Stella by Starlight (21 page)

“Patience, little one,” Mrs. Grayson said, then she continued. “Slavery was hard, children. The people had to work from sunup to sundown. They had to
pick, cut, plant, carry, cook, clean, wash, rake, hoe, dig, clear, build, and more. Every day was a struggle. Every day was full of unhappiness and pain. There was no joy.

“Now it came to pass that a young woman was living on one plantation, a woman of strength, a woman with dreams. Her name was Zalika, which in the Swahili language means ‘born to royalty.' She constantly looked to the sky. She was able to predict the moment the sun would peep above the horizon, and the instant the land would fade into night. She had named every cloud, even though no two were ever the same. She knew when the sky would pour down rain upon them, and when the sun would burn their backs. She memorized the flight patterns of the birds as they soared above, studying them every single day.

“One hot summer day the man who called himself her master got very angry with Zalika. He screamed horrible words to her. Zalika refused to respond. She gazed at the sky instead. That made him even angrier, so he got out his whip to beat her.”

“Whip?” Randy asked. “I don't think I want to hear this.”

“Let me finish, Randy,” Mrs. Grayson replied. “Trust the tale.”

Randy shifted in his seat, arms folded across his chest.

“So, on this day,” Mrs. Grayson continued, “young Zalika, who had never known even one day of joy in her life, decided she would not be beaten again.”

“Goodie,” whispered Claudia.

“The man raised the cruel leather whip above his head. His arm trembled with rage. His lips twisted with anger. His eyes filled with hatred. But Zalika would not even look at him—her eyes were focused on the turquoise sky. The full force of the man's arm came crashing toward Zalika. The tip of the whip curled like a serpent's tail. And it crashed down, down, down . . . down upon the hard-baked earth. Zalika was gone!”

Even Stella's eyes went wide.

“The man who called himself her master looked around in astonishment,” Mrs. Grayson said. “Then he heard peals of laughter above his head. Shrieks of joy. He looked up and saw Zalika in the sky. She was flying! She fluttered and floated and hugged the clouds she had named, and flung them toward the
sun. And she laughed, oh, how she laughed!”

“The memories of the ancestors, long buried within her, had emerged majestically. The other slaves looked up to the sky and saw Zalika flying, and the memories came flooding back to them as well. ‘Come!' Zalika said. ‘Come with me!'

“And so they did. One by one, they looked to the heavens and their feet lifted from the ground, their bodies swayed in the breeze. One by one they shed the abuse and pain and enveloped themselves in the memories of the ancestors. Every single one of them took to the sky and drifted away. And they never came back.”

Stella cheered and clapped at the end of the story with everyone else. Mrs. Grayson got up, stretched, and told the class, “Looks like it's going to be a good day after all.”

Stella walked over to the window and looked out. The sky was so blue that morning. So very blue.

34

this is my very first writting with the
typewritttter
typeriter
typewriter I roll the paper in carfully tap out each lettr and words appear like majic on the page i have to hit this handle on the roller and it moves to the next line i am very slow and i keep
messsing
messing up

mama just showed me how to put a period at the end of a sentense and how to do do capitol capitaletters. Hold the shift key. Type a ltter. Undo shift key. Type more.

where is the comma and the questionnn mark found them,,,,???

How do you fix misteaks mistakes? theres no eraser.

how do newspaper people do this?

People type whole books? Must take yearsss.

even though my essay did not get
piked
picked for the contest I thimk think my writting is getting better.

But not my typeeing for
sore
. sure.

35

Tuesday, November 8, was brisk and cold. Stella's fingertips stung as she washed up quickly and dashed back inside to the warmth of Mama's fireplace. Her father was out in the barn, forking hay to the mule, taking care of the chickens for her, and milking the cow.

“I'm sorry I didn't get up in time to help you make the fire, Mama,” Stella said, wrapping her fingers around a hot mug of apple tea.

“Doin' for my family is my job,” her mother said simply. “Drink your tea.”

“Is Papa gonna vote today?” Stella asked.

Her mother closed her eyes. “Lord, help us. Yes.”

“Mama, what if . . . well . . . what if the Klan decides to burn down
our
house? Or . . . do something worse?”
Stella asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

“I have no idea. It's been spooky quiet since the Spencer fire. No threats. No midnight riders. It's the silence that scares me.”

Stella clutched the mug tighter and blew on her tea. When her father burst back into the house in a rush of frigid air, Stella's mother jumped up.

“What's got you so itchy, Georgia?” Papa asked as he pulled his chair up to the fire.

“It's Election Day. My husband thinks he has to vote. Jojo has a cold. I ripped my best apron on a nail. I spilled the bacon grease. There are crazy people who want to hurt my family. Houses are getting torched. I worry about what my children will eat this winter. Take your pick!” she replied sharply.

“Honey, I'm sorry. I know it's rough. But I'm doing this for you, for Jojo and Stella, for all of us.”

“Humph,” his wife said, reaching for the broom. She began swiping it roughly across the floor. The
spotless
floor, Stella noticed. “Tell that to the undertaker!”

“I gotta do what I gotta do, Georgia.”

“Why?” she pressed. “It's not like Mr. Roosevelt needs your vote. Everybody hates Hoover because of
the Depression. The newspaper says Roosevelt can't lose.”

“But I can,” Papa replied softly.

Mama gave the floor a huge
thwack
. “Who knows what's gonna be waiting for you there at the voting place?”

“Georgia, this is how it's gonna be,” her father replied firmly. “I gotta stand tall. I have a right to vote, a
right
, I tell you. And a responsibility.”

Stella sat motionless, hoping they wouldn't send her out of the room.

Her mama gave the floor another wallop. “And who will stand for me and the children, for the rest of the mothers and babies of Bumblebee, when we are all alone?” Stella couldn't remember ever seeing her mother so angry.

“For once in my life, I must be a man,” Papa replied. “I'd like to think I am standing up, along with Mr. Spencer and Pastor Patton, standing up for all of us. If I don't stand up, I feel like I'm crouching low. And I ain't gonna feel low no more.” And with that, he walked over to his wife and pulled her into his arms, broom and all.

Mama leaned into him, sniffing back tears.

Jojo, who'd been outside with Dusty, came racing in then, yelling, “Hot diggity! Looks like there's no school today.”

“Why not?” Stella asked with surprise.

“There's a bunch of folks outside. Look!”

Already on the porch were Mr. Spencer and Pastor Patton.

“Come in,” Stella's mother said quietly. “You still gonna do this, despite what they done to you, to your family, Hobart?” she asked.

Stella expected to see fire in Mr. Spencer's eyes, fire like the flames that had made tinder of his house. Instead his eyes were soft, gentle, and brown like the earth. “I have to show them they didn't destroy me,” he said simply.

“But—” Stella's mother began.

Pastor Patton interrupted her. “Besides, we'll be safe enough, Georgia.” He led her out to the porch, announcing, “You gotta see this for yourself. Seems that we have quite an escort out here.”

Stella walked out with them, and her jaw dropped. It seemed every single colored man, woman, and child
in town was walking up the road and convening in her front yard.

Johnsteve was among them, bellowing, “Come on out, y'all! It's votin' day!”

“Can I go too, Mama?” Stella asked, grabbing a cardigan sweater. Hastily she laced up her new shoes.

“Me too?” Jojo chimed in, bouncing up and down. “I ain't sneezin' no more.”

Mama touched Jojo's forehead with her palm. She hesitated, then sighed before hugging them both. “Go. Be safe. I'll be here prayin' for all y'all.”

“Thanks, Mama,” Stella said, hugging her back.

Jonah Mills enclosed his wife's hands in both of his. “Come with us, Georgia. Please. We need you.
I
need you.”

Stella watched her mother's face soften. Then, wiping her eyes, her mother took off her apron, tossed it on a chair, and said, “So what we waitin' for?”

Papa picked her up and spun her around.

Stella and Jojo couldn't scramble out to join the others fast enough. As they walked down the familiar road and into town, more and more families joined
them. Women in aprons and head scarves. Men in work boots. Barefoot children. The barber. The man who owned the bar. The undertaker.

They walked quietly, solemnly, with Jonah Mills, Hobart Spencer, and Pastor Patton in the lead. They walked.

Stella's mother and Mrs. Hawkins linked arms, whispering, maybe even praying. Stella couldn't be sure, but she skipped along with her friends, glad Mama had come along.

Randy walked alongside his father, who had swung himself into the line in spite of his crutches.

“You want to ride on the wagon, Mr. Bates?” Stella offered, pointing to the one horse and buggy that brought up the end of the line.

“No, child. I'm walking,” he replied firmly. “Did you know Mr. Franklin Roosevelt has polio? Just like me. And he's gonna be
president!
So I'm walkin'!”