Frances Dana Gage Attempts to Write a Black Story
by Lauryn Payne
May I say a few words? I want to say a few words about this matter.
Sojourner Truth, Women’s Rights Convention, 1851
“Well, chillen, whar dar’s so much racket dar must be som’ting out o’kilter.”
Frances Dana Gage, after Sojourner Truth, 1863
When Frances Dana Gage writes about Black girls eating grilled fish on their front porch she remembers it should be fried fish and the girls should have bobbles slapping their cheeks and their cheeks should be stuffed with candies and their back teeth silver reflections of the silver fish skittering across the brown-turned grass and Frances Dana Gage elates the girls should be hot on their blackened feet and the silver fish should be skittering across the floor and their mama in that small kitchen should be bothered and should be hot and in her kitchen making beans soaking beans washing beans cooking beans praising beans barefoot with a towel slung over her left shoulder so Frances Dana Gage writes in a baby and that baby should appear puffy and only cheeks and hollering something fierce that baby something fierce hollering half her mamas nerve that baby and her daddy that baby’s daddy should be called her maybe daddy and ride around saying he’s her maybe daddy because that baby’s mama is hot and waiting and they are all waiting at the stoop and forgetting how could Frances Dana Gage forget the cops as they drive by and roll their windows down and roll their mustache stalks between their fingers and call out to the girls still sitting on the porch still eating their fill still basking in their childhood still holding onto their popsicles Frances Dana Gage remembers their popsicles start to melt hot like hot wax like hot blood like hot red liquid running down their forearms their thighs sticky with hot fluorescent lava and the cops they keep rolling into the driveway those cops their pushing past their scoff at the girls magic castle drawings on the sidewalk those cops banging on the door and the door banging a soliloquy its squeaky hinges jazz-torn and ache awake the fuss they fuss like old ladies they fuss to mama who is hot and achey and waiting they fuss to mama “wake up!” and mama is telling the officer about the beans and the baby is hollering and the girls are rolling around in the front yard and the grass feels cool against their skin and Frances Dana Gage thinks this isn’t her story and Frances Dana Gage writes in “ain’t I a woman.” and mama says “ain’t I a woman?” but the beans are whistling something fierce their top their tipping over unsteady their lip singing the blues harmonizing the blues spinning into jazz the baby wails blue toward anger and the cops haven’t seen anything like it and the noise makes them dizzy and if they could just get home for dinner but the damn beans are screaming and shit everything is stirring awake and blue jazz is pulling at their fingertips that music that “ain’t I a woman!” burning hot into their back and the hot mama is pointing towards her beans and her baby and baby is yelling out the blues and the percussive yanks the pen awake the pen the blues the stops the baby wailing the percussive banging loudly mama’s “ain’t I” caught in a jam and the girls roll around sticky and hot and new so Frances Dana Gage says.