deceptively wiry ganglia of self-hatred. From a long-ago joke, a
lampoon, the ever-vibrant denigration of Negro people, that word, jiggaboo,
sneaky thing, still lived in a backyard shed. You can't hate Negro people and
not hate yourself, Wilamena. Celeste heard Shuck say that on a long-distance
phone call years ago. Now, she was the alone-on-a-strange-street-jiggaboo
girl a.k.a. Celeste Tyree. She'd been caught and stripped naked, revealed,
branded out there on the street. Call a spade a spade. Did anyone else hear
him? And why did she think about that at all? J.D. had pulled the cover
off of her, showed her she was passing-not like Wilamena, but in a more
subtle way, a more dangerous way, because she didn't think she was. She
came down here to right her rudders, to get straight with herself. Jiggaboo
Girl. She smiled.
The flyers scattered on the pavement, got caught up in the shoes of
passersby. No one offered to help gather them. They stepped on them,
kicked them away from their shoes. Lines drawn in the red earth. She'd
come here to shore up her own Negro-ness, to plunge herself into the real
deal after lounging on Shuck's racial cushions for her entire life. For too
long, she'd thought she was above it. Wilamena stood in the wings. Shuck
was right. They were all Negro people. Black folks. But why did no Negro
person stop to help her? Wilamena had walked away, married a man who
looked suspiciously white, though he wasn't, and escaped to a more pliable
place. Wilamena wasn't going to be a Jiggaboo Girl for anybody or anything. A sleight of hand, a face without stereotypical earmarks. Wilamena could
slide by. Shuck couldn't. Wilamena wanted to be out of it more than she
wanted to be with her own children. That was the rub. Escaping the jiggaboo meant more to her than anything. Celeste couldn't escape even if she
wanted to. When the sun hit her, she went dark.
"It's against the law to throw trash on the street. Step this way." She
hadn't seen the police car U-turn, hadn't seen the officers get out and walk
up to her, so busy was she trying to gather up the errant flyers from the
pavement.
She would willingly have gotten down on the pavement to retrieve the
remaining flyers, but now the officer had her by the elbow, ushering her
toward the open back door of the squad car. She lumbered into the back
seat, closed her eyes, praying and stumbling around for the words to a
freedom song, something to hold on to, remembering Margo's admonishments. Sing the freedom songs, try to stay alive. When she opened her eyes,
she saw nothing but the cold-eyed stares of pedestrians. Now she was a
jiggaboo criminal in the back seat of a police car.
It was a short three blocks to the police station. As they drove into the
underground garage, Celeste's mind swirled with a collage of stories she'd
heard from Margo and other volunteers who'd been arrested, a couple of
them raped or beaten or both before they got to whatever floor they were
being taken to. Celeste tried to make herself disappear, to curl up into a tiny
ball on the back seat of the car. The garage was dark, dank, and smelled of
layered exhaust and cigarette smoke. Police cars parked at angles. Uniforms
walked and talked, all with white faces, all giving her hard looks. She was
the enemy in her peach summer dress.
The two officers, young and scrub-faced, sandwiched her between them
as they entered the elevator. Celeste drifted to the back wall as the doors
closed and the airless box lifted, her eyes focused on the lighting floor numbers above the doors. Margo had walked them through the arrest procedure
all week long. She had to stick to what she'd learned. Stay calm. Stay alive.
Sweat poured out of her body. On the third floor, the officers again directed
her between them as they exited the elevator and strolled ever so quietly into a
square interrogation room. They sat her at a small wood table. High windows,
too high to see anything
lampoon, the ever-vibrant denigration of Negro people, that word, jiggaboo,
sneaky thing, still lived in a backyard shed. You can't hate Negro people and
not hate yourself, Wilamena. Celeste heard Shuck say that on a long-distance
phone call years ago. Now, she was the alone-on-a-strange-street-jiggaboo
girl a.k.a. Celeste Tyree. She'd been caught and stripped naked, revealed,
branded out there on the street. Call a spade a spade. Did anyone else hear
him? And why did she think about that at all? J.D. had pulled the cover
off of her, showed her she was passing-not like Wilamena, but in a more
subtle way, a more dangerous way, because she didn't think she was. She
came down here to right her rudders, to get straight with herself. Jiggaboo
Girl. She smiled.
The flyers scattered on the pavement, got caught up in the shoes of
passersby. No one offered to help gather them. They stepped on them,
kicked them away from their shoes. Lines drawn in the red earth. She'd
come here to shore up her own Negro-ness, to plunge herself into the real
deal after lounging on Shuck's racial cushions for her entire life. For too
long, she'd thought she was above it. Wilamena stood in the wings. Shuck
was right. They were all Negro people. Black folks. But why did no Negro
person stop to help her? Wilamena had walked away, married a man who
looked suspiciously white, though he wasn't, and escaped to a more pliable
place. Wilamena wasn't going to be a Jiggaboo Girl for anybody or anything. A sleight of hand, a face without stereotypical earmarks. Wilamena could
slide by. Shuck couldn't. Wilamena wanted to be out of it more than she
wanted to be with her own children. That was the rub. Escaping the jiggaboo meant more to her than anything. Celeste couldn't escape even if she
wanted to. When the sun hit her, she went dark.
"It's against the law to throw trash on the street. Step this way." She
hadn't seen the police car U-turn, hadn't seen the officers get out and walk
up to her, so busy was she trying to gather up the errant flyers from the
pavement.
She would willingly have gotten down on the pavement to retrieve the
remaining flyers, but now the officer had her by the elbow, ushering her
toward the open back door of the squad car. She lumbered into the back
seat, closed her eyes, praying and stumbling around for the words to a
freedom song, something to hold on to, remembering Margo's admonishments. Sing the freedom songs, try to stay alive. When she opened her eyes,
she saw nothing but the cold-eyed stares of pedestrians. Now she was a
jiggaboo criminal in the back seat of a police car.
It was a short three blocks to the police station. As they drove into the
underground garage, Celeste's mind swirled with a collage of stories she'd
heard from Margo and other volunteers who'd been arrested, a couple of
them raped or beaten or both before they got to whatever floor they were
being taken to. Celeste tried to make herself disappear, to curl up into a tiny
ball on the back seat of the car. The garage was dark, dank, and smelled of
layered exhaust and cigarette smoke. Police cars parked at angles. Uniforms
walked and talked, all with white faces, all giving her hard looks. She was
the enemy in her peach summer dress.
The two officers, young and scrub-faced, sandwiched her between them
as they entered the elevator. Celeste drifted to the back wall as the doors
closed and the airless box lifted, her eyes focused on the lighting floor numbers above the doors. Margo had walked them through the arrest procedure
all week long. She had to stick to what she'd learned. Stay calm. Stay alive.
Sweat poured out of her body. On the third floor, the officers again directed
her between them as they exited the elevator and strolled ever so quietly into a
square interrogation room. They sat her at a small wood table. High windows,
too high to see anything
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