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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781478006534 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Duke University Press |
| Publication date: | 11/08/2019 |
| Edition description: | New Edition |
| Pages: | 256 |
| Sales rank: | 1,108,684 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.80(d) |
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Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
THE HIVE
smooth soft flow
quiet
float
float flow float
still
river smooth river soft river flow river speaks tongues shhhh who/dat/man/she/done/brought/to/the/hive he/must/be special if/she/brought/him/to/the/nether/region/of/hymen blasphemy sacrilege waspy how/she/know/he/the/one he/the/one how/she/know oh/she/know she/missb.
she/know and/he/will/know/too river quiet river thinks river still river sing wonderment of the senses heterophony of solo and chorus peak dip simmer s-t-e-a-d-y s-t-r-e-a-m hummmmmmmmmmiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnngggggggggg lower register sink d
e e
p Heart (flutter) breath (stilted) eyes (wet)
soloist disrupts with flourish melisma queen! high e flat! high f sharp! low b natural!
somebody tell her to cool it she raising the temperature of the hive with/all/those/vocal/theatrics paradox of harmony is unison vibration rhythm touch swoon/sway/jiggle/swoon/sway/jiggle too dizzying to keep up with it all perfumes preside patchouli thinks musk is too strong lilac ducks beneath lavender rose and honeysuckle stay quiet jasmine rains reigns
I awaken. My eyes are wet with dreams. We are by a river, my hands and knees covered in silt. Miss B. helps me to my feet and keeps her arms around me until I am calm enough to speak.
"Where are we?"
She continues to hold me, but does not respond. She puts her finger under my chin and tilts my head up until I see it: suspended in midair and hovering like a UFO is a gourd-shaped mountain. Its massive girth makes it impossible to see around.
"That, my dear, is Hymen. And we are at the river of Osun."
"I don't know what kind of drugs you gave me, but please, can you take me back to Chicago? My husband doesn't know where I am. My poor dog is still in his crate and needs to go out and I have not prepared for my class that I'm supposed to teach today."
She moves to the river and dips her hands into the water. She walks back to me and places her wet hands over my eyes, closing my lids as she does. When I open my eyes, we have been transported to yet another place.
"Dr. EPJ, you have been chosen by my people to share our stories. I am charged with making sure that our history is collected and passed down to the next generation. Why you were chosen will be revealed in time, but for now, you need to open your heart and mind so that you can receive the gift of story from my sisters. I have some brothers, too, but their days are numbered. Besides, you already know their stories. This is about the sisterhood. Don't worry. I will be with you every step of the way and introduce you to the sisters whose stories need telling. There might be some sisters whose stories you don't want to hear, but that is not your decision to make. You must receive and record those, too. It's most important that you bear witness.
"We — for good or bad — all work toward one purpose and that is maintaining our hive. The river of Osun that flows beneath us is our spiritual foundation. She, too, will be helpful to you when you need her. When you stumble, or feel stuck, go to the river. Wade in the water and listen. Now, are you ready to get your tour of the hive?"
"No. I want to go home. And I don't want to talk to your 'sisters.' I have things to do and places to be," I snap.
"I see you're going to have to learn that you can't always be in control," she says nonchalantly, walking by me but not looking in my direction. A strong, unrecognizable scent fills the air. Its intoxicating redolence draws me so strongly that I'm walking behind Miss B. against my will. I realize that I have no choice in the matter and follow her through the entrance of the hive.
Every street is filled with crowds of folks on their way somewhere, hovered in a circle, or carrying something. Streets seem to wind around at angles — almost circular but not really. Intersections are confusing because there is traffic from six directions rather than four. Miss B., of course, is unbothered by all of this and barrels her way through the crowds up a steep spiraling path until we get to what appears to be a clearing, much like an open market square.
"We'll stop here for now while some folks are away grabbing lunch. This way I can give you an aerial view."
"But why isn't anyone speaking?"
"Oh, they're talking. You just have to tune in to their frequency in order to hear what they're saying. Don't worry. You will. So close your mouth and open your ears — and your heart."
"Umm hmm," I say, pursing my lips as I scan the scene. There are rays of sun shining through the otherwise cloudy day. The temperature is just right, not too hot and a very nice breeze.
"I'll get you something to drink in a minute," Miss B. says. "I'm not rude like some people. I offer them something to drink right away when they enter my house." She grabs me by the hand and pulls me a few feet further down the road. There are a group of children doing chores: taking out garbage, beating rugs, and filling up water pails. Interestingly, they don't look bothered by the chores like the children I know, or the child I was. Instead, they seem to have a fierce look of dedication to the task at hand, trance-like, moving from one thing to the next and staying out of each other's way.
"We come out of the womb working," Miss B. says. "You have to fight your way into this world to take your first breath and you have to fight your way to stay here."
We stop in front of what looks like a warehouse. Hundreds of old women stand in line carrying gourds on their heads. We walk around the line to see the opening of the warehouse where there are younger women greeting the older women with a kiss on either cheek and then taking the gourds from them and carrying them off — to where, I don't know.
"What is this?" I ask.
"This is our honey factory. Those old women have traveled near and far gathering food to feed the whole hive. The young folk take the food from them and sort it out in the warehouse. It's stored there for the winter. If you're lucky, you'll get to see the old women do the waggle."
We continue to walk a little further and pass a small group of elderly men playing checkers on an old tree stump. They look up momentarily to acknowledge our presence and then turn back to their game. We then reach an old convenience store. It looks more like a junkyard than a store: cigarette butts, old car parts, chicken bones, and empty Wild Irish Rose and Jim Bean bottles are scattered about. On the side of the store is a huge sweetbay magnolia tree and several tree stumps, where a few men are gathered, shooting craps and drinking. Miss B.'s posture changes and her eyes narrow.
"Hey, B.! What you know good?" one of the men yells at her. She ignores him, her walking picking up pace. "I see you ain't speaking today. Alright, then. You know I'm still going to hit that one of these days!" The other men laugh before fixing their eyes on me. "Your friend's ass is as big as yours. Maybe I'll ask him for a piece if you won't give me none!" More laughter.
Miss B. stops walking and turns to face the cat caller.
"Beau Willie Drone, don't let your mouth start something your ass can't finish. You wish you were man enough to handle all of this, but last I heard, your buzz saw working more like a hand saw. You bettah take you a dose of saltpeter. And you keep your mouth off of my friend. He's more man than you'll ever be and more woman than you'll ever get!"
The men buckle over in laughter at their friend's humiliation, while Beau Willie gives Miss B. the middle finger. Miss B. takes off down the road, marching as if off to war. "I see you give as good as you get. Who are those men?" I ask, once we are out of earshot.
"A necessary evil," she hisses back.
"What does that mean?"
After a pause, her tone changes.
"They mostly harmless. They just have to be put in their place from time to time, especially Beau Willie. Once he gets deep in that bottle, he loses his mind. He gets on my nerves so bad it makes my ass want to cut stove wood."
"I don't know what that means, but I assume you don't like him."
"Anyhoo, those are the drones and they hang out by that tree every day until around midday and then fly off somewhere in search of trouble."
I believe her, but I also know there is more to their story. But I don't intend to be in this "hive" long enough to find out.
"So, that's pretty much everybody who lives in Hymen. But I want you to get the lay of the land." She picks up a stick and begins to draw a circle in the dirt. She then draws sections within the dirt circle and inscribes two initials in each of the different shapes she's sketched out: "NC," "VA," "MS," "LA," and so on.
"We are here," she says, pointing to a section with "MS" in it. But I'm going to take you to all of these areas of the hive where my sisters live. Now, what you need to know is that not all of us are alike, depending on where we live in the hive. And we got different ways of doing things, as well. Some places got different tasting honey. I don't eat everybody's honey. I have to see how it's made, because you know everybody's kitchen ain't clean. You know what I mean?"
I'm only half listening to what she's saying, but I shake my head in agreement.
"We'll start down here in MS and work our way 'round the hive so you can get different perspectives based on where folks live. And don't you worry, I'll introduce you to everybody. They're expecting us." She walks ahead of me and then stops. "The other thing I forgot to tell you is that even though we are into unity and so on, we do have our little cliques. We have some saddity folks who live in the more populated areas; we got some masons, carpenters, and miners who live in more rural areas and tend to be a little country; we even have some miners who came here from Europe who mostly keep to themselves. They always look ashy to me; I keep telling my good girlfriend, Nancy, who I'll introduce you to, that those folks need to discover the butters, starting with cocoa! And Lord, don't let 'em get wet.
"You talkin' 'bout smellin' like the funk of ten thousand years, I'm here to tell you. Anyway, in addition to being stank and ashy, they are not to be trusted. They will lie, steal, and cheat and claim that it's your fault that you've been lied on, cheated, talked about, and mistreated. We have tried for years to get along with them — and sometimes we do — but you can't trust them as far as you can throw 'em. So our strategy is to keep a close eye on them. Some of us do that by hitching up with them, but I guess you know all about that, huh?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about. You don't know nothing about me." I roll my eyes at her. She's living up to her name so far — Miss B.
She continues, paying me no mind. "The point is that they have, and still do, make our lives very difficult. It's been really, really hard dealing with the 'ashies.' That's what I call 'em."
She pulls out a pad and flips through it, skimming over each of the pages. "Ooooookay. I think that's it. I think I've covered everything — at least for now. Any questions?"
"I don't have any questions because I'm not going to be asking any. I don't know how many times I have to tell you that I need to get back home. The only questions I need to be thinking about are the ones for the exam I need to write for my class. You do know that kidnapping is illegal, don't you, or don't you have laws here in Hymen?" I can barely repress the smirk stretching across my face.
Miss B. ignores me and digs inside her purse, producing a pad, pencil, and recorder. "Here," she says, extending the items to me.
"What part of 'I'm not interviewing anybody' don't you understand?" I say, feeling a bit uneasy about pushing back too hard at this point given that I don't know where the hell I am.
"I knew you were hardheaded, but damn. Don't you know a hard head makes a soft behind? You done felt yo'se'f too strong,/An' you sholy got me wrong. "Now you're quoting Paul Laurence Dunbar as if those are your words?" I laugh out loud. This woman is crazy and a fake.
"I was just testing your academic credentials," she lies.
I take the pad, pencil, and recorder from her hand. "Well, can't I have a few more days just to prepare? I haven't even thought about what questions to ask," I say, recoiling and trying to stall.
I can see her patience is wearing very thin. "No, you cannot have a few more days," she snaps. "You better pull it together before I get you together."
I take a deep breath, purse my lips and say, plaintively, "Okay. Let's go."
* * *
It's odd that I can never remember the journey to our destination — only the arrival. Miss B. has changed clothes. She's wearing a bright yellow blouse, black pants, and black patent leather stilettos.
"Aren't you going to be uncomfortable in those shoes?" I ask, not really concerned about her comfort at this point.
"Aren't you going to be uncomfortable in those shoes?" she retorts without missing a beat. I look down at my feet and realize I'm barefoot. I don't have a comeback. She laughs, looks down at my feet, and suddenly I'm wearing my loafers.
"Okay. We need to get down to business. I'll start you off with one of my younger sisters. She might be young but she has had some firsthand experiences with the ashies. She even knows a big-time movie star, but I'll let her tell you all about it."
"Can you first start by telling me where we are?"
"Hold up. Let me light my cigarette." She digs inside her yellow basket. "Whew, that's much better," she says dragging on her smoke. "We are in the deepest part of the hive in a place called Jackson, MS. There's a lot of history here. The good thing, though, is that there are a lot more of us than of them — them being the ashies." Her cigarette dangling from her mouth, she balances her basket on the middle of her left arm while she burrows down inside it again with her right hand in search of something. "I know my cell phone is down in here somewhere," she says to herself, her fag dangerously on the edge of her lips. "Ah, here we are." She produces the cell phone. "I can't remember exactly where Laura lives, so I'm going to look it up on my GPS." She punches in some coordinates, studies the phone for a bit, and then begins walking. Used to being left behind, I follow her.
We walk for about ten minutes through what feels like downtown. There are small knickknack shops and lots of beauty supply places. Just about everyone speaks to us as they walk by.
"Okay, we almost there. We're meeting her at Sugar's Place. They have some of the best catfish in MS!"
"Oh! We're meeting her at a restaurant? Isn't it going to be noisy in there? It might be hard for the recorder to pick up her voice if it's really busy."
She ignores me and picks up her pace. We come to the corner of Lamar and Griffith Streets and she stops.
"The restaurant is just down there on Griffith," she says pointing. "Go on down there, she's waiting for you. She'll be wearing a black pantsuit."
"Aren't you coming with me?"
"I'll meet up with y'all in a minute. I have an errand to run."
I walk down Griffith to Sugar's Place. I glance back up the street and Miss B. is still standing in the same spot looking at her phone, puffing on her cigarette. I enter the restaurant looking for a young woman in a black pantsuit and don't immediately see anyone fitting that description. The restaurant is more of a diner than anything else. The tables are covered with red-and-white checkered plastic tablecloths and there's a long counter to place orders. The food on people's plates looks tasty. I tell the server that I'm meeting someone and she says to take any empty table. I take a seat at a table next to the window so that I can easily spot Laura when she arrives. I was hoping that it would be too noisy to do the interview and this Laura person and I could just have a nice unhealthy lunch. Much to my chagrin, it was a slow day and not very loud at all and quite conducive to doing an interview. I let out a long sigh of resignation as I slump down in the chair.
Fifteen minutes pass and Laura still has not shown up — neither has Miss B. Perhaps they ran into each other on the street and are on their way. Half an hour passes, and now I'm concerned. The waiter comes over and fills my water glass up for a third time. I can tell she's annoyed because I've been sitting for a half hour, taking up a table, and haven't ordered any food. Hungry and a bit panicked, I place an order: fried catfish, black-eyed peas, collard greens, and sweet tea, for good measure. I might as well go all in or not at all with my heart-attack-on-a-plate meal. While waiting for my food, I begin to wonder if Miss B. is some crazy person after all and I've been duped into going on some wild goose chase with her. No one would ever believe this. And after I collect these stories, what am I going to do with them? This onslaught of questions gurgling in my head makes me dizzy. It's either that or I'm just hungry. Fortunately, the food comes out quickly. I inhale it. Just as I am washing down my last bit of cornbread with sweet tea, I realize that I do not have my wallet on me. Where is Miss B.?
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Honeypot"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Duke University Press.
Excerpted by permission of Duke University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Foreword / Alexis Pauline Gumbs ix Preface. You Catch More Bees with Honey Than with Vinegar xi Acknowledgments xvii Introduction. The Adventures of Miss B. and Me 1 1. The Hive 5 2. Blessed Bee 55 3. Honeybee Blues 69 4. Honey Love 112 5. Beebop and Beeswax 132 6. All Hail the Queen (Bee) 153 Epilogue. Flight 220 Appendix. List of Honeybees 223 Notes 227 Index 229What People are Saying About This
“Like Virgil guiding Dante, cigarette-smoking Miss B., a trickster and shape-shifter, guides E. Patrick Johnson (Dr. EPJ) through the magical ‘beehive’ of ‘Hymen’ (indeed), where most of the action of this time-traveling oral epic unfolds. Miss B.—a cross between Pearl Bailey and Nipsey Russell—admonishes Dr. EPJ and the reader to ‘pull your shit tight or this is going to be a very long journey.’ There is so much telling in this book and so much pride.”
“In this critically singular work E. Patrick Johnson excavates heretofore unexplored stories of contemporary southern black women whose narratives of loving other women subvert their erasure in queer histories of LGBTQ communities. Gesturing toward black storytelling traditions within which both myth and fact shape the story, Johnson values and gives value to black women’s understandings of themselves and the transformative power of self-initiated freedoms. I’ve never read an oral history as powerful as Honeypot.”
“E. Patrick Johnson delivers again. We make a corner turn from his book of delicious tea leaves and find ourselves submerged in the long-legged pages of sweet woman truth. The stories are of southern women loving themselves and other women too. Here are memories and moments shaping a new tradition of resilience and rosewater.”