11/24/2004
The Tale of the Cotton and Four Women
Savanna, Georgia
Dr. James Richardson's Plantation
Fall of 1804
Looking up briefly, from the task at hand, the young girl or woman by her native Africa's standards, thought she heard some annoying high pitched wail coming from the area of The Big House. Although she could have been elevated, possibly, from a field hand to that of a house servant, or better yet, a personal servant to one of the Massa Richardson's four daughters, she remained a field hand. She looked down at her hands, cracked and dry from the rough weather and removing the cotton from hundred's of bulbs day after day. She knew from the direction of the sun and the way the trees cast their shadows that her day's work in the field would soon be over. Afterward, she would splash some cold water from the pump by the shacks she and the other field hands shared on her face and hands, then join the other women slaves in preparing the meager supper they would have that night, which most likely would consist of sweet potatoes and black eyed peas.
The slaves in The Big House always ate well and the work was less severe than that of a field hand. Still, Zulusha (or Maggie the name the white man gave her, but stubbornly refused to THINK of herself as anything but her African given name) would rather do the harsher work with fewer of the so called "benefits" that house servants enjoyed. And why not? She could be herself with real people she had found companionship with shortly after she had been sold away from her mother and little brother. That had been many years ago. She wasn't sure how much time had passed because slaves were forbidden to learn how to count or do math. Anything was better than having to endure the high strung, and nervous, snobby white ladies. You couldn't talk to any of THEM about anything. She also didn't care much for the uppity house nigras that assumed they were some free white folks the way they carried on, like they were all of a sudden better than the rest of the African folks working as slaves for the white man. Life was hard enough without having to go through it without some companionship or friends, temporary as they might be. "MAGGIE! MAGGIE! WHERE IS MY COTTON?," It was Miss Ella Mae, the oldest of massa Richardson's daughters and the one she disliked the most.
A fleeting thought went through her mind of taking a wad full of cotton and stuffing it down her throat and in her face, so as never to have to hear that irritating, high pitched, whiny voice of that bitch again. "Commin Miz Ella Mae. Sorry I's don't hear ya'll Mizz Ella." "Well hurry up don't be all day about it or you get no super." "Yes I'z comin real quick Mizz Ella. Here Mizz Ella, I done just like you tol me." "I do declare it's impossible to teach you dumb apes anything, you do know that?," said Ella. "Yes Mizz Ella. I's sorry, Mizz Ella. Is there anything mo I's need to be doin o may I's be scuzed to go back wid de ressin of de fiel hand mammies an hep po ol Mammy Mary wid super? Her hand cain't hardly move an she cain't hardly see nothin Mizzy, if'n you will permit--" "Go on get out of here! A girl could get a headache listenin to the likes of you all day. GO!," shouted Ella.
A short curtsy and a quick "yessem" were uttered before she moved swiftly back to the safety of her comfort zone. She wanted to put as much distance between The Big House and herself as possible. She could almost taste the sweet potatoes and smell the black eyed peas as she listened and kept company with the other ladies in the field that had become surrogate mammies and aunties of sorts. Tomorrow she would tend to more cotton, only hopefully not have to endure Mizz Ella demeaning her and yelling at her to bring cotton for her lilly white face. She had a meanness about her the other slaves knew as well, had in fact warned her to steer clear of "Massa Richardson's eldest, she be meaner dan a ratter snake!" and tried to avoid her whenever possible. Safety and comfort were 5 steps away. Grady was playin his fiddle, the chatter of women could be heard, and she could smell super. Love and the fun part of the day was here at last, her safety zone.
Los Angeles, Ca
In a dingy, run down apartment
Fall of 2004
Two hundred years later, two different women, one black, and one white, once again were doing a sort of replay of the scene
above, only this time both of them slaves to the same master.
Although neither one of them knew it, Elena who's white grandmother had been adopted, the records of her birth parents forever a mystery after the fire destroyed the courthouse in Savannah during WWI, Miss Ella Mae Richardson was in fact one of Elena's ancestors which would have made her her great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandmother on her mother's side, who also in fact had both shared identical first and middle names, Elena Mae. Her predecessor before had been called Ella Mae, but she HATED bein called anything but Elena. Ella Mae sounded like an ignorant southern hick with no education who was typically prejudiced, and full of themselves which she hated.
And ironically enough, Zulusha or Maggie, as she had been called by the white owners who had stolen her freedom, her family, and her identity, was the present day Zulusha's or Zulu as she was called, long since dead great, great, great, great, great, great grandmother who had tolerated a life of deference, playing both spoken and unspoken rules and roles expected of her, if she wanted to survive. Survival skills she had learned well, even though subjected to a life of illiteracy, much the same as her modern day descendant for whom she was given her namesake. Elena knew that, almost pitied folks that assumed anyone without an education, or fine proper background and breeding, like Zulu for example, was dumb as a post.
Far from it, Zulu was a quick witted, intelligent woman. Nothing got by her, even when she so wished things would. Although Elena hadn't know many black friends, from the short time she had known Zulu or Lulu as she sometimes affectionately called her, in her mind, was cool people as far as she was concerned. Anybody that could not, or would not look beyond their narrow minded values and not see the special woman Zulu was were fools. Elena had great admiration and respect for her new friend Zulu, who traveled with different bands of musicians from time to time, that is when she could land a paying gig. Zulu was a hell of a musician and a given 2 hours of messing around with any musical instrument, could play it even though she couldn't read a single note of music. How the hell she could sing and play like that was not known, but it came from her talent mixed with her soul as far as Elena saw it. Elena herself was a make up artist and unknown screen play writer, but like Zulu she did what she loved, and likewise was dirt poor. Elena had asked her friend who gave her her unusual name and the story behind it, but all Zulu knew was that she was named after some African lady relative that had been a slave on some plantation.
Since they were neighbors and Zulu had come to spend more time at Elena's whenever she could instead of her own place, and although both of them remained guarded about their drug use, they did inevitably find out about the other's vice. Zulu was an avid heroin lover, and Elena's vice was crystal meth. Although very different drugs, they were both considered hard core, since both of them used needles. Sitting in her trodden down dump of an apartment that she called home, both Elena and Zulu felt the invisible tug of the old ball and chain. Although unspoken, both knew what the other was thinking, so Elena reached into her closet and brought out her bag of tricks.
She had mixed and prepared a shot of meth for herself, and had started diligently on another of heroin for Zulu, who had not many connections yet in LA. Elena had generously copped a $20 bag for her friend. Real friends would watch your back, which Zulu had already done for Elena on 2 occasions when she found herself with a supply of meth, but no heroin. Elena was getting anxious to get the chemicals inside her vein once and for all. Zulu was anxious, cause she too, was seeking refuge and bliss. The two ladies, friends and neighbors, and although unknown to both, 200 years ago their ancestors were master and slave to each other, and as luck would have it, were having a conversation eerily similar to the one the slave and slave owner had before. This time, however, at least Elena was not the white bitch slave owner the modern Zulu dreaded, but a sister slave and companion. Sort of like hearing the fiddle playing at the end of the day, with the aroma of super cooking, and the welcome conversation of the other slaves, a safe place.
Seeing Elena mix up a shot of heroin for her practically made her drool. They were going to shoot together, but there was one minor delay. "Zulu babe," said Elena. Zulu looked up at her expectantly in answer. "Would you go in the closet, look in my bag, there is some cotton in there. Bring me some cotton will you? Alot of it," "Sure!," she said, eager to oblige. Heaven was but moments away. When she came back with the cotton, both knew that would allow the ritual to be completed. Picking a piece of cotton off the ball and rolling it into a much smaller ball, quickly and effortlessly, before she wet it and put it in the spoon with the liquified dope, Elena looked up with a warm smile and said, "Thankyou hon."
The Tale of the Cotton and Four Women
Savanna, Georgia
Dr. James Richardson's Plantation
Fall of 1804
Looking up briefly, from the task at hand, the young girl or woman by her native Africa's standards, thought she heard some annoying high pitched wail coming from the area of The Big House. Although she could have been elevated, possibly, from a field hand to that of a house servant, or better yet, a personal servant to one of the Massa Richardson's four daughters, she remained a field hand. She looked down at her hands, cracked and dry from the rough weather and removing the cotton from hundred's of bulbs day after day. She knew from the direction of the sun and the way the trees cast their shadows that her day's work in the field would soon be over. Afterward, she would splash some cold water from the pump by the shacks she and the other field hands shared on her face and hands, then join the other women slaves in preparing the meager supper they would have that night, which most likely would consist of sweet potatoes and black eyed peas.
The slaves in The Big House always ate well and the work was less severe than that of a field hand. Still, Zulusha (or Maggie the name the white man gave her, but stubbornly refused to THINK of herself as anything but her African given name) would rather do the harsher work with fewer of the so called "benefits" that house servants enjoyed. And why not? She could be herself with real people she had found companionship with shortly after she had been sold away from her mother and little brother. That had been many years ago. She wasn't sure how much time had passed because slaves were forbidden to learn how to count or do math. Anything was better than having to endure the high strung, and nervous, snobby white ladies. You couldn't talk to any of THEM about anything. She also didn't care much for the uppity house nigras that assumed they were some free white folks the way they carried on, like they were all of a sudden better than the rest of the African folks working as slaves for the white man. Life was hard enough without having to go through it without some companionship or friends, temporary as they might be. "MAGGIE! MAGGIE! WHERE IS MY COTTON?," It was Miss Ella Mae, the oldest of massa Richardson's daughters and the one she disliked the most.
A fleeting thought went through her mind of taking a wad full of cotton and stuffing it down her throat and in her face, so as never to have to hear that irritating, high pitched, whiny voice of that bitch again. "Commin Miz Ella Mae. Sorry I's don't hear ya'll Mizz Ella." "Well hurry up don't be all day about it or you get no super." "Yes I'z comin real quick Mizz Ella. Here Mizz Ella, I done just like you tol me." "I do declare it's impossible to teach you dumb apes anything, you do know that?," said Ella. "Yes Mizz Ella. I's sorry, Mizz Ella. Is there anything mo I's need to be doin o may I's be scuzed to go back wid de ressin of de fiel hand mammies an hep po ol Mammy Mary wid super? Her hand cain't hardly move an she cain't hardly see nothin Mizzy, if'n you will permit--" "Go on get out of here! A girl could get a headache listenin to the likes of you all day. GO!," shouted Ella.
A short curtsy and a quick "yessem" were uttered before she moved swiftly back to the safety of her comfort zone. She wanted to put as much distance between The Big House and herself as possible. She could almost taste the sweet potatoes and smell the black eyed peas as she listened and kept company with the other ladies in the field that had become surrogate mammies and aunties of sorts. Tomorrow she would tend to more cotton, only hopefully not have to endure Mizz Ella demeaning her and yelling at her to bring cotton for her lilly white face. She had a meanness about her the other slaves knew as well, had in fact warned her to steer clear of "Massa Richardson's eldest, she be meaner dan a ratter snake!" and tried to avoid her whenever possible. Safety and comfort were 5 steps away. Grady was playin his fiddle, the chatter of women could be heard, and she could smell super. Love and the fun part of the day was here at last, her safety zone.
Los Angeles, Ca
In a dingy, run down apartment
Fall of 2004
Two hundred years later, two different women, one black, and one white, once again were doing a sort of replay of the scene
above, only this time both of them slaves to the same master.
Although neither one of them knew it, Elena who's white grandmother had been adopted, the records of her birth parents forever a mystery after the fire destroyed the courthouse in Savannah during WWI, Miss Ella Mae Richardson was in fact one of Elena's ancestors which would have made her her great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandmother on her mother's side, who also in fact had both shared identical first and middle names, Elena Mae. Her predecessor before had been called Ella Mae, but she HATED bein called anything but Elena. Ella Mae sounded like an ignorant southern hick with no education who was typically prejudiced, and full of themselves which she hated.
And ironically enough, Zulusha or Maggie, as she had been called by the white owners who had stolen her freedom, her family, and her identity, was the present day Zulusha's or Zulu as she was called, long since dead great, great, great, great, great, great grandmother who had tolerated a life of deference, playing both spoken and unspoken rules and roles expected of her, if she wanted to survive. Survival skills she had learned well, even though subjected to a life of illiteracy, much the same as her modern day descendant for whom she was given her namesake. Elena knew that, almost pitied folks that assumed anyone without an education, or fine proper background and breeding, like Zulu for example, was dumb as a post.
Far from it, Zulu was a quick witted, intelligent woman. Nothing got by her, even when she so wished things would. Although Elena hadn't know many black friends, from the short time she had known Zulu or Lulu as she sometimes affectionately called her, in her mind, was cool people as far as she was concerned. Anybody that could not, or would not look beyond their narrow minded values and not see the special woman Zulu was were fools. Elena had great admiration and respect for her new friend Zulu, who traveled with different bands of musicians from time to time, that is when she could land a paying gig. Zulu was a hell of a musician and a given 2 hours of messing around with any musical instrument, could play it even though she couldn't read a single note of music. How the hell she could sing and play like that was not known, but it came from her talent mixed with her soul as far as Elena saw it. Elena herself was a make up artist and unknown screen play writer, but like Zulu she did what she loved, and likewise was dirt poor. Elena had asked her friend who gave her her unusual name and the story behind it, but all Zulu knew was that she was named after some African lady relative that had been a slave on some plantation.
Since they were neighbors and Zulu had come to spend more time at Elena's whenever she could instead of her own place, and although both of them remained guarded about their drug use, they did inevitably find out about the other's vice. Zulu was an avid heroin lover, and Elena's vice was crystal meth. Although very different drugs, they were both considered hard core, since both of them used needles. Sitting in her trodden down dump of an apartment that she called home, both Elena and Zulu felt the invisible tug of the old ball and chain. Although unspoken, both knew what the other was thinking, so Elena reached into her closet and brought out her bag of tricks.
She had mixed and prepared a shot of meth for herself, and had started diligently on another of heroin for Zulu, who had not many connections yet in LA. Elena had generously copped a $20 bag for her friend. Real friends would watch your back, which Zulu had already done for Elena on 2 occasions when she found herself with a supply of meth, but no heroin. Elena was getting anxious to get the chemicals inside her vein once and for all. Zulu was anxious, cause she too, was seeking refuge and bliss. The two ladies, friends and neighbors, and although unknown to both, 200 years ago their ancestors were master and slave to each other, and as luck would have it, were having a conversation eerily similar to the one the slave and slave owner had before. This time, however, at least Elena was not the white bitch slave owner the modern Zulu dreaded, but a sister slave and companion. Sort of like hearing the fiddle playing at the end of the day, with the aroma of super cooking, and the welcome conversation of the other slaves, a safe place.
Seeing Elena mix up a shot of heroin for her practically made her drool. They were going to shoot together, but there was one minor delay. "Zulu babe," said Elena. Zulu looked up at her expectantly in answer. "Would you go in the closet, look in my bag, there is some cotton in there. Bring me some cotton will you? Alot of it," "Sure!," she said, eager to oblige. Heaven was but moments away. When she came back with the cotton, both knew that would allow the ritual to be completed. Picking a piece of cotton off the ball and rolling it into a much smaller ball, quickly and effortlessly, before she wet it and put it in the spoon with the liquified dope, Elena looked up with a warm smile and said, "Thankyou hon."
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