“Me? Me?” The trill of desperation. A last chance quavering. The most sorrow-filled interrogative in history. Whispered on the edge of death. Out of strength. Robbed of every shred of will to live or even to breathe, Sethe utters the useless pronouns of herself without even realizing she has spoken. The life-long ledger of sorrow—far too cruel a burden for one woman to bear.

Sethe saw the worst of slavery in America. She did not know her own mother until she watched her being lynched. The schoolteacher’s nephews raped her. Then they condemned hunger upon her infant daughter by stealing Sethe’s milk from her bosom. When the nephews were rebuked by the well-intentioned plantation owner, they lashed Sethe with such fervor and glee that the raised scars of her back resembled the gnarled branches of a chokecherry tree. So it went. Far too cruel a burden for one people to bear.

It was impossible to bear. So impossible that the ghost of Sethe’s daughter could not understand who or what or why she was. Her neck was scarred, she did not know how.

“My Word,” my grandma would say, so long ago when I was little. Now, in my 8th-decade treading life’s road on this planet, I have gleaned something truer in many words. Our “beloved” Toni Morrison[1] held open my eyes as I beheld her story, the most aptly titled Beloved.

"Remembering seemed unwise,” she wrote. And, “This is not a story to pass on.”

Once you read the story, it’s easy to agree with her characters’ points of view. They had suffered too greatly for too long. Let the ghosts die and may they rest in peace.

But what will your perspective be? Do you hear the author’s hopes for those of us following life’s path behind her?

My hopes are that we will end the passing on—but, not of the story—rather of the deeds behind the story. My Word. This is about inhumanity—and humans are not forced to pass on cruel behavior. It is voluntary. The word means “not humane.” So the cure is in the word itself. Just be kind. Have mercy. Share. Forsake hatred, not humanity. Not people. Take the author’s lead. Stop passing on our bad sides. Incite sisterhood instead and keep it up.

Be loved.

Images: My paperback copy of Beloved (minus a few chomps from our cat Mimi), and the author’s portrait from the cover of The Bluest Eye.[2]

[1] The great Nobel and Pulitzer Prize winner died August 5, 2019 at 88-years of age.

On that sad but glorious date, I reminded myself that I still needed to read Beloved.

The story is not long but it is immeasurably heavy—and—I was right. I needed to read it.
[2] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Toni_Morrison_(The_Bluest_Eye_author_portrait).jpg