Short Stories – Page 3

Queen

We are south of Senegal, maybe Guinea, maybe Ghana, or maybe as far east as the Congo. In any event, there is a woman and she’s smiling; putting her body and her hands to work to the multitasking of the rhythm of hips, rolling shoulders and the calming beat of the sounds that influence them. You must not however get distracted by her dancing as if of some stereotypical performance the Africans must put on, for her tribes have always been comprised of dancers and musicians. After a wedding, and even after battle, the men assemble their drums and the women their bodies to tap into a spiritual formation of triumphant celebration. So, the woman is dancing, and showcasing the bright red and blue colors against her skin; the dyed cloths her mothers have handmade from fresh berries. Her hair is braided in plaits; it is strength like strong rope. The woman is gorgeous and the men stare as her chocolate skin glistens in the sun, soft and smooth like silk. He nods, returning her smile. She blushes, rolling back and forth to the appreciation of his hands, slamming with authority against djembe drums, a rope-tuned skin-covered goblet drum, as if massaging against her skin. The year is 1619, and she has just turned seventeen. Waiting this day to which he would smile at her since childhood.

Abba looks her way, it is what she calls Papa Joe, forcing her to turn off seductive eyes and transform into his innocent little girl giggling away in mama’s arms. Placing her index finger on mama’s lips she hopes she has gained enough trust in her to keep silent for daddy must not ever find out about her secret love. If so he may begin to think she no longer belongs to him, for in her village it is custom that when a woman found a man her father gives up his reign, and it now belongs to her husband. And this she can’t bring herself to fathom, that one of those fine strong men will take her away from King Joe. The one who have always protected her and was known for treating mama like a queen, yet it is what she wishes for, to be queen. For a chance to wear golden nose rings and flaring dresses— yes, to be queen is what she wants. The sounds of the village men still heard in the background of her thoughts; slamming strong hands into drums in time for her body to move in that way.

The night has come, and Papa prepares the tent for sleep, driving the stakes into the ground. The roof is thatched with reeds, the walls and floors covered with mats. She lays awake, this woman. No, better yet this princess. Her eyes wander from the plantain from which her bed is made, to the mats three feet below her. Her eyes cannot stop to think of morning when the village men will approach each tent in that they may search out their future wife. This was done every year to service the anxious seventeen year olds, young women who’d prepared for this day since infancy. Seventeen because the number seven is symbolic of perfection, and it is their belief that seventeen years represented the completeness of their womanhood, perfectly fit to become someone’s wife. For this reason alone she cannot sleep, there is just too much excitement! She would never be seen as a child again, for on this day she would officially become a woman. A man would soon leave his father and mother to cling onto her. And she would serve her husband like mama does Papa Joe and her children she would raise to be the most upright of all her country. If only upon the awakening of the sun it will rest on the heart of him, to choose her.

Yet the night is not complete. Mama screams, obliterating her thoughts into pieces of confusion as storms of men with pale faces invade the village. She cannot catch herself before falling, ropes that smell like death have embraced her space and blood creeps in from outside the tent; and then there was darkness. Pitch black darkness as if the moon, that usually sent pieces of light tapping against each tent, had suddenly run away from the men with pale faces and yellow teeth. Baby girl had never seen them before. They could have been men or they could have been monsters, she didn’t know, and had nothing else to do but wait. This woman or better yet, this princess. This semi-woman waiting in the darkness to become queen.

The Accident

“She shouldn’t have been running across the street!” said a familiar voice in the crowd.

It was Cousin Rachel and if I had the energy to throw a scowl her way I would have. I still had not felt any pain and only prayed now that I would live. I scanned the crowd, it appeared the entire neighborhood had come to see the event. Heads popped outside of windows, neighbors stopped in their places and strangers huddled together alongside family, shoulder to shoulder, as if shielding me from the outside and encasing me inside the core of the sidewalk.

Meanwhile, my fingers tingled with blood that raced toward the tips because someone was squeezing the life out of my left hand, and their tears kissed their apologies on top my skin. She was the woman who hit me and was knee deep in apologies and instant compassion consumed me. I forgave the woman over and over again while simultaneously praying I wasn’t going to die. But I was talking in my head again. The lady had not heard me, my mouth still had not moved, and my memory only went as far back as rolling off the hood of someone’s car, down the window and onto the ground. (For some reason I remember sliding down the window). Prior to this I was on a quest for ice cream and decided a quick dash across the street would grant me this prized possession. Needless to say I was wrong.

It wasn’t until I looked down at my right thigh that the full realization of what happened came to me: my right thigh was twice the size of my left one. Still, I felt no pain. I felt nothing in fact. I just lay there consumed by thought and words that had no sound. It wasn’t until the Ambulance arrived and I made the transition from the ground to the vehicle that the shock wore off and the excruciating discomfort started.

The arrival to the hospital itself is a blur. I was in so much pain that everything seemed surreal. It turns out that I’d broken my leg, or more precisely, my femur bone (the longest bone in your body, located near the thigh). I remember staring into the ceiling, my little brown body highlighted against the white sheets. My mom was to my left as we waited for the doctors to return. My whole right leg had been wrapped in some kind of casing and the feel of it was that it was getting heavier and heavier as time passed. As I cried out in agony, I could not understand what was taking them so long to come back. I also wondered who had done this cruel thing as to wrap my broken leg in a cast, which made my leg so unbelievably heavy that I could not lift it and supposed then that it was not only paralyzed, but by the time the doctors felt like getting started I would have no leg left, for it was diving deeper into the bed and the mattress began to fold over.

Of course, none of this really happened. My leg was not wrapped in a cast and was not sinking into the bed.

When the doctors and nurses finally did return, in what seemed hours later, they started to cut my clothes off which added to my rising dislike of these people. I was wearing something really cute that now sat in shredded pieces of nothing. Meanwhile, in my head, I was explaining to no one in particular about the evil doctor who commanded his men to try and make my leg disappear and cut up my nice clothes. I’m sure he wanted to do away with me and I was being taken to a secret laboratory in which this would happen. I was just about to imagine what he was going to do when someone put a pill in my mouth. When I woke up I was laying in recovery with a steel plate replacing my leg, twenty-four surgical staples piecing me back together and surrounded by family.

I still remember when mama took me to my first check-up. I assumed the clever doctors had found me and sought to continue their plan. In my head, I’d been rescued by family who found a way to piece me back together and store me away in recovery. Now however, we were on our way to the doctor’s office and had to cross a big street that I’m sure came out of nowhere. On my journey to get across, I wondered what kind of technology they were using. I’d better be careful not to step on the yellow lines; it may activate some special gadget and suck me deep into the ground. Because my enemies had decided it was better that I use a walker instead of crutches, which I’d hoped to experience, it took me what seemed forever to get across the street. The evil doctors had done it this time, they were back and I was sure that they had somehow stretched the already wide road so that with each step I was not getting closer, I was only getting further and further away. I thought about telling mama about these corrupt men but I didn’t want to blow my cover. If she was protecting me they couldn’t know about it.

When we got to the office and they removed the staples, I was instructed by the doctor to move my leg back and forth but I couldn’t do it. My body had not all the way adjusted to the steel plate and told me this wasn’t a very good idea. Instantly, I stopped and threw a scowl the doctor’s way, “Way to go genius that hurts.” But I knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to kill me. I better not say anything, they may try to kidnap mom and throw me in that laboratory again.

*****

I would like to publish a memoir one day. While I am still undecided as to publish an entire manuscript, I have taken to writing down bits and pieces of my life story and publishing excerpts to this blog for practice. What you have read is the true story of when I was hit by a car at ten years old. Names of real persons have been changed to protect their identities.

Memoir Sample – The Aid Office

Our family survived off welfare and from that end I know it to be helpful. It was however, a possessive lover. In Robert Taylor, no one’s father was present since their mother’s couldn’t receive welfare with them. But not that men weren’t present; their existence was obvious since the projects themselves overflowed with innocence. Thousands of children the byproduct of casual sex, and drive by love pieced together somehow between the cracks of the doors left open by the ladies from the welfare office, who searched everywhere but the crack of your buttocks to ensure it wasn’t present. So the men were around, fathers of children who knew them as nothing more than the Ray Ray’s and Big Mikes of the block. Men who sort of hung out on the corners or underneath the beds of open women, too filled with desire and dreams to deny a no-good-man a place between her legs. So the kids kept coming, the men kept leaving, and the welfare office remained packed. And if it, the Welfare, sensed anything positive had taken place, even if it was a new hairstyle, they needed to know from where the money had come, how much was it and how often was it around so they may deduct that amount from the meager rations they were already giving out. It didn’t matter if it was a jar of peanut butter or a new hat, if it was expected to come from an additional money source, it would be calculated and deducted from the monthly government assistance.

If she was found to have a man living with her, whether he worked or not, she could lose her money altogether. Not only was my father not around, but my Uncle had to make a covenant with the closet when the social worker came by. You see, a man’s presence was a threat to the relationship between a woman and her government. Thus the poor were required to remain so in the buildings if they desired to receive the little nothings they were receiving from Welfare. If they showed any sense of pride that required a level of discretion at what we commonly referred to as, “The Aid-Office”, it was as if the clerk had been instructed to repeat their business louder than the person obviously desired over the intercom so that the entire room could hear it; this made it extremely embarrassing to visit the office.

If by any chance the women wanted a divorce by acquiring some fancy job, the government made sure to snatch away all its benefits so that she is better off to remain part of the relationship than to do away with it. What use is a “good job” when she can’t afford to pay the rent if it increases because of her salary? Or what use is a “good job” when she can no longer receive Medicaid for children who are constantly bleeding from the violence of their environment? This is a place where children used garbage dumps as a playground. What use is it, of a “good job”, when she can no longer receive food stamps as a means to feed her children? It is thus better for her to stay married, financially, to the system than to get a “good job” that leaves her just over broke and in the same situation as she started out as. Marriage? Out the question, she can lose her benefits by daring to marry her children’s father—she wasn’t allowed to have one in the home, let alone marry him. Needless to say, the system divided more than it brought together, and was quite jealous and possessive of its lover, the Black Woman.

– Concrete Children: Life Inside the Robert Taylor Projects

********

I would like to publish a memoir one day. While I am still in the infancy stages of understanding memoir writing, I have taken to writing down bits and pieces of my life story and publishing excerpts to this blog for practice.

Story Time…

… with EC 🙂

So, Stella has gone through her first stage of editing and I am now in the rewriting stage, so I thought I’d have some fun and engage in a little reading. Speaking of which, I’ve thought about an audio book. Well, more like a passing thought in which I’ve lingered slightly, but what if? As a reader, do you find audio books helpful or harmful? Would you’d rather listen or read? Hmmm, perhaps I’ll do another post about just that. Until then, I hope you enjoy my acting skills….

Beyond The Colored Line Ch. #1

Beyond The Colored Line – Final Sneak Peek

Week three-four:

My apologies for the delay on this; I have recently come back to town and this week has been busy trying to get back on schedule. But, as promised, here are the final sneak peeks of Beyond The Colored Line:

Note: This excerpt is part of a book written by Yecheilyah Ysrayl. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stolen in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles and reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by Yecheilyah Ysrayl.

*******************

1932
Age 16
**************************

“Never limit yourself sweetheart.”

Aunt Sara was sitting at the vanity table applying red lipstick to lips that I didn’t think could get any redder. Aunt Sara was a thin but shapely woman, filling out the beautiful dark red dress that went down to her ankles, but held snug at the waist with a petite black belt. She wore black heels, and her red hat sat on the bed next to me as I sat watching her perfectly apply more make-up. She was in the middle of another lecture.

“We got the whole world just waiting for us and the least we can do is oblige. Besides, it’s not like you’re betraying anyone or denying anything. You have just as much a right to this life as anybody.”

It was Tuesday night and Aunt Sara was going out again. She tilted her head this way and that in the mirror and smiled her approval.

Mama lost the house. She tried to do the best she could with the visitors and such, but the depression didn’t allow for people to want to travel much. And the taxes came to be too much for a laundry woman’s salary. We moved to Chicago where things weren’t much better. The Great Depression was particularly severe here because of the city’s reliance on manufacturing, the hardest hit area nationally. Only 50 percent of the Chicagoans who had worked in the manufacturing sector in 1927 were still working by the time we arrived, especially Negroes. By now, 40 to 50 percent of Negro workers in Chicago were unemployed, including Aunt Sara. She was a school teacher, but wasn’t making any money. By the end of the year, the city would owe teachers more than eight months’ pay. But Chicago’s population grew enormously because of the mass lynching’s taking place in The South. Negroes escaped Mississippi as if running from a plague. And for just $11.10 they were brought by train to a new world. Everything was still segregated. In fact, Chicago is the most segregated place I’d ever seen. But you could hold your head up in Chicago. So to us, it still offered a freedom that didn’t exist in in The South. It was the land of milk and honey. And the crisis didn’t seem to affect Aunt Sara as it did Mama anyway. She didn’t particularly like being a part of the life Sara lived and she was depressed over our situation.

“Speaking of the whole world, what is it with you and that Timmy boy?” Sara puckered her lips for a final review as she spoke.

“Tommy Aunty, his name is Tommy,” I said.

Tommy and I had become rather close as we got older, though I couldn’t decide if we were dating or not. Aunt Sara clasped her hands together as she stood and sat next to me on the bed, “Oh, my memory these days.”

“Tommy’s a good friend, nothing special.” I lied.

“That’s my girl,” said Sara, grabbing her hat and putting it on, admiring herself again in the mirror as she spoke.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you two to see each other no how. There’s not much room for opportunity with such men. You must learn to play the game sweetheart.”

“Are we so different?” I asked.

Sara turned to face me, “You can drink your coffee black all you wanna, but I’d prefer a little cream to taste. I swear I don’t know what’s gotten into your Mother, teaching you to hate yourself is what she doing. There’s nothing wrong with embracing who you are, you remember that.”

I sunk down in my seat, embarrassed. I knew where she was going with this. Every day was Saturday for Aunt Sara. Uncle Bob, as we were instructed to call him (though marriage didn’t exist between them) was Sara’s new man, a wealthy doctor on Chicago’s North side. The problems of the Great Depression affected every group of Americans, but no group was harder hit than Negroes living in the cities trying to live like rich white folk. In some Northern cities, whites called for Negroes to be fired from any jobs as long as there were whites out of work. Otherwise, the depression meant nothing to Negroes who had been depressed in America for nearly 400 years. For this reason, we were Aunt Sara’s little secret hidden securely inside Uncle Bob’s pocket. She didn’t just pass for white, Aunt Sara was white. And coming from a white mother and half white father no one second guessed us, not even Bob.

“I tell you what, the ladies and I are attending a small gathering this evening, and you should come along.”

“But I’m only sixteen,” I said.

Sara smiled, “And? Who’s asking questions? Today you’re sixteen years old sitting in a house wasting your life away. But tonight, tonight you are the most beautiful twenty-one year old they’d ever lay their eyes on. The most beautiful white woman they’d ever seen.”

One Year Later

I laughed as Tommy and I strolled down the Negro area of town, arm linked in arm. We had decided to stop fooling ourselves and had begun dating. I must say, being with Tommy was one of the most refreshing parts of my life: smart, colored, and hilariously funny. His presence alone gave me a sense of relaxation I didn’t feel at home. I didn’t have to pretend or fear discovery. It was a relief being with him, and a lot of fun too. Indeed, the love I had for that man could never be mistaken and could never be traded. He was my first love and I love him still.

Tommy held open the door to The Shack, a mom and pop restaurant owned by Negroes. As I entered the restaurant, however, my foot stopped mid-air over the threshold.

“Sidney?”

It was Annie, one of the first friends I’d met in Aunt Sara’s circle. I had begun living a double life. It was easier than I’d expected. I had, after all, enjoyed the private education, the fine dresses, and the parties. I found myself looking forward to the freedom of going where I wanted and buying what I needed. We were one of the few European families doing well during the depression and loved by everyone. Aunt Sara and Bob got closer. We were invited to his inner circle of friends and family, which meant standing on top the highest hill and waving. Even Mama began to lighten up just a bit. Things were going well, until now.

“Annie, what a surprise!” I said as Annie and I hugged each other, planting dainty kisses on each other’s cheeks, fake grins all over the place. Annie looked Tommy up and down, while he held onto the door, as if she had just spotted a piece of trash on the ground that must be disposed of quickly.

“You must be the servant. I’m Anne, how do you do?”

Tommy let the door slip from his hands, closing quietly as Annie held out her hand; covered in a crisp white glove made of finer cotton than spread across his kitchen table. Tommy’s family were sharecroppers. Silently he wondered how many barrels of cotton it took to make it glow in the darkness. He looked at Stella, staring deeply into the green eyes he once adored, and the reality of the present situation lit a fire inside of his chest. He hoped he wouldn’t fall down dead from a heart attack. It would be a shame for his dad to find out his son died cause of a thing as a woman’s glove.

Tommy said nothing, just kept his eyes fixed on mine. I didn’t want to look away, but I couldn’t help but to feel them shooting little prickly darts into my skin, and it was beginning to burn. I had to think of something. Quick. I pleaded with his eyes.

“Why of course, where are my manners? Thomas, this is a friend of mine Annie. Annie this is Thomas, the new driver.”

I hopelessly tried to catch sight of his eyes. I wanted to plead mercy, but Thomas’ eyes searched instead for something on the ground. I turned my attention back to Annie.

“Why of course,” said Annie. “I was just telling Daddy about how difficult it is to find one these days. Why we just replaced a cook last week. Poor Mama was devastated,” we laughed, only hers was real.

“I told her we’d just have to get Miss Pearl to do it, but you know Daddy couldn’t stand for that. A housekeeper cooking? Why the next ball would be simply atrocious,” we laughed again as I silently prayed for a miracle.

“Anywho,” continued Annie, “I am off, but do come by tomorrow. The women and I are having tea, you know Mama’s dying to show off the furniture.”

“Of course,” I said as we hugged and kissed again.

As I waved goodbye to Annie, I turned to plead my case to Tommy, who was already halfway down the street. And just like that, our friendship had ended.

***********************

I’m so grateful you’ve taken the time to read this far, I hope it means you are enjoying the story. If you’d like to continue reading and find out what happens next, you can get the book from Kindle for just $2.99 when it releases this summer and less than $10 in paperback.

I plan on writing another book in this series later this year, and with your permissions I’ll let you know when that’s available and send you some more free chapters. Until then, if you want to know what I’m up to, you can follow me on Twitter @: https://twitter.com/ahouseofpoetry.

Beyond The Colored Line – Part 2 of Book 2

****************************

Disclaimer: The following post is excerpted from a book written by Yecheilyah Ysrayl and is property of Yecheilyah Ysrayl. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stolen. Permission is only given to re-blog, social media sharing for promotional purposes and the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles and reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by Yecheilyah Ysrayl. (For permission write to: ahouseofpoetry@gmail.com) Copyright © 2015, All Rights Reserved.
*************************************

Part 2
_________________________________________________
1928
5 Years Later
Age 12
*******************************
Daddy run off to who knows where on account of his life. Some racist whites had seen him and Mama together and threatened to lynch him if found. So he run off to nobody knows where. The community gossip is that his brothers know, but they won’t say. We weren’t alone though, Mama and me. Seems like Mama filled the hole where Papa should have been with our whole family. The house always stayed filled with guests: my people, and peoples of my people. My granddaddy was a colored man, and so owned this land. My name sake, his mama Stella, was a slave and was given this house by her owner. As the story goes, after Grandma died, I was born. Since Mama was the closest, she named me after her. We got stories going all the way back to her girlhood, and stories of Grandpa Solomon too. I heard the stories mostly on Sundays, since all the family come down. My aunts would gather around the table with my mom and they laugh and cry most of the night about they girlhood. I don’t have any uncles except from my daddy side, but they don’t come around much cause of my aunties. Uncle Roy say Mama acts different around her sisters and that they too uppity, especially Aunt Sara. She’s the youngest of my aunties and the most spoiled. She’s the one who convinced Mama to send me to a private school to escape all the worry, and boy were my uncles hot! They said we were breaking the law – that a Negro had no business in a white school. But Aunt Sara said I had all the right in the world since I was technically half white after all.

“But does the school know she colored?” one of my uncles would ask.

“That’s none of the school’s business now is it?” Aunt Sara would say and they’d just go back and forth until Mama break it up.

That’s the story of my life: Was I white? Was I Negro? Race wars always concerned these two groups of people, and there ain’t seemed to be much place for a mulatto. Speaking of race, not all talks were good talks. Not all round table discussions were filled with laughter and jolly drinking. I used to sit up until my eyes were red with fatigue to hear Mama and my uncles talk about all the killings that were taking place around the country, and especially in the south.

“That’s what I say,” said the voice of Uncle Keith. “Up there in Minnesota.”

“That close?” Mama gasped. I could just picture her now with her hand over her chest. Mama had a thing for the dramatics.

“Yea that close. What, woman you living under a rock? They just had one on over in DeKalb last month,” said Uncle Roy.

“It’s a crying out loud shame,” continued Keith. “Say they dragged the boys from the cell and a whole mob of ‘em lynched ‘em. Say it was bout least a thousand of ‘em.”

“My my,” said Aunt Rebecca.

“Well you know what I say, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,” said Sara.

“Where did you come from?” said Deborah, annoyed.

“From betwee–,“ began Sara.

“Please, spare us,” said Mama.

“I didn’t ask the question,” said Aunt Sara, smacking her lips.

But there were times, of course, I witnessed for myself evidence of the events rocking the country. One day, Mama and I went to visit Cousin Mary in Texas, and drove the truck up to a general store. We walked in, and being only about five at the time, I picked up a post card hanging on one of the shelves. It was of a man hanging on a tree that supported an iron chain that lifted him above fire. The man didn’t seem to have much of a body left. His fingers were cut off, his ears and his body burned to a crisp. On the back of the postcard read:

“This is the barbeque we had last night. My picture is to the left with a cross over it. Your son, Joe.”

I learned later the picture was of a 17-year old mentally ill boy named Johnny, who had agreed to having raped a white woman. And everybody at home still talked of the Cairo circus of 1909, the public lynching that took place here in Illinois. I asked Mama once if we could go to a circus like that, and she told me to never ask her of such things again. I couldn’t understand what had Mama so upset till I found out what kind of circus it was. It was events such as this that caused my aunts not to want much to do with the land or the house. They say it’s too close to slavery. So when Granddaddy died, Mama took on the burden of keeping it, and keeping it full too. I got kinfolk I see every weekend, and some I never met before. And some I don’t think are kinfolk at all; they just come for a hot meal and a bed. But that was alright with Mama. She didn’t care none about being taken advantage of. She just wanted to be around people she could feed and clothe. Her heart was just full of love like that. Sometimes they spend the night, but other times they just come and go. Sundays were the biggest days. Mama cook a feast of a dinner: fried chicken, yams, macaroni and cheese, fried brim and crappy, greens, pies, cakes. You name it, it was on our table. Everything except pork. Mama say Granddaddy was always talking about his Hebrew Heritage and teaching them about it too. Said he didn’t like being called Negro and African, and they weren’t allowed to call him that either, or themselves for that matter. Granddaddy say with his face all proud, “There are two things in the world I would never be: Christian and a Hog Head.”

Then he’ll light his pipe and go on rocking in his favorite chair, like the conversation was supposed to be over, even though folk mouths hung open. That’s another reason my uncles say we uppity:

“Everybody due for a lil fat back every now and again. Everybody Negro that is,” Uncle Roy would say, cutting his eyes over at Mama.

“Good thing we ain’t Negro then huh?” Deborah would shoot back.

Deborah, named after my great great great grandmother, fit right into her biblical name and was the most like Daddy, taking her Israelite Heritage seriously and practicing the laws of the Old and New Testament. Most of the family thought she was crazy. That didn’t stop her from speaking her mind though. But good eating and conversation was just the half of it. There was music, dancing, drinking, smoking, and gambling too. Cousin Walter would bring over some of his hooch and the grown-ups forget all about the children, which was just the way we liked it. I had a lot of cousins and friends, but no one was as close to me as Thomas. Tommy’s mom died off when he was just a baby, and his dad come across the road looking for direction one day when me and Mama come walking along. Come to find out they didn’t really need direction so much as a bed to sleep in. Mama let them stay with us for a while until Luther, Tommy’s dad, got off his feet. But that didn’t stop them from coming around. Luther and Mama became good friends and Tommy was over every weekend. My aunties used to think there was something going on between Mama and Luther till she shut up the gossip with news of Luther’s lady friend, who also became friends with Mama. So naturally Tommy and I were good friends, but we were also enemies and partners in crime. Tommy was dark as charcoal with big lips, nappy hair, and a wide nose. And I envied him for being so obviously Negro. It’s the same reason I liked him too.

“How you get so dark?”

“I don’t know,” said Tommy. “Just lucky I guess.”

“Lucky? What you got to be so proud for? Ain’t no girls liking no skin that dark.”

“Shut up white girl,” said Tommy.

“Shut up big head,” I say.

That’s usually when he punches me in the arm and I’d have to hunt the rest of him throughout the house.

We weren’t much of a church going family; party going is more like it. Except when Mama wanted to show off a new dress or hat, when somebody died or needed saving, and on Holidays and such. Folk would come from all over southern Illinois to hang out with “Cousin Judy”, as Mama was often called. Sunday’s sure were fun, my second favorite day of the week.

Saturdays was my favorite day of the week. It was the day for shopping and that only meant one thing: Chicago. First, Mama would wake me to the smell of biscuits or pancakes. This was to keep me full enough throughout the day so she didn’t have to worry none about food buying. Then, I was commanded to bathe down real good, paint my arms and legs with oil, untie my curls from the night previous, and we’d both put on our Sunday’s best and be two of the most beautiful women you’d ever seen. I was a young lady now and shopping was the best thing to a young lady next to boys (but you couldn’t like them in public). You could like shopping though. I loved going from store to store in search of the finest. Skipping along while Mama scanned the insides of magazines for stuff she only saw on TV. We would squeeze our way through crowds of people, just bumping into each other. They weren’t dressed as professional today. Instead, they wore their weekend wear, bought ice cream for their children and went inside movie theatres, and so did Mama and I. We could buy candy or jewelry, or perhaps a new hat or two with the money Mama made from the laundry. We drank from water fountains without label, and spent money without prejudice. Everything was so easy on Saturdays, life itself was better. We had us a good time on Saturdays because on Saturday, no one knew we were colored.

– Stella M.

**********************************************

What did you think about the second part? I hope it held your interest and you’re ready for chapter three. I am leaving you with a surprise part from Book 1 below. For the prologue to Book #1, see last week’s post. If you like this story so far, would you do me the favor of sharing this post with your friends who might enjoy reading it also? Re-blog or share on your social networks. Thanks a lot! And I’ll see you next week for Part 3.

Click Here to Read a Surprise Part from Book #1

Beyond The Colored Line – Part 1

Today is the debut release of Part 1 of Book #2, “Beyond The Colored Line” in the Stella Series.Below is a reminder of what this book series is all about:

Stella is a work of Historical fiction, and is distinctive in its focus on one woman’s road to self-discovery against the backdrop of the African American fight for justice, racial equality, and freedom. The 3-Part series focuses on the history of one family in their struggle for racial identity. Discover in this Trilogy how 3 individuals living in separate time periods strive to overcome the same struggle, carefully knit together by one blood.

Log-Line for Book 2:

“Determined to be accepted by society, a black woman desperately seeks to hide her true identity when a prevailing conversation with her aunt provokes her to pass for white.”

Find out in this Stella Sequel what’s truly Beyond The Colored Line.

*****************************************************

Disclaimer: The following post is excerpted from a book written by Yecheilyah Ysrayl and is property of Yecheilyah Ysrayl. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stolen. Permission is only given to re-blog, social media sharing for promotional purposes and the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles and reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by Yecheilyah Ysrayl.

Part 1
___________________________________________

September 4, 1923

“You’s white.”

Margaret and Josephine had their hands on their hips again, Josephine taking the lead role as always. The soft wind swayed the handmade dress in all directions, hovering well below her long skinny legs. Her hair was pulled up into a collage of pony tails with twists that never really wanted to stay together. Stella got lost for a minute, slightly envious. She wished her hair was that thick. But instead she was given a sandy blonde that could never keep a braid. School had just started at Crestwood Elementary of Belvedere City, just south of Boone County, Illinois. And already Stella could see this would not be a good year, same as the others.

“I’m not white; I’m Negro, same as you,” said Stella.

Josephine rolled her eyes, “You look white. You sound white. I thinks you white.”

The girls laughed. Meanwhile, Stella’s blood boiled, the blush of anger showing quickly in the space of her cheeks and around her ears.

“You’s white cause we say you’s white,” said Margaret.

“That’s right,” co-signed Josephine, “What kind of name is Stella anyway? What you some kinda slave?”

“Naw,” said Margaret, “she ain’t no slave, naw, she massa.”

Josephine turned her head slightly, laughing hysterically in Margaret’s ear, who saw it coming out the side of her eye.

“Josephine!” yelled Margaret. But it was too late. Stella was already on top of Josephine, pulling at her neatly pressed hair and slamming her face into the dirt. Stella could hear the screams of the teachers nearby calling her name, but she just couldn’t stop.

“I’m not white! I’m not white! I’m the same as you!” Stella yelled.

Josephine was crying now, as Margaret tried to peel Stella off of her.

“I’m Negro the same as you!” she yelled.

Later That Day

Judith stood by the door tapping her feet impatiently against the hardwood, and burning a hole in the back of Stella’s head, who sat silently on the sofa with her head down.

“You’re going to have to learn to control yourself Stella.”

“But ma–“

“Did I ask you to say a word?” scolded Judith, answering the door at the same time. Expecting her guest, she opened the door before the bell rang and gracefully let in Mrs. Velma Conner, Stella’s teacher.

“Good afternoon”, said Judith. “I’d like to apologize again for what happened today. May I offer you some coffee?”

“Never mind that,” said Velma. “I don’t specs to be here long.”

“Well let me offer you to a seat then,” said Judith.

Judith sat beside Stella as Velma took the sofa across from them and cleared her throat.

“Stella seems to be having a very difficult time adjusting. Her temper is far too easily tickled, if you catch my meaning.”

“I do,” said Judith.

“We think perhaps she would be better off in a more comfortable environment, somewhere more of her liking, if you catch my meaning,” said Velma.

Judith straightened and looked Velma in her sparkling blue eyes, “Not exactly.”

“Well, Ms. May, the accusations from some of the children are hard to ignore.”

“What accusations?” Judith interrupted.

“Well, you know, children will be children,” Velma laughed slightly. “It’s just that they don’t take very well with our kind. Surely you’d prefer for Stella–.”

“Our kind?” Judith interrupted again.

“Why yes,” said Velma, shaking her head.

“You don’t have to say anything more, Mrs. Conner.”

Judith stood up, smoothed the apron hanging from her waist and approached the door.”

“Stella May?”

“Yes mama?”

“Go on upstairs so me and your teacher can talk.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Stella, hurrying off upstairs.

Velma remained seated, “Is there a problem?”

Judith smiled, “No, there’s no problem. But I do want you to leave my house.”

Velma stood, pointed her nose into the air and walked toward the door, clearly offended.

“By the way, the school has placed Stella under suspension, you understand why.”

“Oh, I do,” said Judith. “You see, defending ourselves, is what we’re taught.”

An expression of confusion spread across Velma’s face as she stared into the green eyes of the white woman in front of her, disgusted that she would stoop so low as to lay with one of them.

“What we’re taught? I’m not sure I’m following you,” said Velma.

“Oh yes,” said Judith, “It’s one of the first things my Negro father taught me, you know, our kind I guess.”

The pink rushed to the woman’s nose as she hurried out the door.

And that’s how things had been for us growing up. I couldn’t understand what made mama so strong. She loved daddy with every bone in her body, but they couldn’t be together. Society would never have of it. Mama was Negro sure enough as she was white, but Papa didn’t trust it. I thought about Papa that day and all the other days like it as I stood at the top of the stairs and watched as my mother waved goodbye to my racist teacher, with a smile on her face.

– Stella May

**************************************************

I really hope you enjoyed the first part of my book! The fun continues with Part 2 next Thursday. If your enjoying yourself so far, would you mind sharing this on your social networks? Thanks a lot! Also be sure to come back for the continuation next week. And that’s not all, for your convenience, I’ve provided the link to the prologue to Book #1. I love writing and learning and sharing what I’ve learned and I’m really excited to be sharing this journey with you.

Prologue to Book #1

	SFPA December 2025 R… on Yecheilyah’s Book Review…
	Felicia Denise on Yecheilyah’s Book Review…
	Yecheilyah on Yecheilyah’s Book Review…
	Linda Mims on Yecheilyah’s Book Review…
	Yecheilyah on Yecheilyah’s Book Review…