LIFE OF A FIREFLY
CHAPTER 1
MISS BECKY AND THE SILENT SISTER
Hey Sister girl, now what you got to say?
Don't sit there, head down, like you fend to pray
Sister girl, you hear me?
I said what's wrong with you?
Black cat got yo' tongue and his white devil too?
Baby girl, open yo' mouth
and use dem pretty words
I'll give you chiffon pie, with sweet lemon curd
All right dat's it. Now I gits my switch
God knows I ain't trying to raise no lil' witch!
The sky was black as blood pudding, but our front yard was filled with swarming lights. The entire town smelled of honeysuckle and fresh-cut jasmine. My bare feet raced through the wildflowers that grew around the tall maple tree. It was planted by my great-uncle Lloyd. I ran faster, grabbing at the jasmine-scented air until I caught hold of a light. I held it tightly in my hand, waving my fist above my head.
“I dare you!” Glory said.
“What you gonna give me if I do?” I asked.
“Uhhh, my new pencil,” she answered.
“I want the silver crayon from the new box.”
“Red.”
“Silver!”
“Well . . . okay,” she said reluctantly.
Then I swallowed the firefly.
I
just popped it in my mouth, took a deep breath, and swallowed hard. I didn't expect it to go down so easily, but it did. Then Glory pulled up my t-shirt to take a look at my belly just as Grandma came out on the porch swinging her large wooden spoon.
“Sandy! Glory! Y'all might be as black as coal dust, but I see y'all rippin' and runnin' through my flowerbeds. Now git!” she yelled. We both ran screaming and hid behind the big maple tree.
“Young Philistines,” she mumbled, as she went back into the house.
Glory was always daring me to do this or that, like touch electric wires or climb into hog pens or jump off the smokehouse roof. I always did it because she was my big sister, and with age comes authority.
Now she resumed the inspection of my belly. “Awww . . . ain't nothin' happen.” Disappointed, she went into the house letting the screen door slam behind her.
I patted and rubbed my stomach, hoping to move the little insect into motion and to urge its light to come on. Nothing. The screen door opened and Glory stomped over with the silver crayon in her hand. It was from the box that held her prized collection. Looking down at the red dirt, she slowly handed it to me, and without any hesitation, I grabbed it and ran inside.
I found my coloring book under my bed in the corner. Now I could finally finish the unicorn’s tail and horn. Glory came in and plopped down next to me. I thought she just wanted to make sure I didn’t go outside the lines, but then she got up and left without saying a word.
*****
I arrived on the Earth, February 2, 1954 at a charity hospital in Chicago on one of the coldest days of the year. Actually, I was born in the elevator on the way up to the delivery room. It happened so fast, my mama didn't even have time to be amazed. I grew up partly in Texas, partly in Illinois. I guess my mama couldn't make up her mind. My mother named me Sandy because of the sandy color of my hair. To me it seemed a strange reason to name a person. What if my hair had been black or red or yellow? Now there weren't many enchantments or miracles back then, only a series of happenings, mistakes, and muddy memories as I'd like to call them.
My first muddy memory and the beginning of my mistakes started in 1957. I was three-years-old and Glory was five. We lived in a tiny red house in Hooks, Texas, with Uncle Timmy who was fifteen, and my grandmother, Miss Minnie Bell Forte. Grandma was around sixty years old—I'm guessing because who could really know how old their grandma was. I hold onto this memory because it was the summer that two important things happened: my mother, Janetta Mae, left us and went back to Chicago and, on the very same day, I almost got my right foot cut clean off.
Janetta Mae hadn't been gone no more than a few hours when it happened. I was out running free and wild in the tall grass on the far side of Grandma's house. My uncle Timmy was mowing the lawn, and I guess he didn't see me when I fell, because the next thing I remembered there were a lot of tall men yelling and running as Uncle Timmy picked me up and carried me inside the house. The tall men were Uncle Timmy's friends who'd just happened to come by so they could all go fishing. Grandma poured warm coal oil from our lamp all over my foot. I screamed so loud that heaven shut her windows. I thought she was trying to burn me alive, but she was only encouraging my foot to heal. Uncle Timmy would nearly faint at any sight of blood, so he held me down with his eyes closed. Grandma wrapped my foot in a clean white dish towel to stop the bleeding. I suppose I should have gone to a hospital, but we lived too far away from town and besides, nobody owned a car.
I cried loudly for my mother that night, only to be reminded that she was probably arriving at the Union Station in Chicago by then.
After my mother had gone, everything seemed to change, even Glory. At night, we used to make up silly knock-knock jokes, but then the silence took over. It was like Glory was still there—but not. There were a lot of serious, quiet gazes. I would see her and even touch her, but I could hardly ever hear her, because she rarely spoke. Instead of telling me her secrets, she chose to write them in her diary. This went on for many years, prompting Grandma to call her the silent sister.
My next memory was two years later when my Aunt Sarah returned home from college for winter break. I thought she was the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen. Her smooth, ebony skin glowed in the flickering lamplight. She had black curly hair and wore dark red lipstick that made her teeth look like a string of white pearls. Sometimes she would sit cross-legged on the floor in her wide pink poodle skirt and read to Glory and me exciting stories about pirates, slaves, and kings from her literature books. When it was story time, we'd follow and watch her open her big suitcase to see which book she would choose.
“Today is Christmas Eve and I've decided to read to you all a story from the Bible,” she said.
“Awwww, nooo!” we said in unison.
“It's about the birth of Jesus. And it's not a fable like the others, but it's about a true Christmas miracle.”
“Noooo!” we cried again. Aunt Sarah grabbed our hands and pulled us down to the floor facing her.
“And it's about this mean, old king named Herod, who was outsmarted by three wise Black kings from Africa. These kings were so rich that they brought bags of gold, incense, and myrrh just for Jesus' baby shower.”
“What's incense and myrrh?” I asked.
“Well now, just you be quiet and listen like Glory and um gonna explain.”
I watched as her red lips moved and raven-like black eyes darted over the pages. I hoped that one day I would grow up to be just like her, a free form of melted molasses pouring out fountains of knowledge into eager clay pots.
Later that day, Grandma came back from what she called the rag pile, about a mile from our house. That was where she would go looking for odds and ends that the White people in our town would throw away as rubbish. She'd brush the snow from her wool winter coat. And after she'd taken off her muddy boots, she'd plop down by the black coal-pipe stove in the living room. We all gathered around as she opened her big orange and yellow-flowered bag. The wider she pulled open the strings, the bigger our eyes grew.
“If you gits there early enough, you kin find a lotta nice things,” Grandma would say with a smile in her voice. And so she did. She'd found bits of yarn and pieces of gingham cloth that she'd use to make our Christmas presents. She also managed to find small, copper pots and pans for baking. She would scrub the copper pots until they shone like new pennies. As she baked, the smell of her chocolate teacakes and pecan pies filled the kitchen. It made my stomach growl like a baby polar bear. I wanted to sample everything, but Grandma would make us eat supper first.
That night Glory and I watched as scraps of thread and pieces of cloth turned into pretty, little dresses and dolls with smiling faces. Could this be another Christmas miracle? I wondered. Grandma's hands pulled the fabric effortlessly across her old Singer sewing machine as her foot peddled the lever in perfect harmony. She gathered cotton from an old pillow and stuffed it into worn socks, making the body of two rag dolls. Then, she sewed on glass buttons for eyes, red felt for lips, and black yarn for their hair that she tied in two ponytails with white ribbons. When she was finally done, the dolls looked like something you'd see in the window of Goldman's department store or in a Sears catalog.
When Grandma gave me my doll, I snatched her up and ran to my hiding place behind the big dresser. I'd never had anything that belonged just to me. I always had to share everything with Glory, even the prize from the Cracker Jack box. Once, she told Grandma there wasn't a prize in the box, even though I knew the people in the factory would never forget to put one in. Later, Uncle Timmy found the prize hidden behind the wood box in the kitchen. It was a whistle that he kept for himself.
As I looked into the kindness of my new friend's eyes, I could only think of one name for my doll: Rebekah Jane Savannah Forte. I found Glory sitting by the Christmas tree staring at her doll.
“What you gonna name yours?” I asked.
“Only real people got real names. Umma jus' call her Doll.”
Well, I didn't agree with that at all. But I'd never say that to Glory. She was, of course, my big sister. And back then, I thought big sisters were never to be told they were wrong about anything. Before I went to bed, I decided to ask Grandma.
“Glory said only real people got real names. Cain't I name my doll if I want to?”
“What did you name her?” she asked, as she pulled the quilt over me.
“Miss Rebekah Jane Savannah Forte. But I just calls her Miss Becky.”
“Well now, that's a real powerful name. How'd you come up with it?”
“The first part was from a story that Aunt Sarah told us. It was about a girl who saved her whole family from mean slave traders in Mississippi. And the last name of course is mine.”
“Well, my Bible says a good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold. So now, say your prayers and go to bed.”
I thought long and hard about what Grandma had said. I didn't know what any of it meant at the time, but it made my feelings quiet down until there was only the sound of Grandma's humming coming from the kitchen.
We carried our dolls everywhere we went. Grown-ups would stop us on the street and ask me about Miss Becky. White people as well as Black wanted to know where to buy them.
When it was time for Aunt Sarah to go back to college, we all went to the railway station in downtown Texarkana to give her a proper goodbye. That's when a White lady stopped us on the street, right in front of Betty Joe's bar and grill.
“Where did you get these pretty little dolls? I'd love to buy one for my daughter. Are they handmade?”
“No,” I said. “Dey made by my grandma. Dey made from rags she got outta the rag pile.”
“Hush up, Sandy,” Uncle Timmy said, pulling me to one side. “Don't tell folks dey comes from the rag pile. Say yo' grandma bought it for you.”
“But dat ain't true! Dey is come from the rag pile,” I said louder this time.
“Mind yo' big sister and do like she do. You see Glory knows when to be quiet,” Uncle Timmy whispered so people wandering out of the restaurant couldn't hear.
That was true. Going from totally silent to selective, Glory seemed to have a little policeman with a whistle inside her head that let her know when to say what. I didn't have anybody in my head telling me when to shut up. Most of the time words came out of my mouth so fast that I would stutter, trying to get them all to make sense. But it was right then that I realized there must be something terribly wrong with getting things from the rag pile and it was much better to buy new things from the store. So I kept my big mouth shut.
“Sandy! Glory! Git cleaned up and make sure you use plenty of Ivory soap. Supper's ready!” Grandma yelled from the kitchen.
After chasing our rooster back from Miss Lettie's house across the road, I started to feel the hunger pangs banging like a drum inside my stomach. I skipped washing up and ran inside. Glory came in later, her hands still wet from washing and sat down at the table.
“Sandy didn't wash,” Glory said.
“Did so,” I lied.
“Hold out yo' hands and let's see,” Grandma said.
“Awww, alright, alright. But why you need clean hands just to eat supper?” I whined as I got up and went on the back porch, grabbed the soap, and washed my hands in the wooden bucket by the door.
Grandma never complained too much about anything, not even my constant talking. As a matter of fact, she seemed to enjoy it. Like when she would read to us from her big, white Bible every night by the amber glow from the oil lamp. The flicker of light would make her brown cinnamon-colored skin glow. Her high cheekbones and swirls of silver-streaked hair spoke of her African and Native American ancestors. After reading a scripture, she would try to explain to us what it all meant.
“Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, says the Lord.”
“But, why do the children have to suffer? Is Jesus real mean?” I asked.
“Well now, to suffer right heah means to allow. Jesus ain't never been mean.” Then she'd point to a picture in her Bible of Jesus surrounded by smiling children.
“Then why don't he jus' say allow and leave the sufferin' part out?” I said. Grandma would just smile at me and pat me on the head. As I'd turn the thin, delicate pages, I was sure I would be able to find even more errors in her big Bible, if time permitted.
“So . . . what y'all wanna talk about today?” Grandma asked as she settled into her big chair.
I loved when she asked that question because she seemed to be filled with lots of wonderful stories, some scary, some funny, but always interesting. Sometimes she'd tell us stories about her life and little snatches of our family tree would come out.
“When you was little!” I yelled.
“Now let's see. Yo' great-grandmother, my mother, was a full Blackfoot Indian. My daddy—Lucius Brown was his name—was a real Black cowboy from Louisiana. Now, his mama and daddy was slaves out thare in Jackson County. But after the war, when theys all freed, they left Louisiana for Montana. Daddy was a ranch hand, skilled at taming young, wild horses. And back then, Mama was a young girl livin' on a reservation. One day, Daddy took a notion and rode out to where she lived. Well suh, Daddy took one look at Mama and he was smitten. The next day, he comes a-ridin' in on his big horse and jus' swoops Mama up and keeps on ridin'. Didn't stop 'til he gits clear out to the state of Texas and on into Red River County.”
“But Grandma, ain't that like kidnapping somebody?” I asked.
“Oh no, child. Ain't like dat at all. No suh. It was the Lord's will I 'spect, 'cause they grew to love one another.”
I got closer, looking deep into my grandmother's eyes. “But how you know it was the Lord's will? Did he send you some kind of message?”
“Well now you see, it's like this heah. I knows for sho' it was God, because if he hadn't done it, I wouldn't be heah. Neither would all of my nine sisters and brothers—your mother and you and Glory wouldn't be heah either. A whole generation of folks was just waitin' on Daddy and his horse to come a-ridin' in that day lookin' for Mama. Anyhow, now that you got me thinking back, it may have started out as an unholy act, but God knows how to turn things 'round. And befo' Daddy died, he went back to Montana to that reservation and made it right with the big chief. Daddy won over his heart so much dat the chief gave Daddy dis heah leather chain as a peace offerin'.”
She carefully unfolded a handkerchief she kept in her apron pocket, revealing a colorful, red-and-yellow armband made of rawhide. Glory and me both tried to grab the band to be the first to put it on.
Now, I wasn't sure how much of this story was true and how much was fable. But that night, with Miss Becky beside me, I lay awake for hours, imagining what it would be like to be a young Blackfoot Indian squaw living in a teepee on the reservation. I'd picture myself out in a field gathering ripe corn in my apron,or weaving baskets from dried husks and painting them with dye made from the earth and red flowers. I imagined that if I needed a new coat, I'd stretch deer hide and hang it out to dry in the sun. As I fell asleep, I could almost smell the aroma of salmon smoking over coals in the fire pit.
