Little Black Girl Lost

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To my darling mother, Rose Marie Murray, thanks for your invaluable wisdom and for always being there for me and beating my behind regularly, which kept me out of prison.

J
ohnnie Wise was just fifteen years old when her mother sold her virginity to an unscrupulous white insurance man named Earl Shamus. Stunningly beautiful, with long, naturally wavy black hair, she possessed the voluptuous body of a thirty-year-old woman. Her skin was the color of brown sugar. Johnnie had heard about Earl Shamus and his escapades among the poor black women in New Orleans, but what she didn't know was that Shamus had quietly made several of the neighborhood girls his reluctant concubines after their youthful bodies ripened. She was next!

Shy and religiously chaste, Johnnie was a shining example of obedience, modesty, and compliance. She learned this at Mount Zion Holiness Church where she sang in the choir and played piano. People from affiliate churches came from as far away as Baton Rouge, Morgan City, Venice, and some even traveled from Shreveport just to hear her sing and play. However, a conflict raged within Johnnie. She wanted to become a traveling evangelist someday yet she wanted to sing what the church called “the Devil's music” and become rich. In her mind, there was no way she could do both and still call herself a good Christian. It must be one or the other.

Johnnie was reading in her room, which served as a secluded retreat from Marguerite, her domineering mother, whom she loved with a familial kind of love but didn't like for a number of reasons. Marguerite, equally stunning, had always been the center of attention from the time she was a child. However, as Johnnie blossomed, Marguerite became more jealous of her, insisting that Johnnie be nearly perfect at everything, which meant she had to do and say the right things to make Marguerite look like the perfect mother when nothing could be further from the truth.

Marguerite was very demanding, expecting Johnnie to do almost all of the cooking and cleaning. She often told her daughter she wanted her house cleaner than a spotless Marine Corps barracks. To make matters worse, Johnnie was the daily butt of cruel jokes because her mother was a prostitute. Kids talked about each others' parents all the time. The jokes about Marguerite wouldn't have hurt nearly as much if they weren't so penetratingly true. When Johnnie attended church, which was every Sunday, Reverend Staples delivered fiery sermons that constantly stressed the vices of Marguerite's lifestyle, but she was never there to hear them. Nevertheless, Johnnie loved her mother. She just didn't like her very much.

The weather was bitterly cold that Christmas Eve in New Orleans, which was unusual for the Crescent City. It threatened to snow on several occasions, but never did. Instead, it rained constantly. Johnnie heard someone knocking at the front door and wondered who would be out in a thunderstorm. The knocking was only a minor distraction, but the voices she heard downstairs in the living room piqued her curiosity. It was her mother and what sounded like Mr. Shamus. She stopped reading and listened closely, hoping it wasn't him.
He's a fornicator and an adulterer, bound for the hottest part of hell.

“Johnnie!” her Creole mother shouted. Marguerite, forty-three and shapely, was the offspring of a married wealthy Frenchman named Nathaniel Beauregard, and Josephine Baptiste, a black prostitute he'd fallen in love with. Marguerite's voice was silky smooth and refined. She could sound sophisticated when white folks were around, an art she learned from the women in the brothel where she was reared. The white men of New Orleans who frequented seraglios expected the women to be cultured. In the downtrodden neighborhood where she lived, the people considered her the white man's whore. “Come on downstairs, girl.”

“Okay, Mama,” Johnnie said obediently.

While humming “I Love the Lord,” her favorite spiritual, she walked down the stairs with the grace of an Egyptian queen. Courtbouillon emanated from the kitchen, reminding her she hadn't eaten. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw Mr. Shamus standing near the spectacularly decorated eight-foot Christmas tree. She stared at him and intuitively knew something was amiss. As she lowered her eyes, which was expected of Negroes when they looked at a white person, she could see his privates bulging outward and throbbing at regular intervals.

“Johnnie,” Marguerite began. “This is Mr. Shamus. He's responsible for the presents under the Christmas tree and all the food in the refrigerator.” In French, Marguerite continued, “So I want you to be very nice to him, you hear?”

Something about what she heard unnerved Johnnie. What did she mean, be very nice to him? “What do you mean, Mama?” Johnnie asked in French, unable to accept what she was thinking.

“You know what I mean, girl,” Marguerite said, frowning. “You're of age.”

Now it was clear to Johnnie what she meant. She looked at Mr. Shamus. He had a twisted grin on his face. “Mama, no. I've never known a man before. Besides, it is a sin to—”

“Are you sassin' me, girl?”

“No, Mama, but . . .”

“Ain't no buts, girl.”

A tear rolled down Johnnie's cheek. “But why, Mama? Why I gotta do this?”

“How you expect us to live if you don't? Huh? How you expect us to live?”

“The Lord will provide.” Johnnie sobbed.

“And he has. He's providin' through Mr. Shamus, girl. Don't you see that? Why, it's as plain as day.”

“But, Mama, it's wrong,” Johnnie pleaded.

“All of your other friends have done it already. You the only one left.”

Overcome by lust, Earl Shamus took Johnnie by the hand and dragged her into Marguerite's bedroom. She looked back at her mother over her slender shoulder. A waterfall of tears ran down her innocent face.

“It'll be okay,” Marguerite said. “All women go through this.”

That was the same thing Marguerite's mother told her the day she sold her virginity to a white man.