The Book Keeper

A Memoir of Race, Love, and Legacy

Julia McKenzie Munemo

• Publisher: Swallow Press
• Year: 2020
• eBook ISBN: 9780804041065
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

In a memoir that's equal parts love story, investigation, and racial reckoning, Munemo unravels and interrogates her whiteness, a shocking secret, and her family's history.

When interracial romance novels written by her long-dead father landed on Julia McKenzie Munemo's kitchen table, she—a white woman—had been married to a black man for six years and their first son was a toddler. Out of shame about her father's secret career as a writer of "slavery porn, " she hid the books from herself, and from her growing mixed-race family, for more than a decade. But then, with police shootings of African American men more and more in the public eye, she realized that understanding her own legacy was the only way to begin to understand her country.

PART I

WINTER SKIN

1

LATE ONE NIGHT the winter our children are nine and twelve, I settle on the green couch in the den of our rural New England farmhouse holding an old softback book in shaking hands. Its title is The Wrath of Chane, and the teaser copy promises “the most shocking portrayal of slavery ever written,” but the image under those words reveals a tale as old as time. There’s a tall, muscular black man trying to pull his wrists apart, but his chains don’t allow it. He’s got no shirt on and his pants are unbuttoned. A white woman in a yellow dress with carefully curled blonde hair clings to his arm and gazes up at his face. I keep looking at the author’s name and trying to pull out a memory from the distance. I know it’s one of my father’s pseudonyms, printed there on the cover of this thick piece of pulp, but I can’t remember ever hearing it spoken out loud. Tonight—with my family sleeping upstairs—I open it for the first time.

My father wrote this book, and I know very little about my father.

Right away I see the name of my mother’s mother penciled in the right-hand corner of the first page. It’s handwriting that brings back birthday cards and grocery lists, handwriting I haven’t seen since childhood. My father’s mother-in-law didn’t just keep this book he wrote, she marked it as hers. Laid claim to his work, even when it was slavery porn. Her tidy name in the corner of that brittle yellow page softens me to the book, softens me to my dad. It allows me to begin.

“The young black man sat for a long time within sight of the house of the overseer. It was almost morning when he first stirred, changing from a sitting to a kneeling position beneath the large cypress tree hung with Spanish moss like a shroud,” I read. These are the first words of my writer father’s I’ve ever read. “The chorus of spring stars was still loud in eulogy in the heavens,” I read. “Loud in eulogy.” I run my eyes over the phrase again, there at the bottom of this first page. It’s not so bad, I tell myself. I can do this, it is time to do this.

But then there are torn clothes. There is a “wide forehead.” There’s a “thick chest.” There is Chane, speechless and superhumanly strong. A slave with sex appeal.

His large black nostrils flared and his heart pumped fury through the veins Iwana had given him. The son of Iwana and the high medicine stood in the Louisiana night and felt a great pounding beneath his forehead and behind his eyes. He remembered the white woman who was asleep not fifty feet from where he stood and tasted the heavy saliva that was collecting on his tongue.

When Chane finds that woman, her “white fingers [run] over [his] coal black skin,” before he takes her head in his huge hand, “grasping it like a fruit” to “fling her to the ground by it.”

He is an animal, this man with a vaguely African-sounding mother. He is an animal, this man in Louisiana where the “high medicine” made him, and not a mortal father. I can’t understand why this man is shown to be an animal in these opening pages.

The white woman he’s come for doesn’t see yet that he’s here to kill her. She thinks he’s looking for something else. “She lifted her nightdress up to her thighs and said, ‘Gonna get me some poison ivy like as not, but it’s goin’ to be worth it, ain’t it, you?’” and I have to close down a memory that threatens to rise up—a story about a woman my father had sex with in the woods one night, how she became covered in a rash from poison ivy afterwards, how he wasn’t allergic to it—and I give my head a shake, remind myself why I’m here. Look back at the book.

He knelt, took her neck in one powerful hand and began to choke the amazed, half naked, throbbing woman. Her eyes swelled in her head, a strange small sound left her throat and when he stood up, still holding her by the neck, she was dragged up with him. Her nightdress fell, covering her body again. She shook violently for a moment and then died, a foot off the ground, held in the powerful grip of the infuriated slave.

AT FIRST I sit dumbstruck and wonder what my tidy WASP of a grandmother thought when she read her son-in-law’s words. How Joan McKenzie from Albany, New York, felt about writing her name in that book after all.

Then I wonder what it takes to dream up that violence. What parts of a person have to be accessible for him to reach in and find that. How the plot the author puts down on the page is informed by the contents of his heart.

I think about my family sleeping above me and put the book down. I climb the stairs and creep into first one kid’s room and then the other’s. I linger as long as I can, press my lips onto warm foreheads until their bodies shift and resettle. Stand in the hallway and listen to them breathe. Worry about what I have done, opening this door. About what I will tell them when they ask where they come from, who their grandfather was.

Then I climb into the bed I share with my husband and lie as still as possible. I don’t want to wake him, I don’t want to ask him to hold this truth with me, I don’t want to burden him with these fears. I lie as still as possible in the bed I share with my husband and wonder how my father’s imagination could have been so filled with racial stereotypes about couplings like my own. I lie as still as possible and think about how much I want to crawl out of my skin. Out of my marriage from the guilt I feel, because if this is who my father was, who am I?

2

THE FIRST TIME I saw Ngoni, I was eating lunch in the Bard College cafeteria. I looked up from my soup and there he was across the room, a point of stillness in the surrounding mêlée. Framed by the cafeteria’s wide-open doorway, he didn’t move while people pushed their way by and around him. His face was filled with uncertainty and confusion and confidence despite being out of place. He wore a round, flat-topped felt hat that didn’t cover his ears and a tan cotton jacket with a pattern that, from a distance, looked like a map of the world. His lavender pants didn’t reach his ankles, and I worried what was protecting him from the upstate New York winter that raged out the window behind me.

Looking at him made me shy, embarrassed, so I turned back to my soup. As I did, I thought I felt an invitation in the crinkling near his temples. A light behind the trim wire-rim glasses on his face. Picking up my spoon, I chided myself. He didn’t smile at me. He can’t see anyone particular in this sea of white faces.

The next day I rushed into the cafeteria for a quick lunch between classes. A South African student I hardly knew ushered me to a table and introduced me to the man I would marry. He told me his name but I couldn’t hear it, he named his country but I couldn’t place it. He made a joke but I couldn’t follow it. I just looked into his soft brown eyes and smiled. When I walked away, my whole body vibrated.

In my bed that night, I turned off the light and closed my eyes and saw his profile as if in silhouette—the curve of his chin and lips, the round of his nose, the tall forehead and the spot where it met his hairline. I followed that line in my memory, tracing it to the tidy crush of curls on the top of his head. I still didn’t know his name.

I opened my eyes some hours later into a darkness I couldn’t change. I was too surprised by the contents of my dream to find the light switch. This dream had recurred throughout my childhood, but I hadn’t had it in years. Its premise was always the same—my father is really alive—but the circumstances changed every time. In this one, we were speaking on the phone. He said he was living in New York, writing under a pseudonym. When he named it, I recognized the author—a literary hero I’d been reading for class—my God! That’s really you?

But eyes open in the dark, the name was smoke.

SATURDAY NIGHT, THE first party of the semester over. Ngoni accepted an invitation to the local diner. Liz—my closest companion since our first day on campus—drove us over the bridge and across the Hudson, started interviewing him from our side of the booth. I sat across from him, really seeing him now that I could be still and watch. His eyes were set wide apart in a face shaped like an owl’s. His nose was broad and—I noticed when he removed his glasses and wiped his hands across his eyes—marked on either side by dark spots where those trim wirerims rested. He didn’t smile much, and when he did I couldn’t tell if it was because he thought something was funny or because he was tired of the talk, thinking of ways to escape.

“Do you have any siblings?” Liz asked.

“A sister.”

“Older or younger?”

“Younger.”

“What do your parents do?”

“My father passed when I was sixteen.”

“I’m so sorry,” I interjected. Our eyes met for a moment. My dad is dead, too, I wanted to say. I wanted to take his hand.

Liz again, though not unkindly, “And your mother?”

A pause. “My mother’s not around.”

Too personal too fast. I changed the subject, asked for the bill, got us out of there. Back on campus, we left Liz at her room, found our own spot in the lounge down the hall.

I asked only the safest questions.

“What will you do after this year?” was one.

“I want to attend graduate school to study colonialism,” he said, as though this were perfectly obvious. I had to stop myself from asking why a young black intellectual from Africa would want to study the first thirteen colonies of the United States, my only definition of colonialism.

“The best programs are in the U.K. and the States,” he said.

It was a physical jolt, my relief that he might return.

At some point I took his hand, led him back to my room. We talked late into the night. We started, then, to draw the lines of similarity, the lost fathers, the ties that would bind. The bright fluorescent hallway lights were sharp in my eyes when he opened the door to leave. I leaned in and kissed his cheek. He says now that’s when he knew.

When he was gone, I slipped into the bathroom that separated my room from Liz’s and took down the small laminated U.S. map she’d tacked up on the wall, flipped it over to see the other side, on which was drawn the world. I put my finger on Africa and quickly found Zaire—I’d written a report about it in sixth grade, and its familiar shape marked the only country I recognized on that continent. I searched all around and then drew my finger south before landing on a country shaped like the head of a rhinoceros. Zimbabwe. Landlocked, with a river following its northwestern border, Botswana and South Africa along the southern one, Mozambique curled around it to the east. I hung the map back on the wall, leaving the world side showing, and held my finger on Zimbabwe awhile, tracing the rhinoceros horn and thinking about Ngoni’s place on the planet—a place I knew nothing about.

WITHIN A COUPLE of weeks, Ngoni and I had established the routines of college lovers. We knew the times and locations of each other’s classes, knew which nights were best for sleepovers, didn’t have to ask about when we would eat dinner, where we would sit at breakfast.

One night he told a story to the ceiling as we lay side by side on the futon I’d dragged from home to replace the narrow dorm-room bed. “My father was mentally ill,” he said. “But in Zimbabwe, we don’t think illness comes from nowhere. We believe there’s been a possession.”

I conjugated the word and realized a beat too late that he meant a spirit had possessed his father. I thought of Poltergeist and snow on a TV screen, had no frame of reference for what he meant. He was describing a culture so unlike my own, a place where even mental illness had a different name, a different definition. A world I was sure I would never understand without my own handles to hold it by. A world without the guideposts I’d grown up requiring.

There’s been a possession.

* * *

IT’S JANUARY OF 1980 and I’m five and a half years old and my father is just dead. The house on State Street is full of love and fear and confusion and lasagna. I stand in the dining room loud with people, looking for my mom. My hand rests on the warm haunches of our loyal black Lab, Shandy. She hasn’t gone on a run in a while. Her haunches are getting thick.

The light in the room comes from a large paper globe that hangs over the dining room table, which itself is round and has lion claws for feet that scare my toes when I eat. We haven’t sat at that table since Dad left for the loony bin. I consider crawling under it now to hide from all these people—maybe Mom would look for me then?—but the lion claw feet.

I need Mom because I have a question in my heart that I don’t know how to ask and I think maybe with all these people around I’ll be brave enough to speak. Why hasn’t Dad’s picture been in the corner of the screen when Channel 3 Eyewitness News is on in the mornings yet, the way other dead people’s pictures are in the corner of the screen? When are they going to come on the TV and explain why he’s dead? Because I would really like to know.

I’ve been watching the news every morning since he died, crawling up onto the stool at the long kitchen counter across from Mom and her thick black coffee, no toast. “Tea and toast?” she asks me, and I nod. But my throat hurts when people talk to me these days, so I just turn and watch the TV that sits on the counter and wait for Dad’s picture to appear.

But right now there are all these people who knew him and Mom is nowhere and I’m not sure where to look for her and I’m afraid that if I take my hand off Shandy’s back I’ll lose my balance and fall through the holes I have just learned are all over this house. There are so many dark corners.

Behind me is the living room with the red couch Dad napped on, and my older sister and brother are sitting there with plates of food on their laps and grown-up hands on their shoulders. At least that’s what I think they’re doing, but I haven’t been able to look at them the last few days because I don’t recognize their eyes anymore and I can’t tell if they know how to talk. I don’t want to talk.

In front of me is the kitchen with cooking aunts, and the knees of one of the aunts look just like Mom’s knees, and I’m scared if I see them I won’t be able to stop myself from hugging that knee, and what if it’s the wrong knee? So I just stay in the dining room. I just stay between.

Then someone says my name, and I look up and swallow, and the giant paper globe light is blocked out by a man’s bald head. It comes down to my level before he speaks.

“When will I see your first novel, Jules?” the man asks. “You’re always watching everything. You’re sure to become a writer, just like your dad.”

3

THE SUNDAY MORNING before my college graduation, the phone on the floor by my futon startled me awake.

“Julia?” said my grandmother Rose, my father’s mother. She said my name as though she might’ve called someone else by accident. As though if she had, it would have been their fault.

“Hi, Grandma,” I said, trying to sound awake, alert. Alone. She called me most Sundays. I was mostly at the library. Mostly let the answering machine pick up.

“What’s new?” she asked. The question was code for Do you have a boyfriend yet? I sat up in bed, placed my feet on the cold linoleum floor. Felt a door open somewhere dark.

“Actually, Grandma,” I said, “I have news.” I turned to Ngoni and smiled, hoping to communicate to him to keep quiet, stay still.

“Oh?” The hope was in her voice now.

“I’ve met someone.”

“What’s his name?”

“Well,” I said, wondering if she was wearing her hearing aid, hoping not to have to shout, “let me spell it for you.”

“What?”

“Let me spell it, you won’t recognize it if I just say it.” I took a breath. “He’s from Zimbabwe.”

There was a silence then. In it, I knew the folly in that hope I’d held like a shard of glass.

“Colored?” Defeat thick in her voice.

“Yes, Grandma,” I said, shifting on the bed so even my profile was hidden from Ngoni. “He’s black.” I wished I’d said something radical, I wished I’d communicated to my grandmother that my loyalty was to this man next to me in bed. I wished I’d challenged her language, ideas, assumptions. But I didn’t know how to. I only knew how to change the subject, so we started making plans for the upcoming weekend—one I was now dreading.

And when she arrived for it, with my aunt and uncle and their children, they all seemed foreign and I couldn’t place why any of ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Contents
• Prologue
• Part I: Winter Skin
• Part II: Blinders
• Part III: The Bone Clock
• Part IV: Il Professore
• Epilogue
• Acknowledgments
• Bibliography