Remembering Legacy

My momma wasnt much for talkin' but she when she did, she told t’story of a man.

Down off the banks of the miss’ippi, way down in younder in them swamplands off New Orlins. You know the ones, all wild and untamed like. Give you the creeps, enough bugs to make your skin crawl. Worse than them big ole roaches we had in Mobile. MmmMmm. There they got them flyin' waterbugs big as ya palm —

My grandmother stretches her palm to me, fingers sprayed to expand the dotted topaz colored center, criss-crossed with lines as dark and rich as the earth Herself, as if God made a map of creation, a map of life’s miracles, fit neatly and chaotically within the hands of this 88 year old woman with skin the color of Brazilian mahogany. These hands that picked cotton on a sharecroppers farm, moved swiftly and diligently across a typewriter, lovingly gathered my hair into neat sections of bouncy twists when I was a child, now more fragile and frail than I had ever seen. Nor ever remembered. But animated — an extension of her beautiful stories told from a breaking mind. I cherished our time.

— with them fat bodies. Big ole things that ga'wn and PLOP down on th’poarch like they live there or sum’thin. He was hard to find, she say. Back there in them swamps. Mmmmmmhm. Said he was Black as midnight, with that pretty, pretty skin that them stroongg men have. Know what I mean? Where it’s…

She searches for the word.

— I’on know the word but it’s in my mind, somewhere.

Her hand now is in the air, pointer finger aimed at her aging temple. Twirling round, dancing with memory as if connected to a thread that my grandmother can just pull out, connected to a word that she can just pull up. Out the depths of her psyche. She looks at me, eyes weary and baggy after nights of chaotic sleep, cheeks that once stood taught and bold, ready to be pinched up into a bright smile, an untamed laugh, a warm and loving “Heeeyyyy there punkie!” now softened, eased, loosened. But her eyes are still bright. She still remembers me. Remembers that we have a connection.

We both love us some words. Love how they roll off the tongue when they’re loose. How they can be strung up together in ways that convey soul, meaning, depth. Her southern dialect juxtaposed with my Northern schooling blended with our wit, connection, humor. The rhythms we create. We can understand each other. Always have. Even without words. But she’s the storyteller and I’m her audience, so I must join into her call and response:

\ All glistening and tight-like, from those muscles and whatnot. Gurrlll

Her eyes light up. A laugh tickles the corner of her mouth as we both picture the kind of man great-grandmammy must have seen deep in the swamps.

— That’s the one!

The laugh comes bursting out of both of us like schoolgirls in on a dirty secret, two women with eyes good enough to drink in the world’s beauty and appreciate it properly. Different generations, same understanding. Same sense of humor. Same cackling, hers higher pitched and filled with glee. Joy.

— Ahh gurl. You make me laugh, we done always had our fun. But yessss, he was a strooongg, strong man. Skin allll

Her hands now roam her torso, fingers waving over her arms.

— Midnight….and glistening. Mmmmmhm. My momma say she went lookin for him cuz she heard he had a treasure, honey. Sum money. Whispers at church was that he sum’how got a big oleeee hunk a money, and den ran down dem banks to hide hisself. That was back in them days when we couln’t have nuthin like that. MmmMmm. No sir. Couln’t be no Black man out here, wandr’en round with no big thing of money like that. Them white people would go’wn and string you up! Cuz wasn’t no way you was gettin that typea money from none they ways THEY would letchu. Mmm, no sir. So you was either robbin, stealin, or theivin sum way, how they seen it. But they say he got it from Tulsa — got it out before they came’n burnt it all down.

She tisks. Stares off in the distance. Into herself.

— Shame what they did to them people. All them women n chil’rens. Burnt dead to the ground. I’on remember it, I wasn’t alive den, but my Uncles used to tell stories…

I can see she’s about to go down a different memory. A new path has presented itself, but now I’m committed to hearing more about this man and his money. So I do what any good audience would do. Ask the right questions.

\ But wait, Nana. How much money did he have? Did they say.

She pauses. I can see her walking back to the story. Another consideration, momentary lapse. Then —

— I think it was bout $20 thousand. Yea, 20,000 dollars he had. And that was a lot of money back then!

Her face is incredulous. Looking towards me, her eyebrows raise to explain just how phenomenal that was. I whistle, join her in the awe. I’m not good at math, so I can’t do the numbers on the inflation. But it Feels like millions for a colored man, then.

— I know. Yess gurl. $20,000 they say. And my momma was a pretty women too, handsome like. Strong. Smart. She was a smart lady. So she set off to find him, and that $20,000 down in the olee Bayou. Guess she figured she could tame him like. Take care of’im, marry him. Wasn’t bout fallin in love in those days too much. If’few was lucky, den sure. But for a lot’a folks still, marriage was for se-curaty. You had to get you with some people who was strong enough to build a family back in then. But a Black man with some money….chilleeeee. That was gold. And she found him. Sho did.

When I was little, my Nana would wrap me up in a robe before bed and I’d sit, in the folds of her snuggly soft body listening to her southern drawl read picture books with the finesse of a Hollywood actress. She always knew how to keep me enraptured, totally spellbound by her voices. Pauses were used to ask questions, garner more attention; Tickles dealt to make the tiny jokes garner even bigger laughs. Each character had their own humanity, even when their lines were limited. I wasn’t surprised that she was doing this now, with a story that sounded like a thing of legend. But I had never heard it before.

\ Well what’d she do? Who was he?

She glanced down quickly at me and smiled. Just the right amount of energy given.

— His name was Wes, she say. Wes like the direction, strong as the winds that come round from them Gulf storms. He told’her she ain’t halfta fight him no way bout it for the money. Cuz he knew why she had come. But he hadn’t been found by nobody yet, so that made her seem all the more special, he say to her. My momma was charrmed, honey. Hadn’t met no man like that before. Gave her respect and let her live in her own strength without takin’ none for hisself. Men will do that if you let em, you hear? Take all of you till there ain’t nothin left. Can’t let nobody do that, ain’t nobody worth that.

Nana signs, chest heaving up and down as a cool breeze comes passing through the expansive white porch, Spanish moss gently rustling in its branch perches.

— My momma stayed down there in that Bayou with that big man fo four yearsss. Livin n lovin with him. Huntin, fishin, buildin off that swampy land. But she wound up pregnant. Pregnant, the two of them lone out there in that hot place. She knew it wan’t no place to raise no child. Told him, he agreed. But he said now baby, I love you sum fierce, but I ain’t no right man for no baby. I’ve been wild, and wild is me. So I’ma send you on. They hadn’t spent none of that $20,000 much, cuz they was living free. But he told her it was hers. But there was a secret she had to keep.

\ What secret? What secret Nana??

— Issa secret that been passed down to every smart chile, girl. Usually the oldest of the line. You see, he ain’t want no one to know bout him, but ain’t want no one claimin that baby as his. So he gave my momma the money, telling her ‘xactly how he got it. That back in Tulsa, on that truly awful day, he went to help his brother defend hiss’tore. But he was the younger one looked like, so his brother grabbed him and dragged him to the back. Pushed him out th’door, but not fore he dumped a bag in his hands. For the generations, he said. For our name. So Wes, he pas that on to your great-granmammy. Cuz that’s what he had been saving alll that money fore. That’s why he had went missin’ in dem swamps. Cuz he aint want no one else takin a piece of his family…messin’ up his chance at a legacy. That money he ain’t know was his, he was Savin for the woman who would come ‘long and be brave and fierce enough to claim him. When them monies…

My Nana looks up and around us, at the large house beautifully kissed by the Louisiana sun, swept up in the breeze of the gulf, white paint dancing a song of joyful remembrance.

—…your great grand-mammy bought this house. Go to the top of my dresser now, and grab me that little black book. Up at the top. Be gentle wit it now.

I run to the exact spot, and gingerly bring back the delicate book. The worlds “Holy Bible” were etched in gold in the front of the cracked leather. Now, time and fingers have rubbed it off. She shows me their names, etched in their handwriting. Dates of birth unknown. But my Nana’s birth year recorded, alongside her brothers and sisters...then my mother...and then, in my grandmothers handwriting, me.

— We here cuz of sacrifice. Years of it. And a whole lot of love. A brother, that gave your great granddaddy hope. Your grandmammy, who went out searching for a better life. $20,000 that they were able to turn into this here family home for us. Generations. Mmmhm. Save them Lil coins girl. Here’s the last of that legacy.

I’ll forever cherish the two dollars she gave me, out the back of that little black book, old and fragile but sharp and beautiful. Just like her.