Chapter Four
(Excerpt from ILICET - The Missing Letter)

Beneath the golden overcast, scattered cliques of blue bonnets and daisies danced with the wild grass. The surround sounds were energetic and every bit as crass as the cross winds.

Scents of sweaty black boys strutting deft moves intermingled with the scents of earth and of wildflowers and of the city. And the winds lifted every whiff into the global milieu.

Blossoming girls, not yet apprised of foreign feminine practices, like underarm shaving, and not yet freed from the Jezebel sin of toe-nail polishing, stood idly by, while some whispered. Some others bopped their heads and flicked their hips, as if to declare they also have as much shake in their booties as do restless boys, or as if to predict some new day a-coming, a day when the real truth about Adam and Eve will be revealed. Then what you gonna do; what you gonna do, what you gonna do when the truth hits you?

There were prancing children in the mix, all in a bunch - no shirts, few trousers, smooth bellies.

The children paused when we walked through.

By the way they looked at us I could tell they recognized us as Americans - well, foreigners. Yet, they did not run away, neither did they accost us.

I saw myself in one of them, the one seated on the grass with the plaited hair and the sheath of wild seeds in his right hand and the snot at his nose.

Well, this is the place, I told Doc – 1717 Norton Street – a place thick with memories.

This is the place.

I led him to the hallowed spot. And stood there. And it came back to me how alone I was, how alone it felt.

Yet I was not alone.

We are never alone.

It came back to me why I cannot forget, why I must not forget.

So often, I’d rather forget. I’d rather bury the memories and let them be - let them rest in peace interred beneath ornate epitaphs and grand tombstones - but twenty-three million Americans, and counting, don't let me.

Kosovo, Rwanda, Afghanistan, Liberia, Angola, Haiti, refugees stooped in cold dust, hung down like deserted plants in beautiful baskets conspire like stones in my belly so that I’d never forget that I was not alone, even though I was so alone.

Evita. Golda. Indira. Teresa. Mandela.

Giants, them all, tall above the broad hypocrisy, un-muddled in their eternal resolve, their truth a harmonious acappella, their spirits in cahoots with those that are ready to rock our world until passive awareness cracks and lets truth through; these also refuse to let me forget how alone I was and yet how not alone.

We are never alone.

So I remember. Mommy wants me to remember.

This is the spot where I rocked Pinky.

I remember.

It was through these very doors Pinky left. Quit.

Took one long look at this world and quit. Gave up.

If some added injustice were to raze this spot from the face of earth, it could not erase the memories gathered here. These memories are so suffused into the dusts of earth they give breath to the winds, and so rooted in earth they give life to trees that scent the very air we breathe. No one can get rid of them now.

Still, I quite understand why Cousin Jenny, our Lil Jenny, was so steamed when the bulldozers arrived.

That big-pocket Bozo with his army of bulldozers and his moustache curled all the way to his ears could not possibly have an inkling of the living memorialized in this little square corner of this building range, their housing scheme.

The five cosmopolitan generations crammed into this spot at one time or another are scattered now, like spores across every continent.

Bozo would not have known that – not while he was wrapped up in his city hall illusions. He could not have even begun to guess that every crevice, every turn, every squeak, speck, critter and cobweb in this little old shoebox bellyache from the comedies, tragedies, eccentricities, treacheries and lecheries that add up to life for Lady Montrose and her clan. His ignorance, however, does not mean Cousin Jenny is crazy.

No-no, Lil Jenny is nowhere near crazy; her belly just aches plenty.

Like mine.

Like the bellies of so many of us.

Sucking her thumb since she was born and still sucking her thumb with her grandchild at her bosom, she might seem crazy but, trust me, you don’t have a clue. We know crazy.

Standing on that spot, I saw again how Auntie Una used to whip Cousin Jenny into a bruise to get her to pluck that thumb from her mouth, to get her to keep that thumb out of her mouth.

I saw how Auntie Una used to wrap that thumb with scotch tape, and bite that thumb until it was white and blue, and paint it with iodine and aloes and bitters and turpentine, and call Cousin Jenny every other name under the sun, and what for? Come rain and come shine, time come and time gone, Cousin Jenny is still sucking that thumb. It wouldn’t matter who you think you are - marching up to her like that - or what you brought to back you up, or what you think of whatever; coming to her like that, you crazy!

You might feel more comfortable thinking she has gone nuts on you for crossing her, but being comfortable in any lie doesn’t even near make it the truth. You can convince yourself ‘til thy kingdom come, if you like, it won't matter. White lies in the leveling sun can never turn so black as to have the strength of truth.

So, when Lil Jenny plucked that thumb from her mouth and stood up to that Bozo and said, "Not over my dead body I letting you or anybody else come and tear this shoebox down," she wouldn't have been kidding. Lil Jenny knows way too much stuff to be messing around like that; what kind of stuff, you ought to know, could turn your insides into voracious maggots, like that; too much stuff to even care about kidding around with city hall clowns.

Lil Jenny knows how Granny Rose and her mommy and her Auntie Evelyn and her Auntie Norma and her Uncle Pats and her Auntie Sheila and her Uncle James and her and Big Jenny and me, and as time rolled along, sixty-seven other cousins and siblings coming and going thrived in that shoebox and now are scattered like blown seeds all over earth, seeds of every stripe and promise and character.

No big-headed Bozo with no amount of bad words in his mouth or bulldozers at his backside has enough balls or the unmitigated gall to swagger over to Lil Jenny, whether or not she hadn't paid the rent in how many months, whether or not every other building in that scheme has already been torn down, and order her to get out at once. Not unless he is incontinent, doubly stupid, and wants an inside-out view of his shriveled-up cajones.

Lil Jenny wouldn’t even have to invoke the power of granny's name or any of her uncles’ or aunties’ names to get that Bozo to back up and back off. So much of life is crammed into Lil Jenny’s guts, crammed into so many guts, all she had to do was utter, “Ca-hoom,” at just the right moment and that Bozo’s spirit would’ve fled from his body like a bullet train then dropped like a log so far outside himself, he wouldn’t even know what happened to him. But you would know exactly what went down. Wouldn't you?

No? Ask the crow.

That crow would tell you: memories hover over this little square of this long scheme, like fireflies at dusk. That crow could tell you things.

Do you remmember me telling you how that first crow had its eyes fixed on me?

Do you remember me saying that on that day I was screaming?

Well, screaming is not entirely accurate. It's not the right word. I wasn’t screaming - sounded like it; I was crying.

I was crying out from the bowels of earth. The walls thought I was screaming. You might've thought so too.

I was so hurt to the bone and so alone, no shiny-eyed crow, no talking wall and no flapping critter could have coerced my soul to stop my piercing appeal. And yet I was not alone in my pain. It might have sounded like sirens echoing through the lungs of a mean child, but I wasn't screaming. I was crying. I was crying from the bowels of earth.

And don’t tell me no child can feel like that; I did. If you think a child can’t feel that deeply, you’re about to be bowled over-and-out by what else a child knows. Trust me. Plug your ears now if you want to linger in ignorance. Plug your ears if you'd rather not know, rather hang on to your bliss.

On that day, the day of my first full memory, and in that moment, I was creating such a terrible racket I didn't hear the creaky front door click. I merely became aware of a shuffle of feet aback of me. And on that awareness my breath snapped.

I turned and saw two white sneakers.

I saw two long legs protruding from the hem of a white dress and down into the two white sneakers.

Before I could draw my next breath, arms came down around me and plucked me out of my wet. Golly-wolly, that’s when I began to scream - for real; I screamed until my throat began to hurt. But this scream was sweet.

Who else is there that knows these things?

Who else is there that knows this scream from that scream – the scream of spite from the scream of fear, the scream of joy from the scream of pain – those differentiating subtleties between a squeal of ecstasy and a squeal from the bowels hurt, all of which might seem to sound the same but are not even close to resembling?

Yes, now I was screaming.

She said whatever she needed to say to quiet me and did whatever she needed to do to settle me then placed me on the dry part of the floor then wiped the wet part then wrung the rag over the white potty then hurried into the kitchen then washed her hands then started a fire.

And I watched her.

I watched that woman – that girl - my mother.

Lean and towering yea high over a black stove, stirring the pot, and now and again rubbing her nose, and now and again sniffling; there she was, the woman that bore me.

I watched her.

Had I then the insight, I might have crossed my fingers behind my back.

Had I then any inkling of the power inherent in some words, I might’ve prayed hard and loud, and childishly perhaps, I might’ve said, "God, don't let mommy tire before this meal is done. God, don't let that big fire consume that black pot. God, please don't let me make one wrong move or utter one wrong sound. Please, please, God, just give us this day our daily bread and shut this stomach up." And who amongst the good of this world would not have had the heart to forgive me, a mere child, any impropriety of speech, any naiveté of the attributes of a good prayer?

But I was not just a child. I was hungry. And I didn’t pray, I watched.

Silently, I watched.

And my stomach cursed my silence.

And still I watched, sweating as she poked the fire.

Coals crackled and popped, spitting at her face.

And still she stirred and poked the fire then stirred some more and poked again.

It is a ritual grown so familiar to my bones I cannot, even now reliving this first memory of it, separate the glittering beads rolling down her tender cheeks, rolling down like potions perfectly proportioned to vaccinate a child against diseases of the soul, from the sugar or salt sprinkled into the pot for perfect taste, or from the taunting steam testing her eyes, testing her commitment to stirring for as long as needs be.

Laboring beads of love mixed with tears from a mountain of hurt stirred into the pot, now that they are my blood and my marrow and my sinew, they quicken me, they restrain me, they empower me, they inform me, they propel me.

But that day I was a child, a very hungry child. All I did was watch.

The gurgling sounds beguiled me.

I saw chunks of coal turn red, and some yellow, and some gray. I saw many poofs give up their smoke and slump to dust.

And still I watched.

Gatherings of smoke danced. Wayward swirls of smoke dulled the gray walls, their shadows like charmed snakes, and still that woman stirred and stirred and stirred whatever was in that black pot. And stoked the fire.

Blob. Blob-blob.

Crack-crackle-pop. Blob. Crackle. Pop.

I licked the thick drips off my lips and kept watch.

You know, my mother had this certain way about her. Some mothers do.

I’d love to chat with the man that can best explain to me this certain way of a mommy, this certain way of a mother. Boys not yet too brittle to admit it will say they also have seen this certain way in their mothers, yes, in their mommies. They know it. They used to feel it. Their souls had once latched onto it. Yes, boys know instinctively what it is.

Some sons regard this certain way of a mother with great affection. But some sons hate it.

While this certain whatever inspires some lads to greatness, it stirs some lads to incomprehensible habits, and some other lads to murderous hatred, and some to kill.

It is a strange thing. I don't quite understand why it is that whilst we are men we lose the means to explain this certain way about our mothers that has so powerful an impact on our souls, or why so many lads are apt to shelve it, denigrate it, lock it away in a closet, or bury it. I just know it drives some men to fury, to war, to hatred, because these lack the power, the will, the constitution to deal with it.

Just the same, I cannot dimension my mother’s beauty – inner or outer. I only know she mixed it all in with that something which has no name and poured it into my soul and bathed my body in it and sprayed my spirit with it such that wherever I go I see the glittering refractions of her beauty and sense that fragrant essence of her.

I catch rich glimpses of her everywhere.

I see her in Maya, in Oprah, in Jackie, in Rosie, in Lucille, in Condoleza, in the mouth-watering girl in the coffee shop, in the speedy girl on the track, in the faces of women who have escaped the bombs but not their terror, in the eye of the child in a pram, in the brow of a lad called Chad.

I cannot dimension her hope either; I only know she breathed it into me.

And now I breathe.

I hear her in the whispers of the wind, and see her in the smile of an old woman walking pass my stained-glass window, and sense her through the touch of an old man seeking direction.

But that day I watched her.

Blob. Blob-blob.

Crack-crackle-pop. Blob. Blob-blob

Suddenly, she stopped stirring and my breath stopped.

She lifted the spoon out of the pot and shook it and whacked the rim of the pot. Whack!

I cringed, suffused in a rare silence that toppled the pot's ring.

Then distinctly, like a note from a minstrel's soul, I heard her utter, It's finished!

Oh my God! Let me take a good breath in order to tell you, "It's finished." And let me tell you this as well.

There’s no food so sweet, as what a good hunger brings to it. There’s no moment so rich, as when a deep desire is poised to be fulfilled. There’s no branding so indelible, as when it etches the soul. In that trapped moment, at her utterance, something took root in my being and my world came into tune with me.

It's Finished!

Perhaps my cheeks, mango ripe; my sweat, idling; my tongue, dripping juices of joy; and my eyes, sparkling, spurred my knees to shuffle across the barren floor. Perhaps it did all this just to see this feast that was being celebrated by such a magical sound. It's finished. I don't know. And what does it matter if just as well I had stayed put in the same dry spot and drummed my breast like a monkey's child on hearing those words? I don't know.

Of this I am quite sure: there is an extraordinary anticipation that is packaged in the utterance: It’s finished.

She lifted me unto her lap.

My tears gushed.

In fact, I bawled.

“Shh-shh,” she said and took the hem of her dress and wiped away my snot.

Again, I bawled.

"Stop crying," she said, shaking me. "Stop it this minute." But I didn't. I couldn’t. How could I? She raised her voice, “Shut up.” Still, I didn’t.

She slapped me.

Forthwith, my voice went silent and my breath stuttered to a stall.

Deep within me, my emotions crackled and popped. Then I began to breathe again.

I dared not then, and I dare not now, fault her for an offence that has marked my soul, for how many amongst us can attest to having his or her pleasure so perfectly touched, he or she spontaneously bawled in gratitude? How many amongst us can attest to having his or her pleasure so wonderfully consummated, the resulting scream makes gratitude and ingratitude thoroughly indistinguishable? And what child is there that knows how to point out the difference? Who is there that knows these things?

She took the spoon and dipped it into the steaming slop and curled her lips and blew on it and fed it to my trembling lips and I took it in, all of it, and swallowed.

A tear dripped.

Perfectus!

Shout glory!

Glory wended through me and through my bowels and my bowels danced. All arguments ceased. Loud bellyaching sermons earned their hallelujahs. If not in kind then surely in spirit, children present and abroad, children in the fields, in the dust, in the byways, children shut in or shut out, children on wet land or dry, must have danced at my swallow, for, though I was quite unaware of it at the time, I was not alone in this. I was swallowing for so many around the globe. I swallowed well.

My mother rocked me gently.

And in the hum of this new ritual, she led a newly dipped spoon between my lips, and I took it in just as well, and I swallowed. Then she fed me another spoon, similarly filled. Then-another-then-another-then-another, each alike performing such wonders in me, it would be a grave wrong for someone to tell me now that a thousand monarch butterflies did not right then begin their journeys of a thousand miles knowing without one shadow of doubt they will get safely exactly to where they intend. It would be a grave wrong for someone to sit in judgment and tell me anything other than that in those moments, in the glory of my swallows, while on my mother’s lap, Africa and Asia burped, and Europe burped, and the Americas too – yes, every nation that knows the struggle of which I speak; they burped for their children, they burped for their future, they burped for me.

Perfectus. Glory. Play a tune for me: Beethoven's Fur Elise. I swallowed. I did it well.

Whether or not any of this was exactly so, let memory serve history right: my mother's lap and that sop shaped me more than graduate degrees, more than fine sermons and sound science, more than sweet kisses that have comforted me past life’s rawest moments, for I can tell you without a shadow of doubt that what matters most to a child is not the food, it is the feeding.

She fed me well.

She cupped the pearls from my cheeks, like they were chips from a chiseled stone, and at each collection I swallowed, and at each swallow she smiled. She swathed those pearls across her bare chest. I wish I had the sense to ask why, for to this day I don’t know why she swathed those wet pearls across her bare chest. I wish I knew. I'd love to know.

However, I do know this: for the health of a hungry soul, it isn't the food; it is the feeding. Feed it well.

The bright widening of her face, her dimples, the gleam in her gorgeous eyes, her touch, ah, like the touch of fresh sunlight, her whispers which shaped me, groomed me, made me, remakes me; they've come together again to highlight this latest commission, that is, to remind this rumbling earth of one vital thing: it isn't the food, it is the feeding. Feed the children well.

Yes, this world is in turmoil now, its cities are burning, but as I stood at my alcove, the phone back on its hook, as I stood watching my mother's stark message wrapped in that one word - ILICET - staring down at me, and as her formative truths came rushing back into me as though no time has passed in between, I felt a peculiar kind of fullness and a clarity that is as fresh as a new spring morning. And I heard myself speaking the truth she taught me, “Food will calm an angry beast, but of all things that matter to a hungry child this most a feeder must know: it isn’t the food; it is the feeding. Feed the children well."

ILICET - The Missing Letter (excerpt) by Neville deAngelou
© 2006 All Rights Reserved

It Isn't The Food It Is The Feeding

Beethoven's Fur Elise