My professor, A.J Verdelle, and I exchanged books. I gave her Buck by MK Asante and she gave me her own, a literary classic and praised by Toni Morrison, The Good Negress. I secretly hope she gives me this copy; she can have Buck. I also hope to one day give her a copy of my own book.
I'm on page 94. I've read the inside jacket, the acknowledgements, and the praise on the back of the book. I think about the age of the work. It's as old as I am. Incredible. But even more, I think about the object. The book. And to think my professor is the author of the book. These words are hers, and not to diminish the work of editors or others, but her name is on the front. This is her work. Neesy, Margarete, and Luke edward are hers. Big Jim and Dana are hers. Even Lontz (one of my favorite parts right now) is hers. My professor would probably tell me "It's not mine anymore. The work is published." I can the conversation; I'd be sitting in her office on the second floor of Holmes Hall, and she'd be behind the desk glancing between her screen and me. But I'd still think its hers.
You ever read a book about yourself? You ever felt so close to a character that you feel you can predict their next move, not because you know them, but because you are them?
I might be Neesy.
I was born in South Carolina and was raised by my grandmother. I did spend some time up North, in Baltimore where I currently live, with my mother and little brother, but most of my life is centered in the small town of Florence, South Carolina. Neesy was also Southern, raised by her own grandmother in Virginia, until the calling came for her to come back to Detroit to help her mom with a new baby. Neesy's grandma is my grandma. I not only picture the feeling of being snatched away from her Virginia home, but I feel it, not in my heart, but in my soul. I shiver. The feeling is all too familiar. I see Grandma's back porch and a car outside, and I see her standing there, waiting for the call to pull off, and I see the car and dirt under it as it pulls out of the clay road driveway. I see the long roads without lights. Growing up, I never thought it weird. But my three days in South Carolina, riding from Florence to Hemingway with only a car light to guide, the experience felt surreal. And dangerous. This is the broke Black South for you.
When I see Neesy at the parade, I see myself, all big, Black and Jeremy, at the parade. I see purple and gold streamers. Old cars and happy Black people just loving themselves and loving their alma mater. This is the Wilson High School homecoming parade. Wilson was a mostly Black school. An annual event in Florence, people come from across the country to celebrate at one of the biggest and Blackest events in the area. Both my mom and my aunt are Wilsonians. Wilsonians are some of the proudest people you'll ever meet.
On page 81, Neesy describes Luke edward and his relationship to Granma'am. This part was the part that inspired me to write this piece. Between this page and the one before it, my soul ached and my heart heaved. My grandma was 48 when I was born. She'll be 68 this year. I remember a time before she held on to things for support. I remember a time before I was able to reminisce about things. I remember a time when getting from the truck to the door wasn't so long as it is now. I remember when arthritis was only a word I knew, not the pain and the effort I currently see now. The book made me want to call up my grandma and paint the house. As much as I am Neesy, I can be a Luke edward too; at least in that sense.
This is life.
Neesy as a character is young, curious, and assertive. To be written in such a way requires a level of talent and technique that merits "Truly extraordinary" from Toni Morrison. The level of characterization and the precise placement of punctuation reminded me of the power of words.
In the power of words, there's several things I'll always remember from my professor including: circling your verbs, writing in scenes, thinking about objects, and starting from the ground up. As I write Mitch, I now understand that I absolutely must read it aloud before submitting it anywhere. Beyond finding out grammar mistakes, I'm sure I'll find flaws in the rhythm of the words. It'll also help me deliver pregnant, as my professor calls them, places.
You ever read a book about yourself? You ever read about yourself so rawly, you had to close the book and just think. On page 94, I thought about what I'd read and decided to write a blog post. I love to write. I love to read. I'm learning how to write about what I read as professor told me I should. So far, it's been fun.