July’s Diversity Roll Call

I think I may have missed the deadline for this, which is crazy, b/c I was all set to blog about my beloved James Baldwin and Audre Lorde (I’ve done June Jordan enough for one month! though her words did pop into my mind when this guy hollered at me in the street: “What’s your name?”  And I thought of quoting June: my name is my own, my own, my own…)  Ali over at Worducopia gives you plenty of options for this month’s Diversity Roll Call, which is designed to highlight LGBTQ authors and books.  And since I hadn’t read any contemporary queer YA lit, I figured I’d wait and read something by a living author writing NOW.  I chose Mayra Lazara Dole’s Down to the Bone; Mayra’s part of What a Girl Wants, and I’d heard good things about her book from Black-eyed Susan…so I gave her book a whirl.

WOW!  I’m still trying to understand my reaction to the book, but I have to begin this short report by praising this author’s daring…I think it’s great that books now exist that don’t dance around teen homosexuality, bisexuality, and transgender issues.  Whether you’re familiar with these issues or not, you sort of have to just surrender to this story; it’s a high-energy explosion of language, laughter, love, and drama  between Cuban teens in Miami.  There were moments when I wanted everything to stop–I needed *someone* to sit Laura down and talk about her problem in a serious (adult?) manner.  But the community created by the author is unique in many ways, including the way conflicts are addressed and resolved.  Despite her best friend’s appetite for disposable boyfriends, Laura is into just one partner (Marlena), who crushes Laura’s young heart by moving to Puerto Rico and caving to her family’s pressure to marry.  Laura feels betrayed and wary of a queer identity that would mark her as a “freak” or “immoral daughter.”  To win back her mother’s love, she tries falling in love with a guy, but in the end realizes she cannot find happiness or acceptance from others until she accepts herself.  I’ve been thinking a lot about what makes a novel YA–is it writing FOR teens, or ABOUT teens?  I feel like I do both, but perhaps my “home training” and family history make me more inclined towards seriousness and intolerant of frivolity.  I was pretty serious even as a teen, and I did find the spastic energy of Laura and her friends a little hard to take at times; her puppy actually figures as a character in the first half of the book, but by the end, I had a better appreciation of the loving community/family Laura managed to build for herself.  It’s one that is *fluid*, not fixed, which means its members respond quickly and easily to trouble or change.  I now feel compelled to read more queer lit for teens so I can get a better sense of the options that are out there—and the strategies used by authors to represent queer experience and identity.

from the heart

Ok, so these students probably didn’t have a choice about whether or not they wanted to write me a letter—but still, *what* they wrote was so touching!  Shadra showed more restraint; she only posted one on her blog, but I’m going with these three:

A future author!

What a sweetheart…and a natural optimist!  I hope I *can* share “Munecas” with children someday…

Well, Shadra thinks we should go to Cuba to “research” our next collaboration…so maybe we will have tales to tell next year.  Thanks to the Crispus Attucks School, teacher extraordinaire, Ms. Lizet Williams, and especially Jo Umans, the woman behind Behind the Book, who makes visits like these possible!

kiss a cloud

People have such great names for their blogs!  Stop by kiss a cloud to read another great review of A Wish After Midnight...

homeland haiku

I’m having one of those days of sheer indulgence…been reading all morning, just slurped down a coffee ice cream/Milo/banana & peanut butter smoothie, lost internet connection but managed to restore it myself when the Verizon rep proved useless…and now I just found a fun haiku exercise from You Know…that Blog. My fellow Canadian is asking folks to write a haiku that reflects your feelings about home—and today, for those of you who might not know, is Canada Day. You probably already know that I’m ambivalent about my homeland; I love Canada, am proud to be Canadian, but for a long time now I haven’t thought of Canada as “home.” It’s a complicated term/feeling/concept…and let’s face it: most of us have more than one home, right? And you can be AT home, but not FEEL at home…if feeling “at home” is to feel beloved, wanted, valued, safe. I’m just reading Down to the Bone by Mayra Lazara Dole, and her protagonist has been thrown OUT of her home for being caught in a lesbian relationship. My father insisted in his unfinished memoir that as an immigrant you can’t ever go back home…but I think the idea is to write a “fun” haiku, so let’s see if I can lighten up a bit:

Canada shaped me;
Brooklyn restored my faith in
possibility

Marcelo in the Real World

This book was *amazing*—and such a remarkable achievement; I couldn’t imagine writing it myself, even with years of research.  Marcelo is a teenage boy living with Asperger’s syndrome; he’s on the high-functioning end of the autism spectrum, but his overly competitive lawyer father (Arturo) feels Marcelo doesn’t push himself to function “normally.”  In order to continue at his beloved school, Paterson (for kids with disabilities), Marcelo is given a choice: work at his father’s law firm over the summer and continue at Paterson in the fall, or work with the ponies at Paterson over the summer, and attend the regular public high school instead.  Marcelo is disturbed by the idea of leaving Paterson, but admits that he trusts Arturo enough to believe that one summer in the mailroom will be good for him.  The rest of the novel is really about Marcelo’s struggle to reconcile what he’s known in his relatively sheltered past with what he learns about life “in the real world.”  His father betrays his trust both personally and professionally, and Marcelo ultimately befriends (& falls in love with) Jasmine, the kind and beautiful young woman who runs the mailroom.  The amazing thing about this novel is that Francisco X. Stork has convincingly captured the complex thought processes of his protagonist; as Marcelo himself admits, he has “trained” himself to function like an “ordinary” person—his condition doesn’t allow him to easily read facial expressions or tones of voice that would indicate when someone is being sarcastic.  He interprets things literally, speaks formally, and has difficulty focusing when forced to walk and talk at the same time; those who love him understand Marcelo and see his “special interest” in religion and classical music as gifts that make him unique.  But in the real world, Marcelo encounters his father’s cruel colleagues who openly refer to him as “Gump.”  Yet it is Marcelo who has the courage and moral integrity to stand up for what he believes is right.  And by confronting those who lack compassion, he develops a greater understanding of the subtleties (like his mother’s loneliness) that escaped him in his previous life.  The book’s ending was surprising, but genuinely delightful–it’s nice to end a book with hope for human nature!  This novel should be high on your summer TBR list.

new review @ A Striped Armchair

Swing by A Striped Armchair to read another great review of A Wish After Midnight.  Eva seconds Doret’s vote for the return of Paul Easterly in the sequel–what do YOU think?

Judah’s Tale, Chapter 9

Almost all of Judah’s chapters have to be rewritten; this one needs to be switched to the present tense…

*****

9.

I wouldn’t say I’ve found a home in Weeksville, but at least I’ve got someplace to stay.  Since the riots, a lot of folks are still camping out in the woods, staying out of sight until they figure out what to do next.  Some folks are heading to Canada, others are thinking about heading west.  Me, I got something like a job and a roof over my head.  And for now, that’s enough.
Weeksville’s not a very big place, but people here got real big hearts.  They see or hear of a black person in trouble, and they’ll do whatever they can to help.  Soon as I arrived, this lady called to me from her front porch and asked if I wanted something to eat.  I hadn’t eaten since noon the day before, so I was feeling pretty empty inside.  Plus I’d spent the night in the woods—wasn’t easy getting to Weeksville after the riot, not when I was trying to keep off the road.  Hard to see where you’re going when it’s pitch black outside, and there are no street lamps to light the way.  So I went into the brush and found a fallen tree to rest by—moss and dead leaves made the ground soft enough to sleep on, but none of us got any rest that night.  I wasn’t alone, but I didn’t exactly have company either.  I could just tell there were people around me—black people running from the chaos downtown.  We didn’t speak to each other, and we didn’t dare light a fire to keep ourselves warm.  We just huddled there in the dark, waiting for daylight to come.  Soon as the sky turned a little bit grey, I got up and got moving.  Mrs. Claxton stopped me when I got to the outskirts of Weeksville.
“You hungry, son?”
The sun was high in the sky by that time, so I put my hand up to shield my eyes.  I wasn’t sure, but it looked like a white woman.  A tall white woman with a broom, sweeping the dust off her front porch.  But this is Weeksville, and as far as I know, no white people live around here.  I squinted my eyes and tried to get a closer look at her face.  There are some black people who can “pass” for white.  Even in Jamaica we had people like that.  I guess I must have seemed either deaf or stupid, because the woman set her broom against the wall of the house and came down the steps towards me.
“I got biscuits just come out the oven.  And hot coffee, too.”  She reached the fence that separated her yard from the road, and put her hand on the gate latch.  “Surely you have time for a quick bite to eat.”  She paused and I realized she was as curious about me as I was about her.  Her grey eyes swept over me quickly.  “You got people here, or you just passing through?”
Before I could answer, she opened the gate and waited for me to enter the yard.  I took a quick look at my rumpled clothes and tried to brush off some of the dirt and twigs that had stuck to me overnight.
“Never mind that,” she said, and put a hand on my arm to pull me inside.  She closed the gate and then pointed to the right side of her house.  “There’s a pump back there.  You can wash up while I get your breakfast ready.  You slept in the woods last night.”
This was an observation and not a question.  I could tell by the flat sound of her voice, and the way she turned and went up the front steps without waiting for a reply.  But I answered her just the same.  “Yes, ma’am.”
She turned on the porch and looked at me then.  I’m not sure why she stared at me like that, but I started to feel kind of ashamed.  Despite her grey eyes, thin lips, and pale skin, something told me this woman was one of us.  But black or white, I didn’t like taking charity from anyone.
“We’re not that formal around here.  My name is Corina Claxton, but most folks call me Cora.  What’s your name?”
“Judah.”
“Judah.”  She said it softly, like she was remembering something or someone else.  “Go on and wash up, Judah.  I’ll bring your food out in a minute.”
Once again, she didn’t wait for a reply.  I said “thank you” to her back as she went in the front door.  Then I went around the back of the house and tried to clean myself up.
I was still washing the sweat and grime off my face and hands when the back door opened.  I blinked the cold water out of my eyes and accepted a cloth from a younger, browner, shyer version of the woman I had met out front.  I thanked her for the cloth, and used it to dry myself off.  The girl tried not to stare at me, but she was clearly as curious as her mother.  Though she was tall, I figured the girl couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old.
“Is Mrs. Claxton your mother?”
She nodded quickly, then took back the cloth and ran inside the house.  I stood by the back door and waited.  The yard was tidy, and looked as though it had been swept clean, like the front porch.  An outhouse stood in one corner of the yard, and an open shed stood in the other.  I could see carpentry tools hanging on the wall of the shed, but no one was working there now.  I noticed an axe and several hunks of wood near the tool shed.  When Mrs. Claxton appeared with my breakfast, I offered to chop the wood for her.
“That’s Felix’s job.”  She handed me a plate that held three buttered biscuits and a hunk of cheese.  Her daughter stood beside her holding a tin mug filled with steaming black coffee.  “Get something in your belly first.  Then you can worry about that wood.”
“Yes, ma’am.”  I took the plate from her and bit into the first hot biscuit.  I tried not to wolf down my food, but those biscuits tasted so good!  Mrs. Claxton and her daughter stood right there and watched me eat.  Every so often the mother would nudge her daughter, and the girl would offer me the mug of coffee.  I would take a sip, thank her, and then hand her back the mug.  We continued this way until all three biscuits were gone.
I wiped the crumbs from my mouth and thanked Mrs. Claxton for the food.  For the first time, she smiled at me.  “You’re welcome, Judah.  This is my daughter, Megda.  Felix is her twin brother, but he’s made himself scarce right now.  Mr. Claxton went into town, but he should be back before too long.”
I said hello to Megda, then I nodded at the wood.  “Can I chop that for you now?”
“Give your belly a moment to settle.  Were you coming from Manhattan?”
“No, ma’am.  Brooklyn.  Downtown.”
She frowned and looked away from me.  “I hear there was trouble last night.”
“Yes, ma’am.”  I thought about Genna and the knife slid a bit deeper into my heart.
Mrs. Claxton watched me closely with her strange grey eyes.  “You came to Weeksville alone?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stared at me a moment longer, then dropped her eyes, saddened but satisfied.  “You weren’t alone last night.”  Again, she said this as though she already knew it to be true.  This time I looked away, and hoped I wouldn’t have to answer any more questions.  My fingers started to itch, and I looked over at the axe, wishing I had something to do—somewhere to pour the anger I felt bubbling inside of me.
Mrs. Claxton handed the plate and mug to her daughter, who took the dishes and went inside.  Then she looked at me and wiped her hands on her apron as if to say, “We’re done with that conversation.”  I quietly smothered a sigh of relief and took a step towards the woodpile.
“Do as much as you like,” Mrs. Claxton said before opening the back door of her house.  “If you get tired, there’s a pallet in that shed over there.  Get some rest before you move on.”
I nodded and took hold of the axe.  I set the first hunk of wood on the old tree stump and swung the axe high above my head.  Then I took a deep breath and brought it down with all the strength I had.  Mrs. Claxton watched the two halves fall to the ground, then turned and went inside.
I kept going until all the wood by the shed had been chopped.  Then I carried it over to the back door, and stacked the smaller pieces along the wall.  Mrs. Claxton sent Megda out with a mug of water.  I drank it thirstily, and realized my shirt was soaked through with sweat.
“Want some soap?”  Megda was trying to be polite, but I knew she was trying to tell me I needed to wash up again.  “I think you’re about the same size as Felix.  Mama?”  Megda dashed inside and got her mother’s permission before returning with a bar of soap and a dry cloth.  “Here, use these.  I’ll get you a clean shirt to put on once you’re done bathing.”
Mrs. Claxton came back out and smiled approvingly at her daughter.  To me she said, “Here, give me that shirt.  I can put it to soak with the other clothes.  You can come back for it tomorrow.”
I paused and looked around the yard.  There was nowhere to change except the outhouse.  Mrs. Claxton only laughed at me.  “Boy, please.  Don’t tell me you’re shy?  Hurry up and give me that filthy shirt so you can get yourself cleaned up.”  She held her hand out and waited for me to pass her my shirt.
I kept my eyes on the ground and slowly undid the buttons.  Then I peeled the shirt off and gave it to her.  I hoped she would turn and go inside, but instead she watched me walk over to the water pump.  Mrs. Claxton didn’t make a sound when she saw the scars, but I could feel her piercing grey eyes on my back.  I splashed water on my chest and arms and rubbed the bar of soap into a lather.
Mrs. Claxton finally noticed my embarrassment and looked away.  She stood by the door, her back turned to give me some privacy.  “You didn’t start off in Brooklyn.”
I rubbed the soap over my upper body, then used the tin cup I had drunk out of to pour clean water over myself.  “No, ma’am.”  I picked up the cloth Megda had given me and dried myself off.  The hot summer sun beat down on my back, drying the ridged skin there.
“Well.  If you need a place to stay, you’re welcome to stop here for a while, Judah.  You don’t have to run any more.”
I wanted to be polite and agree with Mrs. Claxton, but we both knew there were still a lot of things for black people to run from in this country.
“Will this do, Mama?”  Megda appeared at the back door holding one of her brother’s shirts.  Mrs. Claxton took the shirt and shooed her daughter back inside.  She handed it to me, then turned around again so I could dress in private.
“The person you left in Brooklyn—”  Mrs. Claxton paused to see if I would finish her sentence.
Without any hesitation, I slipped back into the old lie Genna and I had used before.  “My sister.”
Mrs. Claxton nodded once and checked to see that I was dressed before turning around to face me.  “She wasn’t hurt?  I mean, I hope…”
“We got separated during the riot.  I thought I might find her here.”  I didn’t like lying to Mrs. Claxton, so I was relieved when a loud voice interrupted our conversation.
“Felix!” a tall, dark-skinned man hollered as he opened the front gate and strode across the yard.  Megda heard her father’s voice and slipped back outside to stand next to her mother.
“He’s not here, Lionel.”  Mrs. Claxton looked happy to see her husband, but she also anticipated his angry response.
“Well, where is that blasted boy?  That son of yours has a knack for disappearing whenever there’s work to be done.”
“Come inside and sit down, Lionel, there’s a fresh pot of coffee on the stove.  I’m sure Felix will turn up before long.”
“I can’t stay, Cora.  We need to clear a camp in the woods.  Can’t leave those poor folks out there with no shelter at night but the stars.  Who’s this?”
Before Mrs. Claxton could respond, I stepped forward and introduced myself.  “My name is Judah.  I’ll help set up the camp.”  Mr. Claxton looked at me like I’d just insulted him.  I took a step back and tried again.  “I mean, I’d like to help any way I can.”  I glanced at Mrs. Claxton and added, “Sir.”
Mr. Claxton’s face relaxed a bit, but he still looked mighty stern.  He looked me up and down.  “Can you swing an axe?”
Megda piped up.  “He just chopped all that wood, Papa.”
Mr. Claxton surveyed the work I had done and seemed satisfied.  “Come with me, then, if you’ve a mind to.  We can use all the hands we can get.”  He went to the shed, took another axe down from the wall and handed it to me.  He turned briefly to his wife before heading out of the yard.  “When that boy shows up, you tell him to wait here for me.  I’ll deal with him when I get back.”  Mrs. Claxton nodded solemnly, then followed us to the front gate and watched us walk away down the road.

new work

I don’t know why I keep losing my formatting, but I guess this will have to do.  This is an “episode” that I wrote yesterday; when Genna is returned to the 21st century, Judah finds his way back to Weeksville.  He’s taken in by a kind family, and becomes apprenticed to Mr. Claxton, who is a carpenter.  The Claxtons have 14-year old twins; Megda immediately develops a crush on Judah, but Felix seems to resent his father’s obvious preference for the strange newcomer.  Maybe I should post the chapter where Judah first meets the Claxtons.  I usually write with a comprehensive outline, but sometimes stuff just comes and you have to make room for it somehow.  I really liked this chapter UNTIL…well, see if YOU can find the problem.

*****

…A strange whimpering comes from behind the work shed.  It sounds like a frightened, wounded animal, and I wonder if Felix has been laying traps in the yard again.  Angered by his recklessness I hold the lantern up high and turn the corner.  The first thing I see is Megda’s pale face distorted by fear and the hand roughly clamped over her mouth.  Then I see Felix’s other hand rifling through his sister’s skirt.  In an instant my mind goes blank and I see nothing as a velvety sheet of blackness envelops me.  Then, before I know what I am doing, the lantern crashes to the ground and I grab Felix by the shoulders, spin him around, and pound my fist into his face.  He is stunned, but after the second blow Felix starts trying to defend himself against me.  Now the terror is stamped on his face, but I don’t stop swinging.  When the blood starts flowing down her brother’s face, Megda finally lets out the scream she’d been holding inside.  I hardly notice as she dashes toward the house, crying out for her mother.  Instead, my hands circle Felix’s scrawny neck and squeeze as if he is the source of all the noise.
BANG!
The back door slams against the wall as the house empties and all three Claxtons rush to the work shed.
“No!”  Mrs. Claxton tries to pull me off her son, but Mr. Claxton holds her back.  A few seconds more and I will be a murderer—again—but I don’t let go until I feel Mr. Claxton’s strong hand on my back.  He rests his other hand on my rigid arm, and somehow his gentle touch makes my muscles relax.  I blink and feel the velvety sheet twining around my taut body.  Slowly I loosen my hold on Felix.  He sinks to the ground, sputtering and wiping at the blood gushing from his nose.
“He—he tried to kill me!”  Felix barely manages to point at me, huddled like a coward on the ground.  Mrs. Claxton again tries to advance, but Mr. Claxton holds out his arm.  Megda is sobbing, and so Mrs. Claxton instead turns her attention to her distraught daughter.
“Get up, boy.”  Mr. Claxton is incredibly calm, and to my surprise, so am I.  The murderous rage that flowed through me just a moment ago is gone.  I stand by the shed as though I am a mere witness and not a participant in this ugly scene.
Felix looks to his mother but Mrs. Claxton can no longer face her son.  Megda’s dress is torn, and her parents know that I am not to blame.
“I said, GET UP, BOY!”  Mr. Claxton’s thunderous voice knocks Felix back against the shed.  Trembling, he slides up the wall until he is almost standing upright.  Mr. Claxton surveys his son with obvious contempt.  Blood has stained the front of Felix’s shirt and his clothes are rumpled—but not from the scuffle with me.  Felix hangs his head and fumbles to button up his pants.  His pale face flushes with shame as Mr. Claxton glares at his son, turning away just long enough to spit out his disgust.
“Cora, take the girl inside.”
“Lionel—”
“Do as I say, Cora.”  Mr. Claxton calmly unbuckles his belt and slides the thick band of leather out of its loops.  Keeping his eyes fixed on Felix, Mr. Claxton nods in the direction of the barn.  “Get,” he says softly, as if talking to his horse.
Mrs. Claxton has only taken a few reluctant steps toward the house.  Megda clings to her, still sobbing and shaking.  They both stop when Felix calls out in a puny, desperate voice.  “Ma—”
The tapered end of the leather belt catches him across the face.  I stagger back, stunned by the blow.  Felix howls, clutches his burning cheek, and once again huddles close to the ground.  He holds his other arm up as a shield against his father’s rage.  “Papa, please!  I’m sorry—I’m sorry!”
Mrs. Claxton puts her hand over her mouth and rushes Megda into the house.  Mr. Claxton steps forward and lightly kicks his son.  “Sorry?  You will be before this night’s done.  Now get up.”  Felix begins to cry, but doesn’t move.  Mr. Claxton kicks him again, harder this time.  “GET!”
Somehow Felix manages to pull himself to his feet.  The soaked front of his pants proves his fear, yet Felix still casts a defiant glance at me before slowly shuffling toward the barn.  Mr. Claxton waits until Felix is a few feet ahead of him before raising his arm and bringing down the belt once more.  This time, the tip of the belt connects with the pale skin at the base of Felix’s neck.  The boy cries out and falls forward on his knees.  Mr. Claxton takes a few steps forward and gives the same order as before: get up.  Felix hauls himself up, his shoulders shaking with pain and stifled sobs.  I can tell that he is torn: afraid to move forward, knowing just what awaits him out in the barn, yet afraid to disobey his father by standing still.  Felix takes two tentative steps, then glances over his shoulder in time to see his father’s unforgiving arm raise the belt once more.
“NO!” Felix shouts at the darkening sky before suddenly bolting toward the field.  Mr. Claxton, arm still raised, watches his son dart away.  Felix runs as if he knows just where he’s heading.  He dives into the sea of green and wades into the night.  I watch the tall grass until it stops swaying, knowing that Felix is heading from one battle to another.  “He’s probably going to enlist,” I tell Mr. Claxton.
The leather belt softly slaps the dirt as Mr. Claxton’s arm falls to his side.  Keeping his eyes away from mine, Mr. Claxton slowly winds the belt around his hand.  “Any army that wants my son can have him,” he says with disdain.
In the gathering darkness it is hard to read the emotions stamped on his face.  But Mr. Claxton’s shoulders are sunken in a way I have never seen before.  His tall, strong body is burdened not by fatigue, but by defeat.  I want to say, “Whatever’s wrong with Felix, it’s not your fault.”  But nothing I say will convince this father that he has not failed.  Without saying another word, Mr. Claxton turns away from me and slowly walks back to the house…

*****

I was *almost* done with this piece when I realized–men didn’t wear belts in 1863.  I don’t think.  A carpenter was more likely to wear suspenders, I think, which means this will have to be rewritten.  Sigh!  Mr. Claxton could always get a horsewhip from the barn.  Anyway–these are the joys of writing historical fiction!

Judah’s Tale

I’ve got about 20 chapters of the sequel written so far–as soon as I finished A Wish After Midnight back in ‘03, I started writing Judah’s Tale.  I was still in that space—still immersed in that historical moment, and in the lives of my characters.  I was living in Brooklyn at the time and caring for my father, who was dying of cancer; as his care demanded more and more of my time, I gradually stopped writing and then stored the project altogether.  There’s a lot of work to do on these chapters, but I figured maybe posting some online would inspire me to polish them up.  This is Chapter 6.  The chapters alternate in terms of point of view, starting with Judah (who’s stuck in the past), then switching to Genna, who’s back in the present (2001).  Looks like I’m having some formatting issues, so try to just imagine where the italics go!

“Here, baby, I brought you some clean towels…”
Mama’s breath goes back into her mouth, sharp, like a blade.  She is staring at the scars on my back, not wanting to believe that they are real, but fearing that they are.  I could look my mother in the eye simply by facing the mirror.  But instead I wrap the towel around my body and keep my eyes on the water swirling down the drain.

Mama reaches out and touches my bare shoulder.  Her fingertips are icy cold, and I jump in spite of myself.  “Who did this to you?”
I have been back nearly a week, and Mama has been patient with me.  I have put off answering her questions.  I have kept my other life buried deep inside of me.  The chaos of 9-11 makes it easy to change the subject.  But I always knew I couldn’t hide the truth from her forever.  The scars on my body won’t let me keep the past a secret.
“Genna, who did this to you?”
I shiver as cool air slips inside the open door.  “I can’t tell you, Mama.”  It’s the truth, but Mama doesn’t understand.
“Why not?”  Mama pushes the knife back out of her mouth.  It is aimed right at me, but I know who Mama really wants to hurt.
“You wouldn’t believe me, Mama.  You wouldn’t understand.”
Mama stares at me for a long time, her eyes hard and unforgiving.  Then she sits down on the toilet lid and sighs heavily.  “Genna, baby, this world ain’t what it used to be.  People are flying airplanes into skyscrapers.  A week ago I would never have believed that could happen, but now I know different.  Try me, Genna.  Please.  I need to know what’s happened to you.”
I sit down on the edge of the tub and stare at my bare toes.  Mama reaches out and touches my locks.  “Your hair has grown so quickly.”
I feel my mother’s fingers in my hair.  She is touching my locks so gently, with such tender admiration, that I start to cry.  Mama puts her hands on my shoulders and pulls me onto her lap.  I am too old and too big to be held like this, but I let Mama rock me just like she used to when I was a little girl.
“You don’t have to hide anything from me anymore, Genna.  I didn’t do right by you, I know that.  And I’m so sorry, baby.  But we’ve got to be honest with each other from now on.  ’Cause I can’t lose you again.  And I can’t keep you safe unless you trust me.  Okay?”  Mama brushes the tears from my eyes and I nod silently.  Then she takes a deep breath and says, “It wasn’t that boy, was it?  That Rasta?”
I jump up off Mama’s lap.  “No!  Mama—how could you think that?  Judah would never hurt me.  He saved me—he saved my life, Mama!”
“Okay, baby, calm down.  Please, Genna—I had to ask.  He went missing about the same time as you—we all figured you were together, but I didn’t know if you’d gone willingly.  I thought maybe he forced you to—”
“Judah didn’t force me to do anything!”
“Okay, okay, I believe you, baby.  Whatever you say.  Just tell me who hurt you like that.”
I don’t want to get too close to Mama, so I press myself into the corner by the sink.  I don’t know how to tell this story, but I am so tired of holding it in.  And Mama’s right—what happened on Tuesday proves that just about anything’s possible.  I take a deep breath and decide to just say everything at once, even if it doesn’t make sense.  “I went back in time, Mama.  To 1863.  I went to the garden that night after you—after we had that fight.  And I made a wish in the fountain, and I got sent back in time.  Judah came to the garden looking for me, and he got sent back, too, but we couldn’t find each other for a long while.  We were slaves, Mama.  And I don’t know who beat me like that, but Judah got whipped, too—it happened all the time back then, because black people weren’t real people, we were property, white folks owned us, and they could treat us any old way.  I was lucky—I met people, good people who helped me, and then I found Judah and the riots started and then I got shot and that sent me back here.”
For a long time Mama doesn’t say anything.  She just looks at me with that knot between her eyes.  Mama looks at me like I am a stranger, like I am some alien from outer space.  Mama looks at me like I’m crazy, but I can tell she is fighting something inside herself.  She knows I am not a stranger or an alien—I am her daughter.  And I am not lying.  Something inside her knows that I am telling the truth.  But how could this be true?  Mama presses her eyes shut, then she opens her eyes and shrugs helplessly.  “I don’t know what to say, Genna.”
I pull the towel tighter around me to help me hold onto the truth.  Mama gets up from the toilet, takes off her robe, and offers it to me.  I take it from her and put it on.  It is the same old, thin robe Mama has always worn, but right now having it on makes me feel warmer than standing in the sun.  Mama gives me a small, silent smile, then she leaves the bathroom and goes into the kitchen.  I hear her filling up the kettle with water, then I hear the clicking of the burner and the soft whoosh as the flame leaps up.  I avoid the mirror hanging over the sink and follow Mama into the kitchen.
She is sitting at the table, her face buried in her hands.  I stand in the doorway for a long while, not sure what to say or do.  When the water is about to boil, I go over to the stove and turn off the gas before the kettle starts its shrill whistle.  Then I pull out a chair and sit down next to Mama.  I put my hand on her arm but she doesn’t respond.  Mama is weeping quietly behind her hands.
“Don’t cry, Mama.  Please, don’t cry.  I’m okay now, I’m back.  It’s going to be okay now.”
Mama pulls her hands away from her face and looks at me.  This is the first lie I have told.  We both know it’s not going to be okay.
“I’m so sorry, Genna.  I’m sorry that I hit you that night.  I’m sorry I didn’t go after you when you ran out of the house.  It’s all my fault…”
“It’s nobody’s fault, Mama, it just happened.  I don’t know why, but it did.”
I get up and tear a paper towel off the roll.  I hand it to Mama so she can dry her eyes, then I start making us both a cup of tea.  I can feel Mama’s eyes on my back.  Her robe is threadbare, but I know she is wondering what other scars are hidden underneath.  “What was it like—being there—in the past?”
Mama’s throat is hoarse and dry.  I hand her a mug of hot tea, and sit down across from her.  “Brooklyn was so different, Mama.  I could hardly believe my eyes.”
“Tell me about it.”  Mama sips her tea and waits for me to speak.  I decide to start at the beginning, with being found in the ash dump by Lester and Charlie, then being rescued by Sam Jenkins.  Mama listens to me with the slightest smile, like she is a child and I am telling her a bedtime story.  Whenever I stop, she asks me questions and urges me to go on.  I hardly have a chance to drink my tea, and it is cold by the time I tell Mama about the draft riots and the terrifying night I got sent back to this century.
When I stop talking, Mama keeps on watching me with that strange smile on her lips.  I lower my eyes and wonder if I was wrong to tell her the truth.  I didn’t tell Mama the entire story, but I feel like now I have more room inside.  In a strange way, talking about Mattie, and Martha, and Judah makes them seem not so far away.
Mama pushes her empty mug away and gently touches my arm.  “You must miss them, your friends.  It sounds like you never got to say goodbye.”
I blink fast and fight back the tears that gather in my eyes.  “I’ll see them again someday.”  I realize too late that this is the wrong thing to say to Mama.  The knot tightens between her eyes again and her voice becomes sharp with panic.
“What do you mean, see them again?  You can’t see them again, they’re gone—you’re gone!  You’re here, where you belong.”
Mama pauses and waits for me to agree with her, but I can’t.  I avoid her eyes.  I don’t want to see how afraid she is, and I don’t want her to see how determined I am to go back.
“You stay out of that garden, you hear me?  Genna?”  Mama waits for me to answer, but I still don’t say a word.  She softens her voice and tries again.  “Genna, baby, I need you.  You and Tyjuan, you’re all I’ve got left.  And it’s not safe anymore—we don’t know what’s going to happen next.  We’ve got to stay together.  Right?”
Mama’s eyes are pleading with me, and her fingers are wrapped tight around my arm.  I nod but keep my eyes on the cold tea at the bottom of my mug.  Mama needs more of an assurance than this, but there is nothing more I can offer.
“It’s over, Genna.  This terrible thing that happened to you—it’s over.  There’s nothing you can do now.  Just leave it alone, please.  Let’s just try to go back to the way things were.”
Mama knows as well as I do that things won’t ever be the same.  But then I think, maybe this is Mama’s dream, maybe I should accept hers the way she has tried to accept mine.  My story may not make sense to her, but Mama isn’t trying to convince me that it isn’t real.  So I just smile at Mama the best I can, and inside I tell myself that what happened to me isn’t over—not for good, not yet.

oh, Michael…