{"title":"返回首页","authors":"Carla Du Pree","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935743","DOIUrl":null,"url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\n<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Home Going <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Carla Du Pree (bio) </li> </ul> <p>We spoke of the many ways M'dear came to us that night, her hair wrapped in a towel piled high on her head, fresh from her bath. She came quietly, stealing the night from us the way a cat slipped into a room to take a child's breath. She lit the way with her footfalls, turning on lights as she headed our way. I awakened—not by the light but by the rustling of her nightgown near my face, the soft scent of musk surrounding her. Eugenia said it was M'dear peering into her dream, her face tight with worry that pulled her voice through like a thread.</p> <p>M'dear didn't wish to startle us from sleep so she said softly, \"Wake up, Eudora, Eugenia, Pint. Wake up. Pack what you can, a week's worth of clothes. My sister's sick, and I need to see about her.\"</p> <p>It meant a journey home for M'dear, one rife with a dangling Southern past she rarely embraced but nudged away each time it came too close to touching down on her present life. A dirt floor and a desire never to return to it. A notion to say \"down south\" rather than Alabama, admitting it meant giving way to hardship and pain.</p> <p>M'dear came to us with heartbreak in her throat, her words heavy and thick, falling off her tongue—trying without success to ease the urgency that held her knotted hands in place. Sorrow roped around each word she offered. \"Place them here,\" she pointed as we gathered underwear and placed them in the open suitcase. \"Don't forget your socks.\"</p> <p>She came resigned.</p> <p>The first hint Aunt Myrna turned ill M'dear denied, brushed it off like lint from someone's shoulder. \"She's not feeling herself,\" she said out loud after one disturbing phone call from home. \"But Mama says she'll pull through just fine.\"</p> <p>The second time Aunt Myrna wouldn't speak on the phone. The only way to know she was on the other end was the rustling of sheets and the muffled moans that pricked the silence between M'dear asking, \"You there, Myrna? Hello, are you there?\"</p> <p>M'dear often said when people stare at death's door, they choose their own time to say goodbye to loved ones. One by one they give up speaking to them, purposely shutting that fateful door for good. I imagined my auntie's door closing on M'dear's face, and my mother's palm upright, braced to refuse it.</p> <p>On that last call she placed the telephone on the table, unable to usher the strength to lift it to its hook. She set it down, and a bit of craziness came to be a part of her day. I listened to the fraying ends of her sentences as she couldn't string two together. Dinner was a mess of rudely boiled rice and chicken too tough to eat.</p> <p>At the very sight of Daddy arriving home from work, M'dear appeared in the doorway, and collapsed in his arms, her face drawn and stricken. She couldn't pretend anymore. When he led her towards the couch, her long-held grief gave way. With her back bent, <strong>[End Page 133]</strong> her brown shoulders curved beneath my father's arms. She seemed not my mother at all, but a stranger in a body wracked with grief.</p> <p>In all my days I had not experienced M'dear tended to in that way. She was who we sought to buoy our spirits, the glue that held us when we lost best friends each time we moved. The world we used to know spilled away into one we would have to learn. She was the one eager for us to understand the landscape of a new home, on or off base, a military life versus a civilian one. She was the one who mapped a way out of no way, who held our feet to the fire of who we were, a Negro military family planting roots, building dreams when and where we could, holding our own. Through...</p> </p>","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"22 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0000,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":"0","resultStr":"{\"title\":\"Home Going\",\"authors\":\"Carla Du Pree\",\"doi\":\"10.1353/cal.2024.a935743\",\"DOIUrl\":null,\"url\":null,\"abstract\":\"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\\n<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Home Going <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Carla Du Pree (bio) </li> </ul> <p>We spoke of the many ways M'dear came to us that night, her hair wrapped in a towel piled high on her head, fresh from her bath. She came quietly, stealing the night from us the way a cat slipped into a room to take a child's breath. She lit the way with her footfalls, turning on lights as she headed our way. I awakened—not by the light but by the rustling of her nightgown near my face, the soft scent of musk surrounding her. Eugenia said it was M'dear peering into her dream, her face tight with worry that pulled her voice through like a thread.</p> <p>M'dear didn't wish to startle us from sleep so she said softly, \\\"Wake up, Eudora, Eugenia, Pint. Wake up. Pack what you can, a week's worth of clothes. My sister's sick, and I need to see about her.\\\"</p> <p>It meant a journey home for M'dear, one rife with a dangling Southern past she rarely embraced but nudged away each time it came too close to touching down on her present life. A dirt floor and a desire never to return to it. A notion to say \\\"down south\\\" rather than Alabama, admitting it meant giving way to hardship and pain.</p> <p>M'dear came to us with heartbreak in her throat, her words heavy and thick, falling off her tongue—trying without success to ease the urgency that held her knotted hands in place. Sorrow roped around each word she offered. \\\"Place them here,\\\" she pointed as we gathered underwear and placed them in the open suitcase. \\\"Don't forget your socks.\\\"</p> <p>She came resigned.</p> <p>The first hint Aunt Myrna turned ill M'dear denied, brushed it off like lint from someone's shoulder. \\\"She's not feeling herself,\\\" she said out loud after one disturbing phone call from home. \\\"But Mama says she'll pull through just fine.\\\"</p> <p>The second time Aunt Myrna wouldn't speak on the phone. The only way to know she was on the other end was the rustling of sheets and the muffled moans that pricked the silence between M'dear asking, \\\"You there, Myrna? Hello, are you there?\\\"</p> <p>M'dear often said when people stare at death's door, they choose their own time to say goodbye to loved ones. One by one they give up speaking to them, purposely shutting that fateful door for good. I imagined my auntie's door closing on M'dear's face, and my mother's palm upright, braced to refuse it.</p> <p>On that last call she placed the telephone on the table, unable to usher the strength to lift it to its hook. She set it down, and a bit of craziness came to be a part of her day. I listened to the fraying ends of her sentences as she couldn't string two together. Dinner was a mess of rudely boiled rice and chicken too tough to eat.</p> <p>At the very sight of Daddy arriving home from work, M'dear appeared in the doorway, and collapsed in his arms, her face drawn and stricken. She couldn't pretend anymore. When he led her towards the couch, her long-held grief gave way. With her back bent, <strong>[End Page 133]</strong> her brown shoulders curved beneath my father's arms. She seemed not my mother at all, but a stranger in a body wracked with grief.</p> <p>In all my days I had not experienced M'dear tended to in that way. She was who we sought to buoy our spirits, the glue that held us when we lost best friends each time we moved. The world we used to know spilled away into one we would have to learn. She was the one eager for us to understand the landscape of a new home, on or off base, a military life versus a civilian one. She was the one who mapped a way out of no way, who held our feet to the fire of who we were, a Negro military family planting roots, building dreams when and where we could, holding our own. 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In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:
Home Going
Carla Du Pree (bio)
We spoke of the many ways M'dear came to us that night, her hair wrapped in a towel piled high on her head, fresh from her bath. She came quietly, stealing the night from us the way a cat slipped into a room to take a child's breath. She lit the way with her footfalls, turning on lights as she headed our way. I awakened—not by the light but by the rustling of her nightgown near my face, the soft scent of musk surrounding her. Eugenia said it was M'dear peering into her dream, her face tight with worry that pulled her voice through like a thread.
M'dear didn't wish to startle us from sleep so she said softly, "Wake up, Eudora, Eugenia, Pint. Wake up. Pack what you can, a week's worth of clothes. My sister's sick, and I need to see about her."
It meant a journey home for M'dear, one rife with a dangling Southern past she rarely embraced but nudged away each time it came too close to touching down on her present life. A dirt floor and a desire never to return to it. A notion to say "down south" rather than Alabama, admitting it meant giving way to hardship and pain.
M'dear came to us with heartbreak in her throat, her words heavy and thick, falling off her tongue—trying without success to ease the urgency that held her knotted hands in place. Sorrow roped around each word she offered. "Place them here," she pointed as we gathered underwear and placed them in the open suitcase. "Don't forget your socks."
She came resigned.
The first hint Aunt Myrna turned ill M'dear denied, brushed it off like lint from someone's shoulder. "She's not feeling herself," she said out loud after one disturbing phone call from home. "But Mama says she'll pull through just fine."
The second time Aunt Myrna wouldn't speak on the phone. The only way to know she was on the other end was the rustling of sheets and the muffled moans that pricked the silence between M'dear asking, "You there, Myrna? Hello, are you there?"
M'dear often said when people stare at death's door, they choose their own time to say goodbye to loved ones. One by one they give up speaking to them, purposely shutting that fateful door for good. I imagined my auntie's door closing on M'dear's face, and my mother's palm upright, braced to refuse it.
On that last call she placed the telephone on the table, unable to usher the strength to lift it to its hook. She set it down, and a bit of craziness came to be a part of her day. I listened to the fraying ends of her sentences as she couldn't string two together. Dinner was a mess of rudely boiled rice and chicken too tough to eat.
At the very sight of Daddy arriving home from work, M'dear appeared in the doorway, and collapsed in his arms, her face drawn and stricken. She couldn't pretend anymore. When he led her towards the couch, her long-held grief gave way. With her back bent, [End Page 133] her brown shoulders curved beneath my father's arms. She seemed not my mother at all, but a stranger in a body wracked with grief.
In all my days I had not experienced M'dear tended to in that way. She was who we sought to buoy our spirits, the glue that held us when we lost best friends each time we moved. The world we used to know spilled away into one we would have to learn. She was the one eager for us to understand the landscape of a new home, on or off base, a military life versus a civilian one. She was the one who mapped a way out of no way, who held our feet to the fire of who we were, a Negro military family planting roots, building dreams when and where we could, holding our own. Through...