Velvet

Contents

Dedications And Acknowledgments

Stones

The Promises of Mankind

1

2

3

Homecoming and Going

1

2

3

4

Brightly Colored Shadows

1

2

My Mother’s Wedding Dress

1

2

The Other Side of the Veil

1

2

Dedications And Acknowledgments

For my mother, who loves me despite and because. I understand now. Thank you for selflessly encouraging my awakening. I love you more than you will ever know.

I offer my most sincere gratitude to my dearest grandmother, Nellie Catrea Caldwell. Thank you for your willingness to share your victories with as much candor as your defeats. Thank you for introducing me to the dearly departed Ludie Brown, Nannie Mae Martin and Carla Deneice Smallwood by way of late night phone calls and tattered photographs. Thank you for being brave. And, thank you for showing me the beauty that is born from the most unsightly circumstances.

To those who aided the publishing of this book (I won’t name names, for fear I may forget someone), you have literally made my dreams come true. I am forever humbled by your donations, encouraging words and prayers.

Thanks to Sofia Mekonnen for illustrating a fantastic dream, as well as Devin Venters for contributing to the design.

I have learned that mothers do not seek to destroy their daughters any more than daughters strive to disappoint them; yet our own personal experiences shape the actions that lead to such perfidious results.

Stones

Dust rises slowly in the South, like little brown ghosts, unsettled souls of sacred ground. Ludie’s bare feet uncovered a team of haints as she wandered into town. And, her feeble limbs carried with them a film of those dusty ghosts all the way from Carthage. She had made the 30 mile trek from Carthage to Marshall with only the clothes on her back and a bundle of misery strapped by an old sheet. At the start of the journey she had had a ragged pair of shoes, as well. But, raggedy as they were, their ankle straps burst open and had begun to open at the toe and flop against the ground with a pitiful thud. It made for a laborious walk and the tiny muscle between the top of her foot and her ankle began to ache for all her effort to walk and keep the shoes on at the same time. Before long, she pulled the Mary Janes from her feet, hurling them into the thicket beside the path of railroad tracks. She limped along, wincing from the pain of hidden stones. Sticks and stones. Sticks and stones. Stones.

Ludie

Thump. The hot sting of stone upon unsuspecting flesh took my breath. I kept a steady pace, though, with my back turned to them. I had to get back to Nannie Mae. Didn’t have time to stop.

Hey! Ain’t you gon’ turn ’round? one of them growled.

Where you goin’, huh? To Mr. Samuel again? Ain’t he done fixed you good ’nough, Shiny? they snickered and waited for a response.

I deliberated. I could hear them gaining on me, clopping their anxious feet against the clay road, while others balanced themselves on the new railroad tracks. When I finally haulted, they followed suit and the air grew still. Defiantly, I rotated slowly around to face them. They all were taken aback. There were no tears. I’d mastered the art of holding those in long ago. They were no match for my kind of combat. I did not fight back. I did not win. I did not lose. I did not surrender. And I did not concede. My strategy had confused them, so they tried again.

Thump. A member of the gang let another stone fly, hitting me in the shoulder.

Across the unfinished train track, a man peaked his head out from inside of a canvas tent. His head bounced back and forth between the group and back to me. With a thick Louisiana accent he shouted, Hey, what’s goin’ on, out dere, nah?

Thump.

My body waivered with that third and final blow, but I refused to fall. Not even when I felt the warm blood tickle my brow and run down the side of my face did I acknowledge the group of bandits or the man in the tent (He now stood with his hands on hips alongside a few other railroaders). This only intensified their anger. The presence of adults made them flee, but not before they hurled a few more threats and insults at me.

It was nothing I hadn’t heard before, though. Why, I had been called black, ugly, devil, burnt, crispy, beastly since – well, for a long time. Since Martha had come. Since Martha had revealed to them that I was not only dark-skinned, but one of the darkest children this side of Texas.

I would think to myself, What is skin, really? I mean—I know it keeps the inside in and the outside out. But, what is it really? What does it do besides bear heavy slaps from stepmothers and give White folks reason to treat me like a beast. My skin was so black and offensive, I learned, that you didn’t have to be all-the-way-white to curl your lip in disgust at me. My black was usually smooth and shone brightly with perspiration in the Texas sun. I was often called shiny by the other children in the play area. I had always heard the word shiny assigned to very wonderful things—shiny hair bows, clean fruit, polished loafers and coins. So, when I first bore witness to this queer nickname, I slowly curled my lips into a graceful smile. Thinking it a term of endearment, I bashfully held the hem of my dress while rotating left and right before the group of children. Like a choir, though, they all laughed in harmony.

Before Martha started pointing out my black skin, though, no one had seemed to notice. There was a time when my father would bounce me on his knee and tell me how Dawlin’ pretty I was. And, I was dressed in delicate pink dresses with embroidered flowers and ruffles. My hair was always adorned with pink and white ribbon which blew in the wind when I ran about the yard, chatting with Brother Jack or Sister Minnie. It wasn’t until Daddy married Martha that anyone knew my secret—I was too black to be pretty. And, only pretty girls were worth the trouble of mending stocking holes, sewing new cotton dresses and shining patent shoes. So, as I outgrew my feminine wardrobe it was replaced by hand-me-downs and scraps of fabric in the most hideous of colors and textures.

"Mother Martha, why come I don’t neva get pretty dresses to wear, no mo’?

Pretty dresses are for pretty girls, she muttered with a half grin. She always did that, said the meanest things under her breath. She made sure that she was just audible enough for me to make out the insult. I hated her for it. And, at the same time, I loved her because Daddy loved her. I thought we could be a family, and somehow the hole in my heart would be filled again. I suppose I never truly believed that Martha and I could be mother-daughter. I just hoped that Daddy would believe it.

He adored Martha. He looked at her the way I wished he’d have looked at my Mama. But, when Mama took ill in the summer of 1918, I saw his eyes bore into her first with empathy, then sadness, then embarrassment, and then resentment. She would lie in bed all day, eyes glazed over, unable to sit up for longer than a few hours at a time. The house, which used to be kept in order, had become a mess. I’m still ashamed that I visited her bedside less and less. She seemed to look right through me, and her words became jumbled and confusing. To add insult to injury, she smelled ungodly. We stopped having company over, making excuses about one thing or another, but mostly saying that Mama needed her rest. And, Daddy arbitrarily fed Mama from our leftovers and tried to comfort her as best he could. Mama died by the end of that summer, and there was an awkward sense of relief for everyone—for Mama, especially. Mama, though ashen and gray with death, never looked so peaceful. Daddy sobbed the day the undertaker carried her body out of the house but, afterward, I saw a lightness about his walk that I hadn’t seen since Mama was well. When I said my prayers at night, I asked God to bring Mama back, not that sickly woman who had lain in bed for three months. No, I wanted the pretty woman who told me I was beautiful and who made my Daddy smile. But, she never came back.

It didn’t take long before Martha showed up. She made hardy meals and charmed Daddy with her literacy by reading the newspaper to him. I had no reservations when Daddy first told us they would marry. In fact, my little body shook with anticipation. After all, she had restored our home’s stability, pinching my cheeks and flattering my brother and sister.

Jack, you jus’ as handsome as you wanna be, huh? And, Minnie, you’se got the prettiest skin I ever did see!

I would stand in line beside Jack and Minnie, waiting to hear what compliment she had in store for me. But, instead she would simply pinch my cheeks before quickly changing the subject. I wondered why she never validated my beauty with