Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo: A Novel - Softcover

Shange, Ntozake

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0312541244 ISBN 13: 9780312541248

Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin, 2010

Synopsis

Ntozake Shange's beloved Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo is the story of three sisters and their mother from Charleston, South Carolina. Sassafrass, the oldest, is a poet and a weaver like her mother before her. Having gone north to college, she is now living with other artists in Los Angeles and trying to weave a life out of her work, her man, her memories and dreams. Cypress, the dancer, leaves home to find new ways of moving in the world. Indigo, the youngest, is still a child of Charleston-"too much of the south in her"-who lives in poetry and has the supreme gift of seeing the obvious magic of the world. Shange's rich and wondrous story of womanhood, art, and passionately-lived lives is written "with such exquisite care and beauty that anybody can relate to her message" (The New York Times).

About this title

About the Author:

Ntozake Shange (1948-2018) was a renowned playwright, poet, and novelist. Her works include the Tony Award-nominated and Obie Award-winning for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf, as well as Some Sing, Some Cry (written with her sister Ifa Bayeza), Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo and Liliane.

Among her honors and awards are fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the Lila Wallace-Reader's Digest Fund and a Pushcart Prize. She was a graduate of Barnard and recipient of a Masters in American Studies from University of Southern California.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter 1
WHERE THERE IS A WOMAN THERE IS MAGIC. IF there is a moon falling from her mouth, she is a woman who knows her magic, who can share or not share her powers. A woman with a moon falling from her mouth, roses between her legs and tiaras of Spanish moss, this woman is a consort of the spirits.
Indigo seldom spoke. There was a moon in her mouth. Having a moon in her mouth kept her laughing. Whenever her mother tried to pull the moss off her head, or clip the roses round her thighs, Indigo was laughing.
“Mama, if you pull ‘em off, they’ll just grow back. It’s my blood. I’ve got earth blood, filled up with the Geechees long gone, and the sea.”
Sitting among her dolls, Indigo looked quite mad. As a small child, she stuffed socks with red beans, raw rice, sawdust or palm leaves. Tied ribbons made necks, so they could have heads and torsos. Then eyes from carefully chosen buttons or threads, hair from yarns specially dyed by her sisters and her mama, dresses of the finest silk patches, linen shoes and cotton underskirts, satin mitts or gloves embroidered with the delight of a child’s hand. These creatures were still her companions, keeping pace with her changes, her moods and dreams, as no one else could. Indigo heard them talking to her in her sleep. Sometimes when someone else was talking, Indigo excused herself—her dolls were calling for her. There was so much to do. Black people needed so many things. That’s why Indigo didn’t tell her mama what all she discussed with her friends. It had nothing to do with Jesus. Nothing at all. Even her mama knew that, and she would shake her head the way folks do when they hear bad news, murmuring, “Something’s got hold to my child, I swear. She’s got too much South in her.”
The South in her, the land and salt-winds, moved her through Charleston’s streets as if she were a mobile sapling, with the gait of a well-loved colored woman whose lover was the horizon in any direction. Indigo imagined tough winding branches growing from her braids, deep green leaves rustling by her ears, doves and macaws flirting above the nests they’d fashioned in the secret, protected niches way high up in her headdress. When she wore this Carolinian costume, she knew the cobblestone streets were really polished oyster shells, covered with pine needles and cotton flowers. She made herself, her world, from all that she came from. She looked around her at the wharf. If there was nobody there but white folks, she made them black folks. In the grocery, if the white folks were buying up all the fresh collards and okra, she made them disappear and put the produce on the vegetable wagons that went round to the Colored. There wasn’t enough for Indigo in the world she’d been born to, so she made up what she needed. What she thought the black people needed.
Access to the moon.
The power to heal.
Daily visits with the spirits.
MOON JOURNEYS
cartography by Indigo
Find an oval stone that’s very smooth. Wash it in rosewater, 2 times. Lay it out to dry in the night air where no one goes. When dry, hold stone tightly in the right hand, caress entire face with the left hand. Repeat the same action with the stone in the left hand. Without halting the movement, clasp left stone-filled hand with the right. Walk to a tree that houses a spirit-friend. Sit under the tree facing the direction of your mother’s birthplace. Hold your hands between your bosom, tight. Take 5 quick breaths and 3 slow ones. Close your eyes. You are on your way.
ALTERNATIVE MODES OF MOON JOURNEYS
(Winter travel/Inclement weather)
In a thoroughly cleaned bathroom with the window open, burn magnolia incense, preferably, but cinnamon will do. In a handkerchief handled by some other woman in your family (the further back the better), put chamomile, an undamaged birthwort leaf, and Lady’s Fern. Tie this with a ribbon from your own hair. Kiss the sachet 3 times. Drop it gently into a tub of warm water that will cover all your body. Place two white burning candles at either end of the tub. Float one fully opened flower in the water. Get in the tub while tickling the water in circles with the petals of the flower. Lie in the tub, with flower over your heart. Close your eyes. You are on your way.
Not all black people wanted to go to the moon. But some did.Aunt Haydee had gone to the moon a lot. She’d told Indigo about the marvelous parties there were in the very spots the white people put flags and jumped up and down erratically. They never did learn how to dance. Been round black folks all these years and still don’t have sense enough to keep in rhythm. But there they were walking on the moon, like nothing ever went on up there. Like women didn’t sidle up to lunar hills every month. Like seas of menses could be held back by a rocket launcher. Like the Colored might disappear with the light of the moon.
“We ain’t goin’ anywhere, are we?” Indigo sat some of the dolls on the inside of her thigh. Her very favorites she sat in her lap. Indigo had made every kind of friend she wanted. African dolls filled with cotton root bark, so they’d have no more slave children. Jamaican dolls in red turbans, bodies formed with comfrey leaves because they’d had to work on Caribbean and American plantations and their bodies must ache and be sore. Then there were the mammy dolls that Indigo labored over for months. They were almost four feet high, with big gold earrings made from dried sunflowers, and tits of uncleaned cotton. They smelled of fennel, peach leaves, wild ginger, wild yams. She still crawled up into their arms when she was unavoidably lonely, anxious that no living black folks would talk to her the way her dolls and Aunt Haydee did.
Everybody said she was just too ornery to hold a decent conversation. But that wasn’t true. What was true was that Indigo had always had to fight Cypress and Sassafrass just to get them to listen to her. They thought they were so grown. So filled up with white folks’ ways. They didn’t want to hear about the things Aunt Haydee knew. Indigo watched her mother over huge vats of dyes, carrying newly spun yarn from the pots to the lines and back again. Sassafrass, throwing shuttles back and forth and back and forth. Cypress tying off cloth, carrying the cloth to the stairway where she began the appliqués the family was famous for. There was too much back and forth going on for anybody to engage little Indigo in conversations about the haints and the Colored. If the rhythm was interrupted, Sassafrass would just stare at the loom. Cypress would look at her work and not know where to start or what gauge her stitches were. Mama would burn herself with some peculiarly tinted boiling water. Everybody would be mad and not working, so Indigo was sent to talk to the dolls. All the dolls in the house became hers. And the worlds Sassafrass wandered in her weaving, and those Cypress conjured through her body, were lost to Indigo, who handled three-way conversations with her cloth companions all alone.
A girl- child with her dolls is unlikely to arouse attention anywhere, same as little boys with footballs or Davy Crockett hats. So Indigo would sneak from the place she’d been put (the corridor around the back porch), and take her friends out visiting. Old ladies loved for Indigo and Company to pass by. They would give her homemade butter cookies or gingerbread. Th ey offered teas and chocolates, as well as the Scriptures and the legends of their lives. Indigo only had colored dolls and only visited colored ladies. She didn’t like Miz Fitzhugh, who fawned over Cypress and Sassafrass like they were ‘most white. No, Mrs. Yancey with the low, secret voice and seventeen million hundred braids was Indigo’s friend. And Sister Mary Louise who kept a garden of rose bushes and herbs was Indigo’s cut-buddy, down to the Colored Methodist Episcopal Church.
Streets in Charleston wind the way old ladies’ fingers crochet as they unravel the memories of their girlhoods. One thing about a Charlestonian female is her way with little things. The delicacy of her manner. The force of ritual in her daily undertakings. So what is most ordinary is made extraordinary. What is hard seems simple. Indigo listened to their tales, the short and long ones, with a mind to make herself a doll whose story that was, or who could have helped out. When her father died, Indigo had decided it was the spirit of things that mattered. The humans come and go.
Aunt Haydee said spirits couldn’t be gone, or the planet would fall apart.
The South in her.
Rumor was that Mrs. Yancey had a way with white folks. They couldn’t deny her anything. That’s what folks said ... that she must honey up to them; leastways, smile a lot. That was the only way the beautiful things she had in her house could be accounted for. Mrs. Yancey couldn’t have bought such lace, or that silver tea service. Imagine a colored woman having afternoon tea and crumpets with all that silver. Indigo always carried her doll-friend Miranda over to Mrs. Yancey’s. Miranda had better manners than some of her other dolls. Miranda was always clean, too, in a red paisley pinafore and small black sandals. Indigo let Miranda use her parasol to protect her from the sun. What proper young woman would come visiting faint and perspiring? Only some of Indigo’s more country dolls would have marched to Mrs. Yancey’s with the outdoors all over them.
Indigo walked up to Mrs. Yancey’s front porch, pulled her slip up, and fussed with the hair sticking out of her braids. She’d rinsed her hands off, but re- doing her hair for a short chat seemed to make too much of a regular outing. Besides, Miranda was really dressed up. Indigo had decorated her bonnet with dandelions, and sprayed some of her mama’s perfume under her arms and behind her knees. When she was ready, Indigo rang the bell ...

About this edition

• Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin
• Publication date: 2010
• ISBN 10: 0312541244
• ISBN 13: 9780312541248
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 224