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Sandra Jackson-Opoku is an award-winning writer who has
published numerous articles, works of fiction and books on
Africana literature, travel writing, and African American
studies. She has taught Literature and Creative Writing at
Chicago State University and the Fiction department of Columbia
College.
 The River
Where Blood Is Born
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Amazon
Paperback: 432 pages
Publisher: One World/Ballantine (August 18, 1998)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 034542476X
ISBN-13: 978-0345424761
This astonishing novel takes us on a journey along the river
of one family's history, carving a course across two centuries
and three continents, from ancient Africa into today's America.
Here, through the lives of Mother Africa's many daughters, we
come to understand the real meaning of roots: the captive Proud
Mary, who has been savagely punished for refusing to relinquish
her child to slavery; Earlene, who witnesses her father's murder
at the hands of the Ku Klux Klan; Big Momma, a modern-day
matriarch who can make a woman of a girl; proud and sassy
Cinnamon Brown, whose wild abandon hides a bitter loss; and
smart, ambitious Alma, who is torn between the love of a man and
the song of her soul.
In The River Where Blood Is Born, the seen and unseen worlds are
seamlessly joined--the spirit realms where the great river
goddess and ancestor mothers watch over the lives of their
descendants, both the living and those not yet born. Stringing
beads of destiny, they work to lead one daughter back to her
source. But what must Alma sacrifice to honor the River Mother's
call?
 Hot Johnny
(and the Women Who Loved Him)
Click to order via
Amazon
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: One World/Ballantine (January 2, 2002)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0345435087
ISBN-13: 978-0345435088
Product Dimensions: 8.2 x 5.6 x 0.8 inches
Read an AALBC.com Book Review
Like a ray of sun that can warm your skin for a moment but
can’t be captured, John the Baptist Wright has touched the lives
of many women–heart, body, and soul. Now, in this enthralling
new novel by award-winning author Sandra Jackson-Opoku, we hear
from the women who gave Hot Johnny his heat.
Each woman has a distinct voice and her own point of view. Among
them is Destiny, the damaged young woman he married, but cannot
save; Lola Belle, the white lesbian with something to prove and
nothing to lose; Tree, the college soulmate, whose first taste
of tenderness came from Hot Johnny’s touch; Peaches, the
prostitute who gave the boy his name and sealed his reputation;
and Gracita Reina “Queen of Grace,” his great-grandmother, who
holds the key to Johnny’s salvation. Each woman provides a piece
of the puzzle that is Hot Johnny–the result is a captivating
portrait of a complex man who is both saint and sinner, hero and
villain, and all the shadings in between.
A deeply felt and emotionally involving tale, Sandra Jackson-Opoku
has done nothing less than illuminate the secret places of a
man’s soul–and created a powerful novel of destiny and
redemption...
Excerpt, From the Hardcover edition of Hot
Johnny (and the Women Who Loved Him). © Reprinted by
permission. All rights reserved.
Stone Soup
He knew just how to feed them
You see all our hungry faces in the photo album of his life.
And you wonder. Who is he and what is he to you? You would
never understand unless you know our story. So I'm going to
tell you a fairy tale. Maybe you haven't heard this version.
Once upon hard times Little Grandma Gracita planned a
potluck picnic. We reached into cupboards and took out what
we had. Every woman thought the other might bring something
better to the table. Oh, it was sad. No fried chicken, no
potato salad, no watermelon. Nothing but scrap bones, carrot
tops; a pitiful spread. The mushy potatoes could hardly
believe their eyes. I was the last to arrive, the one who
brought pearl onions.
Into this all steps a man named John, too good-looking to be
good. Or so they say. If you didn't know different, you
would cast him as the snake. Don Juan, con man, rogue. He
said he knew just how to feed them.
He brought out a pot and made a big fire. Into it went all
their offerings, along with something special: a stone from
his pocket, glowing with his own warmth. Bubbling in the
broth of magic, stone soup was made. It was a miracle, and
it was good! Each one ate until she was full. And they all
lived happily ever after?
Hardly. Real stories never end like the fairy tales do. Hot
Johnny would stay so long as the soup simmered, dishing
miracles into everyone's bowl. When the pot boiled over or
turned cold, he would leave with his soup stone. Have you
ever wondered where he went? He with all his hidden fires.
We with all our hungers.
Yes, we have our hungers. Don't be tempted to cast us as the
victims. We take him in, hoping to touch his magic, and we
ourselves are remade.
I remember Hot Johnny like a ray of sun that touches your
skin. It warms you for a moment, but you can't keep it with
you. I remember him in tomorrow's dream, the bright one that
dashes across your eyes right before you awaken. I remember
him like John the Baptist. A chanted blessing and a splash
of water, and those he touches are forever changed.
But God's gift to women is not easy to be. He has never been
sure of his power, you see. He doubts our intentions,
questions our devotion. Those closest to him have even seen
his scars.
Cooks don't always get to enjoy what they create. What's the
use of having cake unless you eat it, too? What's the sense
in making stone soup unless you have a taste? Dishing up
miracles for everyone else, what happens to Hot Johnny's own
hungers?
The beginning of the story starts at the end.
Destiny
I could almost be what he saw in me
I didn't inherit much from my natural mother. Not a memory,
not a snapshot; not even a surname. Just a sickle-cell blood
trait that would blow up like a bomb one day. Just a lacy,
tattered pillow with Who art thou, my daughter? Ruth 3:16
stitched in faded thread. A question on a pillow is all she
left me. That and a prediction: Destiny. My mother knew I
was an accident waiting to happen, destined to wind up with
a broken heart.
Mrs. Malveaux was a little coupon-clipping white lady, the
last foster mother in a succession of six. What little I
learned about men in my life, she's the one who taught me.
When she found out I had a crush on the cutest boy at
school, Mrs. Malveaux told me to lower my expectations.
"If you're going to love a man that other women want," she
warned, "get ready for a broken heart. Better a butt-ugly
man who is faithful than a handsome heart-stopper sharing
his loving all over town."
Maybe she thought marrying that hairy gorilla of hers would
guarantee her a lifetime of fidelity. But it didn't go down
like that. I know for a fact that butt-ugly Franklin was not
faithful to Vivian Malveaux. A fine man cheated because he
could, an ugly one because he had something to prove. What
possible hope did that hold out?
I knew I was doomed the moment I laid eyes on him. No, I'm
lying. I couldn't have known that, because I never thought a
man like Johnny Wright would give me the time of day. Maybe
I'm lucky winding up like Mrs. Malveaux predicted—my big
nose wide open, my stupid heart broken. At least it was
Johnny who broke my heart, which is more than dozens of more
attractive women can say.
Any girl on Pope Air Force Base would have given her last
dime to get with Hot Johnny. I'm the one he chose over any
number with longer hair, lighter skin, slimmer hips. I may
be nursing a broken heart now, but at least I had his love
to myself for four whole years. At least I'm the one who got
to have his baby.
I remember the first time he spoke to me. I was on KP,
slinging hash in the NCO mess hall. I would chat with airmen
on the chow line: the older white enlisted officers, the
women, one or two of the brothers who seemed safe for
conversation. But Johnny Wright was one I refused to
recognize. I was frightened of him, plain and simple. Afraid
he might see the panic in my eyes.
It was hard for me to look a handsome man full in the face.
It would be like trying to stare at the sun. The glare of
his beauty would almost blind me. My eyes would smart with
tears and I'd have to turn away. So I focused on the hands
pushing along a military-issue green plastic tray. Knuckles
with sparse strands of sandy hair; long fingers with bitten
nails. Those chewed-off nails were much easier to look at
than the golden perfection of his flawless face.
I would thrust Johnny's plate toward him without looking up
at him. If he tried to make small talk, I would mumble a
response and turn to the next in line. One day he didn't
take the plate from me so quickly. I held it out to the
empty air, my face shiny with sweat and shame.
"You got a kind word for everybody but me, airman. How come?
Is it because I'm black?"
I didn't answer.
"I'm going to make you look at me tonight, you luscious
little chocolate drop." I couldn't see his face because I
was looking down. But I could hear the chuckle in his voice.
It had to be his idea of a joke, calling attention to my
color. Pretending to like my looks, when everyone within
earshot could see just how plain I was.
"Look me in the eye when I address you, airman. And that's
an order."
"Yes, sir," I muttered, staring down at the steaming pan of
hash. I tried to hand him his plate of food once again. "No
excuse for my behavior, sir."
"I'm not going to take that slop until you look at me."
"Look at the fool, for Christ's sake," someone down the line
muttered. "We're getting hungry down here."
I was so humiliated. He was holding up the chow line and the
others were enjoying a joke at my expense. I stole a glance
at him, catching gold sparks glinting in olive green eyes.
"Take your food, Sergeant Wright," I whispered. "Please,
sir."
He noticed the tears I was blinking back and grabbed the
plate, brushing my hand as he did.
"Aw, baby girl." He leaned forward, murmuring in a voice
meant for my ears only. "I didn't mean to make you cry."
I was nobody's baby girl, had never really been. It just
made me want to cry all the more. I held it in until my duty
ended, the steam table cleared and the chow pans scrubbed. I
went out behind the mess hall, sat on the steps, and bawled
into my hands.
I was like a hot-water bag somebody filled up, put away, and
forgot about. People might have called them curves, but I
knew it was years of unspilled water that swelled the
contours of my skin. Six different foster homes, no family
to visit on leave, empty spaces in a photo album where a
father and a mother should have been. Not even a safe place
to cry. Saltwater tears leaked out, punctured by the random
pinprick of a man too blindingly beautiful to behold.
Then there he was. I don't know where he came from or how he
got there.
"What did I say to make you cry?" he whispered, sitting down
beside me. He reached over, mopping up tears and snot with
his clean white handkerchief, chanting some kind of
gibberish beneath his breath.
Sana, sana
colita de rana
Si no sanas hoy,
sanarás mañana.
"Huh?" My tears dissolved in sheer surprise. "What did you
just say?"
"Just a little something my great grandmother used to sing
when life had put a hurting on me. I don't even know what it
meant, but it always made me smile. I see it still works,
that grin struggling beneath all those tears. Don't you know
that brown sugar should always be kept dry? You don't want
nothing melting marks into that pretty face."
"I . . . am . . . not . . . pretty," I hiccuped. "You're
just messing with me, sir."
He had the nerve to look surprised. He tucked a hand under
my chin, tilting my head back in consideration. He seemed to
reassess my broad, tearstained features.
"Girl, where were you in the seventies?"
"Not even born."
"You're probably, what? Eighteen years old?"
"Nineteen last Tuesday," I told him.
"Almost young enough to be my daughter."
I shook my head.
"You're not old enough to have any grown kids."
"Thirty-seven years old? Hell, it ain't impossible. I did
get started awfully young. I cut my teeth on morsels like
you. My first true love was a dark little something I called
Black Pearl. Churchgoing girl, all straitlaced and buttoned
down. But hot as hell and sweet as honey under those high
collars and long skirts. She used to sell candy bars for the
church. World's finest chocolate. Lord knows, the girl
wasn't lying."
I felt a sharp stab of jealousy. My reaction shocked even
me.
"Church girls usually are loose like that, sir."
He smiled at my outburst.
"Loose and juicy. Nobody had to tell me—the blacker the
berry, the sweeter the juice. I wish you'd been around to
he...
More books Sandra
Jackson-Opoku
Sea Island Summer
Click to order via
Amazon
Reading level: Ages 4-8
Hardcover: 160 pages
Publisher: Hyperion (September 1, 2005)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0786804319
ISBN-13: 978-0786804313
Affirming The Tradition, Transcending The Condition
(1997)
My East is in My Limbs (1978)
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