G - GULLAH
“Po lidda fella,” said the old, weathered woman with skin as dark and wrinkled as bark and arms as thin and knobby as branches on the farthest reaches of the ancient oak trees on the island.
She spoke with the flavor of her Gullah ancestors, who created a new language in the lowcountry of South Carolina from the far away coasts of West Africa.
Her ancestors did that by mixing the heart language they learned on their mothers’ knees with the English language they learned on the farms and fields of the people who had stolen them away from their own people and their own land.
She lived in a holey floored, crack walled, Duck taped shotgun style shack on John’s Island left over from the days of slavery and Jim Crow.
She fished the inlet and the shoreline each morning, trying to catch red fish, sea trout and flounder to go with the fruits and vegetables from her garden.
She wove sweet grass into baskets from late morning to early evening.
“Jus sits dere,” she continued, “Eva monin’ as de sun rises ova de ocean an sits on de wada like a ripe tomada.
Neva says a word. Jus sits dere a’watchin de wada and a’lis’nin to de waves.”
One day she walked over to him and stood beside him.
Her shadow protected him from the bright sunshine and oppressive heat of the new day.
“Wha’s yo name?” she asked kindly.
“My name’s Mattie. Would you tell me yo name?”
He turned his earthy brown eyes to her.
He didn’t say a thing.
She figured he didn’t understand her.
His mamí and abuelo were migrant workers, picking peaches and tomatoes in the lowcountry summers until moving down the coasts of Georgia and Florida with the southern winters.
“Ma’be he only speaks Spanish,” she thought, for his family came to the United States from the farms and fields of El Salvador.
Suddenly, he whistled.
She was astonished.
She almost fell over into the sand.
The sound was unlike any whistle she had ever heard in her whole life.
A usual whistle has two notes and a high pitch, but this was an unusual whistle.
It had all kinds of notes in it, and the pitch went high and low, low and high, and all kinds of places in between.
It was as if the great composers had written his whistle at the height of their compositional powers.
“Ya know, it was like he was a’tryin to say somepin to me in a be-yoo-tee-ful way,” she explained, “But I din’ hab no idée whad id was.”
He looked back over the water and at the sky again.
He was very still and very quiet.
She felt a wide compassion for him in the deepest part of her heart.
She wrapped her arm around his shoulder as the tide rolled in.
She placed her calloused hand on his head.
“I be here,” she whispered, not exactly sure why.
“I be here.”
