Downing, Sarah Vaughn, Art Porter and Joe Sample. I was rollin’. Always at my side was a spiral note pad and several number two pencils. I was set (for what I’m not sure!). Spent the night in a shady looking motel, but hey, Medgar Evers’ old homestead was nearby, so I was honored to be in the area.
I awakened the next morning to the voice of a loud-mouthed traveler preparing to leave the motel. I got the feeling she was no weary traveler such as myself, but a local personality who didn’t make it home last night. What was my first clue? I guess it was when she announced across the parking lot, “Hey BreBre, I am on my way to work; call me tonight after six, and we’ll hook up again!” The shower was lukewarm; I guess BreBre and em’ used up all the hot water, or I just got what I paid for. Calling the front desk for bath-sized towels should have been my first clue that I was not in the most desirable place in town.
I checked out, and began driving “down a piece away” as they say in Mississippi, and ended up in Yazoo County in front of an establishment called “Mama Jean’s”. The frame building leaned heavily to the left and was beyond foundation repair help; it should have been demolished years ago. There were all these old black men sitting outside, tellin’ lies and drinking a brand of wine, I hadn’t seen before. How did I know they were telling lies? As I drove up I overheard one man say his ex-wife’s ghost wires him money from the grave every third Friday of the month, and that he had to hurry up and leave to go to the local Western Union to retrieve it. Some story – I couldn’t make this up. The men sat in a row on a long timeworn bench with cinder blocks holding up each side unevenly, and the storefront read, “Mama Jean’s”. Anyway, on the side of the shack, cause that’s what it was, there was a faded advertisement, stating, “Best Damn Ribs In Mississippi”! I wondered if they still provided these succulent, self-proclaimed ribs. I was pretty hungry! I wheeled my sports car in a make shift parking space near the front entrance, and of course drew lots of attention. Hey, I dug it; you know city girl in the country. Anyway, after making the old guys choke on their words and twistin’ my “bee hind” towards the lopsided screen door to open it, I heard one of the natives say, “Jesus done brought me what I asked for!” The others began to laugh. I had to laugh myself, because of the raw nature of the entire scenario – it was pretty funny, and I imagine I did look pretty out of place, but hey, I wanted those damn ribs! I turned to the gentlemen and asked without hesitation, “Can I take y’alls picture? I said in my Carmen Jones voice that used to get me pretty much anything I wanted back in the day. Talking to those old guys and watching their mouths hit the dirt was a scene out of a well-rehearsed comedy; all of ‘em jumped to attention like they’d been stung by the same wasp. The loudest old mister, who was gonna give this sweet thang my best line, started to stutter and said, “Yeah – uh – Yeah, I’d like my picture took!” I smiled and replied, “Let me slide down a rib or two boys and I’ll be right back to do just that; now don’t y’all move. Ya’ hear!” My Dorothy Dandridge “Carmenesque” performance would have given Harry Belafonte a flashback, cause’ it was fast and sassy; I knew my powers.
When I got inside there were even more old black guys inside. One uttered, “Well looky here, looky here. An angel just walked in the do’! I could smell the “cue”, and I didn’t have any quick words for my latest admirer, so I just asked the lady sitting on a stool in front of a counter by the cash register, “Do y’all have any barbecue?” The woman looked at me with a smile and said, “Suga, we’s got the best damn barbecue in Mississippi!” So the faded sign was right – great! I had built up a tremendous appetite. Then the lady said, “Sit on down, and y’all leave this lady alone (talking to the others in the room), and let her eat!” Calling out my order to a hidden man playing B.B. King music in the background, she said, “On the house, BBQ plate, beans and tayta salad, sweet tea, for here.” It was amazing. I hadn’t opened my mouth to give an order, nor was I asked for one. The woman just blurted out an order on my behalf and never blinked or took an eye off me while doing it. Then she asked, “Where you be from suga”? I answered, “Originally from Indianapolis, but I’ve lived in Dallas for the past ten years and drove here from there”. She looked at the front screen door and said, “Y’all get from that do’! Act like you ain’t never seen a goodlookin’ woman ‘fore!” Then she turned and asked, “Is you colored?” I answered with a smile, “Yeah, just a light one.” She laughed and said, “Got some white in ya?” Being amused by the interrogation, I replied, “No, I am 100% berry juice”. She grinned even harder, showing a sizeable number of teeth missing in action, and said, “I likes you! You know where you been sittin’ at?” She asked. Not understanding the question, I said, “Huh?” She said, “You sittin’ where Medgar and ‘em use to plan and write and meet before goin’ to Jackson.”
I enjoyed some pretty amazing BBQ that day at Mama Jean’s, but found something I wasn’t even looking for. I found a piece of history. Yes, I took the pictures of the old guys sitting outside, and I remember thinking to myself as I looked at each amazing face in the frame – how honored I was to be in their presence.
“Dream Seat”
We had a room in mama and daddy’s house, the kids dubbed “the blue room”, it was really the living room, but my mom got carried away with the then popular powder blue decorating concept, so everything from all four walls to carpet was that coveted shade of blue.
I was fond of the blue room, but it had absolutely nothing to do with the decorating scheme of the place; there were two things however, I found hard to resist there, and they were the huge paned glass picture window that faced the front of the house, and the third step from the top floor.
As a child I dreamt a lot, and did most of it from that makeshift seat on the third step. Looking out at the wild assembly of trees, mostly of which were common to all Indiana highways or wooded areas; to me, the view and those clumps of trees were nothing short of a picture post card from the leafy thickets of Connecticut. In my mind we lived in the exquisite splendor of a timeless place surrounded by natural resplendence. In my dreams while sitting there I ignored geography all together and closed my eyes to place that blue room, picture window and third seat view in a place where sunrises never end and glistening dew of early morning frost gave each pane of the window an etched beauty of Waterford delight.
How could I do anything else but dream so high on that third step; the place that gave me clear view to reality and beyond. I dreamt of writing; always writing. Saying simple things that made me feel fully expressed and those reading my words giving them a breath of that magical blue room.
From stained meatpacking paper of dark tan hues and department store receipts from half empty spaces, there on that third step from the top, looking out that glorious window, in that blue room, I could write anything and on anything.
Detours were not for me; it never occurred that writing was something I would not ever do; it was like that wild thicket of trees in the front yard through the picture window; they couldn’t begin to escape the perception of being trees, nor could I run from being who I was, a literary scavenger of words and phrases; a writer.
It is comfortable for me here in this dream seat; I am okay with leaving certain veins of living to others; I have never wanted to do it all; only some. Doing some things poetically in my life is far better than overreaching to places that are not embedded into the landscape of my character. Sometimes I like to take the empty spaces of time and just breathe in the air of whom I am. Never faint fragrances of my dreams; we stay true to who we are and are grateful for understanding what has become of us in shadows of blue beyond that room.
Root Cellar Soul
Palates of the soul go to the root cellar where precious natural gems are kept sweet, flavorful, and ripe. Ground dug deep under grandma’s icebox, deep enough to stay cool all summer long. Soul jars filled with Johnson’s Van Gogh-like skills with a thick cream of Africa ladled ‘cross top. A porterhouse serving of Duke, Dizzy, Ella and Miles simmerin’ in a sweet basil Sarah Vaughn sauce. Bearden’s “Pepper Jelly Lady” stands there waiting her turn to cool things down, and next in line is drama queen Zora with her “Black Death”.
Palates of the soul go to the root cellar, baby; that’s whar’ they get they flavor. Withstanding elements and time; keeping time; buying time; timeless notions never pass-a-way they jus’ keep they essence and get stronger in the root cella’. Ground dug so deep, can’t smell green onion tops on the first step. Harlem Renaissance to Walker Theatre are miles of years of soulful struts that pay homage to Langston and Madame C.J.; transparencies of black people not caring who sees or reads or visualizes or comes to conclusions of they soul, cause palates of the soul go to the root cellar anyway. That’s where they go.
They go so they can stay cool and preserve themselves for another day to say, “I lives down under grandma’s kitchen where I can hear her wash collards and hum her some Mahalia on Sunday mornin’ ’fo church”. Can’t run, can’t hide, can’t deny the root of the cellar. Wastin’ time and countless hours thinkin’ they soul belongs to only them; they know them seasonings come from somewhere.
Ask Thelonious. Hot sauce didn’t get hot on its own. It had dirt, sun and spring to nurture and grow; nurturing of the spirit comes from the root cellar where it ages a little and gets some heirloom about itself. As black as you are, you mean to tell me you didn’t know dark juice was sweet? You need to follow me on down to this root cellar baby, and spend you some time with some of yo’ people!
“A Husband’s Cry”
He took her, he had her in his own way, and he soiled my woman’s body with the stench of his own. He made me sit and wait. Told me after he’s done, get him a cold drink from the bucket out yonder.
When he leaves, I get up and check on my woman. She won’t look at me in the eye though. No matter how many times ol’ massa defile her, seems like it’s the first time every time. The shame inside done boiled down to a corner sizzle in the pot; she feelin’ worser and worser. She done started to push me away. Massa tearin’ us apart without sellin’ us off, but I know if I say somethin’ wrong, I’s be the one ta get sold and I can’t do that cos’ my woman needs me.
A husband gotta cry sometimes. I cry in the field when it’s real hot outside so that my tears look like salt sweat drippin’ from my face. I be wipin’ like the other hands, but what I wipe away is more than tears. I wipe away the anger, so that I can make it through the next time ol’ massa come visit our cabin in the cloak of night. I wipe away the sounds he leaves in the rooms; sounds that follow me like a ghost from the washtub to the bed where he lay his filthy body next to my woman’s.
A husband’s gotta cry sometimes. Don’t mean he weak. It mean he thinkin’, and plannin’ fo another day. Dreamin’ hurts, so I don’t do much of that. I just plans for the strength cause my woman needs me to be that a way.
I’m too wore down to think about runnin’, that be like dreamin’. Dreamin’ hurts, so I don’t do that. Pray though. Sho’ do. Pray, everyday. Pray for good plannin’ and a hot day, so the tears look like salt sweat drippin’ from my face.
Stayin’
Don’t know if I too much care for this idea they calls “freedom” – I kinna wanna go home. But go home where? I don’t belong nowhere’s that I can see. I ain’t got nuthin’ that’s mine. The way I sees it, I’s just a homeless half-breed. Freein’ up all us slaves like that – they didn’t tell folks like me, where we could go. Everybody’s pointing “up north”! They say, “Go up north”, where the white folks treat you good. Up there, white folks gives you some dignity and a job!
I just shakes my head cause I’s got a powerful feelin’ white folks is gonna be the same up north as they is down here, so I stay.
I stay, cause I got too much of ol’ massa’s sorry blood in me – I’s too white to be black and too black to be white. Free? They might say I’s free, but what I see in that ol’ lookin glass of mine, is…a…just plain ol’ me. Me, who seen good folks like Jacob Turner pickin’ cotton till his back don’t straighten right, and left side where the sack he be draggin’ got him all hunched down. He is a strong man, so he supposed to pick enough for two men, massa say.
These eyes of mine done seen some thangs. Some thangs I wants to forget but can’t. What they did to those field hands, I knows if it was me, I’d a hung my own self and saved white folks the trouble.
They took food the massa’s own dog won’t eat, and told Minnie and ‘em to come and get some good hot vitals from the big house – I seen Minnie runnin’ so fast she left her shoe in the mud holes she run through. Red face massa be laughin’ sayin’, he loves to see Minnie come runnin’ cause he don’t wanna waste dog’s food on an ungrateful “negra”.
Somethin’ inside me wanna help, but I stops thinkin’ about it, close my eyes and don’t do nuthin’. I got too much of ol massa’s sorry blood in me, cause I looks so white they don’t mind puttin’ up wit me. They would tell me how special I was cause I had white in me and tell me how lucky I was not to be out there with the darkie field hands like Jacob Turner, Minnie and ’em. They fed me the same food they ate, and made me feel special. There was times when I thought ol’ massa and me really did have somethin’ in common.
It didn’t take long to put me back in my place though. I could feel the air rise and stir to a powerful backhand slap he gave me for takin’ too long to fetch his shave water. That’s how special I is.
Now that we free, and Culver Place done deserted cause all the hands done left; I scared.
I scared cause I got too much of ol’ massa’s sorry blood in me. He was weak and, made me just like ‘em! Sometimes I’s special; sometimes I ain’t. His kindness was weakness confusin’ me all the time. I was one of the best step and fetch they is, did what a house negra supposed to do. Serve the house and walk lookin’ down at the floorboards all the time. Don’t look up to see straight in the eyes; too uppity; get you beat down.
We free and here I is tryin’ to find the nerve to stay, cause I got more of that kind of nerve in me than the “gettin’ up and goin’ kind.
Jacob Turner, Minnie and ‘em, they who I wanna be! They say they goin’ up north, and they say they’s goin’ singin’ ‘n shoutin’, and they say walkin’ with no fear in ‘em. They done had everything done ‘em already when they was a slave. Minnie say they can’t scar her body no mo’ than they already done. Scarred with three children by ol’ Massa, then taken away somewhere, she don’t know whar’ they is. Scarred with the whip marks that starts from the back of her neck to the bottom of her back. Minnie would say she goin’ with a song ‘cause being free make her wanna sing. I wish I could be Minnie; even when she got beat.
Jacob Turner on his way tryin’ to find his youngest boy, Thomas. He got sold off about a year ago, so Jacob prayin’ the Courtland Plantation still got him over there. Then Jacob and the whole Turner family say they goin’ up north too! I wanna go with ‘em, but they say I looks too white to be with ‘em. I say, “Jacob, but I need you all’s strength, I needs your help”. Jacob say, “You a good girl, better than most half-breed, but you be a problem for us when we travel. It be best you find some that look like you and be with them.” I looks in my lookin’ glass, and see what he say is true, and I gets weak all over again.
So I stay. I stay cause all them ol’ massas’ from around here done got everybody confused and scared to be with each other. There ain’t no place for me that I can see, and I’s too weak to do it on my own. So I stay. I stay cause I ain’t Minnie and ‘em. She have her pain and I have mine. They different but the same too.
I free, but I don’t see no difference and I still feels like a slave. Ol’ massa made me weak when he called me special, left me lookin’ like him with nowhere to go. Too much of his ol’ sorry blood in me.
I wanna be with my friends, but massa done fixed that too! He done fixed it where I don’t fit in good with my own kind. So I stay, and I thinks about Minnie and ‘em singin’ and shoutin’ and I close my eyes and pretends to be steppin’ with ‘em. That’s when I’s really free.
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