Struggling to hold the hand mirror, I cut my own hair, short all over. But now my large brown eyes and long, dark, curved lashes look more feminine than ever! I’m desperate to go to America and trying to achieve a boyish look is the only way my young mind can figure out how to get there. My older sister, who has long since taken her vows, is going there to further the established Southwest mission. When I show up dressed in makeshift coveralls, just as she’s boarding ship, she admonishes me severely, even while her heart melts at the sight of me. Thinking quickly, she sends word to our family, and inquires of the ship’s registrar that my name
must be on the passenger list? He takes my predicament for high hilarity, and waves us aboard while pretending to look the other way. Once on ship, my sister does her best to even my patchy hair. The journey brings out in me a fear of the dark, of the enclosed space deep in the ship, a blackness I’ve never known. Candlelight would comfort me, but the risk of fire is too great. Once in America, I take delight in reading our shared Bible to the Native little ones, it is what I was born to do. I come to know these Americans, at first through their dance, shocking, then mesmerizing, purposefully rhythmic. They teach me their ways of food preparation and their all-ways connection to the Great Artist. After several years, it is time for us to return home, but I long to stay. My sister leaves me the Bible, and also her extra pair of shoes, for she knows I will need them. They are just slightly too big and I at once realize the symbolism. I die, still young, leaving no written record of my life . . .
I cut my own hair, short all around my face. I trust my sisters - sisters-in-bondage - to cut the back for me, evenly. We have no mirrors. I was taken from my native land, even as I created cloth, lengths and lengths of colorful cloth. I was an honored daughter there, as all women were honored. Here, I have not learned to read or write, only to speak this English tongue through the singing of spiritual hymns. A dear sister, assigned to work in the big house, has been risking her life by taking books, one at a time. Small black books, edged in gold, I sew one each into the lining of my children's coats; my children will learn to read. Now that they are nearing an age for selling, I
must attempt escape before we are separated. In secret preparation for the journey, we make extra candles, but there occurs an accident, and my arms are scalded by hot wax. The shack itself and the surrounding structures catch fire, flames dancing in the night sky, and in the resulting commotion, we make our escape earlier than planned, away from the light into the darkness. Surprisingly, we receive hurried aid from the plantation mistress. One look into her eyes, and I at once know that she has knowledge of my secret shame, for two of my children are fair. We make it across the River of Freedom, but I can go no further. At risk of capture by poachers, I stay in seclusion with a healer who will attend to my burns. What would I do without my now-free sisters, who promise to lead my children farther North? The books will illuminate their lives, and we will meet again. There is no written record of my life, save a name listed on a Bill of Sale for a Negro Slave . . .
I study the reflection of myself in the gilt-framed mirror, pleased with my short, light hair and plain, neat uniform. I believe in the doctrine I have been taught, in principle, zealously. And up until now, the villagers and I have maintained an easy trust. I have been part of their lives, keeping a steady peace, have been included in a celebratory dance or two, but a gap is widening. My superiors order a house-to-house book-hunt; an entire heritage up in flames. As the fires still smolder, I am informed of my satisfactory performance, but the destruction is to escalate. Realizing my role in this imminent desecration of life, sickness overwhelms me. I can at best give a few residents a head start while I look the other way. Oh, to obliterate all written record of my name, but my life has been well-documented since birth, in every detail. I would erase even my face, as the mirror is smashed in anguish. I grasp a sharp silvery sliver, but in the moment my courage dissolves. My lackluster leadership soon becomes obvious, and no longer having value, I am ‘lucky’ to be demoted, sent to the fighting front. An enemy soldier, a marksman, has me in his sights. In another time, another place, we might have been true brothers, but as it is we are brothers-in-bondage-of-war. He doesn’t miss and I at once bless and forgive this man as my soul is released, my near-to-starving body falling in the deep snow. Yet I still have a vow of restitution to fulfill - I
must make restitution! My heavy military-issued coat is searched, shards of broken mirror wrapped in a child’s
tallit in one pocket, a slim volume of Jewish prayers in the other . . .
Without beating this story like a dead horse, I blew out the retina in my only good eye January 11th while in Los Angeles shooting the short film, PASSER LE SEL S’IL VOUS PLAÎT, adapted from my short play, “Pass the Salt, Please.”. I had the smarts to walk into the Jules Stein Eye Institute at UCLA on the 12th and say, "I believe something's wrong", and was rushed into surgery - which, according to Doc McCannell and Doc Hu – went superbly. However, I’ve been grounded in Cali until the gas bubble in my eye dissipates. (I've been cleared to go home - I'll leave this Monday or Tuesday...by train. For the hell of it.)
