Page 7 of You've Got a Place Here, Too
I begged my parents until they eventually booked me an unscheduled, non-Thanksgiving flight to Georgia, and I showed up at my granny’s house, where I knew I could expect at least these three things: her smile, her homemade pound cake—a slice of which was always waiting for me when I arrived—and best of all, her stories.
“How come you never left the South?” I asked, seated below Granny on her front porch, legs kicked out in front of me like branches, while she rubbed oil into my braided scalp. Granny smelled like cocoa butter, coffee, and a pan of something that just came out the oven, like always.
“Why would I?” Granny replied with a steady hum. Her arthritic fingers moved slower than usual, but I knew better than to tell her she could stop.
“I guess I just thought you would, once the rest of your family did. Especially after your daughter did. I’m curious why you stayed here, even when people wanted you to leave.” The part I left out was how my mother had, when she learned of my decision to stay at UofM, hugged me too hard for too long, blubbering over and over that I was just like my momma, and she knew I would make the right choice. Words that had been repeating in my head like a guilty conscience ever since.
Granny laughed. I wondered if she could hear my thoughts as clear as she could hearThe Young and the Restlesscoming on in another room, even with the TV on mute.
“The thing ’bout your momma is this. She ain’t never been too comfortable being herself, ’specially if it meant messin’ up somebody else’s version of her.
“But not me. And not you.” Granny winked. “I think your momma wanted to leave the South ’cause she felt like this place would keep her small. But what she ain’t see is that even a small life here, withus,gon’ be bigger than a life in the kinda place where we always gotta hide or shrink or change little bits and pieces of ourselves.” Granny paused her fingers and dipped her head down so that her smile was reflected perfectly in my eyes. Then, in a more deliberate tone, she added: “I know you ain’t gon’ leave that school, Rose.”
I held my breath, wondering how she knew. Then again, she always did.
“And I ain’t mad at you or disappointed. But I’m gon’ say this. You ain’t never been scared to be you, to make your own path, even when it might make somebody else a little uncomfortable. So, I’m wondering: Why you scared now?” As she spoke, her words turned to lyrics. I listened as they gathered into a soundtrack, my own. I wondered if I should learn them, too, sing along.
By the end of the audition, my face was wet with tears. I had started off somewhat timid, my voice barely above a whisper. Midway through the first verse, it occurred to me that I was actually doing it, I was singing in front of all these people, and it wasn’t as terrible as I thought it would be. Then I tripped over the lyrics. It was almost enough to make me quit, but thinking of Granny’s lyrics had pushed me forward. By the time I made it to the chorus, I was singing with confidence, my voice big enough to fill a concert hall. When I was done, I knew I had left it all on that stage.
There was silence before there was noise. Dr. Watkins and Dr. Cherry gave me a standing ovation. I had sung Granny’s favorite song—twice special now because it was also the song Jrue had heard me sing when we met, the first time I ever sang in front of anyone. I picked it because no matter the outcome, I wanted to be me.
“Welcome to the Jubilee Singers,” announced Dr. Watkins gleefully.
Instead of the relief and excitement I expected to feel, a singular thought invaded my mind.I never got a chance to make herproud.My head dropped heavily into my chest. Granny had passed away two weeks into the fall semester of my sophomore year at UofM. I’d stayed scared too long. So long, it had turned into immobility. My first reaction, after I heard the news of her death, was to move. To come to Fisk, to follow her dreams, to make her proud.
“I’d love to talk to you about the music major as well.” Dr.Cherry smiled. Standing behind her was my adviser, Miss Flo, who was beaming at me like a proud parent. Everyone so proud.
I placed the microphone back into the stand, swallowing the giant lump in my throat. I’d done what I came here to do. Then why did I feel so empty? I had a sudden and intense urge to wordlessly escape from the room. But then I felt an unmistakable jolt of electricity.
“I’m proud of you, Rose,” Jrue said, squeezing my hand.
I closed my eyes and returned to the last lesson my granny ever taught me.
“But what if Iamscared, though? To be honest? To be myself?” I’d turned and faced her, forcing her to pause her hands in my scalp, rest them instead on my tension-held shoulders.
“It’s all gon’ work itself out, baby,” she cooed slowly. “You know why?” I shook my head, imagining myself a child looking up to their hero, expecting a saved day. “You love truth more than most people love comfort. And because of it, you live honest. You do the right thing, Rose. The right thing foryou.Never let nobody change that. ’Cause for somebody special as you, just being you gon’ always be enough.”
I smiled back at her, feeling tears pulling at the corners of my eyes. Because from right then I knew—I would never have another choice but to be that person who she thought I was.
“I’m proud of you, Rose,” my granny said, squeezing my hand. “Yoube proud of you, too.”
In place of a response, I gave her hand a squeeze back. As the sun began to set over the porch and Granny’s voice faded into a low hum, I held on and held on, plunking the moment down into my memory, like a story.
Back in Jubilee Hall, Granny’s low hum melded into the chorus of voices around me—the Singers, beginning warmups—but it was Jrue’s steady voice that stood out. I gave his hand a squeeze back.
“Did you hear me? I’m proud of you, Rose.”
I smiled and nodded, peeking around to make sure no one was watching. Once I knew the coast was clear, I leaned up onto my tiptoes to kiss Jrue’s cheek.
“I’m proud of me, too,” I said, and for the first time in my life, I meant it.
Brave the Skies
Kennedy Ryan
Senior Year—Finley College
Celine
