Born Mean

My mama had been dead a whole minute ‘fore the doctor finally got me wrestled out of her. Granma told me I’d come from a dead womb, so that’s why I was the way I was. Granma always said I was just born mean. But I don’t think I was ever truly mean, no, I just expected more out of people. I expected them to be how Jesus said they ought to be. Is that so wrong? To expect more out of people? To expect them to do what they ought to do?

I once punched Demitri in the back of his head right in the middle of church for scratchin’ his crotch right there, right there, for Jesus and everyone to see during the prayer. Was that so mean? Jesus don’t want crotch dust coming out of pant legs onto his church.

One time I told my brother he was goin’ to hell. Granma said that was mean. I didn’t mean it mean. I just knew where he was headed. That ain’t on me.

Nah. I ain’t mean. I just expect order. Shit, I always kept in line myself.

Granma always told me, “Never walk with just one shoe on.” Said it’s bad luck. So I stuffed every shoe in the house with chicken guts, red and stinkin’, tied ‘em together with twine like dolls in a chain. Made a game of it, swingin’ ‘em round my head, laughin’ ‘fore I tossed ‘em in the river. Now they was all gone, and everybody had to walk barefoot like me. Granma called me mean for that too. But it weren’t mean. I was lookin’ out for folks. Wasn’t I?

She said never sweep over someone’s feet or they’ll never marry. So I swept over my little cousin’s feet with the hard, scouring bristles ‘til they bled. Then I burned the broom in the yard, and the smell of singed straw and blood stuck to me. I didn’t want her marryin’ no man like daddy. She was better at home with me, wasn’t she? Granma had her go back with auntie for a while. Said she didn’t want her turnin’ out as mean as me.

It was Granma callin’ me mean one last time that did it. Had me sittin’ out by the barn while everybody else ate supper. “Punishment”, she said, for tryin’ to light brother up with cake candles while he slept. We was just playin’, I thought. Me arrangin’ them candles ‘round him like birthday sticks, him snorin’ like a hog. I wanted to see the fire catch his shirt, wanted to see it dance. That’s the kinda play I knew.

She said never whistle after dark. “It calls the devil”. So I sat by that barn and whistled. I whistled till I couldn’t tell if the sound was comin’ from me or the woods. I sat good and still by that barn, just like she told me. Didn’t even twitch when I saw the dark figure slide out the shadows. I was ‘bout twelve, maybe thirteen. Back then, folks didn’t keep no birthdays straight, not for us girls ‘specially. Hell, my day ain’t ever been special. Not after I killed Mama.

He called me “good girl,” and I near spit on him. I already knew I was good. Would it been so wrong to spit? I don’t think so.

He leaned in close and right then, I knew right then, it was Jesus. Sweet Jesus with his white-white skin and red lips and them yellow eyes like Granma’s cat Lenny. Those eyes made me feel like I deserved to see them candles blaze my brother clean.

While I was thinkin’ on that fire, I felt the tiniest prick under my ear, like when you play too rough in the pine scrub and the needles catch you. Then came the sleepy fallin’, the half-dream you get when resting your head down in school. I wanted to full on sleep, but the dark man Jesus lifted me up and pressed my mouth to a fresh cut on his forearm.

At first I felt sick. Then a frenzy rose up hotter than any flame I ever wanted on my brother. A frenzy that still comes every night. My belly hurt so bad when his blood hit it I thought I’d split right open. Then the sleep took me.

When I come to, I weren’t nowhere near that barn. I woke in satin sheets, curtains heavy as church robes, the whole room thick with perfume and smoke. Took me a spell to know I wasn’t dead. Then I felt him, the dark man Jesus, leanin’ over me with eyes gone soft, tellin’ me I was his now. His girl. His daughter. His blood.

He dressed me in velvet and lace, said I was to be raised proper, like the fine women of Southern splendor. Chandeliers, parlors, silver spoons clinkin’ in coffee cups, readin’ and writin’. But I weren’t no doll, no corseted plaything. I pulled on men’s trousers soon as I seen ‘em in his wardrobe, started strutting through the house like it was mine. He didn’t stop me. Laughed even. Said I looked finer than most men ever did.

See, I was a Black girl in a time when Black girls was s’posed to hush up, bow down, and go unseen. Just like any woman back then, jus’ blacker. Best thing you could be was quiet as the grave. Better to be unseen… else you’d be used whenever some white man set his eyes crooked on you. Didn’t matter if you was twelve or twenty, you was just another body for his wantin’. Folks told us keep our heads low, keep our skirts long, keep our voices soft. But even then, bein’ invisible weren’t no guarantee.

But with him, with the blood he poured into me, I moved through ballrooms and carriage rides like I owned the South. Folks didn’t dare tell me no. Their eyes slid off me like oil on water. Alls I had to do was get them to thinkin’ I was white or a man. Then it was like I was never there at all. I learned right quick the benefits of bein’ seen as a man.

And Lord, the games I played then. I’d set the servants to huntin’ for shoes I done filled with broken glass, just to watch how they yelped when they put ‘em on. I’d have ‘em dustin’ the ceilings while leaving little trails of blood behind like rotten snails. I laughed so hard my stomach ached. It was all just play, wasn’t it?

Later, I took to hostin’ little gatherings for the rick folks just come to town. Nothin’ grand, just a supper or two, lights dimmed, windows locked. I’d set out my best china and fill the cups with something redder than wine. They’d drink, cough, and stare at me wide-eyed, askin’ if it was some foreign liquor. I’d smile and tell ‘em it was something even better.

There was a preacher once. Young, fair, full of thunder. He came knockin’ on my door claimin’ he’d heard tell of wickedness in my house. I invited him in, offered tea, let him sit beneath the portrait of a man that weren’t me, though he thought it was. I made him read me scripture till his voice cracked, then asked him to baptize me. Out back. In the trough. When he leaned over the water to examine its cleanliness, I pushed him down and held him there ‘til his prayers turned to bubbles. His Bible floated beside him, pages swelling like drowned lungs. I laughed and said, “You done saved me, Reverend. You just ain’t lived to see it.”

At night, I played rougher still. I’d sneak into fields where the workers slept, whisper lullabies till they stilled, then drink deep and leave their bodies pale as moonlight. Sometimes I painted my lips with their blood, struttin’ back through the hall like a queen fresh from supper. He never scolded me. He only smiled. Said I was learnin’ what it meant to be free.

Free. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? To be a Black woman wearin’ men’s clothes, sittin’ high on velvet chairs, doin’ whatever wicked play I pleased, while the rest of the world still spat on my kind. They could spit all they wanted. I had blood.

And with blood, I could play forever.