Louisiana. Leopards slept with us and bears fed us honey from their paws and fish jumped up into our hands because they wanted to be our food. The trees were so thick that we could travel from New Orleans to Shreveport on treetop, and we did, hundreds of Ya-Ya Indians traveling on the tops of trees.
Our mother was a black she-ape named Lola, who found us in a cave at the beginning of time and raised us like her very own children. We loved her like amother. People didn’t mess with the tribal Ya-Ya sisters.
But then Hurricane Zandra, the hugest hurricane known to man, came and ripped all the trees out by their roots and turned all the streams into rivers and killed everybody, including our mother, Lola. Only four of us survived. Everywhere we turned, evil alligators tried to eat us. There was nowhere to hide because those alligators could crawl from water to land and be just as mean in either place. We were starving so bad that our bones were sticking out, and we didn’t sleep for forty days. Finally we were so weak we just gave up.
The alligators rejoiced and crawled up to where we lay helpless. They crawled so close that we looked right into their ugly old eyes and saw the light of the moon reflected. We tried everything we knew, but our strength was gone. Then from behind the moon came a gorgeous lady. We could see her from where we lay on our deathbeds. She looked down and saw we were hanging by an eyelash over the canyon of doom! And the Moon Lady shot silver rays from her eyes so hot and mighty that those alligators were burned to a crisp right in their sleazy tracks! Fried those ugly critters sunny-side up, right there on the road. We could hear them sizzling.
And the Moon Lady said, “You are my daughters in whom I am well pleased. I will always keep my Divine Eyes peeled for you.”
We, the Ya-Yas, had lost our jungle home, and our town does not realize we are royal, but secretly we all know our history and we will be loyal to our tribe forever and ever, in sickness and in health. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be. The End.
Then I look at everyone in the eyes and say: “Now it is official: we are from here on out to be known as Ya-Yas!” And everybody starts clapping.
“Some of that kind of sounds like it came from the Bible,” Necie says.
“Do not question the Mistress of Legend,” I say.
“Yeah,” Teensy chimed in. “The Bible doesn’t own those words.”
“Never mind,” Necie says. “Would yall care for some fudge?”
“Why, thank you, Mistress of Refreshment,” I say.
And we all bite into big chunks of chocolate pecan fudge.
“I hate those old alligators,” Caro says, then looks in the direction of the bayou.
“Uh,” Necie says. “Yall don’t think there are any alligators in this bayou, do you?”
“ Maman put a gris-gris on all the alligators behind our house,” Teensy says. “We don’t have to worry. Maman is the one who gave us our name! She’s the one always saying, ‘Gumbo Ya-Ya, gumbo ya-ya!’ ”
“That’s us,” Necie says.
“ Exactement! ” Teensy says. “From here on out to the end of time, we will be known as The Ya-Yas! Nobody can take our name away!”
Then Teensy whips the empty oatmeal boxes out of her paper sack, and we all beat on them. And while we drum, we yell out to the night and the woods and the fire that we are now The Ya-Yas. Then Necie, the Mistress of Names, formally gives all of us our Ya-Ya Indian names that we have chosen ourselves. Mine is Queen Dancing Creek. Caro’s is Duchess Soaring Hawk, and Necie’s is Countess Singing Cloud. Each time Necie pronounces our new names, she sprinkles us with water from an old RC bottle with a hole punched in the top that she borrowed from her mama’s ironing board.
Teensy has been keeping her Indian name a secret from us for weeks. Finally when it’s her turn, she hands Necie an envelope, all secret-like. Necie opens the envelope, looking for Teensy’s name, and when
Our mother was a black she-ape named Lola, who found us in a cave at the beginning of time and raised us like her very own children. We loved her like amother. People didn’t mess with the tribal Ya-Ya sisters.
But then Hurricane Zandra, the hugest hurricane known to man, came and ripped all the trees out by their roots and turned all the streams into rivers and killed everybody, including our mother, Lola. Only four of us survived. Everywhere we turned, evil alligators tried to eat us. There was nowhere to hide because those alligators could crawl from water to land and be just as mean in either place. We were starving so bad that our bones were sticking out, and we didn’t sleep for forty days. Finally we were so weak we just gave up.
The alligators rejoiced and crawled up to where we lay helpless. They crawled so close that we looked right into their ugly old eyes and saw the light of the moon reflected. We tried everything we knew, but our strength was gone. Then from behind the moon came a gorgeous lady. We could see her from where we lay on our deathbeds. She looked down and saw we were hanging by an eyelash over the canyon of doom! And the Moon Lady shot silver rays from her eyes so hot and mighty that those alligators were burned to a crisp right in their sleazy tracks! Fried those ugly critters sunny-side up, right there on the road. We could hear them sizzling.
And the Moon Lady said, “You are my daughters in whom I am well pleased. I will always keep my Divine Eyes peeled for you.”
We, the Ya-Yas, had lost our jungle home, and our town does not realize we are royal, but secretly we all know our history and we will be loyal to our tribe forever and ever, in sickness and in health. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be. The End.
Then I look at everyone in the eyes and say: “Now it is official: we are from here on out to be known as Ya-Yas!” And everybody starts clapping.
“Some of that kind of sounds like it came from the Bible,” Necie says.
“Do not question the Mistress of Legend,” I say.
“Yeah,” Teensy chimed in. “The Bible doesn’t own those words.”
“Never mind,” Necie says. “Would yall care for some fudge?”
“Why, thank you, Mistress of Refreshment,” I say.
And we all bite into big chunks of chocolate pecan fudge.
“I hate those old alligators,” Caro says, then looks in the direction of the bayou.
“Uh,” Necie says. “Yall don’t think there are any alligators in this bayou, do you?”
“ Maman put a gris-gris on all the alligators behind our house,” Teensy says. “We don’t have to worry. Maman is the one who gave us our name! She’s the one always saying, ‘Gumbo Ya-Ya, gumbo ya-ya!’ ”
“That’s us,” Necie says.
“ Exactement! ” Teensy says. “From here on out to the end of time, we will be known as The Ya-Yas! Nobody can take our name away!”
Then Teensy whips the empty oatmeal boxes out of her paper sack, and we all beat on them. And while we drum, we yell out to the night and the woods and the fire that we are now The Ya-Yas. Then Necie, the Mistress of Names, formally gives all of us our Ya-Ya Indian names that we have chosen ourselves. Mine is Queen Dancing Creek. Caro’s is Duchess Soaring Hawk, and Necie’s is Countess Singing Cloud. Each time Necie pronounces our new names, she sprinkles us with water from an old RC bottle with a hole punched in the top that she borrowed from her mama’s ironing board.
Teensy has been keeping her Indian name a secret from us for weeks. Finally when it’s her turn, she hands Necie an envelope, all secret-like. Necie opens the envelope, looking for Teensy’s name, and when
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