Victor LaValle - Ecstatic

— Dis is many mo’ folks dan I eber hoped ta see, yes suh.

That made us applaud if only for the vague way he seemed to be saying something positive about us.

I’ll say it, his dialect sure stymied me. Slaves of the antebellum South would have mocked his poor English.

— Why ar we heah? he asked. Why ar we heah?! he repeated.

— For you, Uncle!

— I know that’s right!

Already I’d spotted those four guys as the worst kind of audience plant. If they were in there to get us more excited their outbursts had the opposite effect. He hadn’t actually done anything yet, so why the ecstasy?

— Awlraght, he muttered. At’s enuff a dat.

After a pause the old man began again. — Iss not fo’ me that youse heah. Iss fo yo lertle chilrens. Iss fo yo specel gurls. Yawl brung em roun our way fer de chance ta be a booty queen. Em ah raht? Well? Em ah?

Sure he was, but many of us needed time to translate his sentences. And I’m including most of the good people of Lumpkin. I don’t want to say this man had a Southern accent, this guy’s diction was warped well beyond questions of geography. Backwoods white folks used to be called hill apes by the wealthy planter class; this black man was making hill ape sound refined.

— Gurls. Wimens. Thas whut we talkin about. When ya had ’em dey was but so big, but nah dey is mow grown. An’ ya want ’em ta start laff on de good foot. Ya come ta luvlee Lumpkeen hopin dey win dat Miss Inn-oh-sins booty contess an’ take home scowlarships.

— Now folks fom Lumpkeen gon recanize me, but yawl out-tatownas will nut. Jus’ call me Uncle. Lahk we was blood.

Our Uncle raised his hands jubilantly and I wasn’t the only one to gasp.

He was a small guy, I said that already. Could have been four foot eight; maybe he even had lifts in his shoes. Neither a midget or dwarf; a little person, but not clinically. Shrunk. But when he put his arms up they were as long as ski poles; that doesn’t sound like much but remind yourself how tall he was. It had a freaky effect because when he put his arms straight up it looked as though he’d flung a pair of hands high enough to touch the ceiling, but his body remained in place.

— Now. Now. De reeson I struk up de tens an’ invited yo’ gurls an’ famlees heah is cause I don’ likes dat udda pagint. De Miss Inn-oh-sins. ’Cause ovah der dey’s plannin on tellin yo gurls whut’s wrong wit ’em. Dey gotta be dis tawl an’ dis skinny an’ if dey not, den fo-get it! Am I raht? Yes ah am.

— De peeple of Lumpkeen been seen muh contes’ go on tree yeahs tuhday. But dis yeah we gots fotunate an’ had all yawl famlees fum out-ta town comin fo’ dat otha one an’ I wanned yawl to come ta mine. I’m jus’ glad ta know de flyas was put in yo rooms an’ dat so many parens was willin’ to bring yo gurls. Or was it yo gurls dat browght alla you?

Lots of the parents laughed at that and it was probably true. Some girls go for the enjoyment; Nabisase was one of those, but most were pre-teen professionals. If their parents wouldn’t take them, I swear they’d charter planes.

— We gonna start bringin in dese gurls thas jus so lubbly, sweet an’ fine. We not gon as’ dem ta weah a church dress or bee-keenees in fronna you lahk dey wus sides hung up fah sellin. Dey gonna come up an’ tawk. Tell whey dey frum an what dey been through cause hahd work make fo’ bootiful souls.

I thought the crowd might be insulted, since he was telling them to forget the Miss Innocence format; that they’d feel he was chastising them in raising their daughters for beauty. But really he was making a deeper claim. That despite their splotchy skin or scrawny thighs this man, our Uncle, wanted to reward character.

The first few girls were Miss Innocence transplants and they did badly because they hadn’t learned how to present themselves. Pageants were acting jobs, find the script and play that role. Most of them had the same heroine: pretty, firm, optimistic. That’s what those first girls did wrong.

None were in gowns, but they wore cosmetics, hair made up all darling. Trussed up like this Uncle Arms (I heard others whisper the nickname) complimented the girls; he called them pretty, splendid, hellafine. Terms that earned tens on other judging sheets, but with Uncle Arms the wretched scored highest. The tenth girl was the first local to come along, wearing badly beaten Vans and a polyester sweatshirt.

The parents of Miss Innocence girls stifled laughs, en masse, looking at the pitiful uniform. But she received applause from half the room. Effusive praise from our Uncle when she recounted how her father had been fired from the apple orchard six months ago.

Soon as that act did well every out-of-towner changed strategies. Hair drawn into plain buns, blemishes displayed. And pitiful life stories for everyone. Those girls, the ones who’d traveled, were still in dresses (though not gowns), but they tried to compensate by slouching when they walked on stage.

— And it’s ben hard to stay in school, said the nineteenth girl, because the factry closed and won’t reopin.

— Well bless ya, said Uncle Arms to the teenage girl. Bless ya much. ’At’s whut I say.

The young girl nodded then walked off the stage, out the tent and as the flap fell back I saw her go to the end of the line forming at that third tent, last point in the relay.

Another girl, fatter but more cheerful, walked onto the stage.

— Gi’ yo’ Uncle a peck!

The old man flirted, as old men are allowed to do. She touched his dessicated cheek lightly then pulled back up to smile.

— Now tayl yo’ Uncle ’bout de misfortoon an’ miseries.

— My Daddy and I are here this weekend for the pageant, but my Momma is not.

She paused as the tiny old man touched her hip. — Wha’ couln’ yer Momma be heah on such uh impotant weeken’?

The girl let her shoulders drop lower. — Well, you know we’re just reglar folks from Tennessee.

— Go on an’ tell it gurl, we all jus’ good folks, we unnastan’.

— Well, my Momma was plannin’ to come along, but then she was forced to work on the weekend. She already put in five days, but they told huh she had no choice.

Audience women nodded, familiar with tyranny.

— An’ whut r dey makin her do? Dem people she wuk foh?

The girl dug her nails into her palm which might have been a tactic for producing tears.

— Momma had. . she had. . she had to go to Singapore to meet with the Minister of Trade and Industry.

The girl did cry at least. A third of the room felt compassion based on performance alone, but the rest of us held our applause. Even the old man looked at her crossly. He couldn’t muster up some closing homily so he just pushed her out the tent. — Let’s us git anutha gurl up heah.

You know who stepped out next, so why should I even say her name? It was going to happen, I knew this, but when my sister walked out I covered my face.

Nabisase still had Grandma on her back, but didn’t look exhausted. Grandma weighed little and my sister was probably so excited she was strong. Nabisase could have untied her grandmother before now, but my sister must have wanted to win.

Nabisase undid the sheets from around them then Grandma climbed off her grandchild gingerly. Already the gathered group was sucking the inside of their collective cheek with a curiosity that could be turned to sentimentality with a flick.

— Come ovah ta yer Uncle, said the man.

— Good afternoon everyone, Nabisase said.

Manners were smart.

— An’ who’s dis heah wif ya?

— This is my Grandma. She’s ninety-three.

— R ya heah foe da pagint?

— Yes sir.

Sir! The only sir I’d ever heard Nabisase use before was the first syllable in the word service.