Margaret Sexton: A Kind of Freedom

“Oh, but, Daddy, is my makeup smeared from crying?” she asked.

“No, no, absolutely not.” He shook his head. “You look beautiful,” he repeated.

He gripped her hand as if he were the one who was nervous, and they walked on together.

She passed Mama, who dabbed at tears in her eyes with her embroidered handkerchief, and Ruby who beamed as if it were her own wedding day, but Evelyn couldn’t quite trust it. She felt it was all too good to be true, everything she’d imagined coalescing in one solid reality, and she didn’t know if she deserved it. Still, she told herself to make room for it anyway, to assume it should all be hers, to hold her hands out and embrace it.

Her father dropped her off with Renard.

“Take care of her,” he said in a soft admonition, and Renard nodded.

All of a sudden, she wanted to reach backward, cling to the man who had been her most sturdy guide, but he was already joining Mama in the hallway, and she was left afloat with her man, yes, with her unborn child too, but weren’t they all virtual strangers when she compared them to her family? What if she had mischosen? What if her father was right?

As if her daddy’s consent triggered her own mistrust, she found herself staring at the leg of Renard’s hem, which was still uneven if she looked closely, though it seemed someone had tried to mend it the night before.

And the hem began to represent the uncertainty of their new life, the question of whether Todd’s would hire him back, if there would be enough money coming in for them both to return to school, what she’d do with a baby strapped to her breast.

“Renard and Evelyn, have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage?”

Then Renard slid the ring on her finger, which was nothing like Mama’s, but his eyes were so hopeful, so impossibly hopeful, his smile wide enough to wrap them both inside it.

And so when it was her turn to speak, she said I do because, her nerves aside, standing across from Renard on this day was everything she’d ever wanted. She let herself be swept up in his arms, though as big as she had become, it was uncomfortable to be held. The pressure of the ceremony behind her, she could feel the joy surging inside her. The sun streamed in through the glass panes on her front door and slanted across Renard’s face, and she kissed the spots where the light landed as he carried her down the foyer. When he set her down, alone in her bedroom for the first time together, she squealed despite the people on the other side of the door listening because it was still so early in the morning, and their lives lay out uncharted before them, and the voice of ambivalence that had taunted her a minute before had gone.

I am eternally grateful to my parents, my first fans. You never stopped believing in me, and you never stopped convincing me to believe in myself. Daddy, you encouraged me to dream, and you made it possible for me to make my vision a reality. Mom, my creativity comes from you, and so does my courage.

Kathryn and Roy, you always made me feel like I was one of your own. Carlton and Betsy, your love and support mean the world to me.

The following books greatly influenced me and the writing of A Kind of Freedom: Black Life in Old New Orleans by Keith Weldon Medley; Creole: The History and Legacy of Louisiana's Free People of Color , edited by Sybil Kein; and Witness to Change: From Jim Crow to Political Empowerment by Sybil Haydel Morial.

To my editor, Jack Shoemaker — thank you for shepherding this book with such passion and care. I owe so much to Jane Vandenburgh who treated me like an author before I was one. To my agent, Michael Carlisle, thank you for your unwavering dedication.

To my early readers: Jennifer Levitt and Johanna Thomas, the world would be a better place if everyone had friends like you. Jessica Redditt, Megan Nicholson, Pat Connelly, Nancy Lai, Chloe Pinkerton, Cary Fortin, Iris Tate: I know it is awkward work reading an unfinished manuscript, and I appreciate you for doing it anyway. Kerry Radcliffe and Kathryn Goldberg, your feedback was indispensable. Joseph V. Blouin, Joseph M. Blouin, Zara Blouin, and Raymond Williams, thank you for spending hours with me sharing stories about the city you love. Nubia Solomon, you help me do life.

Special thanks to my village: Josie Wilkerson, Debhora Singleton, Patsy Wilkerson, Felthus Wilkerson Jr., Kevin Williams, Bruce Williams, Oran Williams, Cynthia Williams, Felicia Johnson, Buck Johnson, Roy Williams Smith III, Joseph Sexton, and Abbye Simkowitz. Florence Wilkerson, Felthus Wilkerson, and Audrey Chapital Williams — I know you are celebrating too.

Nina, Carter and Miles, you are my greatest blessings.

And my Chuckie, without you none of this would be possible. You were a tireless editor and supporter, and your faith was tireless too.

Born and raised in New Orleans, margaret wilkerson sexton studied creative writing at Dartmouth and law at UC Berkeley. A recipient of the Lombard fellowship, she spent a year in the Dominican Republic working for a civil rights organization and writing. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her stories have been published or are forthcoming in The Massachusetts Review, Grey Sparrow Journal, Limestone Journal , and Broad! Magazine . She lives in the Bay Area, California. A Kind of Freedom is her debut novel.