My name is Kamala, which in India means lotus. I want to tell you some things I have never told anyone before about my life. People have questioned me about many things, many times, but without telling the entire story, much is missed or misunderstood.
I was named Kamala because the lotus is considered the truth and beauty of the universe when held in your hands. I am an angel with wings shaped like pedals of a golden-yellow lotus flower, three on each side of me. When extended, they are beautifully shaped, shimmering, semi-transparent white with iridescent colors of gold and brown on the tips like that of butterfly wings.
When I am in a state of another dimension that takes me in an out of body existence, my wings roll out from behind me and flow like silk fabric blowing in the wind. My skin is soft, very soft, compared to a new born child. When my wings are extended my skin glows and brightens. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. I will start with the best place, the beginning.
Before even knowing what I was, I was called Kamala. It was destiny the day I was born that my mother should name me Kamala.
I grew up on a plantation in Louisiana and as a child I was described as a Mulatto. I will tell you more of that tale later. I'm a very slender, petit built woman with slight curves, with shapely, strong legs; necessary for broad leaps when I take flight, especially in times of danger. My hair is light golden-brown with golden strands throughout. My eyes are the color of a topaz gem.
To date, I have existed now for over 325 years. I belong to no one, and I'm no kept woman, unlike my mother, Aurora. She was a beautiful woman of African-French descent, and a slave. The plantation we lived on, Magnolia Alley, was owned by Monsieur Anton le Moyne in Thibodaux, Louisiana. There were a lot of secrets surrounding my mother’s birth on the plantation, as there were with my own birth. Many of the secrets surrounded her relationship with M. Le Moyne and mine too. The other slaves on the plantation would never spoke of us in the open, but I would later discover the brutal truth. A sordid tale that at times spoke of love, and at other times, there was sheer cruelty and brutality.
My father, also a slave at Magnolia Alley, was named Adisa. He was given another name when he was brought there in chains, but I won’t speak of it. To me, he was Adisa, a respected teacher and educator of his people. Adisa, my père, was who he was to me, not what they made him there. Mon père used to tell me stories of his life in his homeland in Owo where he was an educated Yoruba scholar of math and architecture. He told me the tale of how he was “stolen” from his homeland, and brought to this unfamiliar land in bondage by Portuguese merchants, called lançados. He believed he was traded for weapons by the Benin tribe, a kingdom of another tribe that bordered their own. He told me that they had greed and sought to increase their kingdom beyond their neighbors. But, at Magnolia Alley, to the slave masters, he was considered nothing but property, an animal. Yet, they used him for his knowledge at the plantation in ways that others there in bondage were not. To some of the slaves he was revered, to others he is looked at with disdain; he was envied and avoided.
Mon père loved ma mère with a passion and would call her Ife, which means loving. He called me Kamala at times; but mostly he called me Kayin because he said I was a gift to him. Back then, I knew nothing of the irony, or cruelty behind our family network. I just knew that père never questioned my looks, and how I differed from his, or any of his people.
Although the relationships with the slaves and overseers at Magnolia Alley varied, they all found use for me because of my “special” abilities.
When a woman on the plantation was in labor, I was always called upon. The women found that with my presence, the birth pains would be bearable for the mother. The mother would even sing or hum herself.
When a pregnant slave woman on the plantation was in labor, all the women came together to provide care, and support with singing and words of encouragement. It was all so beautiful to me. Mère would be present to dab sweat with a cool cloth from the distressed mother. The whole scene was a myriad of activity, with everyone taking their places, knowing exactly what to do. But, when the final stages of the birth came, when the mother was in her most dire pain, others would be silent, and I would sing.
The first time it happened was by accident. Ma mère told me one day I was of age to attend the labor of a woman named Charity. The whole idea initially scared me, because of the way the others treated me, plus, I knew nothing of childbirth. Yet, after I arrived, I found it to be the most magnificent thing ever. By the looks of the other women, it looked as if my feelings were not shared. You see, Charity was having a difficult labor, the baby wasn’t ready to come into the world, but Charity’s body felt differently. In truth, I don’t blame the petit bébé. At that time, to me, this was not a world I would chose to enter. Maybe the petit bébé knew that.
It happened without any effort of my own. Charity was crying and screaming; the other women were crying with her and talking in circles about cutting the child out, to either save him, or Charity. Which, I wasn’t sure.
What I did know was during the piercing screams something came over me. I felt myself becoming one with Charity. I felt Charity’s pain, but I did not scream like her. What came out of me, as I closed my eyes and looked up to the heavens, was a beautiful melody, sweet, soothing, and light. It started as a single note, in the same key note of one of Chastity’s screams. That brought the entire room to a standstill. I’m certain it would have been hilarious, if it weren’t such a precarious time. But it soothed Charity and calmed her breathing and heart rate. Eventually, not only did Charity’s body give up the fight against the birth pains, le petit bébé gave up his fight to stay within his mother’s womb. With a soft moan and a smile, out came a beautiful baby boy.
As the women completed their care of Charity and the bébé, I noticed the side glances from the others. More than the others, I noticed a look of disbelief on face of ma mère.
It wasn’t long before the Master’s mistress received word of my abilities. After that time, I was sought by many throughout Thibodaux.
My life at Magnolia Alley was abruptly changed when they split my parents by sending my mon père away, but I was allowed to stay with ma mere. My mood changed once we were sent to another place in New Orleans. Not that the plantation felt like home, only the lakes and the solitude of the flower fields. None of the other children had ever wanted anything to do with me. The other slave girls were good about showing their disdain for me each time they yanked my hair. So I was accepted by no one but Mon père and ma mère.
After being told that we would move to New Orleans, Ma Mere told me that she had plans for me when I reached of age. In New Orleans we are gens de couleur, but not yet free. She had plans to arrange a Placage between me and a white "protector". She felt that there, I would have a future and a way to take care of myself, and her. Her plans did not sit too well with me.
The move to New Orleans brought about the knowledge that my real father, was actually our master, Monsieur Anton le Moyne. The Mistress did not want my father in her bed any longer; his absences at night, and why I had eyes the color of yellowish-brown topaz and blonde hair were becoming a problem. She used to stare at me a lot when I was near the house, so I stopped going. So M. Moyne, to satisfy his wife, "sold" us all.
