A Darker Shade of Blue

By Erie Hester Tillery Spencer

The poignant coming of age story of a twelve-year-old, dark-skinned African-American girl named Rena, who grew up in a mulatto family in a small southern town during the 1940s and 50s.

Rena has to cope with the blatant racism of the time and the tensions over skin color within her own family. She is the first dark-skinned child born to a f

• Language: English
• Publisher: LitFire Publishing
• Release date: Nov 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781641517393

Erie Hester Tillery Spencer

Erie Spencer grew up in the state of Louisiana, surrounded by a rich history of African-American culture and folklore. She began writing short stories as a hobby, drawing characters with their own language, beliefs and mores from her vivid imagination. After high school, she moved to Chicago, Illinois where she earned a Bachelor of General Studies in psychology from Roosevelt University and a Master's degree in criminal justice from Chicago State University. In 2006, she was awarded a grant from the Community Arts Assistance Program from the City of Chicago Cultural Center for Literature.

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A Darker Shade of Blue

Copyright © 2018 by Erie Hester Tillery Spencer

ISBN: 978-1-64151-739-3

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.

Printed in the United States of America

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Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XII

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter IXX

Dedication

To my daughters Haley and PJ and my grandson Zion Joseph.

Acknowledgments

I would first like to thank my family, especially my sisters and brothers, Billy Ray, Jewel Dean, Linda Faye, Jacki Ray, and Earthalean who passed away in 1994. Without their inspiration this story could not be told. With love and appreciation to my grandmother, Ellen Tillery who kept us all together until her passing in 1972.

I want to express my gratitude to all my friends that cheered me on. A special thanks to Bryant Robinson who encouraged me to apply for a grant from the Community Arts Assistance Program at the City of Chicago Cultural Center. A Special thanks to Kathie Trudgian for her tireless work with me, and to Jamesoe for his help and quiet patience.

Chapter I

In the winter of 1948, on Christmas morning, my mother killed herself. She meticulously wrapped gifts for each of her six children, and placed them neatly under the tree before drinking poison that Christmas morning. I was born Rena Mae Marchand on December 25, 1936. My mother took her life on my twelfth birthday. After her death I would embark on a journey of discovery that would uncover secrets and lies surrounding my birth and the motive for her death.

She delighted the eye. Born Emma Mae, everyone called her Honey, tall and shapely with blue eyes, hair as black as night, her light skin and fair complexion made her an object of curiosity and assured her a place of honor among colored folk. But Honey’s fragile spirit wasn’t strong enough for such scrutiny and in the end her unsound mind would claim victory.

Honey was an enigma, a free spirit restless and in continuous motion with the innocence of a child. She celebrated life. Honey mourned the death of her twin babies with great sorrow; life had been valued, not something to be thrown away. The secrets she kept would seize upon her human frailty and cause her to take her own life. She had tried before, with the full knowledge that no one would intervene, and no one did.

It was an unusually cold winter that year; the first big snowfall in a decade had fallen. Honey made snow ice cream the day before from the soft white, powdery flakes glistening on the ground like some fairy tale image on a picture postcard.

The unsuccessful attempts to end her life had been ignored, even by Papa. No one thought Honey capable of such an act. The news of her death stunned the town. No one could recall a single person in St. Batavia taking their own life. Papa said Honey wasn’t trying to kill herself, she just wanted attention, drinking only enough of the poison to make her sick. The cans of poison were clearly marked with a picture of a skull and crossbones indicating danger. After Honey’s death Papa never took away the poison, the cans remained in the same spot for all to see.

In small towns gossip is an art, and there was no shortage of folks gossiping about Honey. The image of her down by the water picking wildflowers and talking to herself helped fuel the gossip and seal her fate. She was blamed for everything including the town’s shortcomings. Men were captivated by her, and women were jealous of her; afraid she would steal their husbands. If Honey had been born in the seventeenth century she would have been branded a witch and burned at the stake.

The snow, usually was gone in a day, still gleamed in the sunlight and the younger children, unaware of their fate, just wanted to celebrate Christmas.

Honey’s life had been gradually drained from her long before she drank poison, but it was hard to imagine that she would abandon her children in such a thoughtless cold manner on Christmas Day. It was as if God had given her beauty in exchange for a sound mind. Honey loved God and claimed to have had a special relationship with Him. How could she have committed the ultimate sin?

Papa wasn’t a religious man, but he thought if there was a God, Honey must be with Him in heaven.

Honey’s preoccupation with religion bordered on obsession. She believed she could communicate with God through the weather. Thunder and lightening terrified her. The sound of thunder would cause her to huddle us together in one room, unplug anything electrical, cover all the of mirrors with white bed sheets, and engross fully in conversation with herself on her knees in a praying posture.

Her irrational behavior was unsettling to Papa. He put up with her either because he loved her, or he didn’t know what else to do. Papa got great pleasure from knowing he was envied by other men that failed to possess Honey as a wife, no matter her state of mind.

Honey’s demons only seemed to surface after the death of her mother when she and her younger brother, Uncle Reese, were rushed off to live with their elder sister, Aunt Olivia. Aunt Olivia was known for her unprincipled stance against dark skinned colored folks of her own race. She devoted much of her time in the indoctrination of Honey and Uncle Reese to her way of thinking and the preservation of the mulatto bloodline. Aunt Olivia required blind obedience, but for all of her persuasion, Honey emerged with a fragmented mind, detached from reality and the world around her. Both Honey’s and Papa’s families were mulatto, similar in their appearance and in their way of thinking.

Honey’s voice had been silenced by her own hand; she alone condemned her soul. There is no forgiveness for those with purpose take their own life, and Honey had with purpose taken her own life.

We were lined up like toy soldiers and ushered into Honey’s sick room. Her black hair spread loosely around her face, her light skin now fading into shades of darkness, as if returning to its’ origin before the slave ships came. We could see Grandma Sarah, Papa’s mother standing at the head of Honey’s bed. She beckoned for us to come closer then whispered in an almost inaudible voice, as not to disturb Honey’s sleep.

Rena, she said. Go on, say goodbye to your mother. Don’t fret child. Honey didn’t suffer, and now she’s in a better place.

The futility of Honey’s life had caused her to drink poison. The sadness she carried had swollen up inside her like something foreign and in the end she could no longer contain it. Maybe Grandma was right when without so much as a raised voice she so unemotionally declared that Honey was in a better place.

Observing her, there were no tears. She was once warm and breathing, now she was this lifeless thing. I thought if she had known what she had done; she would have opened her eyes and breathed in life again. She suffered out loud, but no one was listening. She had given birth to eight children before her twenty-seventh birthday. She was fifteen years old when she brought me into this world. That single act of mother hood would inflict a wound upon this family that would take generations to heal.

I was her first born, the first dark skinned child born into a long line of mulatto descendants on both sides of the family. Nine months later Honey gave birth to twin sons. They were celebrated and mourned on the same day. Their bodies were placed in shoeboxes and buried in Grandma Sarah’s backyard, underneath the Chinaberry tree. That tree is the only memorial to their existence. Honey would sit for hours under that tree, her arms folded in a cradled shape, rocking her invisible babies as if that gesture could restore them to life.

Even as a child I sensed something different about Honey. Her peculiar way of looking at the world, seeing only the good in folks, never the bad, and her inability to see herself the way others saw her. St. Batavia was full of superstitions kept alive by superstitious folks, but When Honey spoke of nightly visitations from her dead mother, she was seen as someone possessed with the ability to conjure up dead spirits, even though she wasn’t the only one in town to assert having seen a dead relative. She was kept under the watchful eyes of the town because of a continuous connection of things mingled together, attributed to her.

I resented Honey for depriving me of a childhood and Papa for his reliance on me to take care of her. I had seen Honey marry, descend into darkness and pass out of existence all in my twelve years on this earth. She said I came into this world kicking and screaming and she was sure I would leave it the same way. But I would bide my time with the patience of Job, giving no thought to my own demise from this world, and unmask this family and lay bare their secrets for all to see. Honey was free of her demons, and the prying eyes of the town.

That night the conversation around the kitchen table resembled that of an auction with Grandma Sarah and Honey’s two sisters trying to decide what to do with us. Papa never joined in the discussion, showing no emotions. His eyes were fixed on Grandma Sarah and he hung on her every word. It was as if he was a man trying to unburden himself. He never offered an opinion on what should happen to his own flesh and blood. He simply sat silently by and listened.

Why should the burden of raising Honey’s children fall on us? Henry is their father. Let him see after them, said Aunt Olivia.

Honey should have never had all those babies. She was always pregnant and so young, said Grandma Sarah.

Whatever the thinking around that table, it had more to do with Honey than with us. No matter how many babies she had, we couldn’t be unborn.

Honey must have drunk the poison by mistake. She would have never left her babies, said Aunt Mattie.

We’re not talking about Honey’s dying; we’re talking about those children in there. I declare Mattie. You never seem to know what’s going on, said Aunt Olivia.

I don’t want folks running around saying bad things about Honey. She was my baby sister and I love her, said Aunt Mattie.

I loved her too, but face it Mattie, Honey’s mind wasn’t right, and she was foolish to kill herself. I don’t think I can ever forgive her for that, said Aunt Olivia.

Quiet Olivia, the children will hear you, said Aunt Mattie.

"Let ‘em hear. It time they knew the truth about their mother. Honey was my sister, but God knows she was ill fit to be a wife