The Boy and the Artist

A short story. Written while listening to Iron & Wine

Like any artist without an art form, she became dangerous – Sula by Toni Morrison

Like any artist with no art form, she had become dangerous, a threat to both herself and to the others, and no one was safe. From her fiery gaze, they hid behind paper thin doors through which they could hear her crushing steps thumping through their village. Fearful of her booming voice, they cowered and shook so viciously that the coins in their pockets rattled together and made a sort of little song. Enticed, she danced a little dance, hopping from one foot to another, flailing her arms and lifting her skirt, exposing her ankles, thin and strong, her calves – all muscle and smooth skin. Her knees were discolored from rocks, concrete and hard wood floors. They were no stranger to the ground just as her face was no stranger to the heavens.

The others peeked out from behind their paper thin doors to see her dance and ceased their trembles to watch her spin - round, round, round - not sure if she was laughing or crying, until she hit the ground. And the world was never so serene as when she kneeled on the ground – face to the sky, palms following suit. But the wails that came next were too severe to bear. They screamed danger, and like any artist without an art form she was dangerous. A threat to herself and to the others.
They plugged their ears to block her cries and hummed from under covers to deflect those, her deepest woes. Always wet, ready to flow, it seemed that God had given her eyes so only she could cry. And cry she did. So long and hard that she began to shake with so much force that the ground began to quake until the others could not stand without holding on. They held tight to walls and chairs, anything that was theirs, for so long that their knuckles began to raw and they could only think that it must be love. For who but the broken hearted could cry that way. ‘Til the skies turned gray and made the waters stay, in still and salty rivers.
The waters started rising, from her thin and strong ankles to her calves, all muscle and smooth skin, then hit her knees, abused from years of wailing and then her thighs off of which the others could never keep their eyes. The soft fabric of her dress was caught in the wind and it was such a sight to see. A floating photo of her thighs, so smooth and soft, reflected on the waters that always seemed to stop right beneath them. Always right exactly there.
She was… wading in her own tears.

And fear overpowered their curiosity for all but one small boy with a pocket full of coins. They weighed him down as he made his way to her, quickly kicking his legs in the salty river and paddling his arms to stay afloat. He arrived at her side and he called to her in a small voice that could not compare to her wailing but he held out, treading in the still river of her tears until her steady cries became scattered yelps became silent sighs of exhaustion.
She quickly turned her head to see who was there and was met with the curious wide eyes of the boy with pockets heavy from coins. She reached out to him and as the others watched on from behind paper thin doors and through finger smudged windows, he reached, also, to her and did not tremble or fret when she pulled him out of the waters and placed him onto a floating by plank.

“Why are you crying?”
She was taken aback by such a question, a question she’d never been asked or had thought to ask herself. “Because God gave me eyes to cry.”

“And lips to smile,” he replied.
But when she had smiled, no one smiled back. Her tears, though, had made them watch and be mindful. Mindful of the way her strange and beautiful face would contort and her sweet gaping mouth would produce such heart quaking howling.            

The boy sized her up and she did him and as he steadied himself on the plank he began to walk back and forth, rubbing his dainty chin and as he stepped so heavy, his coins began to rub against each other, tumble over one another and clang and chime. As they did, her smile grew wide and her wounded knees began to sway back and forth - those knees that were no stranger to the ground and knew rocks, concrete and hard wood floors. Her feet whirled about the water, making tiny twisters and she threw up her gown and let it float back down over her thighs, off of which the others could never keep their eyes.

And there, in her still and salty river, she danced. Danced and danced. And the boy stomped his feet and made for her, music.

The others watched on and smiles and grins crept up onto their faces as joy welled up in their souls. Gathering on the banks of the river, they congregated, clapping and waving and dancing along, swaying. And they saw that she was a threat to neither herself nor the others but a joyful artist who had found her art form. 

Tired

TIRED

            A 21^st century response to Fenton Johnson’s 1918 poem.

I am tired of expectations; I am tired of holding up somebody else’s made up roles.

Let me relax for a moment

And then

I’m gonna walk up to the city, turn my face up to the marquee and drink in the idea of a memory of the world that is supposed to be mine.

I will shake off the responsibility to make the cotton fields mean something more

Then uncuff my own shackles of making up for lost time

For the women who birthed me

And the men who kept me fed

I just wanna be in the city sipping gin with Zora, laughing about Tea Cakes we loved and fear to love. Crying with Nella about passing for something we ain’t but don’t haveta be to be…

Throw the future in the Hudson, sink it down with the past.

It is better to die than it is to grow up and find out that you are

colored

covered

molded

to be some stand in for a dream that was lynched on a sticky red poplar then            castrated and burned

Catch the shooting stars by their tails and connect the lines of the drinking gourd then follow it North until you are

no

longer

tired.