In The Waters I Must Be Cleansed

No Rhyme, No Reason

The soles of my undesirable, leather shoes beat against the pebbles along the path beneath me. The afternoon sun is rising over my short, kinky hair as I walk under the canopy of the emerald leaves, somewhat amber as autumn approaches. The schoolhouse is quite a ways behind me, yet I still hear the giggles of black children making their way home---the opposite way as I.

The intonation is so exotic in a Southern, white town as this. And, in spite of my teachings, no matter the progress made, most of their futures are ill-fated. A black boy nor a little negro girl can make it in the fifties. I barely crawled out of my tunnel, only eventually receiving the modest house on the outskirts of the nice, white neighborhood. Hence my opposition in direction from my people.

There are various recollections running through my dark-faceted head. Yet, the only one that has come to surface is the possible ending of any of my teaching. Whites and blacks are finding their way together which is so difficult to picture in a nigger-hating town like Tramonto, Tennessee.

The Tennessean vista is a plethora of colors. The hills and mountains of the Great Smokies retain their jade greens and chocolate browns and gray stones. The skies have their ivories and blues, with the Sun's iridescent white and yellows reflecting off the small rivers and streams. The hues are all attached, yet far away. The colors are different, yet they all belong in the same scene-- in the same euphoric peace. It appalls me greatly as I live with the fact that many of the problems of the world may cease if man would simply look to the heavens.

The dirt-scrunching halts as my feet touch down onto the new gravel paths of the small community. However, it is not the change in fauna scenery that is symbolic to the alteration of my surroundings. It is the nuance glares. The slurs are under their breath. The houses are few and far between, and hops and skips off the road, yet they sense me yards and yards away. The only negro in the now vapid scene. I am the shadow in the sun.

Yet, as I continue on, the insults become less noticable, not as I get closer to my home, but while my feet step closer and nearer to the home of Abigail Rose. There is no words exchanged between the energies in tuned with her beautiful frame, and my black one, but I feel the deep smiles. The slight reddening of her olive cheeks as she notices my remembrance of how she was there just the day prior and the day before that one, too— seemingly awaiting my arrival. Nevertheless, there is only the memory of old friends within the space between us. Her smiles never lead to conversation. Years have gone since we could play until the sun set. Years have gone since we could lay in the fields and snicker at youthful things. Years have gone since we have truly spoken to one another.

There is no love. No hope for a romantic awakening of our auras. Solely gratitude in the way I am greeted-- no matter how miniscule-- as human. For she is a white woman and I a black man.

The aroma of ancient furniture and mediocre decor addresses me after I traipse along my short path, cautious as to not step on manure or other traps left by the good white folks of Tramonto.

The house is completely silent other than the creaking of the old, old foundation as I walk around-- likely the cause of the chop in price, and this is only after the unofficial nigger tax sprouting in towns like this. After Brown vs. Board, life started to go further downhill for many blacks around the South, but the blight has yet to hit me. The hate here is meek. The folk are timid, but even I, in my seclusion of only leaving when negro school opens, have noticed the rustling in the green leaves, the horrors down grapevine, and the increment of volume when white folks call me nigger.

I'd like to say I'm lucky, yet my house can be bombed just same as any in the south. My father made money during the Greenwood's era, and fled with any money he'd earned, before his home was burned to the ground. He fled to Tramonto, where his sister lived, fell in love with a woman, and gave me, his only child, his earnings once he passed. My life molded better than most blacks, but when it finishes, I doubt it will end any different.