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Black Bear Children

Valeri Paxton-Steele

    Miss Charisse was the owner of our local “Build-A-Bear” workshop, here in our little southern section of Louisiana. It was a place in which nearby parents could take their kids for a few hours of precious parent-child bonding. She was 32, with rich, smooth cocoa brown skin, eyes so dark you would think they were black, and long dread-locked hair caught up with a blood red kerchief. She always wore a flouncy white skirt, and she had this incredible smile that seemed to melt the hardest of hearts.
    How she ever made a living, I can’t say. Very few people in the downtown neighborhood could afford to take their sons and daughters to indulge in the luxury of making their own stuffed bears. The kids who congregated in front of Charisse’s storefront were the ones who were poor, who were lonely, who envied the love the parents inside showered onto their children. The plate glass window was streaked with smudgy fingerprints, snuffley noseprints, and the sweaty forehead prints of those who would never be taken inside, hand held by a loving mom or dad.
    On these occasions, Miss Charisse would invite children in, to build a bear for free. It seemed that she picked the saddest, poorest, loneliest children. She knew intuitively which boys and girls would benefit from some extra love and attention, who would honor a few happy minutes, and leave with a good memory, one that would make their dreary lives a bit less sad and grim. She turned those gorgeous kohl colored eyes toward them, smiled her brightest smile, beckoned them inside, and gave them each a black bear body-form to stuff and dress up however they wished. Most of the rich kids never picked the black bears, but instead they decided on the bright whites, the golden ambers and the deep chocolate browns. It didn’t matter to the poor children who were invited in, though. In fact, they understood that the black bears were more special, because so few people had them.
    When Miss Charisse’s “special” children made their bears, they would invariably leave a bit of themselves inside her shop. Perhaps one would prick a finger, or nick a knuckle, the tiniest drops of blood left on the table and the bear’s furry coat. Perhaps one who would get her long hair caught in the chair’s seat-back, just a strand or two. Maybe another kid would break a nail, something like that. Miss Charisse was always very attentive to this, taking care of each child, comforting their small boo-boos while cherishing their tender, sensitive hearts.
    It did not take her long. Within a very short while Miss Charisse had amassed quite a small crowd of “Black Bear Children” of her very own. The voudou priestess drew the secret vèvè symbols on the floor with white cornmeal, calling out to the forces of the loa, the invisible spirits, to join her in her rites. She assembled many other followers to her gathering, each one gaily adorned in simple and beautiful white ritual clothes. Her priests kept a steady beat on the drums, gaining speed, building the power and energy, until the thundering echoes reverberated off every wall and back again. The women danced and sang. The room was a swirling rainbow of motion, magick and music. She and her priestesses became ecstatic with frenzy. She sipped and spat the sacred rum, in offering. Her soul rode with the gods and goddesses of the night, and she called, in her powerful mambo voice, one by one, for her children to come to her.
    Each time the ceremony was performed, these “Black Bear Children” would hear the sound of the drums, beckoning them to come home. They soundlessly awakened from their beds, escaping the dark reality of their impoverished and nightmare lives. They answered her sacred call. The kids crept through hallways, shimmied out windows, and deftly climbed down fire escapes, in footie pajamas or in stocking feet... the cold nights not bothering them at all. Not one child made a single noise, the quiet forces guarding them and guiding them with sacred hands. Cradled in their tiny arms, each little boy or girl held their own small, stuffed black bear. No more loneliness. No more deprivation. No more hurt. No more sorrow. Miss Charisse would become Mama Charisse. All were welcome, if they wished, to worship the loa, and to gain a loving family, forever after. You might wonder and ask me, “How do you know all of this?” Well, I was one of the lucky ones. I was one of those saved (and very cared for) kids. I was one of the several “Black Bear Children.”

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