Child with a Veil (eBook)

1

My family moved to St. Paul, Minnesota with the expectation that things would be fine—well, more than fine. They moved here with the hope to have a new start. We arrived here in 1909, when I was fifteen years old, and when Ma and Pa were still together. At that time things were untainted and fresh, a time when what grandmothers said mattered. My idea was to head to the area to which we arrived when we first got to America from the island of Jamaica. My whole family was from Jamaica. We were transported due to the slave trade. But since my family was lighter skinned, a lot of us slipped through the cracks of slavery and were able to pass as Europeans as soon as we got off the ship and hit American soil. It was told that one of my great uncles just walked off the ship and straight into the town pub, no questions asked. People like us were often called Mulattos. It was my great grandpa who escaped the destiny of bondage at Alexandria, Virginia, and saved our whole bloodline. He settled in Upper Marlboro, Maryland, where there was plenty of tobacco.

Other members of my family were scattered around Maryland. They were as far as Annapolis, Fredrick, Waldorf and Hagerstown. How my Ma and Pa ended up in Minnesota had a lot to do with my Pa’s blacksmithing skills, which he learned from Great Grandpa Joe. Pa could make the best horseshoes in town, and put them on. He was known as the best smithy and farrier around. A farrier puts on the horseshoes, so Pa usually got paid very well for both jobs. Ma and Pa said the further West they could get, the better. He said there were more opportunities out West, said things were known to be different out that way, and the horse business was promising. They also favored the fact that there were a lot of abolitionists there, as well as others who seemed to care about the ending of slavery.

But, we had a lot more family in Maryland than in Minnesota, it just made sense for me to go where there might be some familiar faces. Deciding to move was not too much for me, and I wasn’t afraid. Yes, I was a woman and a young woman at that. It was not smiled upon to be as independent as I was, and free-minded during those times, but that was me. How could I change who I was? I was not married and had no children, so it was easy for me to uproot myself. Having a husband would have made my journey East entirely different because the freedom to choose and to leave would not have been mine, but my husband’s, and what if he said “No?” A woman surely could not disagree with what her husband disapproved of in those times. She could be beaten, which was usually the first reprimand; and if she was still unruly, as townspeople called it, she was thrown right out of town. Yes, they would take her to the stagecoach, bags and all, with as much money as they had, and send her as far away as that money would carry her.

My grandmother, Louise, or Nana, as the grandchildren called her, used to tell me of tribes back in Africa that publicly divorced their wives if they found she was not a virgin on the night of the marriage. Some Mandinka tribes placed a white cloth under the bride, so the following morning there would be physical evidence that she was intact. Then bragging or a celebration took place by the mother-in-laws. If, by chance, the situation was any other, the newlywed woman faced brutal public castration.

Thank goodness, I had none of these worries! One suitcase was all I needed to take on the train with me. I had one pair of nice shoes, and I was wearing them. I brought some keepsakes like photos of Ma and Pa and my other five siblings. I was the youngest. I had packed one other dress, besides the one I had on, a nice hat for Sundays and another for wearing around town, my evening and around-the-house gowns, and a few other personals.

What I did have a lot more of than clothes were books, etchings and drawings. But those things my roommate, Mary, promised to have shipped to me as soon as I found out where I would be staying. Mary was my long-time friend. We lived together in a furnished two bedroom home. Mary was the first person I met when I moved here. We became friends instantly. Her father left her a small fortune and several properties. Women were not encouraged to leave the home unless they were married, but Mary and I knew early on we’d never fit into that mold. Our parents had agreed on my 16th birthday I could move in with Mary if I pleased. We were close to my Ma’s house, so nothing really changed for me, except I didn’t have to share the bed with three other people.

Mary was the town’s teacher now, using one of her dad’s properties for a schoolhouse. The two of us had done alright making a way for ourselves. I was close to my family, but she still was the hardest person for me to leave. Letters and telegrams would have to keep us connected. I knew she’d send the rest of my belongings when I was ready. All my Uncle Pete told me before I headed East was, “Don’t worry; you’ll be taken care of.” He had moved from Minnesota back to the East Coast a few years ago.

Mary gave me a nice tight hug, and seemed as if she would never let me go. “I’m gonna miss that third eye of yours, Sweetie Pie,’’ she said as she held me. Mary always referred to my gift that way, the third eye. She said it was because it was my ‘eye’ that nobody could see, but God and me.

I looked caringly into her eyes and said, “Promise not to worry about me.”

“I promise,” she said quietly.

“I’ll send a message by the carrier as soon as I’m settled.”

“You know, the first time I ever met you, I knew right away we’d be friends for life. There was something was special about you. I could feel it in my bones. Remember how we used to always talk about living together when we were younger. But, you were always someone I could talk to and trust, I will miss having you as my roommate, Sis.”

See, I had learned the specialties of my gift from my Grandmother, Nana. She was a full-blooded Indian from the Arawak tribe that had been in Jamaica long before the Europeans ever saw the island. I had what was called a veil over me when I was born. According to my Nana, that meant I was special. Now, when one is young, they don’t really think about it when you hear that type of information. But, when you can see the ghosts in the room, it becomes a different matter. I talked to mine as a child. They were my friends, so I believed what was said about the veil.

As a child, my Nana, who was my Father’s Mother, kept me most of the time. She was Catholic. She never made me go to church or mass, but she did tell me about God. So, I slowly became aware that there was a greater thing out in the universe. She told me, “Keep God closer than your sleeves.” She taught me how to pray. One day while praying with my Nana, sounds started coming from my mouth that were not English. It scared me, and my Nana laid her light brown, fragile hands on me and told me to keep speaking. “That’s God speaking through you. I know you don’t understand it, but let it flow.”

Sometimes, the special language would just come to me when people were speaking, or when I was doing something all alone. Nana told me this language could stop a demon right in its tracks, sending it back to hell. So, I spoke this new language proudly, but privately. Not all the time would I speak the special language a loud when I was alone, sometimes, I spoke it silently in my heart. Nana would say to me, ‘that be the gift of tongues you have baby.’

My dreams began to affect me at a young age, too. If I saw some of my relatives encountering danger in the dream, upon awakening the next morning, I relayed that information to them, while also cautioning them to be extra careful that day.

One day, Uncle Pete, Pa’s brother, declared, “I was saved because of you! I almost had a run-in with an unexpected cliff on my way to town.” My dream helped him avoid what was coming toward him. And Uncle Pete had a thing for daydreaming, so on many of those long carriage rides he lost himself in the scenery, forgetting that there just may be unanticipated oncoming carriages, cliffs and trees. He had a pretty high position in those days, driving for an outdated “Massa” of an empty slave house in an almost abandoned town. Minnesota didn’t have too many ex-slave owners, but there were a few there. There seemed to be more Quakers in Minnesota than anything.

Anyway, due to the noise of the cobblestone roads and horseshoes, a lot of carriage drivers could not hear what was coming toward them. So, looking straight ahead became mandatory. He said he would always be grateful for my gift of foresight. If I hadn’t warned him, he would have been looking a different way, driving the carriage right off the cliff’s edge, which was covered by an odd array of bushes.

Then the drawings started coming. I began to draw angels, who appeared as large warriors; they were usually my subjects. Rarely did I ever draw what Nana called devil people. I was always thankful my family never really treated me differently because of my special gifts. They would just...