Memphis

by Tara M. Stringfellow

For years in this country there was no one for black men to vent their rage on except black women. And for years black women accepted that rage—even regarded that acceptance as their unpleasant duty. But in doing so, they frequently kicked back, and they seem never to have become the “true slave” that white women see in their own history.

So, when my Auntie August opened that door, and I saw that her skin was so dark it reflected all the other colors surrounding it—the yellow of the morning light, the yellow of the door, the peach tan of the calico cat weaving in and out of Mya’s short legs—I knew that the aunt I could barely remember was, in and of herself, a small, delicious miracle.

“Will you love her, is what I’m concerned about,” her mother was saying. “Treat her right? Do for her and care for her? Be there when she’s sick and when she’s lonesome?” “You’re an Edith Wharton fan, ma’am?” “You’re literate, then.

He did not pause when they heard the unforgettable sound of a wooden broom handle hitting bone.

the tired workingmen, the even more tired womenfolk—all

I’m an old gay man in Memphis. I do what the fuck I want, love. You should, too.”

“Joan,” August said, breathless, panting the adrenaline out of her system. “Your daddy and ’em here.”

Miriam felt August hover over her. Not threatening, but persistent. Like a mosquito. Or a sister.