Chapter 1

No matter what you may have heard about Macon, Georgia—the majestic magnolias, gracious antebellum homes, the bright stars it produced that went on to dazzle the world—if you were Emma Robinson, bubbling with teenage angst and lucid dreaming about silver-winged sparrows gliding over a perfumed ocean, well then, Macon felt less like the promised land and more like a noose.

Emma, the lone girl, the last child behind three brothers, was born on June 19. Juneteenth—one of the most revered days on the Negro calendar. Triply blessed with a straight nose, milky-brown complexion, and soft hair that would never have to endure the smoldering teeth of a hot comb.

Emma Robinson lived with her family in a mint-green and white L-shaped Victorian cottage located in the highfalutin colored section of Macon known as Pleasant Hill—a district peopled with doctors, lawyers, ministers, and teachers. Not a maid or ditch digger amongst them.

In her home, she had many pets: a brown mutt called Peter, a calico named Samantha, and Adam and Eve, a pair of lovebirds that lived in a cage so ornate, it resembled a crown.

The Robinson family traveled the city in a shiny black buggy, pulled by not one but two horses.

Emma should have been christened Riley because that’s whose life she was living. Not only that, she was a natural-born pianist who took to the classics as easily as flame to paper. Emma could listen to a piece of music once and replicate it perfectly. She was so skilled that at the age of seven her minister father installed her as the lead organist in his church.

Reverend Tenant M. Robinson was a dark-skinned, rotund man whose spirited sermons at the Cotton Way Baptist Church attracted a large and dedicated following. On Sunday mornings, those parishioners who did not have the good sense to arrive early enough to claim a seat found themselves standing in the vestibule or shoulder to shoulder against a wall.

Emma’s mother, Louisa Robinson, was a beautiful, soft-spoken woman who had come to God late in life, but now walked in his light with grace and humility.

On the outside, Emma didn’t seem to want for anything, but let’s be clear—she was starving on the inside. Not the coal-burning-belly type of hunger of the destitute, but the agonizing longing of a free spirit, caged.

Emma’s best friend was Lucille Nelson, who’d been singing in the church choir for as long as Emma had been playing the organ. Their renditions of “Steal Away to Jesus,” “Amazing Grace,” and “Go Down Moses” rattled the wood-slated church and brought the congregation to their feet.

While they loved singing about the Lord, whenever the girls could escape their parents’ watchful eyes, they headed down to the juke joint on Ocmulgee River. There, hidden in the tall grass, they spied on those shaking, shimmying sinners who raised glasses of gut liquor to the very music Emma’s father vehemently railed against.

“The blues promotes the devil’s glee,” he growled from the pulpit, “encouraging infidelity and lawlessness!”

Sometimes, when Lucille was washing dishes and passing them off to her mother Minnie to dry, those sinful songs found there way onto her tongue.

Minnie would cock her head and ask, “Where’d you hear that from?”

And Lucille would just laugh, grab Minnie’s soapy hands, and dance her around the kitchen.