Book Excerpts
The Color of Love
(Louise Love, Narrator)
Justice and its implementation were natural curiosities due to my lifelong proximity to the epicenter of American political discourse. I came from a tradition of compassionate women who got things done for humanity, and I wanted to follow in their footsteps. My paternal grandmother, Anna June’s, activism during the Civil Rights Movement in Indianola, Mississippi, fueled my political curiosity and my desire to learn more about that history. At age sixty-five, my grandmother was imprisoned for advocating African Americans’ right to vote in 1965. Imagine being treated as subhuman based on skin color and suffering the degradation of imprisonment for exercising one’s birthright in the middle of the twentieth century!
Grandmother’s life was at risk, she received threats, and her home and personal vehicle were the targets of arson. However, she steadfastly held to her beliefs and was a champion of human rights. She poignantly memorialized her struggle in the following poem, “In the Jackson Jail.”
In the Jackson Jail
It was June 14th, 1965,
I was put in a Jackson jail.
In the Jackson jail, it was no one there for to go our bail.
They push us to the North, and they push us to the South,
They push us to the East, and they push us to the West,
But we all try to do our best.
It was no one there to speak a good word,
Cryin’ in the Jackson jail, in the Jackson jail.
They made us sit on the floor,
We could not go to the door.
We had to rest on our wrist
Or we would be beaten with a fist
In the Jackson jail, in the Jackson jail
It was no one there for to go our bail.
They gave us sour bread and milk,
But we refused to eat.
For breakfast, they gave us grits,
Black molasses and milk.
You know that would make any dog sick.
For dinner, string beans and corn,
Corn and string beans for supper.
The only difference between the two:
The corn for supper was too burnt to chew.
In the Jackson jail, in the Jackson jail.
I mean this happen in the Jackson jail.
They push us in the back, but we will never turn back.
It was peoples laughing—”they’re sick!”
It was some of them kicked,
It was some of them beaten over the head with a stick.
I am talking about down in the Jackson jail.
We had to sleep on the floor,
And that was for sure
Because those cops was there, sitting right at the door
In the Jackson jail, in the Jackson jail.
We went to the doctor,
But the cops was there,
We was right sure we was not treated fair
In the Jackson jail.
Just about the time I was about to sleep,
I saw two cops dragging a woman by both her feets,
In the Jackson jail.
It was a baby going to be born,
But they beat that poor woman
Same as you were born,
In the Jackson jail, in the Jackson jail.
This is a long, sad story, you know.
If I tell it all, it will trouble your soul.
But I want the whole world to know it,
And I’m going to tell it everywhere I go.
So, I did—everywhere I went.
Fitting Out
(Sunny Girl’s Narrative)
Did you ever feel that you want to be someone else—just by waking up one day and literally living in a different body, with another skin color, in an entirely new world? Long ago and far away (or was it just yesterday?), I was on a quest for my identity—a place of safety and self-acceptance. I wondered what it would be like to be white—a color that people often associate with pristine beauty. Whenever I would envision myself in that incarnation, I would, seconds later, suddenly receive a harsh wake-up call when I lowered my head to behold the ebony hue of my skin or when one of my uncles, my mom, or another family member commented on my weight. Since I never felt pretty or valued, I always refrained from looking in the mirror. Instead, I turned the mirror outward, away from myself, toward a world that never accepted me. Yet, I acknowledged its beauty while retreating from it. Self-loathing caused me to seek solitude. The door to my room was the portal to my little world—my zone, where no one was allowed to enter. Everything I needed was right there, in that private sanctuary with its stark white walls. Whenever someone put me down (which was more often than I care to recall), I lowered my head and allowed my tears to fall on the pink carpet beneath my feet. Whoosh! The tears vanished—just like that—but they left a lingering chasm in my heart, constantly widened by my low self-esteem and shame. Even if I wanted to venture out, that sense of humiliation kept me inside myself behind the closed door. I even ate in my room, giving vent not only to physical hunger but an emotional void—a yearning—for what? I couldn’t identify what I lacked. I only knew that I was alone—and, in truth, that was my conscious choice.
The Last Time I Kissed Him
(Sunny Girl’s Narrative)
“Mommy, the baby isn’t breathing! He had a slight fever, I gave him aspirin, and put him down. Now … I can’t get him to wake up, and he’s turning blue!”
At that moment, the full extent of my inner doubts and self-loathing came rushing toward me like hideous monsters leaping out of the inferno, invading the planet, and I was captive to them with nowhere to run.
I couldn’t turn back the hands of time, but I would give my life, at this very moment, for the chance.
More Than Enough
(Louise Love, Narrator)
At times, Sunny girl would express her wish to find someone to love who would truly understand her and share her life, but her self-deprecation persisted. She always thought of herself as ‘less than’ and not good enough. I told her that before anyone can love another or receive love, each person and partner in that relationship must have a healthy dose of self-love. Self-love is not narcissism or conceit. Instead, it is a healthy sense of confidence—the knowledge that the self is no greater or lesser than others but inherently worthy of all life has to offer, deserving of success, love, and joy. If only I could speak with my daughter now, I would tell her that she was more than enough, extraordinary, worthy of the love and acceptance she so desperately sought, valuable beyond measure. If only she could have seen herself as I saw her!truthful in her feelings—that dialogue would have opened If only she had opened up to the possibilities I presented, the world would have been her oyster—and, in my eyes, she was the pearl. Had she been more vocal—not antagonistic, but the world to us. Secrets never do away with the truth—they allow burdens to grow instead of potential. As for me, I always kept an open heart and allowed possibilities to flow as surely as the morning light, and when I least expected it, a blessing appeared right before my eyes.