Letters from a New England Negro

Little
Eva's Temptation

in bold red print a
girl child emblazoned
below this in a
tattered orange dress,
deep brown skin gleaming
against a blue back
ground still vibrant
across the years.
"Topsy": As real as
when Ms. Stowe first dreamed
her, eyes bugged, beribboned
plaits, thin shouldered; arm
and leg raised in some
disjointed prance. Miss
Eva's Temptation:
the knowing grin that
mocks the strings, the
supple body that
mocks the string master's
dance.

They think our speech is
music that the blues
a dead tongue they could
have mastered but didn't
really need to know.
Music: the tinny
echo of some black
seen singing at some
dance, once, somewhere.

And
this is fronted off
as the shared past.

Letters from a New England Negro

* * *

The school is in a spinney
down behind the old Quarters
where many of the freedmen
who work this land for the
Bureau live. The teachers, my
self included, live in the
Big House (which thus far has stirred
little comment among the
local whites). The school is the
largest public building in
which blacks and whites can
safely congregate. Sunday
services are held there and
many of the freedmen attend.
Miss Esther introduced me
to several as "the herald
of Emancipation's new
day." They murmured discreetly
among themselves, the women
smiling quickly, the men
nodding or cutting their
eyes toward me. Finally an
older man stepped forward. "I's
Peter, Miss Patient Herald,"
he said pumping my hand. Then
with great satisfaction,
"Lotsa room in the Big House. Now."

* * *

We sit on the veranda
most evenings and sometimes Beryl
consents to play for us. There
are not here the long twilights
of home; the southern dusk is
quick and hot. I see the old
nights in these evenings: Young
Mistress at the piano,
light from twin candelabra
bringing color to her cheeks,
the French doors open to the
darkness and the veranda
where listeners sit quietly
in the heat. Now and then
beneath the country airs that
are Beryl's specialty comes a
snatch of melody such as
no mistress ever played and
I am recalled to the present
place. Freedmen sing here now. It
is Cassie or Miss Esther who
turns the music's page. Or myself.

* * *

The south had not public schools
such as there are in the north
and to teach, as we do, all
who come to us is not
considered respectable
for a woman. Yet, such is
Miss Esther's bearing that she
is accorded at least grudging
civility by the most
rabid rebels and though there
was at first some muttering
at young white women teaching
negroes, Cassie and Beryl are
likewise accepted. I am
another matter. Oh, the
soldiers and Bureau people
are polite, often friendly
and such as the doctor will
tip the hat if I meet them
in the town. But the local
ladies lift their skirts aside
as I pass for fear that I
will smirch them. My dress is thought
unsuited to my station
though all I have are cast-off
clothes and I am told my head
is held too high as I step
back to let the meanest white
go before me. And this is
counted as arrogance by
these southerners.

* * *

My group numbers twenty, aged
four through sixteen, now that
harvest is done. There are no
grades, of course, and Tuesday
nights I take a group of grown-ups
over the lessons I give the
youngsters the following week.

The
grown-ups are more shy with me
than with Miss Esther and the
others, seldom speaking unless
I have done so first and then
without elaboration.
I did not expect immediate
kinship as Beryl chides: I am
as stiff with them as they with
me; yet, in unguarded moments,
I speak as they do, softly
a little down in the throat
muting your harsh gutterals and
strident...