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Mauma said watch your tongue, but I never did. She was the only one who could tell missus what to do without getting smacked by the cane. I’d say, “Jesus wept cause he’s trapped in there with missus, like us.” Aunt-Sister was the cook-she’d been with missus since missus was a girl-and next to Tomfry, the butler, she ran the whole show. I’d say, “Let this cup pass from me,” spouting one of missus’ verses.
#WINGS OF LUNACY TROVE FULL#
I was full of sass to Aunt-Sister about the whole miserable business. If you nodded off, you got whacked right in the middle of God said this and God said that. Every day, all us slaves, everyone but Rosetta, who was old and demented, jammed in the dining room before breakfast to fight off sleep while missus taught us short Bible verses like “Jesus wept” and prayed out loud about God’s favorite subject, obedience. Already that morning missus had taken her cane stick to me once cross my backside for falling asleep during her devotions.
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I couldn’t say how many unwashed bodies had worn it before me, but they had all kindly left their scents on it. Mine was a cast-off and trailed to my ankles. For summers we wore homespun cotton dresses over our drawers, but when the Charleston winter showed up like some lazy girl in November or January, we got into our sacks-these thickset coats made of heavy yarns. The morning was a cold one-the sun looked like a little white button stitched tight to the sky. The day life turned into nothing this world could fix, I was in the work yard boiling slave bedding, stoking fire under the wash pot, my eyes burning from specks of lye soap catching on the wind. We could fly all right, but it wasn’t any magic to it. We were slave people, and we weren’t going anywhere. We weren’t some special people who lost our magic. Even at ten I knew this story about people flying was pure malarkey. They nothing but these flat bones now, but one day you gon get ’em back.” I was shrewd like mauma. She patted them and said, “This all what left of your wings.
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She looked at my face, how it flowed with sorrow and doubt, and she said, “You don’t believe me? Where you think these shoulder blades of yours come from, girl?” Those skinny bones stuck out from my back like nubs. Everything she knew came from living on the scarce side of mercy. She didn’t get any reading and writing like me. When we came here, we left that magic behind.” My mauma was shrewd. She said, “Handful, your granny-mauma saw it for herself. Mauma told me this one night when I was ten years old. PART ONE November 1803–February 1805 Hetty Handful Grimk? There was a time in Africa the people could fly.