The Old South
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The New South
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Have things changed?
Into The Water
In this fictionalized short story, Money Mississippi, notorious for the brutal murder of Emmett Till has had a one hundred and eighty-degree turn from its old ways. A mile from the infamous Bryant’s Grocery and Meat Market sits a big shiny blue Walmart along an avenue populated with fast food restaurants and a Starbucks. Young black men with pants sagging walk along the broad sidewalks holding their girlfriend’s hands. No one bats an eye if the girl is blue-eyed and blond. At times a pickup truck bearing confederate flag license plates will rev its engine, but the young seem unfazed. A prosperous black population lives along the banks of the Tallahatchie River. Their ranks culled from nearby military installations and new industry. Still, taboos exist, and people remember the old Money Mississippi you will wonder if the spirit of Emmett lurks in the murky waters of the Tallahatchie. |
The Fan
What y’all aim to find by digging up his old bones? Old old bones, old and innocent bones Why y’all want to disturb him? He ain’t with his bones. He down here in the muck with me and ain’t nobody trying to dig my rusty ass up. His Mama, bless her heart, she got the bones and that head that looked like a bad cabbage. Thousands seen it in Chicago. Millions through Jet. Where was my picture? I suffered. I used to gleam prissy and howl now mud bugs nest in my teeth. I kept the good stuff off that boy—his spirit, his soul, his spleen caressed it out of his naked body The real Emmett sometimes he runs up the road to Money gooses that white gal between her legs—boy still gots that spunk in him. Then he runs back to me for shelter. Carolyn wakes up, rubs her thigh goes back to sleep. 1955 was a long time ago She wants to rest. I want to rest, and even Emmett. You got the pictures. You won’t forget Every now and agin some black boy still gets drugged behind a car, still gets strung up in a tree or the roof rafters of a county jail They still make fans like me heavy enough to drown boyish devilment. |
An Excerpt
Mamie looked at Jill’s hair. The top of her head zigzagged in cornrows while long blond braids cascaded over her shoulders.
“People are talking.”
“I can’t help folks talk.”
“I know this town. Just because you spent time in New York with that Puerto Rican don’t mean you can bring them ways to this place.”
“Don’t forget I was born here too a couple of decades after you—thank God. That era you’re talking about died up the road. That old store is about to fall down. Those times have already fallen by the wayside. These are new times. Nobody gives a shit about who I sleep with but you.”
“Fool, those old ways ain’t dead. You done forgot about your daddy?”
“Him and his kind don’t count anymore. And men don’t give a shit about the man who rode my belly before them. My stomach could read like the Vietnam War Memorial, and who would give a shit? You know what they ask when they get through fucking me?”
Mamie looked off.
“They ask have I ever had it like that before. Black and white, it’s the same damn question. Last month I stared telling them, ‘Yes, I have, darling.’ You ought to see the lights go out of their eyes. Men don’t give a damn about race anymore. It’s all about their ego and dick getting some action.”
Mamie looked at Jill’s hair. The top of her head zigzagged in cornrows while long blond braids cascaded over her shoulders.
“People are talking.”
“I can’t help folks talk.”
“I know this town. Just because you spent time in New York with that Puerto Rican don’t mean you can bring them ways to this place.”
“Don’t forget I was born here too a couple of decades after you—thank God. That era you’re talking about died up the road. That old store is about to fall down. Those times have already fallen by the wayside. These are new times. Nobody gives a shit about who I sleep with but you.”
“Fool, those old ways ain’t dead. You done forgot about your daddy?”
“Him and his kind don’t count anymore. And men don’t give a shit about the man who rode my belly before them. My stomach could read like the Vietnam War Memorial, and who would give a shit? You know what they ask when they get through fucking me?”
Mamie looked off.
“They ask have I ever had it like that before. Black and white, it’s the same damn question. Last month I stared telling them, ‘Yes, I have, darling.’ You ought to see the lights go out of their eyes. Men don’t give a damn about race anymore. It’s all about their ego and dick getting some action.”
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