« Out Running The Radio | Main | Is This Place Still Here? »

December 03, 2005

Child of Darkness

Just before dawn on December 3, 1960 I made my appearance in this world at Nashville’s own St. Thomas hospital. I was the first and only child born to an unlikely pair, particularly in the South, most especially in the South during the late fifties and sixties.

Originally from Nashville, my father was a white man of brownish blonde hair and blue-green eyes which sparkled of much humor, gentleness, and laughter. He was a railroad accountant during the day, every business day for over forty years. At night, well, at night, he was a music man with rhythm and blues comprising his best friends. He played the piano, guitar, saxophone, flute, and clarinet. His favorite was the sax, though.

Daddy knew music. Daddy loved music. It was through his love of music, I came to be.

My mother was a woman of high color. In her home state of Louisiana, she was referred to as Creole or high yella. According to state law, her one-fourth of black blood labeled her a quadroon, despite her fair complexion and hazel eyes. As my mother’s daughter, I inherited the label and status of octoroon or mustee in the eyes of the law.

Not surprisingly, with my father’s influence I am even more fair than my mother; however, in a genetic twist my eyes and hair are both coal black. As I learned in college, light eye color is the product of recessive genes. Either my father was not my father or, as my mother insists, I was touched by the father of darkness in those moments when the night has yet to release the earth to the dawn of a new day.

Momma was an interesting creature. She moved with the grace and airiness of late afternoon light through the uneven panes of hand-blown and seeded glass windows. Her motions were deliberate, but delicate and fluid. She was also a quiet one who spoke primarily through her eyes and ever so slight changes in expression. When she did speak, her voice had a soft, but husky quality and her words were laced and adorned with the sing-song speech of her ancestry. It was beyond Southern, but a mingling of cultured French with vernacular English and Creole. Portraits of her all reflect a woman of feminine refinement; however, her outward placid serenity belied the dark tempests within her heart.

In the years both before and after the great unpleasantness, women of high color were both revered and sought-after for their exotic beauty, as well as their blood “connections�? and access to the supernatural. There were often cotillion balls where these young women were featured and presented to eligible white men of wealth. Eligibility had less to do with marital status, than bank accounts and references from servants as to the genteel nature of the men themselves. The dances were for the selection of these women as mistresses. This was my heritage, but not my destiny.

It was during one of these balls my father played his saxophone and a group of young ladies were presented, a debut, if you will. One of these women was exceptionally attractive, but there was something about her, the elevation of her chin or the challenge in her eyes that kept prospective benefactors from seeking to claim her. Perhaps, they sensed her restless spirit or feared she might require too much effort to tame.

From that first moment, my father was enchanted, but it was when she swayed to the rhythm of the music he provided did he relinquish his soul to her evermore.

My mother’s dowry was her looks. Her only means of supporting herself and helping her mother was to acquire a generous benefactor. My father knew the score and secured a hefty sum to “free�? her from her obligations to her mother, my grandmother.

Momma never looked back. In my father she found a man who would honor her, but that was not what she wanted. I would like to say she loved my father, but somehow I do not believe that she did. Her heart belonged to no one other than herself. She died when I was five and I fail to recall even one tender moment between us. I have often wondered if I did not receive more comfort from her death than I ever did from her when living because once she died, any expectation of affection was buried with her.

It was at five I believe I first began to live for it was then my father sought out my maternal grandmother and I started to gain some understanding of who and what I really am.

At age five Celeste (my grandmother) introduced me to the world of darkness and first time I knew what it was to belong.

Voodoo or “vous deux", you two, you too, is as ancient as man. It far surpasses the common Christianity practiced by many.

It has been said many times: “We are not separate, we all serve as parts of One. So, in essence, what you do unto another, you do unto you, because you ARE the other. Voo doo. View you. We are mirrors of each others souls.�?

I share my soul with Yabu. He has not my heritage, but he knows and understands. He is my anchor in the white man’s world, but speaks to that part of me which is Creole.

However, Yabu has only one part of my soul, the other share with only one more. She is my sister in spirit, she is the gypsy Simone. It is her relationship with Yabu and their intimacy which keeps us, Yabu and me, from ever becoming one.

We are three, separate, but interconnected in this world, as we are in the past, as we will be in the future. Our destinies have been cast. Our fate has already been determined. What remains is for that fate to be revealed.

Happy Birthday, Yabu.

My only gift to you is the knowledge Simone will be coming to us soon.

Posted by Domino at December 3, 2005 12:05 AM | Domino ~ | The Past ~ | The Present

Posted by: Kelly at December 2, 2005 10:07 PM

Posted by: lambo at December 2, 2005 10:23 PM

Posted by: Yabu at December 2, 2005 11:27 PM

Posted by: Yabu at December 3, 2005 12:09 AM

Posted by: Catfish at December 3, 2005 10:05 PM

Posted by: Marcus at December 5, 2005 12:40 AM