Faster Than Light by Marilyn Nelson

Author:Marilyn Nelson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: LSU Press
Published: 2012-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

CACHOEIRA TALES

Life is nothing but stories.

—Albert J. Price, Captain, Ret., American Airlines

GENERAL PROLOGUE

When April rains had drenched the root

of what March headlines had foreseen as drought,

I invited my extended family—

with artificial spontaneity—

to join me on some kind of “pilgrimage.”

A fellowship gave me the privilege

of offering to cover their airfare

and several nights in a hotel somewhere.

Thinking of a reverse diaspora,

I’d planned a pilgrimage to Africa.

Zimbabwe, maybe, maybe Senegal:

Some place sanctified by the Negro soul.

My brother Mel’s response was, “What the hey:

I’ll go to Timbuktu, if you’re going to pay.”

My sister Jennifer said, “What’s the catch?

It’s not like you to offer a free lunch.”

I put on my most innocent who-me? look:

No catch. (I planned to use them in this book.)

So she agreed. We vetoed Zimbabwe

because of Mugabe. We couldn’t stay,

as I’d hoped, in a village on a farm,

and I might put us in the way of harm

if I took them to the Mizeki Festival,

which honors the black Anglican who fell,

martyred by the spears of his kinspeople.

My option was to fly to Senegal

and visit L’Abbaye de Keur Moussa.

I priced a round trip to Dakar: Py-ha!

Impossible. Unless we didn’t eat…

Maybe the monks would put us up gratis…

I checked their website. Well, so much for that!

So far, my pilgrimage was falling flat.

I consulted the map: Jamaica? Trinidad?

I’d have to modify the plan I had

concocted on the fellowship application,

but at least we’d have a wonderful vacation.

But, except for visiting Bob Marley’s grave

to contemplate his brief, amazing life,

and connecting with Jah in the incense of a joint,

this option offered no apparent point.

Then my son Jacob e-mailed from Brazil,

where he’s studying at a Bahian school.

He’d found an inexpensive online fare

from L.A., New York, or Miami to Salvador.

We could fly down to Bahia, visit him,

and go to A Igreja do Bonfim,

a church on a hill overlooking All Saints’ Bay,

sacred to Christians and followers of Candomblé.

We met at JFK. From there we flew

to Salvador together, along with two

other Americans of slave descent.

The following describes the friends who went

together, and the friends we met en route,

simplifying each to a major attribute.

The DIRECTOR of a small black theater

was there. She had decided to be poor,

if that’s what it would take to live for art.

She’d spent three decades following her heart’s

uncompromisingly high principles,

making aesthetic and political

choices of scripts and casts. For thirty years

she’d paid her dues to craft, and watched her peers

and some less talented become rich shills,

or extras with homes near Beverly Hills

and a taste for cocaine. Her great reviews

didn’t increase her theater’s revenues:

Black audiences crowded the multiplex,

preferring violence and packaged sex;

white audiences stayed away in droves.

She coveted a car that worked, nice clothes,

and the guilt-free personal luxury.

She could be the lipless game-show M.C.

the night the black lady knew the answers,

could be George W., in just a couple of glances.

She was an ample sister, middle-aged,

a champagne cocktail of faith and outrage,

with one tooth missing from her ready smile,

a close Afro, and a bohemian style.

A jazz musician came along, as well.

He was the kind of charmer who can sell

drummers insurance. His life’s odyssey,

from

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