All aboard, p.1
All Aboard, page 1
ALL ABOARD
PATRICIA E. FORTÉ
ALL ABOARD
Copyright © 2022 Patricia E. Forté.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Author Credit: Author of The Cambridge Way
ISBN: 978-1-6632-3815-3 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6632-3816-0 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022906287
iUniverse rev. date: 04/08/2022
CONTENTS
Special Acknowledgments
If Trees Could Talk
Sick and Tired of Bein’ Sick and Tired
You Ain’t Gon’ Tell, Is You, Mama?
You Ever Wonder?
A Whiff of Freedom
‘Member When You Was a Woman?
Come Here, Wench!
Nothin’ but the Blues
Gettin’ Even
Cotton Is King!
Don’t Forgit ’bout Us, Lawd
Psst! Psst! Odie!
I’ve Been Doing Some Thinking
Joy Juice
OK, Here’s the Plan
We Both Slaves—You Jus’ Can’t See Your Chains
Gettin’ Ready for Church
Take Me to the River
This Ain’t Yo’ Business!
After the Dust Settled
What Happened to Bunny?
An Angel Goes Home
A Bell Ain’t a Bell if It Don’t Ring
Things Ain’t What They Used to Be
Back to the Future
Afterword
Author’s Note
To Blanche Berry
and the boys:
Odell, Donell, and Glenn
SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish to thank Rose Mitchell, director of the Black Resource Center at the A. C. Bilbrew Library in Los Angeles, for her vision. She realized the community needed a writers’ workshop to give voice to potential writers in the area. Many thanks and much gratitude go to Odie and Zola Hawkins for their guidance and words of encouragement in the Bilbrew Writers’ Workshop.
Navaline Smith “enlisted” in the Bilbrew Writers’ Workshop, and we became sistas in combat as we rolled with the punches that Odie Hawkins delivered in his effort to help us get rid of bad writing habits. I thank her for her support and camaraderie.
I want to give special thanks to Caldonia Joyce, who helped me with the layout and editing of my book. She also gave me good advice on when to let go of a project. Procrastination seems to be a trait I’m slowly shedding.
Note: I have used quotes from former slaves at the beginning of each chapter that reflect the authentic speech patterns of that day. The Federal Writers’ Project (FWP) was created in the 1930s as part of the Works Progress Administration (WPA). Former slaves were interviewed, and their first-person narratives were compiled. Their voices from the past echo their plight in the halls of American history. It is vital to be sensitive to the biases of the interviewers and the FWP editors, and the memory and candor of these former slaves.
IF TREES COULD TALK
Into each life some rain must fall, but that just
makes the ground fertile for the next generation.
Greenville, Mississippi
June 2018
A late-model silver Lexus moves quickly through a tree-lined, middle-class neighborhood. The occupants inside the car bounce and rock as they sing upbeat lyrics to their favorite songs. Their spirits are high, and their voices are loud.
The young girl in the back seat picks up her hairbrush and uses it as a mic. “There’s a party goin’ on right here—oh, yeah!”
Her brother playfully snatches the hairbrush and does his solo. “I’m so happy this day finally came! I’m ready to set the world on fire!”
The parents in the front seat join them again as they playfully sing offkey. “We’re so happy this day finally came too!”
Most of the homes they pass are brick colonial with white shutters on the front windows. These homes are separated by large, manicured lawns. As the Williams family pulls into the driveway, the garage door rolls up. The sedan stops just outside the garage at 13611 Oak Tree Lane.
Madge, in her mid-forties and stylishly dressed in a two-piece off-white ensemble, exits the passenger side with her designer handbag and a graduation program. She’s an attractive woman, physically fit; her hair is cut stylishly short.
Kevin Sr., in his late forties, exits the driver side in a light-blue tailored shirt and navy blue pin-stripe slacks. He hits the button on his key pad, and the car trunk opens. He removes his pin-stripe suit jacket. Kevin Sr. is tall with broad shoulders; he has an infectious smile that seems to come from his heart. He’s known for his integrity and common sense.
The man of the hour, Kevin Jr., and his younger sister, Allison, prepare to exit the rear. Kevin is seventeen, clean-cut, and good-looking; he’s dressed in Dockers and a checkered shirt. Allison is twelve, tall for her age, thin, with large brown eyes. She wears her brown shoulder-length hair in a ponytail. She’s wearing a colorful summer dress with spaghetti straps—her first real grown-up dress.
Kevin Jr. spends some time gathering his cap and gown and two large bags of presents. Allison helps out by carrying her brother’s three large, colorful balloons, one reading “Congratulations.”
The four enter their home using the garage door to the kitchen. Madge heads to the stove to check on her pots. She lifts the top of the big pot and inhales the spicy aroma coming from her main dish. She turns the flame under both pots ever so low to reheat them for dinner.
She closes her eyes and nods her head in approval as she takes in the aroma, “Yes-s-s-s.”
Allison ties the balloons to the staircase banister and runs upstairs to her room.
Hearing Allison bouncing up the stairs, Madge calls out, “You looked really cute in your new dress, missy. I saw Mildred’s long headed grandson grinning at you all through the ceremony. I hope I don’t have to use your daddy’s pistol this summer to run these boys away.”
Allison laughs as she reaches the second-floor landing. “Don’t worry, Mama. Terry Ann and I don’t have time for such riffraff.” She reaches her bedroom door and adds, “Besides, long-headed Jerald’s spending the summer at his dad’s.”
“Lucky for him!” Madge says, half joking, half serious.
Kevin Sr. and Junior, as he’s called by his family, have made their way to their favorite room, the family den.
Madge sheds her jacket and heels in the hall closet. She finds her apron and house shoes in the pantry before heading back to the kitchen. While tasting and adding a little more seasoning, she calls out with a smile on her face, “Did y’all see what Ms. Keegan had on? Lord, now you know that woman oughta stop!”
Kevin and Junior both laugh as they shake their heads.
“That woman gives ‘cougars’ a bad name,” Madge calls out. “I’m surprised the school board hasn’t issued her some type of warning. They ought to give her one for … bad taste! Did you see her date? Lord, have mercy!”
Junior shouts back, “She likes ’em young and tender, Mom. Always has. You know that. Her new boy toy’s got to be in his thirties.”
“And that poor woman’s got to be in her sixties if she’s a day. Help her, Lord!”
“Hey, Mom, Jeffrey and the guys are coming over. We may go to the mall and catch a movie or something.”
Kevin Sr. has been flipping channels on his huge plasma screen TV, looking for a good game. “Y’all ain’t got no parties lined up, playa, playa?”
Allison, now in her favorite top and cutoff jeans, passes by on her way to the kitchen. She can’t resist putting her two cents in. “They’ll have plenty of time for that in college. Oh yes, drinking … drugs … parties … girls.”
“And studying.” Junior puts her in check.
Allison’s response is barely audible as she makes her way to the kitchen. “Who are we kidding?”
Kevin Sr. turns to his son. “You all set?”
“Yeah, we’re going to check out the dorms next week.”
“You and Jeffrey gonna be roommates ?”
“We’re gonna try. We’re supposed to take our paperwork and dorm fees in next week.”
“So … you’re gonna be a Morehouse man.”
“Well, you were,” Junior says with obvious pride.
Finally finding a good basketball game, Kevin Sr. gets comfortable in his favorite chair. “Oh, yeah, MSU versus Texas A&M. This oughta be good.”
Junior begins going through his presents on the sofa. He pulls out several envelopes with gift cards inside. His face lights up. He pulls out a wallet, an iPad, a Notebook, several shirts, and a nice watch.
Kevin Sr. glances over and watches his son. “We’ve come a long way, son. Our forefathers struggled so we could get an education. Don’t take it lightly.”
“I won’t, Pops. I promise.” Junior looks around the room at his father’s many accomplishments as a public service commissioner. He checks out the photos of his father with distinguished politicians and community leaders. He smiles as he reminisces about the times some of these dignitaries visited his home—Martin Luther King Jr., Stokely Carmichael, John Lewis, Medgar Evers, and even Muhammad Ali. His many plaques and certificates line the rich mahogany walls.
Just then, a 1965 restored Mustang, painted candy-apple red, comes rolling down the street, bumping to the sounds of Jay-Z’s “Hard Knock Life.” The bass is so loud that the music resonates throughout the car. The windows are down and two heads are bouncing up and down.
The Mustang, with a license plate reading BORN TO WIN, pulls right up behind the silver Lexus. Jeffrey and Matt jump out the car and head for the front door. Both seventeen, Matt looks older; he’s two to three inches taller than Jeffrey and sports a light mustache and goatee and dreadlocks. Jeffrey looks his age, maybe younger. He’s proud of the thick Mohawk on his head. He’s always had a baby face, and the girls love it. He fancies himself a chick magnet.
Madge sees the two boys out her kitchen window, and before they can ring the bell, she opens the front door. “Junior’s in the man cave with his dad,” she says without preamble as she heads back to the kitchen. She pauses for a moment and turns to her guests. “Hey, guys, y’all want some good ol’ chicken and dumplings? Come. Taste.”
Without hesitation, the two change direction and follow Mrs. Williams to the kitchen.
“Yeah, boy! I’m always down for some good ol’ chicken and dumplings.”
They each take a stool at the kitchen island. They exchange greetings with Allison, who is making a garden salad at one end of the kitchen counter. Madge hovers over a big pot on the stove.
“OK, so it’s not really chicken and dumplings. It’s really egusi soup and fufu.”
Matt and Jeffrey look at each other and then, suspiciously, at Madge.
“E … what?” Matts asks.
“Egusi soup and fufu. This dish is very popular in Africa. I think you’ll like it.”
“And why are we eating some African dish? I had my heart set on some good ol’ Southern chicken and dumplings.”
Ignoring the remark, Madge continues. “I’m using an old recipe passed down from my great-great-grandmother Lila. No, no, I mean my great-great-great-grandmother. It’s so many greats, I get confused. Anyway, she was a slave, and they say she was a feisty little thing. She used African seasoning whenever she could get her hands on some.”
Madge takes her ladle, carefully scoops up her dish, and gently places it into two bowls. She lifts the top off the other pan and scoops out the fufu.
“Why don’t you just call it what it is—mashed potatoes?”
“Because this is not mashed potatoes, silly rabbit. This is simply flour mixed with hot water. This is fufu. You eat it like this.” Madge picks up the white substance with her fingers and dips it in Matt’s soup. She takes a bite and savors the spices in the soup.
She places a bowl before each teen. “Tell me what you think,” she says with anticipation.
Jeffrey doesn’t smile. “You say she used … African seasoning? Excuse me, Mrs. Williams. I think you got your facts wrong. True, the slaves came from Africa—”
“True that.” Matt co-signs.
“They came from Africa, but they didn’t remember that much about no Africa once they set foot on American soil.”
Madge can’t help herself. She laughs. “What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis? Listen, chile, they came from Africa, and they brought Africa with them. Look, you just can’t erase your heritage, Jeffrey. I don’t care where they put you. The slavers just happened to bring our ancestors across a large body of water to a strange land, but our people didn’t forget their culture. They came here half naked. They were scared, fearful, sick, and smelling like urine and shit. They were worn out. They didn’t have no suitcases. They carried their culture in their hearts. Where do you think we got our okra from? The women brought okra over in their hair decorations. Where do you think we got our peanuts, yams, and good ol’ watermelon from?”
“Don’t tell me watermelons!”
“Yes, Matt, watermelons—and you know you love ’em.”
“True that.”
“They say even playing the dozens came from Africa—they played games like that in Nigeria and Ghana,” Allison offers, never missing a beat in cutting up her salad.
Madge adds, “That may be true, but some say they sold groups of deformed slaves in Louisiana by the dozen. To be sold as part of the dozen was a low blow. That meant you didn’t amount to much. Anyway, they brought a lot of things with them from Africa. Now, go on and taste.”
Madge studies their faces. Jeffrey has a confused look as he picks up the fufu and dips it in the thick soup. He swallows.
Matt watches him and follows suit. He decides to savor the new seasonings in his mouth before swallowing. He frowns. “This is … different. I don’t think my tongue is ready for all this.” Matt studies the dish before him.
“What do you think, Jeffrey? Is it bringing back memories of your homeland? Try it again.”
Jeffrey slowly picks up more fufu and dips it in the soup. He takes a deep breath and tries it again.
“You’re tasting my Nigerian pumpkin seeds, my red palm oil, my tomato sauce, shrimp, onions, spinach, ground melon seeds, ground crayfish, and some good ol’ goat leg.”
Jeffrey spits out his food. He quickly cleans up his mess with a paper towel. “Sorry, Mrs. Williams. You caught me off guard. I don’t know if I’ve ever had goat.”
“There’s always a first time for everything, Jeffrey. How you like my seasoning? I think I followed this African recipe pretty closely.”
“No disrespect, Mrs. Williams, but you got to remember they were slaves.” Matt pronounces his next words very slowly, as if he’s trying to help her understand. “They worked from sun up to sun down, from see to can’t see. That’s all they did. They didn’t remember anything about Africa and no recipes. They didn’t have the time, and they didn’t have the resources.”
Jeffrey co-signs. “I know you’re educated and all, Mrs. Williams, but you have to remember they worked on a plantation. They worked, they suffered, they died. That’s it. End of story. Sorry. They didn’t know who they were. They came over here speaking all kinds of different languages. They couldn’t even talk to one another until they all learned English.”
From the man cave, Junior calls out, “Y’all giving my mother grief?”
“Don’t worry, baby!” Mrs. Williams says. “I got this! I’m trying to educate these two knuckleheads, but it’s not easy. One’s blind and the other can’t see!”
Jeffrey and Matt nudge each other, as if gearing up for round two.
Madge catches their moves, “Oh, so this is gonna be a tag team. No problem.” She looks over at Allison, who is busy chopping away. “You got my back?”
“I got your back, Mom.”
Madge begins with, “How do you know what happened on the plantation? Were you there?”
Jeffrey answers, “No, but I read about life as a slave. We had class projects on it.”
