Flowers Out of Bone
by Ethel Morgan Smith
Surely there must’ve been some joy in my childhood. It’s hard to imagine that anybody could grow up without something other than mutilated memories. But in spite of, maybe because of, growing up in the segregated South, I had succeeded by earning a scholarship to college and later a fellowship to graduate school. After working in marketing for a Fortune 500 company for eight years, I now own a thriving floral business. My generation of the 1970s is the first in sizable numbers to directly benefit from the hard work of the Civil Rights Movement. Ten years earlier, if I’d worked anywhere, it would’ve been as a teacher with a college degree; otherwise, I would have sewed in shirt factories like Ruby, or cleaned white folks’ houses like Beauty had. My world had indeed changed and will keep changing, too, through Emma and maybe Anton.
We continue wandering through the meadow, me proudly pointing to and naming trees and Emma paying attention. I’ve always been determined to learn about the world of nature. In spite of growing up in the country, I had few encounters with the forest. Nor had I had any contact with beaches, lakes, or rivers—even the sunshine is to be feared because it too is for white folks; it only makes Black folks blacker.
I think of nature as gifts from the universe, not belonging to anybody. The sun belongs to the ocean. And there can be no sky without the ocean. When I was a child, I dreamed of seeing stars mirrored in the lakes. I longed to embrace the silence of the wilderness, and to smell the sea and taste its salt, like I read about in books. But there hadn’t been room for such a dream for little Black girls in Bone. Instead fear was the law of the land.
“I see a phone booth.” Emma points. “Do you have change?”
“Here’s the auto club card too.” I slip her the coins and card, and continue to examine the scenery as Emma runs toward the telephone booth. Pleasantly surprised, I am almost in the park and feel no panic or shortness of breath. And if I feel no panic in this park, then I know I’ll be okay anywhere. No swelling of the skin. No rushed poundings of the heart. Can those days be behind me? Is it possible? Maybe Emma is right.
I’ve fought hard to exorcize my inherited demons, the ones that come with being born Black, southern, poor, and female—my plantation baggage. His body was found near the park. But I know it’s not the park, but the people. Always the people, that’s what I’d learned from ten years of therapy. I was pleased when I finally found a therapist I felt comfortable enough to trust. I hated the males the most, always telling me how strong I was. I am not strong, that’s why I need your services, I wanted to scream to the goddess of sanity. Sometimes all I could do was cry through the entire session.
Flowers Out of Bone is to be continued