My Grandma’s Letter (A U.S. History Extra Credit Project)
April 28, 1918:
My whole life has been about the voice
My voice has been the one gift God bestowed upon me
A gift so beautiful shouldn’t go to waste according to Mama
“Your skin’s too black to pass, but my dear, your voice is that of an angel”
At 17, I’ve nothing to show for myself but a bunch of broken promises and bad deals
Mama says it’s time to marry
But Grandma, the one who really raised me, says no, no, no
“She’s just a child, Eloise. Marriage ain’t in the cards for my baby, yet.”
But I ain’t no baby
I’se nearly grown
Grandma wants me singing in the church
But I wanna sing on stage
This little ole town can’t do nothing for me
I need the city
Maybe Chicago
Or perhaps Pittsburgh
I’ve made my mind that it’s time to leave this wretched south
I’ll miss my family, especially Grandma
But there’s no time to be wasted
Onto the train tracks I go
Bags in tow, I hop the freight train, hopeful that I wouldn’t be too close to the coal
An old black man with three little boys had already taken hold of this car
But when I set to flee, he stopped and asked:
“Where’d you be heading, girlie?”
“New York. Harlem, New York.”
May 19, 1923
“Miss Zena, everyone!”
The cheers fill my ears as I finish the last song of the night
Beads of sweat coat my breasts as my pearl necklace coats my chest
Heart is fluttering in accordance with the clicks and clacks of the champagne glasses
“Thank you, Cotton Club.”
The mirror in the dressing room was clouded with heaviness
My eyes were tired
The mouth so quenched with thirst and unspeakable hunger
Though I knew a drink would never be given in the eyes of the white patrons
To the back I go
Where my kitchen friends slave over stoves and mountains of food and dare not to take a bite
I see the hunger in their faces
The way their noses flare
The way their eyes dart in fear of the old white man returning and threatening to fire
I drank my water quickly with the fear of being caught in the white man’s kitchen reposing
I just put on a two-hour show and am afraid to get a sip of water
But my voice...my voice is the only thing I got going for me
A little hate is just part of the gig
This is what it’s always been
Ain’t no pretty voice and a smile gonna change that,
Right?
May 20, 1923
Every Sunday I check the mail at the post office after church services
“Anything for Zena Haley”?
“One letter, Miss Zena.”
The lettering
The wax
I could almost smell Grandma’s perfume
Maybe I needa be sending a bit more
Digging into my pockets for a bit more
I’ve sure made enough
I know she getting sicker
But I ain’t comin’ home ‘til I know just how bad it is
For the swelterin heat of Mississippi won’t taste my skin until it’s time to say goodbye
Regardless, I open the letter and read:
My beautiful baby
Precious girl
I’se shol do miss you right now, puddin’
These legs of mine ain’t no good no more
They says I outta get em ampuated or somethin so the cancer won’t spread
It sure do keep on a spreadin’
I can feel it
Crawlin’ up my legs like ‘lil ants biting on me
Doctor won't treat me no more
Calls me a ole’ nigga
Say a nigga like me outta be thankful i done made it this long
Says other people needs to be help
I’se start to crying at that
Not cause I’se ‘fraid to die
I just don’t wanna die without ya
Wanna come home and see me don’t ya?
I needs to see my baby
I’se knowing this world ain’t meant for people like us
But the black berries make sweet fruit
And your voice feeds the roots of the berry bush
Your heart pure like gold
Your soul bold life fiya
I’se preciate the money and I’se love seein your concert flyer
But baby, I miss ya. Come home to me. That dream you speak of is only dreamin
I’se see an American dream, but it ain’t meant for ya or me
No matter the money or fame ya makes up
This world ain’t gon like ya
The souf ain’t pretty with the Klan and Jim Crow
But ya can’t let ‘em keep ya away foreva
But you can make your own dream
But you can use ya gift
But ya can use ya voice
Sang, baby
Sang ya way into ya own ‘Merican dream
A tear trickled down my chin
At that moment
At the ripe ole’ age of 22
I bought myself a train ticket
While sitting in my train car an oddly familiar old man with three young men glanced my way
“Where’s ya headin this time, little lady”
“Mississippi. Jackson, Mississippi. Home.”
