Its Here!

Thanks to everyone for helping celebrate the release of Jus' Ramblin.

Celena's Burden (Summer 2007 release)

Celena’s Burden©9/2006
Prologue

“I won’t cry out; I will hold this pain and remember it. They can’t take it away from me, I won’t let them.” Gritting her teeth with each mountainous wave of pain she clinched her fist tighter turning her knuckles white. Blood trickled from her palms as each finger tried to close tighter, forcing her nails to cut through skin. Determined not to moan giving witness to her pain, Celena repeated the words again to herself.
“She must drink to ease the pain, make her drink.”
“I have tried but she holds her lips tight and turns her head. She want to feel it all, she enjoy the hurt.”
“Stupid child, it will go easier for her. Maybe she punishes herself for what she done.”
“The Chief waits for word, she must hurry.”
“Bring her to me.” The old woman’s voice frightened Celena; she was scared of this woman who sat watching her from a stool. The one everyone believed cured all, the one they called Awatti meaning thrown away.
“Squat at my knees child.” Celena had seen a birthing once when she was a little girl, the mother was having a difficult time and Awatti was there. She remembered how the woman sat.
“Turn her back towards me. Put your elbows on my thighs.”
Celena placed her forearms on the the large thighs of Awatti, gripping the old womans knees for support. With her legs wide and her feet firmly pressed into the soft dirt floor, she bent her knees and lowered her hips closer to the floor. Awatti placed her arms through Celena’s underarms resting both hands on the top of her protruding stomach.
“When I say push, you bare down child you hear?” As Celena’s stomach hardened with the next contraction Awatti slowly moved her hands around its fullness. Reaching the top of the mound she pressed down.
“Push now girl, bare down hard.” Celena pushed as hard as she could. The pressure gave way to searing pain radiating from the top of her navel down through the opening between her legs. Without hesitation, she was hit with another wave of pain and then another. Her young face dripped with sweat, tears of pain streamed down her face but she said nothing.
“This the last one, push hard Gurl.” Awatti pressed deep along the sides of Celena’s stomach. Coercing the one inside to let go of his home.
Unable to hold the pain any longer Celena grunted loudly. It was the only sound she made as the head of her son breech the walls of his mother’s body.
Wrapping the small body in a white cloth, the nurse maid turned to give Celena her son.
“No! bring him to me.” Standing at the entrance of the hut was the leader of the tribe, Yohance, Celena’s father. His tall dark frame towered over the room. His height gave witness to his maternal Watutsi heritage. Celena was the oldest of his children and was promised in marriage at birth to Peponi, a young prince in the neighboring village. This marriage was to bring an alliance between the two tribes. How was her father to explain his daughter’s disgrace when she refused to name the father of the child or the circumstances involved in the conception? He had not looked upon Celena for several months, moving her instead to the remote area of their land to stay with his sister.
Swiftly walking toward the door, the maid bowed her head and placed the baby in the arms of his grandfather.
Celena looked on with wide tear filled eyes trying to anticipate her father’s next move. She convinced herself that once he saw the baby and that if it were a boy, things between them would be good again. Her father adored her and doted on her more than the other children.
Looking down into the soft bundle he held in one arm, Yohance slowly covered the face of the infant with his large hand, placing the palm of his hand over his nose and mouth until all was still.

The Grown Folk Table

The Grown Folk Table
It finally happened. My babies have grown up enough to be invited to the grown folk table. Though they have traveled with me before and have accompanied me on several of my grown folk meetings, they have always sat at a table or in an area located just an ear shot away from me and the other adults.
This Sunday was a little different. After an extensive meeting with my writers group, when things were winding down, I looked over at my now 20 and 17 year old daughters and decided that it was now time for them to be invited to the grown folk table. For those of you who are not over forty, have southern roots or of African American descent, you may not understand the significance of the grown folk table. It is a magical place where we all aspire to be from the time we are old enough to know that when grown folk start whispering it usually means that they are talking about some scandalous situation involving a family member, church member or someone in the neighborhood. And that the content was a no holds barred round robin of opinions, speculations and topics that are so risqué that the elbows on the table are used to support the heads that are leaning so that the whisper was not wasted in the space between the chair and the table.

After making the overture, my babies quickly accepted and we made room for them in our small but cozy table. Our conversation continued as we dissected and masticated portions of chapters submitted by each of us for review. As with most conversations involving writers and female writers the conversation became very excited and convoluted when we all began to voice our impressions at the same time. It was at this moment that I noticed my eldest gyrating in her seat with hands waving, mimicking the flight deck crew of a navy aircraft carrier and eagerly contributing to the rising decibel level. For a moment I was appalled and somewhat embarrassed in front of my fellow grown folk, what would they say? What were they thinking? Had they even noticed that “my” child had committed the unspeakable sin? I quickly caught her eye and quietly whispered for her to sit back and placed my forefinger on my lips to indicate that I needed her immediate silence. Though disappointed and with a questioning eye, she turned and began to have a conversation with her younger sister.

Lying in my bed that night it occurred to me that I had done something that I hated when it was done to me by my mother. I embarrassed my child in front of others. How could she know the rules of the grown folk table, I had never bothered to explain them to either child, I was too busy instilling the other forms of etiquette and manners to see that they had matured to the point of “the invitation”. I decided that I had to apologize as soon as she appeared from her suite and graced me with her morning attitude, I mean smile.

“Good morning Mal, did you sleep okay?”

“Yes mom.”

Now the hard part, I preceded to tell her that both she and her sister had been extended a most impressive invitation the night before, but that I needed to apologize for having embarrassed her by silencing her participation.

“What invitation was that?” she asked looking at me as if I had two heads, basically her normal expression since she turned fifteen and realized that she was much smarter than I.

“You and your sister were invited to the grown folk table, and there are rules that come with that invitation that I had inadvertently forgot to explain prior to your accepting.”

I then told her that I too had to be told the rules of inclusion when I was about fourteen after making the dreaded mistake of verbalizing my opinion with out solicitation. She listened with interested as I explained to her that when a young person is invited to sit with the grown folk, they are being invited to listen in on information that may benefit them later in live and that the information is of historical significance based on the maturity of the grown folk. I further explained that unless you are asked a question or someone gestures for your input, you are to sit and listen whether the information was important to you or not. I further explained that she could nod her head, smile or make any other kind of motion as long as she did not speak until asked. Just then my youngest one made her appearance so I directed my conversation specifically to her. This is the one in which the world revolves around according to her so I had to impress upon her the importance of paying attention and following the direction of the grown folk topics so that when she is called in to play, she does not look stupid or uninterested. I went on to explain that these rules did not just apply to their age group but followed a hierarchy. I too had to wait to be invited to tables where my elders presided over and that the same applied to my mother who is in her mid sixties. And that these rules were not gender based, they also applied to our elder males. Pointing out that some of my most prized advise was handed to me at the hands of men discussing topics that were not necessarily appropriate for a young lady, but felt the need to enlighten me for when I was old enough to understand the valuable tidbits that I was honored to receive.

After a twenty minute discussion, I ended by asking if there were any questions and did they understand what I was saying. I acknowledged that times may have changed, but that the rules regarding the invitation to the grown folk table had not, and that it was a rite of passage that has been lost to some but I did not want them to miss the lessons that were still to be learned by those who hold our history and our struggles because they did not understand the privilege of being invited to sit at the grown folk table.

©Monica S. Diggs 10/2005