Free Diary of a Blues Goddess by Erica Orloff Page B

with life. Maybe a weak heart. But we were never reconciled. Her lover at the time had her buried in New York, not here with the rest of the family. I didn't even find out until a musician friend of hers passed through town and stopped by to tell me. I think Irene left here hating me, and I never knew why."
    "But maybe this journal will explain why she left," Jack offered. "Maybe it will… give you closure."
    "Maybe." She stood up. "But I just can't read it. I can't…" I loved my sister. She was so dear to me, and I grieved her leaving here a long time. But the real grief never goes away. It just gets hard, like a little scar, and then something happens, and it opens it up again. "You read the diary, Georgia. You read it and tell me what it says." Her eyes were moist as she looked at me. "I'm going to bed. There's been more than enough excitement for one night." She kissed the top of my head and then shuffled off to her bedroom, the ballet slippers she wore almost silent on the wooden floor.
    "Well?" Dominique looked at me.
    "We're going to read it, right?" Jack asked, rising.
    "Hell, yeah. Come on!" I stood up, and we turned off the light and hurried down the hall to my bed, where the three of us flopped down on our stomachs and opened the diary.
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Chapter 8

     
    January 1, 1939
     
    Happy New Year.
    Here I am… at home, after bein' a wanderer for a long time. I've left Joe for good and come to my sister's house
—
of course, this used to be my house, too. When I was a girl. But I've come home
.
    We had a party last night until all hours, and I slept in. It's nearly supper time, and I'm just gettin' up. That's pretty typical in this house. Always something goin' on all hours. But it is January first
—
even if it is late in the day. A time for new beginnings. Is that possible for me
?
    Arrived at Myra's sportin' house two days ago. Always when I return to New Orleans, I feel the music. Here it seems as if the entire world converges. Like four corners of the earth meeting in one spot. Here. This one city. Spanish, Creole, French, American, colored, white, music spilling into the streets and out of windows. Music in the graveyards, and music in the houses, Jazz from every corner. Trumpets and pianos. Trombones play in' the back beat. Drums and the deep sounds of the bass. Singers. Such singers, Jazz, blues, music that comes from the Gypsies. Music that comes from the churches. Music. Converging here… Only New Orleans embodies this. I think of New Orleans as Mother Music. She is my city, my home, my birthplace. She gave my music life. She gave my voice a life.
    I'm tired, first rode a bus a long, long time, touring for seems like nickels and dimes while white singers play in fine places where they are treated right. Might as well put me back on the plantations. Bend and pick cotton.
    Makes me just plain mad. 'Cause I can wear a fine dress specially made. I can put a flower in my hair and wear perfume from France. But still places don't want no Negro woman… most especially mingling out front. Fine to sing, but don't sit down and talk with the customers afterward. Some nights I just played shacks, that's all they was. Shacks with a piano inside that catered to the colored folk. Dirty, ragged… but full of life, I can tell you. Like Mother Music herself, you can't quiet us forever. We will not be silenced.
    I'm so, so tired. Myra, she is full of laughter, full of life. I can scarcely remember when we was little girls, little girls holding hands and singing songs. She and I used to learn all spiritual-type songs that our grandmama sang. Sad songs. Cotton-field songs. Songs about hard times. Songs about Jesus. But that seems so long ago. That little girl, holding hands with her sister. One hand colored, one hand white. I can't remember that joy. It's why I sing the blues, I think. That and this never-ending tiredness. Sometimes I think I'm tired because I am sad. Other times I think I am sad because I am tired. Now I