The Bluest Eye

Summer

I have only to break into the tightness of a strawberry, and I see summer-its dust and lowering skies. It remains for me a season of storms. The parched days and sticky nights are undistinguished in my mind, but the storms, the violent sudden storms, both frightened and quenched me. But my memory is uncertain; I recall a summer storm in the town where we lived and imagine a summer my mother knew in 1929. There was a tornado that year, she said, that blew away half of south Lorain. I mix up her summer with my own. Biting the strawberry, thinking of storms, I see her. A slim young girl in a pink crepe dress. One hand is on her hip; the other lolls about her thigh-waiting. The wind swoops her up, high above the houses, but she is still standing, hand on hip. Smiling. The anticipation and promise in her lolling hand are not altered by the holocaust. In the summer tornado of 1929, my mother's hand is unextinguished. She is strong, smiling, and relaxed while the world falls down about her. So much for memory.

Public fact becomes private reality, and the seasons of a Midwestern town become the Moirai of our small lives. The summer was already thick when Frieda and I received our seeds. We had waited since April for the magic package containing the packets and packets of seeds we were to sell for five cents each, which would entitle us to a new bicycle. We believed it, and spent a major part of every day trooping about the town selling them.

Although Mama had restricted us to the homes of people she knew or the neighborhoods familiar to us, we knocked on all doors, and floated in and out of every house that opened to us: twelve-room houses that sheltered half as many families, smelling of grease and urine; tiny wooden four-room houses tucked into bushes near the railroad tracks; the up-over places-apartments up over fish markets, butcher shops, furniture stores, saloons, restaurants; tidy brick houses with flowered carpets and glass bowls with fluted edges. During that summer of the seed selling we thought about the money, thought about the seeds, and listened with only half an ear to what people were saying. In the houses of people who knew us we were asked to come in and sit, given cold water or lemonade; and while we sat there being refreshed, the people continued their conversations or went about their chores. Little by little we began to piece a story together, a secret, terrible, awful story.

And it was only after two or three such vaguely overheard conversations that we realized that the story was about Pecola.

Properly placed, the fragments of talk ran like this: "Did you hear about that girl?"

"What? Pregnant?"

"Yas. But guess who?"

"Who? I don't know all these little old boys."

"That's just it.

Ain't no little old boy. They say it's Cholly."

"Cholly? Her daddy?"

"Uh-huh"

"Lord. Have mercy. That dirty nigger."

"'Member that time he tried to burn them up? I knew he was crazy for sure then."

"What's she gone do? The mama?"

"Keep on like she been, I reckon. He taken off."

"County ain't gone let her keep that baby, is they?"

"Don't know."

"None of them Breedloves seem right anyhow. That boy is off somewhere every minute, and the girl was always foolish."

"Don't nobody know nothing about them anyway. Where they come from or nothing. Don't seem to have no people."

"What you reckon make him do a thing like that?"

"Beats me. Just nasty."

"Well, they ought to take her out of school."

"Ought to. She carry some of the blame."

"Oh, come on. She ain't but twelve or so."

"Yeah. But you never know. How come she didn't fight him?"

"Maybe she did."

"Yeah? You never know."

"Well, it probably won't live. They say the way her mama beat her she lucky to be alive herself."

"She be lucky if it don't live. Bound to be the ugliest thing walking."

"Can't help but be. Ought to be a law: two ugly people doubling up like that to make more ugly. Be better off in the ground."

"Well, I wouldn't worry none. It be a miracle if it live." Our astonishment was short-lived, for it gave way to a curious kind of defensive shame; we were embarrassed for Pecola, hurt for her, and finally we just felt sorry for her. Our sorrow drove out all thoughts of the new bicycle. And I believe our sorrow was the more intense because nobody else seemed to share it. They were disgusted, amused, shocked, outraged, or even excited by the story. But we listened for the one who would say, "Poor little girl," or, "Poor baby," but there was only head-wagging where those words should have been. We looked for eyes creased with concern, but saw only veils. I thought about the baby that everybody wanted dead, and saw it very clearly. It was in a dark, wet place, its head covered with great O's of wool, the black face holding, like nickels, two clean black eyes, the flared nose, kissing-thick lips, and the living, breathing silk of black skin. No synthetic yellow bangs suspended over marble-blue eyes, no pinched nose and bowline mouth. More strongly than my fondness for Pecola, I felt a need for someone to want the black baby to live-just to counteract the universal love of white baby dolls, Shirley Temples, and Maureen Peals. And Frieda must have felt the same thing. We did not think of the fact that Pecola was not married; lots of girls had babies who were not married. And we did not dwell on the fact that the baby's father was Pecola's father too; the process of having a baby by any male was incomprehensible to us-at least she knew her father. We thought only of this overwhelming hatred for the unborn baby. We remembered Mrs. Breedlove knocking Pecola down and soothing the pink tears of the frozen doll baby that sounded like the door of our icebox. We remembered the knuckled eyes of schoolchildren under the gaze of Meringue Pie and the eyes of these same children when they looked at Pecola. Or maybe we didn't remember; we just knew. We had defended ourselves since memory against everything and everybody, considered all speech a code to be broken by us, and all gestures subject to careful analysis; we had become headstrong, devious, and arrogant. Nobody paid us any attention, so we paid very good attention to ourselves. Our limitations were not known to us-not then. Our only handicap was our size; people gave us orders because they were bigger and stronger. So it was with confidence, strengthened by pity and pride, that we decided to change the course of events and alter a human life. "What we gone do, Frieda?"

"What can we do? Miss Johnson said it would be a miracle if it lived."

"So let's make it a miracle."

"Yeah, but how?"

"We could pray."

"That's not enough. Remember last time with the bird?"

"That was different; it was half-dead when we found it."

"I don't care, I still think we have to do something really strong this time."

"Let's ask Him to let Pecola's baby live and promise to be good for a whole month. "

"O.K. But we better give up something so He'll know we really mean it this time."

"Give up what? We ain't got nothing. Nothing but the seed money, two dollars."

"We could give that. Or, you know what? We could give up the bicycle. Bury the money and… plant the seeds."

"All of the money?"

"Claudia, do you want to do it or not?"

"O.K. I just thought… O.K."

"We have to do it right, now. We'll bury the money over by her house so we can't go back and dig it up, and we'll plant the seeds out back of our house so we can watch over them. And when they come up, we'll know everything is all right.

All right?"

"All right. Only let me sing this time. You say the magic words."

LOOKLOOKHERECOMESAFRIENDTHEFRIENDWILLPLAY WITHJANETHEYWILLPLAYAGOODGAMEPLAYJANEPLA How many times a minute are you going to look inside that old thing? I didn't look in a long time. You did too. So what? I can look if I want to. I didn't say you couldn't. I just don't know why you have to look every minute. They aren't going anywhere.

I know it. I just like to look. You scared they might go away? Of course not. How can they go away? The others went away. They didn't go away. They changed. Go away. Change. What's the difference? A lot. Mr. Soaphead said they would last forever.

Forever and ever Amen? Yes, if you want to know. You don't have to be so smarty when you talk to me. I'm not being smarty. You started it. I'd just like to do something else besides watch you stare in that mirror. You're just jealous. I am not. You are. You wish you had them. Ha. What would I look like with blue eyes?

Nothing much. If you're going to keep this up, I may as well go on off by myself. No. Don't go. What you want to do? We could go outside and play, I guess. But it's too hot.

You can take your old mirror. Put it in your coat pocket, and you can look at yourself up and down the street. Boy! I never would have thought you'd be so jealous. Oh, come on! You are. Are what?

Jealous. O.K. So I'm jealous. See. I told you. No. I told you.

Are they really nice? Yes. Very nice. Just "very nice"? Really, truly, very nice. Really, truly, bluely nice? Oh, God. You are crazy. I am not! I didn't mean it that way. Well, what did you mean? Come on. It's too hot in here. Wait a minute. I can't find my shoes. Here they are. Oh. Thank you. Got your mirror? Yes dearie… Well, let's go then… Ow! What's the matter? the sun is too bright. It hurts my eyes. Not mine. I don't even blink. Look. I can look right at the sun. Don't do that. Why not?

It doesn't hurt. I don't even have to blink. Well, blink anyway.

You make me feel funny, staring at the sun like that. Feel funny how?

I don't know. Yes, you do. Feel funny how? I told you, I don't know. Why don't you look at me when you say that? You're looking drop-eyed like Mrs. Breedlove. Mrs. Breedlove look drop-eyed at you? Yes. Now she does. Ever since I got my blue eyes, she look away from me all of the time. Do you suppose she's jealous too?

Could be. They are pretty, you know. I know. He really did a good job. Everybody's jealous. Every time I look at somebody, they look off. Is that why nobody has told you how pretty they are?

Sure it is. Can you imagine? Something like that happening to a person, and nobody but nobody saying anything about it? They all try to pretend they don't see them. Isn't that funny?… I said, isn't that funny? Yes. You are the only one who tells me how pretty they are. Yes. You are a real friend. I'm sorry about picking on you before. I mean, saying you were jealous and all.

That's all right. No. Really. You are my very best friend. Why didn't I know you before? You didn't need me before. Didn't need you? I mean… you were so unhappy before. I guess you didn't notice me before. I guess you're right. And I was so lonely for friends. And you were right here. Right before my eyes. No, honey. Right after your eyes. What? What does Maureen think about your eyes?

She doesn't say anything about them. Has she said anything to you about them? No. Nothing. Do you like Maureen? Oh. She's all right. For a half-white girl, that is. I know what you mean. But would you like to be her friend? I mean, would you like to go around with her or anything? No. Me neither. But she sure is popular. Who wants to be popular? Not me. Me neither. But you couldn't be popular anyway. You don't even go to school. You don't either. I know. But I used to. What did you stop for? They made me. Who made you? I don't know. After that first day at school when I had my blue eyes. Well, the next day they had Mrs.

Breedlove come out. Now I don't go anymore. But I don't care. You don't? No, I don't. They're just prejudiced, that's all. Yes, they sure are prejudiced. Just because I got blue eyes, bluer than theirs, they're prejudiced. That's right. They are bluer, aren't they? Oh, yes. Much bluer. Bluer than Joanna's? Much bluer than Joanna's. And bluer than Michelena's? Much bluer than Michelena's. I thought so. Did Michelena say anything to you about my eyes?

No. Nothing. Did you say anything to her? No. How come? How come what? How come you don't talk to anybody? I talk to you. Besides me. I don't like anybody besides you. Where do you live? I told you once. What is your mother's name? Why are you so busy meddling me? I just wondered. You don't talk to anybody. You don't go to school. And nobody talks to you. How do you know nobody talks to me? They don't. When you're in the house with me, even Mrs. Breedlove doesn't say anything to you. Ever. Sometimes I wonder if she even sees you. Why wouldn't she see me? I don't know. She almost walks right over you. Maybe she doesn't feel too good since Cholly's gone. Oh, yes. You must be right. She probably misses him. I don't know why she would. All he did was get drunk and beat her up. Well, you know how grown-ups are.

Yes. No. How are they? Well, she probably loved him anyway. HIM? Sure. Why not? Anyway, if she didn't love him, she sure let him do it to her a lot. That's nothing.

How do you know? I saw them all the time. She didn't like it.

Then why'd she let him do it to her? Because he made her. How could somebody make you do something like that? Easy. Oh, yeah?

How easy? They just make you, that's all. I guess you're right.

And Cholly could make anybody do anything. He could not. He made you, didn't he? Shut up! I was only teasing. Shut up! O.K. O.K.

He just tried, see? He didn't do anything. You hear me? I'm shutting up. You'd better. I don't like that kind of talk. I said I'm shutting up. You always talk so dirty. Who told you about that, anyway? I forget. Sammy? No. You did. I did not. You did.

You said he tried to do it to you when you were sleeping on the couch. See there! You don't even know what you're talking about.

It was when I was washing dishes. Oh, yes. Dishes. By myself. In the kitchen. Well, I'm glad you didn't let him. Yes. Did you?

Did I what? Let him. Now who's crazy? I am, I guess. You sure are. Still… Well. Go ahead. Still what? I wonder what it would be like. Horrible. Really? Yes. Horrible. Then why didn't you tell Mrs. Breedlove? I did tell her! I don't mean about the first time. I mean about the second time, when you were sleeping on the couch. I wasn't sleeping! I was reading! You don't have to shout. You don't understand anything, do you? She didn't even believe me when I told her. So that's why you didn't tell her about the second time? She wouldn't have believed me then either.

You're right. No use telling her when she wouldn't believe you.

That's what I'm trying to get through your thick head. O.K. I understand now. Just about. What do you mean, just about? You sure are mean today. You keep on saying mean and sneaky things. I thought you were my friend. I am. I am. Then leave me alone about Cholly. OK. There's nothing more to say about him, anyway. He's gone, anyway. Yes. Good riddance.

Yes. Good riddance. And Sammy's gone too. And Sammy's gone too.

So there's no use talking about it. I mean them. No. No use at all. It's all over now. Yes. And you don't have to be afraid of Cholly coming at you anymore. No. That was horrible, wasn't it?

Yes. The second time too? Yes. Really? The second time too? Leave me alone! You better leave me alone. Can't you take a joke? I was only funning. I don't like to talk about dirty things. Me neither. Let's talk about something else. What? What will we talk about? Why, your eyes. Oh, yes. My eyes. My blue eyes. Let me look again. See how pretty they are. Yes. They get prettier each time I look at them. They are the prettiest I've ever seen.

Really? Oh, yes. Prettier than the sky? Oh, yes. Much prettier than the sky. Prettier than Alice-and-Jerry Storybook eyes? Oh, yes. Much prettier than Alice-and-Jerry Storybook eyes. And prettier than Joanna's? Oh, yes. And bluer too. Bluer than Michelena's?

Yes. Are you sure? Of course I'm sure. You don't sound sure…

Well, I am sure. Unless… Unless what? Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about a lady I saw yesterday. Her eyes sure were blue. But no. Not bluer than yours. Are you sure? Yes. I remember them now. Yours are bluer. I'm glad. Me too. I'd hate to think that there was anybody around with bluer eyes than yours. I'm sure there isn't. Not around here, anyway. But you don't know, do you? You haven't seen everybody, have you? No. I haven't. So there could be, couldn't there? Not hardly. But maybe. Maybe. You said "around here." Nobody "around here" probably has bluer eyes.

What about someplace else? Even if my eyes are bluer than Joanna's and bluer than Michelena's and bluer than that lady's you saw, suppose there is somebody way off somewhere with bluer eyes than mine? Don't be silly. There could be. Couldn't there?

Not hardly. But suppose. Suppose a long way off. In Cincinnati, say, there is somebody whose eyes are bluer than mine? Suppose there are two people with bluer eyes? So what? You asked for blue eyes. You got blue eyes. He should have made them bluer. Who? Mr.

Soaphead.

Did you say what color blue you wanted them? No. I forgot. Oh.

Well. Look. Look over there. At that girl. Look at her eyes. Are they bluer than mine? No, I don't think so. Did you look real good? Yes. Here comes someone. Look at his. See if they're bluer.

You're being silly. I'm not going to look at everybody's eyes.

You have to. No I don't. Please. If there is somebody with bluer eyes than mine, then maybe there is somebody with the bluest eyes. The bluest eyes in the whole world. That's just too bad, isn't it? Please help me look. No. But suppose my eyes aren't blue enough? Blue enough for what? Blue enough for… I don't know. Blue enough for something. Blue enough… for you! I'm not going to play with you anymore. Oh. Don't leave me. Yes. I am.

Why? Are you mad at me?

Yes. Because my eyes aren't blue enough? Because I don't have the bluest eyes? No. Because you're acting silly. Don't go. Don't leave me. Will you come back if I get them? Get what? The bluest eyes. Will you come back then?

Of course I will. I'm just going away for a little while. You promise? Sure. I'll be back. Right before your very eyes.

So it was. A little black girl yearns for the blue eyes of a little white girl, and the horror at the heart of her yearning is exceeded only by the evil of fulfillment. We saw her sometimes, Frieda and I-after the baby came too soon and died. After the gossip and the slow wagging of heads. She was so sad to see.

Grown people looked away; children, those who were not frightened by her, laughed outright. The damage done was total. She spent her days, her tendril, sap green days, walking up and down, up and down, her head jerking to the beat of a drummer so distant only she could hear. Elbows bent, hands on shoulders, she flailed her arms like a bird in an eternal, grotesquely futile effort to fly. Beating the air, a winged but grounded bird, intent on the blue void it could not reach-could not even see-but which filled the valleys of the mind. We tried to see her without looking at her, and never, never went near. Not because she was absurd, or repulsive, or because we were frightened, but because we had failed her. Our flowers never grew. I was convinced that Frieda was right, that I had planted them too deeply. How could I have been so sloven? So we avoided Pecola Breedlove-forever.

And the years folded up like pocket handkerchiefs. Sammy left town long ago; Cholly died in the workhouse; Mrs. Breedlove still does housework. And Pecola is somewhere in that little brown house she and her mother moved to on the edge of town, where you can see her even now, once in a while. The birdlike gestures are worn away to a mere picking and plucking her way between the tire rims and the sunflowers, between Coke bottles and milkweed, among all the waste and beauty of the world-which is what she herself was. All of our waste which we dumped on her and which she absorbed. And all of our beauty, which was hers first and which she gave to us. All of us-all who knew her-felt so wholesome after we cleaned ourselves on her. We were so beautiful when we stood astride her ugliness. Her simplicity decorated us, her guilt sanctified us, her pain made us glow with health, her awkwardness made us think we had a sense of humor. Her inarticulateness made us believe we were eloquent. Her poverty kept us generous. Even her waking dreams we used-to silence our own nightmares. And she let us, and thereby deserved our contempt. We honed our egos on her, padded our characters with her frailty, and yawned in the fantasy of our strength. And fantasy it was, for we were not strong, only aggressive; we were not free, merely licensed; we were not compassionate, we were polite; not good, but well behaved. We courted death in order to call ourselves brave, and hid like thieves from life. We substituted good grammar for intellect; we switched habits to simulate maturity; we rearranged lies and called it truth, seeing in the new pattern of an old idea the Revelation and the Word. She, however, stepped over into madness, a madness which protected her from us simply because it bored us in the end. Oh, some of us "loved" her. The Maginot Line. And Cholly loved her. I'm sure he did. He, at any rate, was the one who loved her enough to touch her, envelop her, give something of himself to her. But his touch was fatal, and the something he gave her filled the matrix of her agony with death. Love is never any better than the lover. Wicked people love wickedly, violent people love violently, weak people love weakly, stupid people love stupidly, but the love of a free man is never safe. There is no gift for the beloved. The lover alone possesses his gift of love. The loved one is shorn, neutralized, frozen in the glare of the lover's inward eye.

And now when I see her searching the garbage-for what? The thing we assassinated? I talk about how I did not plant the seeds too deeply, how it was the fault of the earth, the land, of our town.

I even think now that the land of the entire country was hostile to marigolds that year. This soil is bad for certain kinds of flowers. Certain seeds it will not nurture, certain fruit it will not bear, and when the land kills of its own volition, we acquiesce and say the victim had no right to live. We are wrong, of course, but it doesn't matter. It's too late. At least on the edge of my town, among the garbage and the sunflowers of my town, it's much, much, much too late.