Misticium

-Judea, Bound-

The world is indeed a comic, but the joke is on mankind- H.P. Lovecraft

I am a forfeiter in my own right. Nothing could be done on my own. I am a senseless, irrational, heartless person. Judea is not a name that I would have preferred to be named but my mother being the religious woman that she is named me such after the mountains. But she was wrong in her assertion of what kind of person I would be. I am not simple or made to toil around with the likes of people who I am inferior to because of my race and my gender.

I am not sprawling, beautiful and holistic. Why did my mother give me a name? Did she have hope that I would be just as she thought I would.

I wake at night, or before dawn. I never wake up to the sun rays. I watch it set and wonder if it is slow in rising or if I am faster than it.

Judea is the girl that disappoints her mother. My hair is not pressed like my sister Sarah’s. I refused to have it pressed. My mother said that I would cry when I was younger. It mattered not how gentle she was. I enjoyed my long, nappy hair. My sister was envious. Her hair was breaking off slightly from the applied heat and was not as thick as mine. She turned to remedies used by the woman she admired most in the world. That woman was the white woman. The woman who was dainty, spoke demurely and was matronly.

Judea hated those women. Judea, the name was lost on me. I should have been named, ‘Devil’, ‘Mouthy’, or ‘Defiance’. My mother had spent many of her hours hitting me firmly. I supposed she thought she could beat God into me. But she stopped hitting me when I asked her about how the slaves were beaten and if I was no different. She had tears bubble in her big eyes.

She apologized to me and swore to never hit me.

My father did not address me and I did not acknowledge him. He was a coward. He had no right to be a coward. He always bowed his head. He was nothing like the fearless heroes of my stories. He would never die for a just cause.

Judea, this name was said to be pretty. My sister was envious of it as well. She was three years older than me and as demure as her ideal woman. I would challenge her to debates and she would wave me off as being silly. She asked me where I had gotten my ideals from and I would respond that I read at the library on Saturdays. She reprimanded me for having ideals in my head.

I would read many books, newspapers, speeches, signs, anything that would grant me knowledge. I  was told I was strange for my thoughts.

 I remember being turned away from the library by the librarian, a frail, thin, pale woman named Lucretia. She wore lipstick on her thin lips. Her hands were bony and her mouth was ready to hurl ‘Nigger’ at me any chance she got.

Her eyes burned with a satisfaction as she most likely thought I would cry. But I ignored her anyway, quietly reading books and placing them perfectly back into their correct spots until the library closed. Lucretia tired herself out as I pretended to be deaf.

She would nod a me after all these years in the streets, grocery, and library. She would inquire what I  read at times, I would answer and ask how to pronounce certain words that were difficult to me. She would wait until all the people were gone and sit next to me. Neither of us had much in common but she would ponder why I read so many things that were unfit for me.

I could never answer her with anything witty or amazing. Simply I would say, ‘I like to read. I’ll read anything.’

Lucretia and I developed and a sort of kinship, she explained to me that she wished to be a lawyer or a judge. She was articulate enough for it. But she would smile bitterly, her age, her weariness and her fears would show on her face. She told me her father would beat her when she was younger, around my age, spit on her and finally had sent her off to marry her cousin.

She told me that she hated her children, in-bred and dumb, that she hated her husband, that she hated her family, that she even hated God sometimes.

At this time I would lean my head on her shoulder. She at first asked to touch my hair and I let her. She smiled at the softness of it and asked me why I didn’t straighten it like other negro girls, I’d say that If I was to be born with straight hair then I would have it. Laughing she continued to wonder about my strangeness. I pondered about her pain and hatred of her life.

“Lucretia, teach me to judge, teach me the law and teach me pain.” I asked.

She told me as a negro girl I would experience more pain than she did, judge better than she did and learn the law better than she did.

“Mama, I’m going to the library, there’s a party. If you want some cake I’ll bring you some.” I called out to my mother. My mother looked shocked.

“You love the library, don’t cha, chil’?” She asked, her lips upturned and proud but her eyes were frightened.

“Mhm.” I said walking towards the front door.

“You’re almost in high school now. You can go to any one of ‘em.” She held my elbow. I could smell the roasted chicken and her sweat congested in our tiny kitchen. But her hands felt heavy, almost painful on my elbow.

“Even the white schools, you can go. But you don’t need to since ain’t nothin’ wrong with our schools.” She was scared.

“I wouldn’t mind going to their schools. It would be interesting.” My mother grabbed her my elbow tighter. I tried to pry her hands from me. Her nails dug in my skin. I looked at her face noticing how old she had gotten. She was like a skeleton or some witch.

She was sweating and looked tired. But fear was woven into her features.

“A few of our own kids have gotten killed by ‘em.”

“I can manage.”

“Girls have gotten raped and killed.”

“I’ll be fine, I have to go to the library.”

 She was crying. I placed my hand on her shoulder.  I turned and headed towards the door.

At the library, there was a party. They had cake and Lucretia was smiling as I walked in. I nodded into her hug. I sat quietly by some used law books and read as I ate cake, careful not to get any on the book’s pages. The pages were crumpled.

“What high school are you going to, since they’re integrating the schools?” Lucretia asked as she sat down next to me. Some people were staring at her and me. Disgust and amusement played in their eyes. Their faces seemed to morphed into a creature. This creature was my interpretation and manifestation of the southern mind of those blessed with fair, saltine, pinkish skin.

“Judea, did you hear me?” Lucretia asked me.

“Chelsea-Hewitt.” Lucretia stared at me, her faces showed hesitation and foreboding. The shadows cast upon it by the lighting made her look as old as she did when we first met, she looked almost as ghastly as my mother.

“Won’t you reconsider, Judea-dear?” Judea-dear, she never called me that. I stare at the faces of those still remaining in the library. I try to stare them down hard and make them remorseful, but they don’t break under my stare. It’s so many of them and not enough of me.

“Why are you saying that? Negro or not, the government of this country said I could go, so why are you adults trying to scare me?” If my voice was loud, I did not intend for it to be. Several skinny-bird chest boys were staring at me. There eyes were begging to be blackened by my brown fists.

“Some things happened to three negro boys who went there and one negro girl.”

“They were killed and the girl was raped.” Maybe it was the emotionless tone in my voice that made Lucretia shake her head at me.

“How does your mama deal with you? A girl who ain’t scared of jackshit. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that school, White-Dragon’s son goes there. Handsome boy, he is but he and his Daddy out to exterminate as many negros as they can. You might be fearless , but you can’t fight them.”