The Making Of An American President

by
Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh

August 4, 1961

“John Hardy and Travis Britt were beaten by whites when they brought blacks to a Mississippi courthouse to register to vote.”

The Kapi’olani Hospital’s black and white television continues to blare troubling news.

“Beaten just cause they want to vote,” Benford Lee III mumbles.

“Sir?” his assistant, Walter, asks.

He flashes on Car Car, her gap toothed smiling, brown face.

Caroline Johnson had several names. To her boss and other whites, she was “girl.” To others, she was Miss Sugar. To Benford, she was Car Car.

When Benford’s mother tired of his endless questions and loud presence (she wanted a cat more than a son) would lock him in the closet, it was Car Car who would let him out.

“Brought out of the dark by a darkie!” he would think with glee.

One day, he was stumbling over some homework reading at the kitchen table, and he asked Car Car to help him.

She kept doing the dishes and kept saying, “Go on with that, Bennie! Just, go on!”

His sister, Flora, kicked him under the table and whispered, “Stop being so mean, Bennie. You shamin’ her! You know Car Car doesn’t have any learning!”

He was surprised and puzzled, because Car Car taught him all about the Bible and doing the laundry and being nicer to his sister and all sorts of things. She was the smartest person he knew. How could she have no learning?

He couldn’t reconcile what he had just heard to what he knew of Car Car, but he did not ask another question about his school work, because he was horrified at the idea of shaming her any further.

“I want to start a scholarship for colored people… at my old stomping grounds… Columbia and Harvard Law school. I want–” Benford loses consciousness.

Twenty one and back home from overseas, Benford was still drunk from the previous night and early morning.

His father came to his room and looked at Benford with disgust and bemusement. He told him it was time he got up and went to the registrar to register to vote. His father was running for mayor and was telling everyone the same message. This time, however, he had the authority to enforce this suggestion. Benford’s father loved his authority.

Benford buried himself under his covers as his father closed the door.

A soft knock pierced Benford’s fuzzy headedness.

“Bennie, I think you should get up and register like your father said to,” Car Car suggested.

“Why don’t you go register if it’s so damn important?”

“Bennie, you know Negroes aren’t allowed to vote. I…never mind… you’re too young and wild.”

“Never mind what?”

“Well, the other night I had a vision… that we could vote and one day…we would have a Negro president. You don’t know what you have, Bennie. You don’t know what you have.”

“Get me the name of the first, colored baby born today at this hospital. I want it to have the first scholarships. I want to help.”

Walter finds the information and brings it to Benford.

“Ms. Durham had a baby boy just an hour ago.”

“Make up the paperwork!”

“Car Car, wait for me…”

January 20, 2009

“My fellow citizens: I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors.”

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia.  She has been in several anthologies online and in print.  Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org. 

The Blackbird Of Happiness

by

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh

“Ravens are the birds I'll miss most when I die. If only the darkness into which we must look were composed of the black light of their limber intelligence. If only we did not have to die at all. Instead, become ravens.” 

Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum

“Why should I return, Mother?”

“To be a thing of beauty, my love.”

“But they don't appreciate beauty there. They refuse to see.”

“Even more reason for you to go back.”

She is not a common raven. She is small and glossy and cunning.

She alights onto pale, parched ground feeling somewhere between goddess and raven and woman.

She releases her night feathers, the lightness of flight, the movement between airs.

And, the earth enshrouds her in opaque, rough black cloths. They flow almost weightless as she enters our ethers.

“Did ever raven sing so like a lark,
That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise?”

William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus

She tilts like spring flowers toward the rising sun soaking its heat and becomes real.

A dying man visiting North Africa sees her emergence from her swirling unkindness. His eyes at the end of a long life now see her and are almost blinded by her exquisiteness. Her unblemished, tight, white skin, her tallness, her curves, her way of staring fearlessly into his mind and heart and right through him.

She needs to feed and takes his failing heart.

He takes her photo and passes away before developing his last, departing shot.

His busy, responsible daughter no longer interested in trying to get her siblings to help organize and tired of sorting through his hoarded things takes boxes and boxes of unexamined junk to the Goodwill.

Weeks later, a couple who adores antique cameras finds a cheap, vintage Hasselblad. To their surprise, they find it still has film.

They discover a photo of black birds circling an empty desert.

The wife finds it eery and depressing. One of her early childhood memories was watching a crow eat road kill at the side of long, dirt road. Her brother had told her lies about death and black birds and bad luck. She remembered knowing she would get out of that town and away from death if she just ran away along that road kicking up dust and never looking back.

The husband thinks he sees long black tresses that remind him of Jessica with whom he has been having an affair. For a moment, he thinks of telling her everything. Instead, he gathers his keys and wallet and mutters something about getting a beer.

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia.  She has been in several anthologies online and in print.  Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org. 

Common Face

by

Kelli J Gavin

I have often said that I have what is called a common face. But, as I grow older, this "common face"
thing has grown into something more, something different. People think that I am familiar to them,
they know me, yet can not place me. This happens often, turns into interesting or uncomfortable
situations, and people often disclose memories of days gone by, hurts that have never healed
and joys that they wish to pass on. I have been able to turn many of these awkward conversations
around into something utterly fantastic.

If I feel comfortable enough, I will now ask if there is something they would like to share with me.
Whether it is the woman in the checkout lane at Target who swears I am young version of her
mother whom she so deeply misses, or the man at the hardware store who admits it was a little
weird that he was staring so long, but he just couldn't place me. I have heard stories of lost
loves, auto accidents, vacations ingrained forever on the hearts and mind of the memory
keeper, lost yet found objects, and lonely souls who just wish to connect with someone,
anyone. I am often questioned about my faith, and where my smile, joy, and hope come from.

Once, a woman in her older 60s or early 70s stated the most profound thing to me when I asked
if there was something she would like to share. "It is hard for me to sell all of my grandchildren's
things. Their clothes and shoes, their toys and books, and their baby things. They aren't young
anymore. They don't need me anymore. They don't appreciate our time together reading or in
the kitchen. They don't like spending time with me like they once did. I guess it hurts. I have
been sitting here all day fighting off tears. Wallowing in this. Thank you for letting me share.
And not being scared off by my tears."

Sometimes, like that day, I just let people talk. I let people cry and hug them and thank them.
I didn't offer any words of wisdom (I don't have any in a case like this) and I only offered a hug,
my first name and statement of faith and comfort during this time that she is actually
experiencing a loss. She then said, "I am glad you came along. And look, you aren't buying
anything. Thank you. I just want to thank you."

If only she knew that I benefited more from our conversation more than she did.

Kelli J Gavin lives in Carver, Minnesota with Josh, her husband of 22 years and two crazy kids. She is a Writer, a Professional Organizer and owns two companies. She enjoys writing, reading, swimming, and spending time with family and friends. She abhors walks on the beach (sand in places no one wishes sand to be), candle lit dinners, (can’t see) and the idea of cooking two nights in a row (no thank you).Check out Kelli J Gavin on Facebook and on Twitter and Instagram: @KelliJGavin and her blog: http://kellijgavin.blogspot.com/

Judith's Last Song

by

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh

“My Ma’s dead.”

He waits to hear more.

“She’s a vet. And, they gave me her–”
And, all of a sudden I am there. I am sitting in the folding chair borrowed from the V.A. in my borrowed, ill-fitting suit smelling of trash bags. Every time someone squeezed me in a hug a waft of Hefty would make me want to itch and throw up.

The chaplain kneels, tells me the flag is on behalf of a grateful nation, and holds up the red and white triangle for me to take.

I just want to punch the flag out of his hand and run away.

Just run till I get to a place where my Ma is alive frying Spam and eggs with too much soy sauce.

Just run till the pain moves from my heart to my lungs.

Instead, I just sit there, and he places her on my lap.

First Featured at http://blognostics.net/blognostics-an-innovative-experience-in-literature-poetry-and-art/2014/05/24/judiths-last-song-by-veronica-haunani-fitzhugh/

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia.  She has been in several anthologies online and in print.  Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org.

"Auntie ______"

by

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh

“Where is your father?”

Out with his other woman.

I wait for the commercial break to answer hoping she would distracted forget her question. I turn to her when the ad for our local exterminater flashes across the screen. The bugs make me more uncomfortable than meeting her demanding stare.

“I don’t know…”

My father's other woman makes me call her Auntie ______ when he takes me to visit her pink duplex on that half street no good girls know about. I know about it. I no longer am good. I fear ending up on a half street like Auntie ____.

She buys me a navy blue satin dress with a baby pink bow for my silence and buys my father a suitcase for what I can only guess and fear.

I think I am too old for such a dress, and my father does not move except to work, to her, and then home.

I go through my father's things when he is not home. I smell his slightly starched shirts. I count his socks, all white, in perfect rows in the top drawer that if I am careless will go off its tracks and become stuck. I find the suitcase underneath the bed. Each time, I take it out I find it locked and heavier.

I think my mother knows about Auntie _______ and the suitcase. I am afraid to ask her.

Auntie ____ talks to me about things I don’t understand, but I pretend I do.

Auntie _____ lets me put powder on my freckles and toilet water behind my ears.

My mother does not let me wear make up.

My mother does not let my father do what he wants either.

One day he leaves with Auntie _____ and the suitcase.

I rip all the dress' stitches with the box cutter my father left behind.

My mother takes away the box cutter.

She tries to hold me.

I turn away.

She leaves.

I hold the dark silkiness to my face staining it with missing my father.

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia.  She has been in several anthologies online and in print.  Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org.