do it again, I swear.”
She took several deep breaths and examined
my tear-streaked face. Her expression suddenly softened and pity
flooded her large brown eyes. She pulled me close and held me as if
I were made out of precious jewels. “I’m only trying to protect
you,” she said dismally. “I’m only trying to protect from ruin,
gossip, and a life of difficulty.” Tears started to slide down her
cheeks and mine immediately stopped.
“ Maman, don’t cry, please don’t
cry.” I hated seeing her cry. She cried a lot. She cried every time
Papa left us to go back to his real family. She cried when we went
to the opera or she spilled red wine on one of her fine dresses.
She cried every time she looked at our slave Emilie and was certain
that she had the laziest slave in New Orleans. She cried when she
thought she was getting old. She cried when she thought I would
never stop acting like an unrespectable heathen. She cried when
Tante Celeste insisted that I learn Voodoo and appreciate the many
sacrifices that our ancestors made in Haiti. Life was one
never-ending drama at the LaNuit household. Although she pretended
to be strong, I knew that she was fragile and I was the one who had
to take care of her.
“ You want me to stop
crying?” she asked through tears.
“ Yes, please,” I
begged.
“ Then say yes. Say yes
tomorrow.”
“ I won’t disappoint you. I
promise. Tomorrow I’ll say yes. I’ll say yes and then you won’t
have to worry about my future or my reputation.”
She stopped heaving and her mouth
stretched out into a thin smile. Under the low glow of the living
room candles she was excruciatingly beautiful and tragic. Her
tear-filled eyes were wide and childlike, and her caramel-colored
skin was radiant and unblemished. Like every night, her small frame
was fitted with a fine silk dress with a low décolleté and her ears
were adorned with tiny diamond studs.
She always dressed up in case
Papa decided to drop by and surprise her with some sweet French
wines, Spanish chocolates, new pearls or some other shiny trinket.
I felt a profound sadness emanating from her and wished that I
could somehow make her pain evaporate. Did she know how exquisite she truly
was? Would it have made a difference? Her voice was wistful when
she spoke. “He loves me, Cecile; your Papa loves me and he loves
you too. It is what it is. We do the best we can, non ?”
“ I know he loves you,” I said,
as convincingly as I could. “Of course he loves you.” Lies. I was a
liar. The honest truth was I had no idea what love really
was.
“ Madame, supper is ready,”
Emilie interrupted us.
“ Emilie! How many times have I
told you not to interrupt me?” Maman’s eyes filled with blind hate
as they rested on her.
“ But…” Emilie
protested.
Maman flew into a fit of fury. “Not buts!
Don’t interrupt me, ever!”
I held my breath unable to make eye
contact with Emilie. I felt shame, rage and guilt as I thought
about how childish I was being. I could have ended up like her and
had the unfortunate fate of being a slave for a Maman rather than a
free woman of color. Emilie was only a few years older than me, but
had been serving us for as long as I could remember.
I often wondered how Emilie felt serving
us day and night, but I never bothered to ask because I wasn’t
allowed to openly associate with her as it was forbidden by Maman;
as well as the law, because after all she was a lowly slave and I
was one class up on her. I knew it wasn’t right. It was socially
accepted and perfectly normal in most people’s eyes, but something
deep within me always whispered that somehow it was all
wrong…
Recently, this nagging feeling
was becoming stronger and stronger, yet I never did anything or
said anything. What was I supposed to do? None of it felt natural
or normal, yet in countless other households in New Orleans gens de couleurs
libres, along with white families, bought, sold and traded life as
if it were
She took several deep breaths and examined
my tear-streaked face. Her expression suddenly softened and pity
flooded her large brown eyes. She pulled me close and held me as if
I were made out of precious jewels. “I’m only trying to protect
you,” she said dismally. “I’m only trying to protect from ruin,
gossip, and a life of difficulty.” Tears started to slide down her
cheeks and mine immediately stopped.
“ Maman, don’t cry, please don’t
cry.” I hated seeing her cry. She cried a lot. She cried every time
Papa left us to go back to his real family. She cried when we went
to the opera or she spilled red wine on one of her fine dresses.
She cried every time she looked at our slave Emilie and was certain
that she had the laziest slave in New Orleans. She cried when she
thought she was getting old. She cried when she thought I would
never stop acting like an unrespectable heathen. She cried when
Tante Celeste insisted that I learn Voodoo and appreciate the many
sacrifices that our ancestors made in Haiti. Life was one
never-ending drama at the LaNuit household. Although she pretended
to be strong, I knew that she was fragile and I was the one who had
to take care of her.
“ You want me to stop
crying?” she asked through tears.
“ Yes, please,” I
begged.
“ Then say yes. Say yes
tomorrow.”
“ I won’t disappoint you. I
promise. Tomorrow I’ll say yes. I’ll say yes and then you won’t
have to worry about my future or my reputation.”
She stopped heaving and her mouth
stretched out into a thin smile. Under the low glow of the living
room candles she was excruciatingly beautiful and tragic. Her
tear-filled eyes were wide and childlike, and her caramel-colored
skin was radiant and unblemished. Like every night, her small frame
was fitted with a fine silk dress with a low décolleté and her ears
were adorned with tiny diamond studs.
She always dressed up in case
Papa decided to drop by and surprise her with some sweet French
wines, Spanish chocolates, new pearls or some other shiny trinket.
I felt a profound sadness emanating from her and wished that I
could somehow make her pain evaporate. Did she know how exquisite she truly
was? Would it have made a difference? Her voice was wistful when
she spoke. “He loves me, Cecile; your Papa loves me and he loves
you too. It is what it is. We do the best we can, non ?”
“ I know he loves you,” I said,
as convincingly as I could. “Of course he loves you.” Lies. I was a
liar. The honest truth was I had no idea what love really
was.
“ Madame, supper is ready,”
Emilie interrupted us.
“ Emilie! How many times have I
told you not to interrupt me?” Maman’s eyes filled with blind hate
as they rested on her.
“ But…” Emilie
protested.
Maman flew into a fit of fury. “Not buts!
Don’t interrupt me, ever!”
I held my breath unable to make eye
contact with Emilie. I felt shame, rage and guilt as I thought
about how childish I was being. I could have ended up like her and
had the unfortunate fate of being a slave for a Maman rather than a
free woman of color. Emilie was only a few years older than me, but
had been serving us for as long as I could remember.
I often wondered how Emilie felt serving
us day and night, but I never bothered to ask because I wasn’t
allowed to openly associate with her as it was forbidden by Maman;
as well as the law, because after all she was a lowly slave and I
was one class up on her. I knew it wasn’t right. It was socially
accepted and perfectly normal in most people’s eyes, but something
deep within me always whispered that somehow it was all
wrong…
Recently, this nagging feeling
was becoming stronger and stronger, yet I never did anything or
said anything. What was I supposed to do? None of it felt natural
or normal, yet in countless other households in New Orleans gens de couleurs
libres, along with white families, bought, sold and traded life as
if it were
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