Florida

Cave Canem: A Special Section

   Years later, as an unwed mother, partly to escape her daughter Marie, my big sister Gloria will move down to my mother’s hometown of Gainesville, Florida, and when she does, no one will make sport of her because she grew up in the North. In fact, she will fit in and stay for years.

   The reason for this is while my parents house might sit in Upstate New York, the truth of the matter is that we were raised in Florida.    The smells rising from the skillets—Florida.    The car parts on the lawn—Florida.    The switch across the legs—Florida.

   The fact was that we resided in the deep, black south, even when we were walking around in a blizzard, or sitting at a lunch counter without giving it a second thought.

   The “dry” barbecue pit in the backyard—Florida.    The black cats and the ghosts—Florida.    The sunflowers in the front yard, and    The collard greens in the back—Florida.

   And in the house next door, maybe Georgia, maybe the Carolinas.    And in the house at the middle of the block, maybe Alabama, maybe Texas,    That boyfriend who keeps his conked hair in a net, maybe that’s    Memphis, maybe that’s Louisiana.

   The pig’s knuckles and the pickled eggs (the smell of that pink brine!), the hot combs and the holy ghost, that’s where we actually lived up north.    And that’s what the neighbors see when my sister steps off the Greyhound. She is poor, but well-dressed, her trunk might be dented but the clothes inside of it are clean. Although I’m not there to see it, I know whenever a fool approaches, he’s saluted with a black woman’s cackle. This is her passport, and everybody on her new block stamps it.