The Truth About Awiti by CP Patrick

Author:CP Patrick [Patrick, CP]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Field Order Press
Published: 2015-03-27T04:00:00+00:00

15

i showed myself

Beaufort, South Carolina (1893)

Some places just filled with more hate than others. Cities and towns where soon as you step on the land you can feel hate creeping up through the soles of your feet. Burning hatred. Pulsing through your body and causing tiny hairs to rise on the small of your back. Next thing you know, you so hot that your body turns cold. Those tiny hairs freeze up on your skin like early morning frost.

Hot. Then cold. That’s the sign. It’s funny how the body knows where it ain’t wanted. Folks need to learn to watch for that hot-cold feeling. They need to listen to that voice inside saying,

“Run quick now. Your kind ain’t welcome here.”

Might save them some trouble.

At the Davis Plantation, hate lived in the soil. Crops grew hate, and folks ate it right up. White bellies full of hatred for Black skin. Slaves wishing they could peel off each layer of flesh in the hopes they would turn White and be free. Trees grew strong and tall, their big green leaves helping the wind blow hate all across the land.

I used to think the Davis Plantation was the only place hate lived. It seemed to sprout out from the ground and cover the fields. It lived in the air of the slave quarters and dripped from the moans of slaves every night. Hate spewed like fire from the angry voices of White men and rained down its fury through the overseer’s whip. Every day, hate cracked the air and split the skin on the backs of slaves. It grew in puffs of cotton and hid among the tall stalks of sugar cane. Everywhere I went there hate was.

Slaves new to the Davis Plantation had stories about the hate they escaped. Somebody always had a story worse than the last. Wasn’t long before they realized they hadn’t gotten away. Folks learned quick the Davis Plantation was just as full of hate as everywhere else. No way to outrun it. No way to out-love it. No way to outlive it. Hate just is, and it’s always gon’ be.

When I was with Mama and it used to rain, she’d always say, “God crying.”

Mama had a way of making every word sound like a song. I was scared of storms, so whenever it rained, she’d rock me in her arms and sing-talk to me. Some of my favorite memories are being with Mama during storms, her brown skin soft and warm like fresh bread wrapped around me.

“His tears gon’ wash the land and make everything all right,” she’d sing-talk. “Don’t be afraid of God’s tears and thunder. Don’t worry now.”

And Mama would always remind me, “God know what He doing.”

Well, I kept waiting for God to make everything right. With each storm, I prayed God would figure out a way to take away the hate. Wanted God to drown it in a big puddle. Or wash away all the evil people like He did with Noah and the flood.

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