Chapter Text
LOUISIANA,
NEW ORLEANS, 1911
Alastor knew who he was from a very early age.
He knew the weight of respect–how difficult it'd be to achieve–but he also knew he deserved it. His mother left no doubt in his mind about it. Every Jim Crow sign–“Whites Only,” “Coloured,” served as a challenge. An open invitation to get ahead.
And he would get ahead.
It was ridiculous, segregation. Which signs was he supposed to follow? His mind was torn between two identities every time he stared into the mirror–would he ever be coloured enough or white enough for this world? But when his mother came behind him it would become clear he was a coloured boy. And he was proud.
He'd prove his worth in a world not meant to him–and he'd refuse to be anyone's prey.
People shot him and his mother dirty looks as they'd sit in the streetcar’s coloured section. Smug, pale faces that said, ‘that’s where you belong.’
“Smile, Al—’cause you ain’t never fully dressed without one. An’ mind yo’ manners, y’hear? Be a real gentleman. Not because o’ Jim Crow, but because that's how it should be. Don’t you give nobody a single stone to step on when it come to judgin’ you. And when it feel like the whole world done put on a frown, baby—use that smile o’ yours an’ turn it clean upside down.”
That’s what his mother told him–a whisper in the streetcar, as they returned home with groceries to cook up her famed Jambalaya.
“Never let them see you break.” Words to live by. And so to every condescending look, he replied with wide, full-tooth grin and narrowed eyes that made people look away.
Smile. Because a coloured boy couldn't just be well-mannered. He had to be the most well-mannered of all. And he couldn't just be gifted–he had to be the most gifted of all. To earn back a slither of that respect he craved and hungered for so–and he would.
He would.
His mother taught him manners, but she also taught him he was nobody's inferior. She raised him to be proud. Independent.
And independent he would be–that’s why she taught him how to cook. So that, unlike most men, he'd be able to fend for himself without a wife.
“Lawd, most o’ the men I know’d starve they fool selves half to death if they ain’t got some woman feedin’ ’em every day. Not you, baby, not my Alastor. No woman will slave away in the kitchen for you.”
“And who needs a woman, anyway? Boooring...”
To Alastor, relationships seemed like such a needless distraction. While other boys went around pulling the hair of each girl they liked, he found such behavior to be utterly foolish. Perhaps it was just that be was superior–to not be tied down by such frivolous wants, such weaknesses. His head was clearer than the average person's. More goal-orienged. And his goal was to make the best of his life, for the sake of doing so. The devotion–the duty that would come from a lady–bored and disinterested him. Not to mention, since he didn't view girls as objects of desire, or accessories–what would be the point of wasting time on romance? To treat a woman like an afterthought or a burden seemed unnecessary.
“Mm-hmm, you talkin’ like that ’cause you still just a li’l boy. Don’t you worry—somebody gon’ catch yo’ eye one day, cher,” his mother said with candour. She didn't get it–but that was fine. He didn't always get her either–he didn't get why she'd ever stoop so low as to fall for his father–but he didn't love her any less for it. Whatever. One day, his peers would understand his superiority–he'd be unbendable towards any obstacle and they'd respect him for it. They wouldn't tear their eyes away in disgust, but reverence and maybe even fear towards something they common folk wouldn't understand.
Actually, Alastor didn't much care about being seen, but he did want to be perceived as untouchable. If he had to be a shadow and a voice instead of a man for people to gaze at to achieve that, he was fine with that. Growing into a mystery didn't sound half bad, if it made him respected. He'd have all the control over people and their perceptions. He didn't need to be adored–he had plenty adoration as it was. What he needed was respect. Nothing would ever hurt him or his mother, then. Nothing would ever touch them.
“Blah, blah, blah–”
“Don’tcha ‘blah’ me, boy, show your momma some respect!” She smacked the back of his neck, somewhat gently, her voice lacking any bite.
It was just the two of them. Him and his momma, in a cramped shotgun kitchen in New Orleans, heat settling over everything like a blanket you can’t quite shake off. And Alastor was barefoot, standing on a wooden crate so he could reach the counter.
That woman was all presence: sleeves rolled up, one hand on her hip, the other stirring a cast-iron pot big enough to drown secrets in. She was humming something slow and jazzy.
“Hand me that sausage, baby,” she said, and he passed it with both hands as if presenting a royal offering. She laughed under her breath—rich, warm—because he was taking this job dead seriously. When he dropped a piece of celery, he scrambled to pick it up, horrified. She tapped his nose with a flour-dusted finger. “It ain’t a crime. Everythin’s sloppy before it’s good.”
The holy trinity hit the pan—onion, celery, bell pepper—and the sizzle kicked up like applause. He watched it with the reverence of a kid staring into a church window. His momma let him stir, guiding his small hand with her larger one, the wooden spoon scraping slowly around the pot. Outside, somebody was playing a cornet down the block, a lazy little riff drifting in through the open window.
She let him stir by himself, for a bit. Grabbing the newspaper as she sat nearby.
“Tssk… I swear, I cain’t stand folks who don’t show a lick o’ respect to them that got it a little harder. What kinda world we livin’ in…” She flipped the page with a soft thwap.
“Mm. Look here—got this article draggin’ some poor woman through the mud. Lord, it’s just plain distasteful… Like bad meat.”
“What are they sayin’?”
“Méchant, bébé, terriblement méchant,” she brushed it off. “Now listen here, doll—you ain’t never gon’ disrespect a woman like that, y’hear me? ’Cause I’ll smack that pretty li’l head o’ yours so hard we’ll be meetin’ up again come the second comin’, est‑ce que tu comprends?”
“Crystal clear,” he said.
“Good,” she seemed satisfied. Her son was a true gentleman. It was integral that he'd respect women, more than anything. She was active in the African-American women's suffrage movement. By the 1890s, the women's suffrage movement had become increasingly exclusionary, and African-American women organized separately through local women's clubs and the National Association of Colored Women. She'd always talk to him about it, but never so much as to bore him. The movement might have split after the Civil War, but the origins of the women's suffrage movement were always tied to the Abolitionist movement.
Alastor's mind drifted a bit. It really was all about respect, in this world. A few weeks ago, he'd been disrespected by a white boy with blond hair and a fat, red face. He'd thrown dirt on Alastor and called him names, slurs, all such things—and he'd insulted his momma, as a good for nothing harlot who mixed with a white man and had a kid our of wedlock.
Alastor had secretly followed him home, sneaked into his backyard and killed his dog. Wasn't it only fair? He'd strangled it and watched the life fade from its eyes as it whimpered. If his mother knew, she would hate him for it. When he went home with a dog bite, she nursed and comforted him though not before yelling at him for getting in trouble.
It had been so easy. In and out—he was great at going unnoticed. A shadow. Why did whites always present shadow and darkness as these evil concepts? Well, he knew why. They saw everything they couldn't understand as a threat, even though darkness being a mystical thing was not so negative. It was beautiful and mysterious.
His mother taught him Voodoo-Catholicism. Their home was adorned with candles, images of saints, altars, and items to protect the house from spirits. They believed God does not interfere in daily lives, but that spirits do. Connection with these spirits could be obtained through various rituals such as dance, music, chanting, and snakes… In New Orleans, this was a common thing. Still frowned upon by whites, though. Tsk.
He thought back to the dead dog. He didn't like dogs and didn't feel bad, because that swine had it coming. The more he recalled the event, the more he remembered himself laughing with self-righteous satisfaction. It had been fun. He wouldn't mind doing the same to that boy.
Time passed. Enough for the food to almost be ready. She got a taste with her ladle–giving Alastor a taste also.
“Tu es prêt à manger. I'll set the table.” She said, ruffling his hair. “Go call the neighbors, will ya? Sharin’s carin’. Besides, we owe ‘em.”
Alastor rolled his eyes but did as she said–because she was right. The neighbors had combined their money to get Alastor that old rusty piano and some song sheets, once they realized he had a musical ear–probably because his mom always help d them with things–like cleaning or getting groceries if someone was sick. They adored his mother, so they adored him too. And because he ended up being father good at playing the piano, his mother would often invite them over for food and jazz. It was entertaining, so he had no qualms.
“What’ll you play tonight?”
“Irving Berlin!”
“Ooh, that's a new one!” She said, but he was already out of the door. She sighed and took out her favorite tablecloth.
Every once in a while, she'd see glimpses of his father on his face and she didn't know what to do with them. Obviously, he wasn't in their lives. Obviously. He never took responsibility over his son, which was typical. Whites and Blacks weren't supposed to mix, much less get married, under Jim Crow laws. The lone woman wondered if it was her own train-wreck of a love-life that shaped her son's crude attitude towards love. Perhaps it was her own hyper-independence that made him so comfortable with the idea of being alone. She'd never let him feel any lack. She was a mother, a father, a friend and a mentor all at the same time. But she wouldn't always be here—and humans are social creatures. She didn't want him to spend his life alone just because she did.
He was cynical. So was she, but he was young. Too young, she thought. Sometimes, she wondered if he'd been misinterpreting everything she'd been teaching him and using it for the wrong reasons.
She smothered the thought. She protected him from the world's cruelty without ever lying about it. She was doing a good job raising him.
Alastor was a good kid.
He would be fine.