Tales of the Congaree by edward c. l. adams robert g. o'meally

Author:edward c. l. adams, robert g. o'meally
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-09-10T16:00:00+00:00

A Yellow Bastard

Tad: Who is you an’ wuh is you? I ain’ ‘member to axe you ‘fore dis. Who is you an’ wuh is you an’ wey you come from?

Yellow Jack: You axe me who I is an’ wuh I is an’ wey I come from. You axe a heap er question all in one, an’ I guh axe you a question:

Who business is it who I is an’ wuh I is an’ wey I come from? Is you care ‘bout me? Is you my friend? I ain’ think so. Is you my enemy? I ain’ think dat neither. Is you axe me jes for talk an’ compersation? Maybe you axe me who I is for laugh an’ game makin’. Well, it do not matter. It ain’t make no diff’ence wuh you’ reason. I guh tell you who I is an’ wuh I is. It ain’t matter ef you laugh or cry.

It ain’t make no diff’ence, wuh I is I is. An’ when dey puts me in de ground, I is wuh everybody is, or guh be is. You axe me wuh I is. Laugh, ef you has a mind to. I ain’ care. Grin, ef you wants to. I ain’t to fault, an’ I ain’ care.

I have thought an’ dream, an’ I dream beautiful dream, but it seem like I ain’ kin tell my dream. I ain’ seems rough enough. I ain’ seems man enough to make my feelin’s known. My dream ain’ nothin’ but for laughter for other folks, an’ my dream is tear for me an’ torment. But I dreams—dat’s all dere is for me.

You axe who I is an’ wuh I is an’ wey I come from.

I come from wey de door is shet, an’ I come to wey it still is closed. All I got is dreams, an’ dey is drownded. I ain’ kin make my feelin’s known. Laughin’ ain’ make no diff’ence now. God has overlooked me. I is not strong enough. I ain’ kin make my feelin’s known.

You axe me wuh I is an’ I guh tell you. I is wuh I is. I isn’t wuh I mought er been. To my lonesome self I ain’ nothin’ but a yellow bastard—laugh, I ain’ care—a yellow bastard wid no place—wid no place amongst de white folks an’ a poorly place amongst de niggers.

De door is shet to me. Hemmed in on every side, I has nothin’ but dreams. An’ my thoughts is floatin’ out, floatin’ far above de tall tree tops, here an’ dere, listenin’ to de wind’s soft tune above de tree tops an’ de clouds. Across de stars dey wander for a lonely moment, an’ den back again an’ down, down, down into de mire. For de door is shet to me. Hemmed in, hemmed in on every side.

I ain’ kin make my feelin’s known, for I ain’ nothin’—nothin’ but a yellow bastard to white an’ black alike. I is wuh I is—nothin’ but a yellow bastard—an’ I ain’ kin make my feelin’s known.

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