Free Sweetgrass by Mary Alice Monroe Page A

send us a side of pork or beef from their livestock? And don’t we have leave to take whatever we want from their land? Your daddy likes to hunt and gather wood, sure, but you tell me where I’d be without collecting the sweetgrass from my sacred spot. And whenever any one of us took sick, it was Mary June who came calling with food. If that’s not a friend, I don’t know what is.”
    “It’s what they do. It’s called noblesse oblige, Mama, not friendship. Rich white folks aren’t friends with poor black folks like us.”
    “What do you know about any of that?” Nona asked, feeling her cheeks burn at being scolded by her own daughter. “Younever worked in that house alongside them, you don’t know about my relationship with Mary June. Or with Preston Blakely, either. Lots of things happen over seventy years, I can tell you.”
    “Answer me this. When was the last time she stopped by your basket stand to ask you to dinner? Or even out to a movie? That’s what you do with a friend, Mama. Not ask them to come back to work for you.”
    Nona knew the difference between that kind of friendship and the friendship she shared with Mary June. “There are different kinds of friends at different levels. Don’t I hear you calling those people you work with at that bank your friends? My friend this. My friend that. Yet, I never saw you go out to a movie with them, neither.”
    Maize’s face pinched but she looked away.
    “You think you know everything just because you got that college degree. Well, there’s a lot to know about people and life that you can’t learn in books.”
    “It’s not just about the college degree, Mama. It’s about getting educated, pursuing a career, competing in today’s world. It’s about being a player. That’s the reality I want for my children. Not cleaning up some white folks’ house, doing what they say, what they want, when they want it. This family’s been in bondage long enough!”
    Nona drew herself up to her full height, one hand steadying herself on the counter, the other clenching her hip. She glared at Maize, this child of her own womb who she loved with a mother’s fierce pride, yet her eyes were dark with rage and she could feel herself trembling with the hurt and fury she was struggling to keep compressed inside.
    “Just who do you think you’re calling a slave, child?” Nona’s voice was low and trembled with emotion. Maize’s self-righteous expression faltered. From across the room, Nona’s two grandchildren had stopped watching the television and were watching them with ashen faces and wide eyes. Nona’s lip trembled at the shame of it, but she fought for control. When she could speak again, she said, “I’m sorry that you’re so ashamed of your mother.”
    “Mama…”
    She pushed Maize’s arm away, sparing her dignity. “I’m proud of my work. It was good and honest and I was skilled at it. And it was my work that put you through your fancy schooling, young lady. Gracie!” she called out, turning to her granddaughter. The nine-year-old girl startled. “Go get me the family Bible.”
    Grace scrambled to her feet and retrieved a large, faded and worn black leather-bound Bible that rested in a place of honor on the bookshelf. She carried it to her grandmother with both hands as though she were in a church procession.
    “Thank you, child. You’re a good girl. Now, take a seat here at the table. You, too, Kwame,” she called to her thirteen-year-old grandson. He groaned softly, dragging his feet to the table. “You’re becoming a man and need to hear this most. This is your heritage.”
    “Mama, not again,” said Maize, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter in passive protest. “They’ve heard this story a hundred times or more.”
    “And they’re going to hear it one more time. These children can’t hear it enough. And to my mind, you still haven’t got the message in your head. Time was, the only way a family could pass on