An American Marriage(20)
Look, you know I have always supported you in your art. Nobody believes in you more than me, but don’t you think you crossed a line here? And to not even tell me or mention me? I hope that prize from the National Portrait Gallery means a lot to you. That’s all I’ll say.
You know, if you’re not comfortable telling people that your husband, an innocent man, is incarcerated, instead you can tell them what I do for a living. I’ve been given a promotion. I push a trash can around Mars, picking up garbage with giant tongs. It’s a sweet gig because Parson prison is also an agri-business site; before, I was picking soybeans. Now I work inside, and although I’m not wearing a white shirt and tie, I do have a white jumpsuit. Everything is relative, Celestial. You still have your upwardly mobile husband. In here, I’m white collar. No need to be ashamed.
Your husband (I think),
Roy
PS: Was Andre there? Were the two of you going around telling everybody how you have been best friends since you were two little babies taking a bath in the sink? Was everybody saying how cute that is? Celestial, I may have been born yesterday but not last night.
Dear Roy,
Your last letter upset me so much. What can I say to make you see that this isn’t about shame? Our story is too tender to explain to strangers. Don’t you see? If I say that my husband is in prison, that’s all anyone can focus on, not me or my dolls. Even when I explain that you’re innocent, all they remember is the fact that you’re incarcerated. Even when I tell the truth about you, the truth doesn’t get delivered. So what’s the point of bringing it up? This was a special occasion for me, Roy. My mentor flew in from California, and even Johnnetta B. Cole showed up. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about something this painful on the microphone during the Q&A. Maybe it was selfish, but I wanted to have my moment to be an artist, not the prisoner’s wife. Please write me back.
Yours,
Celestial
PS: As for your remarks about Andre, I will not even dignify that silliness with a response. I’m sure by now you have come to your senses and I am accepting your apology in advance.
Dear Georgia,
According to Walter, I am being a jackass for not looking at things from your side of the bed. He says it’s unreasonable for me to expect that you would constantly reiterate that your husband is incarcerated. He said, “This ain’t The Fugitive. You want her to go running after the one-legged man?” (See why we call him the Ghetto Yoda?) He says that your potential for advancement in your profession will be greatly diminished by having your brand associated with incarceration, which evokes troubling stereotypes of African American life. Except he said it like this: “She is a black woman and everybody already thinks she got fifty-eleven babies with fifty-eleven daddies; that she got welfare checks coming in fifty-eleven people’s names. She got that already to deal with, but she got the white folks to believe that she is some kind of Houdini doll maker and she even got them thinking that this is an actual job. She is working her hustle. You think she supposed to get up there talking about her man is in the hoosegow? Soon as she say that, everybody will start looking at her and thinking about the fifty-eleven everythings and she might as well go on back home and work for the phone company.” (Again, these are his exact words.)
My exact words should be I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to guilt-trip you. But it’s heavy, Georgia. You don’t know what it is like in here. And trust me, you don’t want to know.
I went to the library and pulled up the article and the photo one more time. You wore a smile on your face and my ring on your finger. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.
Love,
Roy
Dear Celestial,
Didn’t you get my letter last month? I said I was sorry. Maybe I didn’t make it plain. I’m sorry. So write back? Even email is fine.
Roy
Roy O. Hamilton Jr.
PRA 4856932
Parson Correctional Center
3751 Lauderdale Woodyard Rd.
Jemison, LA 70648
Dear Mr. D,
I don’t suppose that this is what you pictured when I came to you and asked for Celestial’s hand in marriage. There I was, all serious, trying to do things the right way, and you said, “Her hand is not mine to give.” At first I thought you were kidding, but when I determined that you were serious, I tried to backtrack, pretending it was all a joke, but inside I was mad and embarrassed. I felt like I was eating with my fingers when everyone else was using a knife and fork. Her hand wasn’t yours to give, like you said. But at the same time, I needed to approach you as a man to another man. I was asking if I could be your son-in-law.
I am very close to my own father. Maybe Celestial shared with you that technically he is my stepfather, but he is the only father I have ever known and he has been a positive male influence. I am his “junior” in every way. But he doesn’t know much about the world I was living in in Atlanta, even though his sacrifices made it achievable. Big Roy has always lived in one small southern town or another. He didn’t finish high school, yet he provided a secure home for our family. I respect my father more than anyone else in the world.
I came to you because we have a lot in common. We are both immigrants to Atlanta, if you know what I mean. You’ve been there longer, and I’m just off the boat, but our backgrounds are almost the same. You are rags to riches and I was rags on my way to riches. Or at least that’s the way it felt at the time. With my present condition, who knows what will happen to me. But when I asked for her hand, I was seeking your blessing, as her father, but also as a mentor. With Celestial, I was punching above my weight, and I guess I was hoping for a clap on the back, but I ended up feeling like a dummy.