Chapter 16 #2
I smiled over my shoulder at the show of hands of eager students who would opt-in on a field trip to a gluten-free flour factory if it meant getting out of class.
“Good! Talk quietly among yourselves. And don’t nobody burn up the bus,” she warned sotto voce as she resumed her seat.
I laughed, quietly. “You’re a whole mess.”
“I do my best. Did you accept yet?”
“Well, dang, sis. Let’s just get into it with five hundred extra pairs of ears,” I exaggerated, indicating our chattering students not paying our conversation any attention.
“I’m just saying, Nette. You want a career change. You said your passion for teaching ain’t the same. Can’t nobody blame you for that.” She cited long hours. Low pay. And constant budget cuts requiring we do more with less like magicians. “Then there’re these delinquents.”
I snickered when she thrust a thumb at our students.
“Nette… you’re a real one. Not one of those fake-ass educators who signed on just to get summers off. I say get to grad school, sis. And when you go, add my name to the supporters list right beneath Miss Veda and the rest. Whenever. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Justus. A cooked meal. I got you, sis.”
I squeezed her hand, telling myself receiving help didn’t make me weak. And thinking how her words echoed Rodney’s yesterday. “I promise I’m inching towards a decision.”
“Listen.” She sang the word, dragging it out before further lowering her voice to a whisper. “Time’s ticking and your ass is sagging by the second. Hurry up and inch the F faster!”
I laughed so hard I snorted. There was nothing like a BFF reality check to kick a slow-moving, sagging, and dragging butt into action.
“Take one and pass ’em down.”
Accepting the playbills from a pleasant-faced attendant, I kept one for myself and handed the stack to my student beside me. Leaning towards the seat in front of me, I whispered a warning to my bestie. “I better not catch you snoring.”
Chick was notorious for falling asleep in our teacher crew’s movie meetups that I planned to resume in my new effort to unwind and strike a balance in life.
“Honey, not even. I’m already fascinated.” She held up her open playbill, pointing at a page.
I leaned closer to see the subject of interest just as the theater was plunged into darkness. A recorded voice rolled across the P.A. system announcing the play was about to begin.
I was no thespian or stage critic but considered the cast more than decent.
Through a combination of acting, dance, spoken word, and a little rap they engaged the students, fantastically making the subject matter relatable for their young audience.
The play was interactive, allowing individuals to come on stage and be immersed in other worlds, other lives.
Other eras and times. A second school was also in attendance and by the laughter, applause, and participation of the students the enjoyment was widespread.
“Are we ready to go further back in time? Shall we head west to meet Zanitha Freeman?”
Surrounded by the students’ roaring yes, I was instantly light-headed. Shook. In stunned disbelief. “Did she say Zanitha Freeman?” Mine was a knee-jerk reaction versus a question that needed answering.
I wasn’t aware I’d scooted to the edge of my seat until I could feel the back of Nichelle’s chair pressed against my knees. Snatching open my playbill, I moved through its pages until I landed on the exact same photo my son showed me just days ago.
Grandma Zinnie!
At least that was who, in our hearts, we believed her to be.
No matter that we hadn’t yet located her in our ancestral history.
Granny might confuse recent happenings, but her mind could store ancient facts like a treasure chest. Those facts came forward at odd times or without provocation, but she had yet to vary her retellings of my quadruple-great-grandmother Nettie.
Or the newly mentioned (at least for me) Grandma Zinnie.
She was adamant. Grandma Zinnie saved our family.
With everything going on with Granny, Mama and Aunt Pauletta still hadn’t discovered her precise position within the family tree. I believed she was our missing link, circa the 1850s. Mystery and uncertainty made her no less fascinating.
I eased back as a spotlight flooded the stage, bathing a seated actress in its white glow.
My mouth hung open at the sight of her costume.
The cloth differed, but it was otherwise a near-perfect replica of the outfit seen in a repeatedly circulated image of Zanitha Freeman that Justus and I found on the internet.
And of that worn by Granny’s mannequin. Minus Queen Lazuli and the Sunday-Go-To-Meeting hat.
Decked in her period costume, the actress even managed to replicate Zanitha Freeman’s stoic expression as she sat, opening and closing one hand then the other while slowly panning the audience as if we were visible in the dark.
“I’m here to share the importance of keeping both hands open.
One to give. One to receive. Never reject a gift when God’s the one giving.
” She flung her arms out, hands tightly balled into fists, and continued in a voice both quiet and arresting, retelling a life of hardship that was rich in love and sisterhood spanning decades and vast terrain.
Additional actors joined the reenactment, offering vignettes of a life that left me breathless. Riveted. As the act neared its end, I wanted to cling to the moment and not let it slip away until the actress’s closing dialogue reminded me to clutch nothing in desperation.
“Life taught me that hearts are like hands. When they’re closed… nothing good can come in.” Her voice rose as she raised her arms overhead. “But when they’re open… when we’re open? That’s when we’re blessed.”
The students’ sounds of awe echoed through the theater as she opened her hands to slowly sprinkle glitter and flower blossoms she hadn’t held before. For them, it was a cool magic trick. For me, it was a flashback to the apparition I’d witnessed in church a few Sundays back.
They have to be one and the same!
Even after her segment concluded and hearty applause erupted, I sat mind blown. Transfixed. Zanitha Freeman was Grandma Zinnie. I wiped a tear, thankful for a stage play that provided sweet assurance.
The acts that followed were like hazy shadows on the horizon. I saw but didn’t see them as my mind swirled with thoughts of Zanitha Freeman—all she’d endured and all she’d achieved.
Herbalist. Determined woman. Believer in sisterhood. Voyager. Mother of three.
With the aid of my phone’s flashlight, I found her in the playbill and read the brief write-up incapable of encapsulating her life, repeatedly.
We were both unmarried, single mothers. Worked with willing hands. Lovers of plants.
That was where our commonalities ended.
I struggled to juggle life with one child in a time of technological advantages and freedoms she fought to experience.
She’d walked from one end of the country to the next while caring for three young children.
I could barely keep up with Justus. How had she achieved impossible feats in an era of slavery with all its limitations and inhumanity?
“That was really good! I didn’t fall asleep.”
Nichelle’s quip as the house lights came up and the audience applauded brought me back to the moment. She frowned at me when I grabbed her arm and leaned in whispering.
“I’m doing it.” A warm sensation flowed through me that felt like courage.
“Doing what? Wait. Hold on.” She paused to give our students instructions to double-check that no belongings were left behind. “Okay… so what’re you fixing to do that I might object to?”
This wasn’t coincidental. Not my Grandma Zinnie sightings.
Or Justus choosing her as his essay subject.
Or her inclusion in today’s play. Divine providence had allowed Grandma Zinnie’s leading and prompting.
I wasn’t sure why all of this was happening, but there had to be lessons to learn.
Deeper meaning. I had to lean into the messages she was sending.
I reminded my class we’d be having lunch on the theater’s outdoor patio before answering my sister-friend. “I’m going to grad school.”
Nichelle danced in place before hugging me. “Hallelujah and yesss! Look at the power of a play about fierce, determined, world-changing Black women. That’s what’s happening, baby!”
I returned her hug, holding the precious thought that I might be the descendant of one of the amazing queens who’d graced the stage.
Lord, help me to open my heart and hands to new opportunity and move with courage.