A.J. Verdelle

Was I sad to leave the country? Is that where I was born? Am I my grandmother’s child? Am I a child of potion? Am I a child of folklore, or family crisis, some need for gender balancing? Maybe some need to keep my father? And who is my father too, is he Buddy my daddy, or is he some country man whose lasting seed my Grandma’am could pickle till it got to Detroit? Maybe a man prone to girls, maybe Mr. Howell Jones or Mr. Harold Grayson Senior or maybe his brother who looks nothing like him. Are my brothers really brothers to me, or am I sister to bay leaf and scorched root of cayenne?

Missus Pearson say, “Learning to speak proper English is absolutely necessary for all Americans.” She say, “People come to America thousands at a time, and they would give an arm to have the opportunity to learn rules of English grammar and pronunciation, to learn to speak proper English.”

She stop. “Say that,” she say to me. I’m good at repeating now and I’m ready whenever she stop.

“Learnin to speak propah,” I try.

“Learning to speak proper English,” she stop me.

Once upon a time there were two brown and lovely dolls. Their appeal was their dark skin and real human hair. The dark dolls had not been seen in stores before. On the shelves of the market, they were the cutest things. Many women who shopped with or for whiteladies and who themselves had dark daughters, remarked over the two of those babies high up there. Because they were brown—different than most dolls—and because they had moveable hair, the dolls were more expensive than any toys should be. So, they lingered on the shelves and had only each other for company.