Cover

Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo

Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo

Ntozake Shange

ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN NEW YORK

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Dedication

Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo
is dedicated to all women in struggle.

Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo

Chapter 1

Where there is a woman there is magic. If there is a moon falling from her mouth, she is a woman who knows her magic, who can share or not share her powers. A woman with a moon falling from her mouth, roses between her legs and tiaras of Spanish moss, this woman is a consort of the spirits.

Indigo seldom spoke. There was a moon in her mouth. Having a moon in her mouth kept her laughing. Whenever her mother tried to pull the moss off her head, or clip the roses round her thighs, Indigo was laughing.

“Mama, if you pull ’em off, they’ll just grow back. It’s my blood. I’ve got earth blood, filled up with the Geechees long gone, and the sea.”

Sitting among her dolls, Indigo looked quite mad. As a small child, she stuffed socks with red beans, raw rice, sawdust or palm leaves. Tied ribbons made necks, so they could have heads and torsos. Then eyes from carefully chosen buttons or threads, hair from yarns specially dyed by her sisters and her mama, dresses of the finest silk patches, linen shoes and cotton underskirts, satin mitts or gloves embroidered with the delight of a child’s hand. These creatures were still her companions, keeping pace with her changes, her moods and dreams, as no one else could. Indigo heard them talking to her in her sleep. Sometimes when someone else was talking, Indigo excused herself—her dolls were calling for her. There was so much to do. Black people needed so many things. That’s why Indigo didn’t tell her mama what all she discussed with her friends. It had nothing to do with Jesus. Nothing at all. Even her mama knew that, and she would shake her head the way folks do when they hear bad news, murmuring, “Something’s got hold to my child, I swear. She’s got too much South in her.”