And Sheba will bear Benji and Charlie, twin boys, for a different, unknown man.
And Red Freeman will pass away, his death making Meema a widow woman and Sheba a half orphan.
And Meema’s daughter, Sheba, will continue to be free with her love: for another unknown man, she will bear Adam and Abel, also twins. And for a last man, Sheba will bear a girl named Maybelline, called Lil’ May. Hours after this baby is born, Sheba will die in a lake of blood.
And Lil’ May will give birth to Pearl. And ten years after Lil’ May bore her daughter, she will bear a second child. A boy, Jason, though his family will call him “Root.”
And Pearl will marry Henry Collins. She will bear the twins Miss Rose and Henry Jr., called Huck. After many childless years, she will bear Annie Mae.
And Annie Mae will bear a daughter, Pauline, for an unknown man, and then she will leave this child behind in Chicasetta.
And Miss Rose will marry Hosea Driskell, and she will bear Roscoe, a troublemaking handsome boy. And Miss Rose will bear Jethro and Joseph, the twins who will die in their cribs.
She will bear Norman, another son.
And finally, Miss Rose will bear a daughter, and she will rejoice. This girl will be named Maybelle Lee, though she will insist that her family call her “Belle.”
And Belle will bear three girls: Lydia, Carol, and finally, a last daughter: Ailey, who will learn to honor a line reaching back to people whose names she never will know. To praise the blood that calls out in dreams, long after memory has surrendered.
I
If a man die shall he live again? We do not know. But this we do know, that our children’s children live forever and grow and develop toward perfection as they are trained. All human problems, then, center in the Immortal Child and his education is the problem of problems. And first for illustration of what I would say may I not take for example, out of many millions, the life of one dark child.
—W. E. B. Du Bois, Darkwater: Voices from Within the Veil
Dream and Fracture
I’m three going on four, and there’s a voice. Like that song my mama sings sometimes.
Hush, hush
Somebody’s calling my name
But it’s not my mama calling me. It’s Lydia, my big sister. She’s the one calling and I love her very much.
“Ailey, baby, it’s time to get up. Come on now. We’re going to Chicasetta today. Don’t you remember?”
Her voice pulls on me, but somebody else holds on. Somebody’s calling my name. It’s the long-haired lady. I love her very much, but I don’t know what she’s saying. She’s rocking me in another place. She’s singing to me, but I don’t know the words, and the long-haired lady tells me pee-pee. Go ’head, right now. Let it go.
But I don’t want to. I don’t want to pee-pee ’cause it’s gone be a yellow wet spot in my bed and Lydia’s gone feel sorry for me. She’s gone say, “Oh, it’s all right, baby sister. I’m not mad.” But I don’t want nobody to feel sorry for me. I want to be a big girl, but I can’t hold it and the wet spot’s here and I’m awake and the long-haired lady’s gone.
*
I’m four going on five, and I’m riding in the brown station wagon. Mama’s got her hands on the round thing, and we’re going and going. I’m screaming for Daddy. Where is he? Lydia’s touching my head, rubbing.
“Don’t cry, baby,” she says. “We had to leave him home. He has to work at the hospital to make money for us. Remember what I told you?”
But I don’t remember.
Coco’s in the back with all her books. She’s nine already. Lydia’s eleven going on twelve, but Coco’s in the same grade. She’s smarter than everybody, but Mama says she loves all her girls the same. And we are going and going, and I’m screaming, and Coco’s pulling at my braid.
Mama turns that round thing and we’re on the side of the road. We ain’t going no more and the cars go by and make the station wagon shake.
She says, “Coco, give me that paper sack.” She pulls out a chicken leg and I’m hungry. I reach for the chicken and Mama pulls back. “Are you going to be a good little girl?”
And I say yes, and she gives me the chicken and I eat it, and I love her very much, even though she yells sometimes. Then we are going and going for a long, long time. There’s a long dirt road and there’s a house and a bunch of people on a porch. A bunch of grown-ups and everybody stands and waves except for an old, white lady sitting in her chair, and I say, “Why’s that white lady there? Is that Aunt Diane’s mama?”