aaduna in exile - Winter 2021-2022 Issue - Se'lika Maria Sweet
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| Se'lika Maria Sweet, M.D. FAAFP |
GUARD MAN
I
started at Dillard University the summer prior to the fall school
year. I knew no one at the historically black university. I was just seventeen
years old and starting college early by attending the June session. The dialect
was different from my Jackson, Mississippi home, which is three hours away. It
seemed to me that people were speaking French and English at the same time.
They often answered themselves when talking to you. I missed cornbread which
was not on the menu of the cafeteria cooks. The pecan candy sold by elderly
black ladies on corners throughout the Crescent City is distinctive to the
area.
The bus was my transportation
through the Seventh Ward. It raveled down Broad, Canal and circled back through
Vieux Carre, the central square of the city. It was 1718 when Frenchman Jean-Baptiste
Le Moyne de Bienville found New Orleans, with its center being the French
Quarters. The Ursuline Convent, white stucco buildings, remains from the days
when the French governed the city prior to the Spanish takeover. It lies around
the corner from the St. Louis Cathedral, the oldest cathedral that seats a
bishop that is open presently for mass in the United States with architecture
resembling the home of its sister facility in France dedicated the edifice to
their King Louis IX of France. You can often hear jazz bands playing Joe
Avery’s Tune Second Lines while tourists pass. There is the aroma of the white
powdered donuts, beignets, from Café du Monde.
My new home had huge white buildings
surrounded by oak trees and one of the prettiest college campuses in the world
on Gentilly Boulevard.
Veterans Day November 11 brings me
memories of the Guard Man who worked at the front of the campus by the black
iron gate. His job was to allow entrance to the school by bike, foot or motor
vehicle.
I had been in New Orleans two days
and already was hanging out in the historic place on the Mississippi River in
southern Louisiana. The weather was hot and humid. I wore shorts, tube tops,
flip flops and half-dressed like most people in the Crescent City. I got off
the bus, which stopped in front of the campus, that June evening after touring
the French Quarters with my roommate. I walked onto the campus, and it started.
"In
here quick," the Guard Man said as he popped up looking out
the window. “It’s going to be all right.”
We ran into the white guardhouse,
thinking we were in danger. After we entered, he nervously locked the door. It
seemed he was hiding us. He was an average-looking light brown-skinned man, 6'
and mid afro that looked like he had not seen a barber in years. His eyes were
big, wide and he seldom blinked.
"Get and stay low!" he
said to the two of us as he brushed about one hundred cigarette butts to the
side with his foot. The concrete looked like it had layers. He started his
lecture.
"We don't know which ones are the enemy
no. They dig tunnels and they will come right up through this floor. Baby, they
have these machine guns that will get all of us in a second yeah. I fixed it so
they can’t come through,” he said as he pointed at the floor. “We’ll be all
right.”
He would run out of the guard house
always unlocking and locking the door with about fifty keys on a ring that you
could hear dangling from his shaking. After opening the gate, he darted back to
us quickly.
"These Viet Cong they’ll steal
from us yeah. They get on our boat and take everything even the toilet. We were
on their side, and it didn’t matter, no. I didn’t know who the enemy was,"
he said as he smoked a Newport cigarette with his right-hand trembling. “I’d
never been away from here, and they sent me over there,” he said while
constantly surveying the surroundings. “You have to watch those trees and
bushes. They can hide behind them.”
He would change from present to past
tense thinking at times we were in the jungle clear across the world.
Direct United States involvement in
Vietnam ended in 1973, and it had been at least six years since he had returned
from across the ocean. He still had vivid memories of the conflict between the
North and South country in Southeast Asia.
After supper, it became a habit that
I walked from the back of the campus at the dining hall through the Avenue of
the Oaks and spent the evenings in the guard house listening to a traumatized
Vietnam veteran. He was always appropriate with me. I would camp out, often
falling asleep on the hard gray concrete floor listening until the early
morning hours to details of his tour in combat in the country that shared
borders with Cambodia, China and Laos.
I
took the Trailways bus home after summer session and got a taxi
from the station. I arrived at an empty house. My parents stayed true to their
promise to each other that their relationship was over when the youngest child
which was me graduated the senior year. They were living their best lives with
newfound significant others. My siblings are eight and nine years older and
were married and had their spouses and children. The family dog, my beloved
cocker spaniel, Apollo, was not there to greet me and the nosey neighbor who
was watching me as I looked outside in the front and backyard came to the fence
and told me he had died. I was anxious to return to the Crescent City, my new
friends and the Guard Man. I stayed home three weeks and decided to return to
school early due to the emptiness and loneliness from an empty house. I was
ready for the fall session. I took a train to New Orleans and a city bus to
school. I got off at the gate and smiled with my luggage as I looked at the
guardhouse, the white building about one hundred square feet and ten feet tall.
I excitedly ran the fifty feet from the bus to my old hangout from summer and
there stood a new Guard Man, and he said before a word could come out my mouth:
"He's not here anymore. That's
all I can say.” He had that look for me
to get lost.
I
wondered if someone reported college girls spending time with him in the guard
house or his paranoid delusional behavior. I figured he must have been in a
psych ward or the unimaginable. My friend, a Vietnam veteran had a tough time
adjusting after the war; however, he made it easy for me to adapt to a new
city, school, and environment. He gave me a sense of belonging, love and
safety.
Tears came to my deep-set brown eyes
when I realized I would never see him again. I looked at the beautiful school
ahead of me with the white buildings and oak trees on Gentilly Boulevard and
hurried to find my roommate, friends and unpack so we could get the bus and
head to the French Quarter to get beignets and sit and look at the mighty
Mississippi River. The Guard Man had done his job. He gave me the tools to
adapt, adjust and thrive in an unfamiliar environment. Despite it all,
everything was going to be all right.
I never knew his name. I just called
him Guard Man.
<><><><><>
RUN
WHITE GIRL RUN
I
took a night business entrepreneurship class at one of the
community colleges that is known as the Harvard of The South. I bought 1.09
acres of land in downtown Jackson, Mississippi at the tallest point in the
city. My plans are to open an event center, Tiger Hill, in honor of the
Historically Black College and University (HBCU) Jackson State University
Tigers.
There were five of us in the class.
I was the only African American. The instructor, a classic southern good ole
boy, prided himself on being a conservative Republican. He told us about all
his business investments and profits. He bragged on being a consultant to up
and coming business owners. We pitched our business project to him, and he gave
us feedback.
My goal is to open a banquet hall
for retirements, weddings, reunions. Part of the Civil War, The Siege of
Jackson in the summer of 1863, took place on this historic land. It lies
between Jackson State University and downtown Jackson.
"Selika, you know I want to
tell you some things and don't know quite how without coming off as...",
he said.
"Look let's get something
straight. You can say whatever you want, and however. I will not hold you or
the school responsible, you have my word. It's okay," I told him.
"Well
alright. Look there is a saying in the business community that you don't buy
property anywhere unless there is a white girl running. The property value goes
up tremendously when you see her.
Investors will not invest unless--"
"I get it. I thought it was a
white girl walking a dog," I said with a laugh.
"A white girl running with a
dog is a bonus. It really increases then," he says." The five of us
giggle.
“The place you bought the land is in
the middle of a homeless community. They sleep under the train track. It used
to be a nice industrial area but now, you couldn’t pay me all the tea in China
to go there. It’s like being in an armpit.”
“Well, I go down there all the time.
I like it,” .
“You would.” he says and then we all
get quiet, “I mean I’m only trying to help. We just don’t go down there. You
asked. I don’t think it’s a good investment now there it is.”
It is a year later,
and I think of him as I often drive around town; talk to people, and then I
cruise down Gallatin street which is lined up with abandoned business,
overgrown grass and the windows are lined with bars. There are homeless
shelters lining the streets and on the corner is the parole office. The police
station and jail are one mile away. I circle up around Pascagoula. I cannot
believe my eyes.
I see a figure with blond hair and
shorts running up and down the inner-city street and she circled the hill
around the closed hotel which borders my land. I hurried to get a closer look
and there was a white girl jogging with her a Blue Tick Beagle. I decided to
check my phone messages as I took a break and stared at her with disbelief.
"Dr. Sweet, we are interested
in buying your property on Pascagoula and Clifton Street."
I returned the phone call and left a
message, "Thank you for the offer. I am not interested in selling."
I looked at the blond figure and
thought, “Keep running white girl. Keep running.”
<><><>
OUTBACK
RANKIN COUNTY
Dr.
Gracie Lou was working in Pelahatchie, Mississippi in Rankin
County which traditionally has been known as Good Ole Boy Country. The county
was 85% Caucasian, 15% African American and 5% Other. You crossed the Pearl
River Bridge to Hinds County; and it was 85% African American, 15% Caucasian
and 5% Other. The races were polarized. The most segregated day of the week was
Sunday. Gracie Lou chose to live and work in Rankin County because of the
weather and location. She had access for travel on I-20 to Atlanta and Dallas;
I-55 to New Orleans and Memphis and Highway-49 to the Mississippi Gulf Coast, the
land of casinos, deep sea fishing, sunshine and north of Highway 49 to the
Mississippi Delta’s cotton country, catfish and the Blues.
She entered the room, and
immediately saw the next patients were different. They made the Beverly
Hillbillies look sophisticated.
"I want you to be all of my
family's doctor,” the elderly white man said. "I ain't never had too much
to do with colored folks. It’s just us outback in those woods. Most of us
kinfolk anyway. Thought I’d take my chances with you. You know we done had a
colored president and all; I thought I'd give you a try."
His wife quickly interrupted.
"They now call themselves Negroes. Doc, Daddy meant no harm. We just plain
country folks," she explained.
"No harm done," she said
smiling.
“I’m offended by being called girl
unless it's someone your age.” She had connected.
They looked at her with a twinkle in
their crystal blue eyes. He was tall, slender with big ears that protruding
from under the hat which stated on the front, ‘Make America Great Again’. She
was three times his size with a tent dress. The butterfly blue glasses
surrounded her round face.
She couldn’t help but notice the
stasis ulcers on both legs. She wanted to know more about them and after the
initial medical visit on both of them, she walked them to the front doors of
the clinic and looked out as they loaded in the pickup truck with the
Confederate Flag that completely covered the back window. She became their
family doctor.
When they could not make it to the
clinic, she drove deep in the woods in what was called Out Back Rankin County
to make house calls. They grew to refer her as their daughter. She diagnosed
the heart attack; called in the cold medicine, and made sure they all had their
immunizations. On one of the house calls that turned out to be an all-night
Vigil for Mrs. Barcan’s mother who died from pancreatic cancer, she noticed the
Confederate Flag on the back of the truck was gone.
One
day, their oldest child of the twelve, Barbie Barchan known as
B.B. came to the clinic to see her. Gracie Lou couldn’t help but notice the
crystal blue eyes like her mother and the wavy dark brown hair. She asked to
talk to her.
"Doctor Gracie Lou, there is
something you need to know bout my father. We’d have told you sooner, but we
thought you’d been run off by now," she said with a giggle.
"Yes?"
“The reason Dad came to see you was
that he was put out of the white doctor’s offices, and well—uh—um-you were the
only one left. My parents aren’t educated and never left the county. Dad don't
even drive. Mom does all the driving and she's half blind. That’s the real
reason they come. I want to thank you; the whole office is so nice. If you ever
left, he'd have nowhere to go for his sicknesses but to the ER."
"I’m pleased. I enjoy them,”
she told her.
"Well Doc, you need to know why
he was put out the white doctor’s clinic."
"Yes."
"My dad, he'll kill your dog if
you make him mad. Well, no one has ever proved he kills the dog, but the dog
either comes up missing or dead. He swears he ain’t got nothing to do with it.”
"What?”
"Yeah, he and Dr. John Smith
had an argument, and the next morning, Doc went outside to feed his dog Beauregard,
and he was dead as a doorknob. He still ain’t got over it. That dog wasn’t just
any dog. It was a registered German Shephard, beautiful. His mother raised them
and it was his last earthly tie to his momma. Dad swore the dog just died. They
charged him with trespassing. It even went to the courthouse. The law had no
proof. When they called Momma up on the stand, she had a seizure flat out in
the floor and when she stopped shaking she was spread eagle in front of the
judge’s bench, all 300 pounds of her.”
“You can’t be serious,” Gracie Lou
said.
“Yeah. He just dismissed the case.
Nary a doc will see him, and their friends told them about you. The word in the
area is he even killed the preacher’s dogs. I like to think my dad ain’t that
bad. Mom said Dad kidnapped them dogs and they in the woods running wild. They
got an electric fence out there so they can’t come out. It’s down by the creek.
No one really knows but them what’s up and they don’t discuss it with no one
else, not even their youngins, great youngins or great great youngins.”
“You can’t be serious,” Gracie Lou
said.
“Doc, my dad got a mean streak. Just
don’t cross him. Dad can be like what they called that domestic violence. They
said on TV the most time at risk of a partner is when she leaves. They really
can’t go back to the white doctors. Dad said he’d show them."
Gracie Lou thought of her two blue
tick beagles given to her by one of her patients who raised them. They even
gave her the registered papers showing they were pure-bred dogs. She smiled as
she thought how she could hear the bark a mile away if anyone came near the
house or her. They were literally her best friends. She had no family. She felt
fortunate to have the Barcans as her patients whom she considered her friends.
She felt she and her dogs were safe.
The
next morning, the Barcans came for a clinic visit.
"Doctor Gracie Lou, I just want
you to know we love you like a daughter, and well, you can be buried with my
wife and me. I got connections. I told my the preacher at church, you'll be the
first colored buried in our cemetery."
“I appreciate your gesture but I
don't plan on leaving here for a long time. The practice is going well thanks
to you. I even got a bonus for productivity.”
"Doc, you know I ain’t got no
education but look at yourself. You got those dark marks around your neck and
those skin tags hanging, you know like when you get sugar. How much insulin you
take?"
"I don't take any
insulin."
"Well, you need to," he
said with a chuckle. “I ain't got no medical degree. Shit, I didn’t finish
third grade, and I can look at you and tell you need at least one shot a day
and look at all that weight on those hips and butt, when you get to the change,
the fat's going up to your heart. You'll be dead in ten years. Look at this
place. They’re no windows. This used to be a bowling alley before they redid it
and made a doctoring place. A plant needs sun and water to live. I ain't seen
you drink water, and you don't get no sunlight. We pass by here, and it's
nighttime, and your car is still parked."
His wife interrupted, "Dr.
Gracie Lou, daddy don't mean no harm. We just want you buried with us. We know
you don't have a husband and you like kin. All you got are them dogs. You drink
sodas. We saw all that chocolate candy in your drawer when you got your
prescription pad last visit. The word is all the docs sit and eat that buffet
at the hospital. The cook even brings food here, and it's grease, and with the
death of Dr. Gernigan, we just thought you'd be next.” Then she bear hugged
her.
“I can’t ever lose you,” she
exclaimed. That night, after she showered and brushed her teeth as she prepared
for bed, she looked in the mirror and saw the Acanthosis Nigracans which the
Barcans referred to as the dark neck and hanging skin tags. She thought of the
recent waking up to urinate at night, the increased thirst, and the skin
rashes. The next day, she handed in her two week notice for resignation due to a concern
for diabetes mellitus. She took a job on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and made a
contract with herself she would walk the 3.8 mile loop Bay Saint Louis-Pass
Christian bridge every day.
"We'll pay you more
money," the CEO said at the bowling alley clinic.
"No, it's like live or die. With
all respect, you don't have any windows in the clinic. I'm just not healthy,”
Gracie Lou said as she packed her belongings.
She looked at her puzzled and said,
"No windows?”
"Yeah, no windows. You know a
plant needs sunlight-Vitamin D, exercise, water. I get here at 6:00 a.m. and
leave at 10:00 p.m. There's a universal God and it's not work."
The staff had a party for her. She
said her goodbyes. She went outside, and patients had circled the clinic. They
had lots of gifts. Her favorite was a caricature of her smiling face. She
hugged and kissed all the patients.. The Barcans were not there, and she
thought that was strange. She went home and finished packing the U-Haul as she
thought about runs on the beach, sunlight and fishing. She called for the
beagles. They didn’t come. She searched the neighborhood and house for hours
and realized her dogs were gone.
<><><>
About the Author
Se’lika Maria Sweet, M.D. FAAFP is a family physician and writer. Her work has been published by The Bitter Southerner, Kings River Life, TimBookTu, Clarion Ledger, Jackson Advocate and Jackson Free Press. Dr. Sweet is an eighth generation Mississippian. She enjoys writing about the history of her native land and is presently writing a book on Flint Goodridge Hospital. This hospital for many years was located in uptown New Orleans and from 1896-1983 served predominately African-American patients. Dr. Sweet’s interest in Flint Goodridge derives from the fact that her alma mater, Dillard University, a historically Black university also located in New Orleans, Louisiana, owned and operated the facility.
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