Big Ma was still talking about the nice white man who didn’t have me arrested, whipped, or strung up. She assured me that all of the above would have happened if we were down home in Autauga County, Alabama. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why I didn’t humbly and full-out apologize. Didn’t I value any of my eleven years and ten months? She said, “It’s that no-mothering mother we got to thank for all of this.” After paying tribute to Cecile, she swore I had stepped on the known and unknown graves of every Charles, Gaither, and Trotter who had to bow and scrape before the white man to keep from getting strung up in an oak tree or drowned in the Alabama River.
Our suitcases couldn’t have arrived any sooner. I grabbed the largest bag, and Vonetta grabbed the next. Big Ma went to take the smallest bag, but Fern took the handle quickly. “I can carry it,” she said, and we lugged our suitcases outside.
The storm over New York had been mild. Barely enough to cool things off.
By now Big Ma had worn herself out scolding me in the names of our family and my lack of good common sense. She wiped her forehead but looked hot and oppressed under her wig and hat. Her “Second Sunday” outfit was soaked around the neck and armholes. There was nothing left to do with her wet handkerchief but to stick it back inside her purse.
We stood at the curb of the terminal where taxis pulled up and wives jumped out of station wagons to kiss their husbands and hand over car keys. A bell captain helped two older girls in jeans and T-shirts get a footlocker and two suitcases inside the back of a Chevy. I made out a blue crown on one T-shirt and under it, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY. The bell captain slammed the trunk door down, the word NOW in big, bowl-curved letters above the license plate. The back side of the car sagged but everything fit. The bell captain tapped the trunk and the Chevy drove away. My eyes followed the girls and their Chevy, wanting to drive far. Now.
I didn’t drift for long. There were people standing a ways off to the side, also waiting. I didn’t have to turn to look at them. The color black atop their heads came through well enough in my side vision. They were the Mickey-Mouse-ears wearers from the bathroom.
I was glad Big Ma had stopped blaming Cecile and me for everything and was now worried about the hot, sticky air and when Pa would drive up “in that car of his.”
Only days ago Vonetta, Fern, and I were painting protest signs and shouting, “FREE HUEY!” and “POWER TO THE PEOPLE!” Right now, the last thing I could do was to speak up. The last thing I had was any power at all. The only thing I had from being at the People’s Center with Sister Mukumbu and Sister Pat was the word for the opposite of power: Oppression. The power to do nothing but keep my mouth shut.
I let Big Ma go on and prayed my sisters wouldn’t start talking about the People’s Center, the Black Panthers, our adventures in San Francisco, and most of all, Cecile. I just wanted Pa to drive up in the Wildcat and take us back to Herkimer Street.
I heard singing. Two of the kids in mouse ears sang while pointing to Fern, “Pee-pee girl, do a dance. Pee-pee girl. Wet your pants.”
Fern cried out, “I did not wet my pants!” She banged her fists against her sides. This would be the point where she’d leap on Vonetta, they’d tussle, and then I’d have to pry them apart.
The kids kept singing their “pee-pee-girl” song, locking their arms in a Mexican hat dance, skipping around to the left, then around to the right. The best I could do was stand to the side of Fern to block her from seeing them and them from seeing her.
Big Ma turned to Fern and said, “Smile at your friends.”
Fern folded her arms and said, “They are not my friends.”
Then Big Ma was ashamed of Fern, and I was ashamed of Big Ma.
The mother said to the singing and dancing two of her three, “That’s enough.” All three kids stuck out their tongues at Fern.
Big Ma smiled. She didn’t just fear and love white people. She feared and loved their children.
I wanted Cecile to be standing here next to us and not Big Ma. Cecile wouldn’t tell us to smile at anyone who tried to oppress us. Cecile would scare them like Black Panthers scare people just by being black and not smiling and by shouting words like power and oppression.
Finally a Volkswagen bus drove up to the curb and the Mouseketeers waved at its driver. The bus was like one we’d seen in San Francisco painted with daisies, peace signs, and Flower Power written in groovy colors. But there were no psychedelic rainbows and groovy words painted on this bus. Just a greenish-blue color with white trim and a white vw below the dashboard. With the bell captain’s help, the family loaded up their bus and, one by one, the kids climbed into the backseats. I was glad we’d soon be rid of them. The father got back into the driver’s seat, but the mother didn’t get in, although the baggage porter was nice enough to open a door for her. She headed straight our way. She walked up to Big Ma and said, “You should have a better handle on these rascals.” To me, she said, “You should be ashamed, young lady.” She marched over to her Volkswagen bus and climbed into the front passenger seat and the baggage porter slammed the door. Pleased with herself, she clunked down a nod, her Mickey Mouse ears still on.
I turned to face Big Ma to explain. Before I saw it coming, I got the one thing Big Ma always promised in her scolding: the sting of her right hand.
I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my face. My face burned and the salt trickled down my cheek but I wouldn’t utter a sound. The humiliation of being hit like that in front of my sisters hurt more than the slap itself. I held it inside because it was the only power I had.
Big Ma’s face was screwed up tight around the lips and jaw but she managed to say, “I don’t know what you did, but I know one thing. It was wrong enough for that white woman to come over here, and it was bad enough she thought you had something coming.”
Big Ma didn’t stop scolding until the bluish-green Volkswagen was well on its way.
Vonetta inched nearer to me and I felt Fern’s small hands over mine.
Then I saw the Wildcat.