I just read this amazing story on my lunch break and wanted to share. It is from a book called "Porch Stories" by Jewell Parker Rhodes:
"I cherished my outside time with Grandmother, pinching myself both to stay awake and for sheer happiness at being alone with her. I always sensed Grandmother was happy, too, enjoying her respite from the day, even though she'd be up again by six.
"Tell me stories." "I've told you before." "Tell me again." And she'd hug me to her bosom and never fail to oblige. "Did I tell you the blackbird's tale?" "Yes. Tell me again. Tell me like you told me the first time." She'd smack her gums. And I swear a hush fell shimmering, straight down from the sky.
"This is an old, old tale. My mother told me. Her mother told her." We were cocooned on the porch: Grandmother, sitting tall on the top step; me, sitting one step below, my chin even with her knees.
"Blackbirds were the slaves who flew back to Africa. Every time you see a blackbird, you should think of a slave who set himself free." "Have blackbirds always been ex-slaves?" "No. Didn't begin until two centuries ago. Eighteen hundreds, down in Alabama. Hundreds of slaves were picking cotton, suffering under Master's care, all of them singing about the need to go. Singing about 'Crossing the River Jordan.' Or 'Go Down Moses, let my people go.' All these Christian songs they'd been taught.
They sang, too, about trains and 'How long they'd been gone? Baby, how long?' But only so many could take the Underground Railroad. Only so many could escape. Most just sang, mournful, wailing, filled with never-ending yearning. "The oldest slave was a spell man. He knew about herbs, how to mix possets and teas. One day, when the sorrowful songs seemed to rock the sky, the old man put down his hoe, shouting, 'Children, remember. Remember who you be.' "The slaves were bewildered. They'd forgotten who they were. Couldn't remember any name before they were called Sally. Mary. Tom or Joe.
"The old man, his back bowed, crisscrossed with scars, looked at the dulled faces, the thin men and women, hands calloused from cotton, the children, heavy-lidded and tired, and said, 'Time to go. Time to go.' He whispered his African name in the nearest slave's ear. Whispered his name deep down into the other slave's soul. Then, he raised his arms toward the sun and flew. Just lifted off the ground. His arms became wings. His back grew feather-down. His legs elongated into feet with talons. 'High,' he said. 'High beyond the horizon. I'm free.'
"Other slaves began whispering their African names. Olun, Nambi, Membe, raising their arms and believing in their power to fly. Straight at the sun. Through puffs of clouds. No worries about wings burning off. Just soaring, straight and high. Far into the sky.
"The overseer was bewildered, riding his horse, cracking his whip like a madman. Threatening any slave who tried to rise. He knew Master would fire him for even one slave lost. He grabbed John's foot, only to have talons draw blood. 'Kailila,' John cried, long and hard, the vowels turning into a high-pitched screech. The overseer shook his fist at John/Kailila. Shook his fist at the swarm of blackbirds diving through clouds, creating swirls of black on bright blue sky.
"When there was a flock, over two dozen slaves turned into sleek blackbirds, they turned as one and headed east - back across the ocean, the wide, wide expanse of restless waters, to the African shore." "All the slaves flew?" "No, some slaves were left behind. They wished the blackbirds well. Clapped their hands. Shouted out a farewell song." "Didn't they cry?" "Sure they did. Sometimes too much pain can make you forget pieces of yourself. Forget your homeland, the people you loved. Slavery's outrageous curse. But the remaining slaves were left to tell the tale.
Like my grandparents. They saw the blackbirds fly. They told the tale, passing it on and on and down to me. Me, passing it to you." "Did the blackbirds become human again?" "You mean when their feet touched the soil?" "Yes," I sighed, wishing my arms would become wings and I could fly into the night sky, soaring above tenement houses, Pittsburgh's three rivers and rolling hills.
"Yes, but some of the slaves, having crossed the sea, preferred to fly. They no longer wanted to be on land where they could be captured and resold. They preferred life as winged creatures, feeling the sun bake their black wings. "Sunshine never scorches them. They never fall. Never drown in the sea. Just call - sometimes with pain, sometimes with alarm - sometimes with plain melancholy. Some say they call for their lost families, for mothers and fathers they couldn't return to, for brothers and sisters enslaved. Sometimes they call - caw - hurting, because they feel the depth of human pain. They remember their buried pain, piercing way down deep, just as they remember their original names. Some say they call for all the slaves that died at sea.
Those that never survived the crossing.
"Most times, slaves were tossed overboard if they were too weak, too sick to fetch a good price. Sometimes, whole cargos - men, women, and children - were drowned when a British ship chased the slavers. No cargo, no crime. Their caw-cawing keep the drowned souls from feeling lonely. "What blackbirds like best is sitting in a treetop, atop a wire, or on a scarecrow's hat, watching the neat rows of growing corn. Sun, Earth, and Water keep on providing.
Blackbirds keep true to their freedom. Before sleeping, before tucking their heads beneath their wings, they give a special call - caw-caw. Caw-caw. Call-call." "Call, what? What do they say? What's the cawing mean?" "That's the secret. Call. Caw-caw. Some say the birds keep repeating their African names. They say they do it before sleep, to make certain they won't forget. In case they ever decide to be human again.
"Some say the blackbirds caw/call, carrying tales. They call for you and me to travel homeward, to hold on to our selves despite hardship, despite pain. They caw-caw for us to pass down tales, down through the generation. They caw-caw for us to call upon our human selves to remember old truths...to remember a time when our ancestors left bitterness and pain, and rose up and flew as glorious blackbirds."
Each night Grandmother would tell a different tale...then, on Sunday, begin all over again. Sometimes she'd tell the same tales, sometimes she'd tell old tales redone. Sometimes there'd be an unexpected story. New and fresh beyond measure. Porch stories didn't happen September through May. School nights were bland, filled with getting ready for tomorrows that echoed the same old day. Only during oppressive summer nights, when heat and humidity made the air too thick to breathe, did the soul-stirring stories arise.
Each year, they'd change a bit, as if the stories changed according to my age. Different details would be filled in from six to eight or eight to ten. In truth, Grandmother's stories were for all ages. But the tales themselves were like labyrinths, mazes, where the meaning wasn't always clear.
Everything came with a maxim: "Jewell, child, what goes around, comes around." "Reap what you sow." "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." "Do good and it'll fly right back to you." "Catch your spirit up in a world of joy." "The dead are with us. You're never alone. All things alive." "Nobody in the world better than you. You no better than anyone else. We all a 'mixed-blood stew.' " "Cry, then get on with it." "Signs everywhere. Pay attention." "Scratch a wall, somebody dies." "Burn your hair, for if a bird finds it, uses it for its nest, your hair will fall right out." "Small actions mean something." "Every good-bye ain't gone." "What's worth holding on to in this world sometimes can't be caught. Can't be held." "Babies mean life."
I didn't understand half of what Grandmother said. Just marveled at her throaty laugh, her smacking gums. Her kind eyes. Tough hands. I felt like the black sky was going to swallow me up -- warm, comforting in its infinity and blackness. The complicated labyrinth of stories would never end. A communion existed between us; I knew how to be quiet, in love with Grandmother's words and stories. Our small stoop became a universe. She taught me how to live. Remember your name. Who-you-be. Be in love with your good self. Wear clean underwear. Don't let anyone ever think there's trash in you. "
"I cherished my outside time with Grandmother, pinching myself both to stay awake and for sheer happiness at being alone with her. I always sensed Grandmother was happy, too, enjoying her respite from the day, even though she'd be up again by six.
"Tell me stories." "I've told you before." "Tell me again." And she'd hug me to her bosom and never fail to oblige. "Did I tell you the blackbird's tale?" "Yes. Tell me again. Tell me like you told me the first time." She'd smack her gums. And I swear a hush fell shimmering, straight down from the sky.
"This is an old, old tale. My mother told me. Her mother told her." We were cocooned on the porch: Grandmother, sitting tall on the top step; me, sitting one step below, my chin even with her knees.
"Blackbirds were the slaves who flew back to Africa. Every time you see a blackbird, you should think of a slave who set himself free." "Have blackbirds always been ex-slaves?" "No. Didn't begin until two centuries ago. Eighteen hundreds, down in Alabama. Hundreds of slaves were picking cotton, suffering under Master's care, all of them singing about the need to go. Singing about 'Crossing the River Jordan.' Or 'Go Down Moses, let my people go.' All these Christian songs they'd been taught.
They sang, too, about trains and 'How long they'd been gone? Baby, how long?' But only so many could take the Underground Railroad. Only so many could escape. Most just sang, mournful, wailing, filled with never-ending yearning. "The oldest slave was a spell man. He knew about herbs, how to mix possets and teas. One day, when the sorrowful songs seemed to rock the sky, the old man put down his hoe, shouting, 'Children, remember. Remember who you be.' "The slaves were bewildered. They'd forgotten who they were. Couldn't remember any name before they were called Sally. Mary. Tom or Joe.
"The old man, his back bowed, crisscrossed with scars, looked at the dulled faces, the thin men and women, hands calloused from cotton, the children, heavy-lidded and tired, and said, 'Time to go. Time to go.' He whispered his African name in the nearest slave's ear. Whispered his name deep down into the other slave's soul. Then, he raised his arms toward the sun and flew. Just lifted off the ground. His arms became wings. His back grew feather-down. His legs elongated into feet with talons. 'High,' he said. 'High beyond the horizon. I'm free.'
"Other slaves began whispering their African names. Olun, Nambi, Membe, raising their arms and believing in their power to fly. Straight at the sun. Through puffs of clouds. No worries about wings burning off. Just soaring, straight and high. Far into the sky.
"The overseer was bewildered, riding his horse, cracking his whip like a madman. Threatening any slave who tried to rise. He knew Master would fire him for even one slave lost. He grabbed John's foot, only to have talons draw blood. 'Kailila,' John cried, long and hard, the vowels turning into a high-pitched screech. The overseer shook his fist at John/Kailila. Shook his fist at the swarm of blackbirds diving through clouds, creating swirls of black on bright blue sky.
"When there was a flock, over two dozen slaves turned into sleek blackbirds, they turned as one and headed east - back across the ocean, the wide, wide expanse of restless waters, to the African shore." "All the slaves flew?" "No, some slaves were left behind. They wished the blackbirds well. Clapped their hands. Shouted out a farewell song." "Didn't they cry?" "Sure they did. Sometimes too much pain can make you forget pieces of yourself. Forget your homeland, the people you loved. Slavery's outrageous curse. But the remaining slaves were left to tell the tale.
Like my grandparents. They saw the blackbirds fly. They told the tale, passing it on and on and down to me. Me, passing it to you." "Did the blackbirds become human again?" "You mean when their feet touched the soil?" "Yes," I sighed, wishing my arms would become wings and I could fly into the night sky, soaring above tenement houses, Pittsburgh's three rivers and rolling hills.
"Yes, but some of the slaves, having crossed the sea, preferred to fly. They no longer wanted to be on land where they could be captured and resold. They preferred life as winged creatures, feeling the sun bake their black wings. "Sunshine never scorches them. They never fall. Never drown in the sea. Just call - sometimes with pain, sometimes with alarm - sometimes with plain melancholy. Some say they call for their lost families, for mothers and fathers they couldn't return to, for brothers and sisters enslaved. Sometimes they call - caw - hurting, because they feel the depth of human pain. They remember their buried pain, piercing way down deep, just as they remember their original names. Some say they call for all the slaves that died at sea.
Those that never survived the crossing.
"Most times, slaves were tossed overboard if they were too weak, too sick to fetch a good price. Sometimes, whole cargos - men, women, and children - were drowned when a British ship chased the slavers. No cargo, no crime. Their caw-cawing keep the drowned souls from feeling lonely. "What blackbirds like best is sitting in a treetop, atop a wire, or on a scarecrow's hat, watching the neat rows of growing corn. Sun, Earth, and Water keep on providing.
Blackbirds keep true to their freedom. Before sleeping, before tucking their heads beneath their wings, they give a special call - caw-caw. Caw-caw. Call-call." "Call, what? What do they say? What's the cawing mean?" "That's the secret. Call. Caw-caw. Some say the birds keep repeating their African names. They say they do it before sleep, to make certain they won't forget. In case they ever decide to be human again.
"Some say the blackbirds caw/call, carrying tales. They call for you and me to travel homeward, to hold on to our selves despite hardship, despite pain. They caw-caw for us to pass down tales, down through the generation. They caw-caw for us to call upon our human selves to remember old truths...to remember a time when our ancestors left bitterness and pain, and rose up and flew as glorious blackbirds."
Each night Grandmother would tell a different tale...then, on Sunday, begin all over again. Sometimes she'd tell the same tales, sometimes she'd tell old tales redone. Sometimes there'd be an unexpected story. New and fresh beyond measure. Porch stories didn't happen September through May. School nights were bland, filled with getting ready for tomorrows that echoed the same old day. Only during oppressive summer nights, when heat and humidity made the air too thick to breathe, did the soul-stirring stories arise.
Each year, they'd change a bit, as if the stories changed according to my age. Different details would be filled in from six to eight or eight to ten. In truth, Grandmother's stories were for all ages. But the tales themselves were like labyrinths, mazes, where the meaning wasn't always clear.
Everything came with a maxim: "Jewell, child, what goes around, comes around." "Reap what you sow." "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." "Do good and it'll fly right back to you." "Catch your spirit up in a world of joy." "The dead are with us. You're never alone. All things alive." "Nobody in the world better than you. You no better than anyone else. We all a 'mixed-blood stew.' " "Cry, then get on with it." "Signs everywhere. Pay attention." "Scratch a wall, somebody dies." "Burn your hair, for if a bird finds it, uses it for its nest, your hair will fall right out." "Small actions mean something." "Every good-bye ain't gone." "What's worth holding on to in this world sometimes can't be caught. Can't be held." "Babies mean life."
I didn't understand half of what Grandmother said. Just marveled at her throaty laugh, her smacking gums. Her kind eyes. Tough hands. I felt like the black sky was going to swallow me up -- warm, comforting in its infinity and blackness. The complicated labyrinth of stories would never end. A communion existed between us; I knew how to be quiet, in love with Grandmother's words and stories. Our small stoop became a universe. She taught me how to live. Remember your name. Who-you-be. Be in love with your good self. Wear clean underwear. Don't let anyone ever think there's trash in you. "
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