Gone Crazy in Alabama by Rita Williams-Garcia Page A

are.”
    â€œColored,” Fern said, because Big Ma preferred to be called “colored.”
    â€œWe come from the Johnson side from Cecile and we’re what they are.”
    Fern said, “Far, far away.”
    â€œStack up all the black parts, next to the Indian part—”
    Fern said, “And you got a whole pie.”
    â€œI don’t care what you say,” Vonetta said. “I’m still part Indian.”

How I Met My Sister
    Vonetta did what Miss Trotter wanted. She repaid Ma Charles in full. Instead of talking about helping with the cows or having apple pie, Vonetta recited a small bit of our newly learned family history. She made sure she began her recitation with that mean thing Miss Trotter coached her to say: “Great-granny, today we learned our family history from one who knows it.” Once Vonetta began performing the history, not even the threat of a whipping from Big Ma could stop her, especially with Ma Charles egging her on.
    â€œIs that what that Negro Injun told you?” Ma Charles said. Her twinkling eyes told on her. Ma Charles was more entertained than she was indignant.
    â€œWhy do you call her that?” I asked. “She’s your sister.”
    â€œThat’s none of your business,” Big Ma said.
    â€œSister,” Ma Charles said, and now she was indignant. “I didn’t know I had one until the first day of school. I went to Miss Rice’s classroom because that’s where all the coloreds went to learn how to read, write, and not be cheated at the store in town. Picture all of us in one classroom. A handful of kids. Big, small. Dark. Brown. Yellow. Ages five to fifteen. First day of school Miss Rice said to me, ‘Go on, take the seat next to your sister.’ I said as nice as I could, ‘I have no sister, Miss Rice.’ Then she said, ‘Child, go sit down next to Ruthie Trotter, the girl with your face and name. Go on.’”
    â€œThat’s how you met your own sister?” Fern asked.
    â€œAll the colored folk on both sides of the creek knew. No one bothered to tell me.”
    â€œShe’s still your sister,” I said. “Aren’t you whatever she is?”
    Big Ma planted her hand on the table and searched upward. “A mercy, Lord. A mercy at the dinner table.”
    â€œAnd that makes us Indians too, right?” Vonetta hoped more than asked.
    â€œWhen the census came around, my mama told them to put ‘colored’ for our household. She was so dark they put ‘Negro,’ because black was the only color they saw in her. Even though Miss Ella Pearl, Miss Trotter’s mother, was as colored as my mother, she told the census taker towrite ‘Indian.’” Ma Charles laughed a heh-heh-heh . “Next time you go to see the old cows, ask Miss Trotter which fountain she drinks out of when she goes to town.”
    â€œNow, now, Ma. They took those signs down years ago.”
    Ma Charles ignored her. “This is better than the Lone Ranger and Tonto. Go ahead, young’n. Say it again. Leave nothing out.”
    Talk about spinning straw. Suddenly, the little bit of family history Vonetta had first recited spun itself into a long, winding yarn. Vonetta was only too happy to transform her face and her voice into Miss Trotter’s to retell the story of our oldest known ancestor, Augustus the runaway. She found Miss Trotter’s storytelling rhythm, turned her fingers into stars, and thrust her spear into the water. She didn’t spare a single detail as she told how his hands bled and he looked up to those stars and ran away until he got hungry and the water laughed and splashed his face, and when he reached to get the fish he felt two eyes on him. And that was how he found the Indian girl who brought him to her people and they became one rich, happy family and moved west together.
    Ma Charles asked for her tambourine.
    Fern applauded.
    Big Ma was