My first dance partner was my mother. I was a chunky rhythm-less child and my mother had missed her calling on Solid Gold, left to practice her fancy footwork in the living room, and oftentimes dropping to the floor in a bounce then coming up back up for a quick spin and snap her slender fingers while saying, “Whoo!” She was hot. My mother was also patient, holding my hand in an attempt to spin me around, which to her demise, only made me dizzy. I couldn’t keep up, barely able to snap my short, pudgy fingers to the beat.
****
Right before I turned ten years old, my classmates and I were scheduled to perform on-stage in the school auditorium. It was supposed to be a talent show at our parochial school, a showcase of entertainment skill for our peers, parents, teachers. Somehow at my predominately White school, the only other Black girls in the third grade—Brenda, the fat one and Alisha, the scrawny one—and I became a lip-synching dance team. Our song of choice was a throwback sung by Alvin and the Chipmunks. Brenda said she had the record, and since we all lived nearby, we practiced our two step until it was flawless. For once, the prospect of dancing didn’t terrify me.
On the day of the talent show, Brenda announced that she couldn’t find the record. I wanted to slap the Jheri curl juice dripping from her short Afro, but instead, pleaded with my mother to lend us a record from her collection, which was also the only one we sort of knew all the words to. After much trepidation, she allowed me to borrow it.
We went on stage, wearing seventies-styled pink-with-a-black poodle skirt my mother had made for us, which would have been apropos to our original song. Looking out, I saw mostly White faces starting back, waiting for us to entertain. I nodded to the DJ, our third grade teacher, who scratched to record before playing it. For fifteen seconds, only the beat of our new song blared, then Rick James started singing, “She’s a very kinky girl…the kind you don’t take home to motha!” At the end of our “Super Freak” performance, my mother was the only person who clapped, then yelled, “Encore!”
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
ANECDOTE TUESDAY: SWIMMING WITH SOCKS
AN EXCERPT FROM A LARGER STORY...
During my senior year in high school, the graduating class went skiing and eventually after a long day of tumbling down the slopes, we headed straight for the pool. I loved my leopard print bathing suit that I knew no one else would be wearing because I had ordered it from a Brazilian catalog–one of very few that was not a thong. While I was certain to be a banging babe in it, there was the matter of my feet. I couldn’t let the entire senior class– including all the cuties–see how busted my bunion-laden feet were.
My friend-roommates all headed to the pool while I lagged behind. “Go ahead, I’ll meet you there in a minute,” I said, trying to stall and figure out how to get in the water without anyone noticing my feet. Putting on my white scrunchy socks and pair of high top Reeboks, I left the hotel room armed with a camera and a white over-sized Ralph “Polo” Lauren teddy bear towel.
Once poolside, I goofed around, taking pictures and sipped on sodas for a long while. Eventually, my friends beckoned me to jump in.
“I can’t swim,” I offered up in a meek protest.
“The pool is all of five feet. You’re almost a foot taller. Quit playing.”
“You know I can’t mess up my hair. I just got it permed and the chlorine water….shoo. I don’t even want to think of the damage that will cause,” I said, even though I was wearing a swim cap. “Water can still seep in.”
“Really? You’re going to sit sideline? That’s whack.”
Another senior jumped out of the water and threatened to push me in if I didn’t comply. Damn friends, I thought. Slowly, I dropped all my stuff and painstakingly took off my sneakers at the pool’s edge. Thankfully, I was hit with an epiphany and jumped in with a big splash– with the white scrunchy socks on.
“Why are you wearing socks in the pool?” someone asked.
Heads turned in my directions and some even chuckled.
“I don’t know what kind of germs are on the pool floor. It could be all kinds of foot fungus so I’ll just pass up on that,” I said.
“Lemme find out your feet are busted,” someone yelled.
“Take it off, take it off, take it off,” a small group chanted. And I did. Then my hair got wet once the swim cap floated away but the socks were imaginarily cemented on. In every poolside picture of my high school senior ski trip, I’m wearing wet white socks.
During my senior year in high school, the graduating class went skiing and eventually after a long day of tumbling down the slopes, we headed straight for the pool. I loved my leopard print bathing suit that I knew no one else would be wearing because I had ordered it from a Brazilian catalog–one of very few that was not a thong. While I was certain to be a banging babe in it, there was the matter of my feet. I couldn’t let the entire senior class– including all the cuties–see how busted my bunion-laden feet were.
My friend-roommates all headed to the pool while I lagged behind. “Go ahead, I’ll meet you there in a minute,” I said, trying to stall and figure out how to get in the water without anyone noticing my feet. Putting on my white scrunchy socks and pair of high top Reeboks, I left the hotel room armed with a camera and a white over-sized Ralph “Polo” Lauren teddy bear towel.
Once poolside, I goofed around, taking pictures and sipped on sodas for a long while. Eventually, my friends beckoned me to jump in.
“I can’t swim,” I offered up in a meek protest.
“The pool is all of five feet. You’re almost a foot taller. Quit playing.”
“You know I can’t mess up my hair. I just got it permed and the chlorine water….shoo. I don’t even want to think of the damage that will cause,” I said, even though I was wearing a swim cap. “Water can still seep in.”
“Really? You’re going to sit sideline? That’s whack.”
Another senior jumped out of the water and threatened to push me in if I didn’t comply. Damn friends, I thought. Slowly, I dropped all my stuff and painstakingly took off my sneakers at the pool’s edge. Thankfully, I was hit with an epiphany and jumped in with a big splash– with the white scrunchy socks on.
“Why are you wearing socks in the pool?” someone asked.
Heads turned in my directions and some even chuckled.
“I don’t know what kind of germs are on the pool floor. It could be all kinds of foot fungus so I’ll just pass up on that,” I said.
“Lemme find out your feet are busted,” someone yelled.
“Take it off, take it off, take it off,” a small group chanted. And I did. Then my hair got wet once the swim cap floated away but the socks were imaginarily cemented on. In every poolside picture of my high school senior ski trip, I’m wearing wet white socks.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
ANECDOTE TUESDAY: TREMAINE'S TUTOR
During my freshman year in high school, I had a crush on Tremaine, a senior. We were in French II class together; I had spent several years studying the romantic language at my Catholic elementary school, and was able to jump to a higher level.
Hoping Tremaine would notice me, I went to school one day in one of my best outfits: a paisley print button down shirt with shoulder pads that I had pilfered from my mother’s closet, khaki pants, white Nike sneakers, and mismatched socks.
I sat behind Tremaine in class, and in an attempt to get his attention, I kept raising my hand to answer questions. Midway through class, he turned around and looked at me from head to toe with a smirk on his face.
“Hi,” I said, smiling shyly at him. My fingers were itching to run through is mini curly Afro. Whatever sheen he used had his hair glistening.
“There’s something that’s been on my mind since you walked in. I can’t even concentrate today…” Tremaine said.
My smile faded slightly. That was not the comment I had hoped for, yet I said, “What’s that?” Hopefully he wants me to be his tutor, I thought while holding my breath in anticipation of his ask.
“What made you decide to put on two different color socks today? That look is so played out.”
Hoping Tremaine would notice me, I went to school one day in one of my best outfits: a paisley print button down shirt with shoulder pads that I had pilfered from my mother’s closet, khaki pants, white Nike sneakers, and mismatched socks.
I sat behind Tremaine in class, and in an attempt to get his attention, I kept raising my hand to answer questions. Midway through class, he turned around and looked at me from head to toe with a smirk on his face.
“Hi,” I said, smiling shyly at him. My fingers were itching to run through is mini curly Afro. Whatever sheen he used had his hair glistening.
“There’s something that’s been on my mind since you walked in. I can’t even concentrate today…” Tremaine said.
My smile faded slightly. That was not the comment I had hoped for, yet I said, “What’s that?” Hopefully he wants me to be his tutor, I thought while holding my breath in anticipation of his ask.
“What made you decide to put on two different color socks today? That look is so played out.”
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
COUSIN MARIA & THE MARRIAGE BED
This story is an excerpt from a larger work, but decided to post for Anecdote Tuesday since Cousin Maria made an appearance. :-)
Thanksgiving dinner was usually at my mother’s house and one year I found myself practically falling asleep post-dinner, succumbing to the itis. I walked into my bedroom; my absence was unnoticed by my family since they were engrossed in round two of turkey dinners, pecan pie, and pina coladas. Two minutes later I emerged wearing a sweat suit. Immediately, my cousin Leah started laughing hysterically and asked, pointing to my ensemble, “What is that you’re wearing?”
“What? My sweat suit?” I asked, surprised.
“You’re ridiculous. I can’t believe you’re going to the gym on Thanksgiving.” Before I could respond, Cousin Leah continued, “If anyone should be going, it’s me. Relax yourself because those fitness instructors are out eating turkey too.”
While she had a point regarding the gym, Leah was also five feet two inches and two hundred pounds. Since she had misconstrued my sweat suit intention, I made an attempt to clarify the situation, saying, “Hello! I’m not working out. I’m getting ready for bed.”
Raucous laughter from my other cousins ensued, encouraging Cousin Leah to continue. “In that? You’ll sweat to death!” she said in between gasps for air.
“Excuse you. I happen to get cold at night,” I explained. “And since it’s almost 10 PM—my usual bedtime—my body is ready to feel the warmth of the sweat suit.”
“You don’t have a comforter?” Cousin Leah asked.
“I’m anemic,” I defended. “My doctor said so.”
“If you’re still cold wearing that sauna suit, I’d say you’re sick. It’s a wonder you didn’t melt away yet.”
Soon after, my mother joined the impromptu roast on my behalf adding, “She sleeps in that outfit every night—with the hood on her head. I keep telling her that when she gets married, she can’t sleep like that. She’ll have to wear a little teddy.”
“Or nothing!” Cousin Marie squealed, simultaneously getting up to high-five my mother and other cousins. “Me nevah wear nothing ahtall ahtall to bed wid me husband and we me have plenty fun, gyal!” she added.
“First of all, this is an inappropriate conversation, especially on a holiday like this. My virgin ears are bleeding,” I said.
“Gyal, bedroom talk is nevah inappropriate. We di try give yuh some tips to tantalize di mahn, but yuh di talk foolishness ‘bout virgin,” Cousin Maria said. “I mean fuh sey, how old dey now? Yuh nevah been wid ah mahn yet?”
I was mortified.
Chiming in, Cousin Leah added, “We are all family giving you advice. Good advice. I’m listening too,” she said winking.
“Second,” I continued, ignoring them, “No one uses the word ‘teddy’ anymore Mommy. That’s so old school.”
“You knew what it meant, didn’t you?” my mother countered laughing.
Undeterred, I said, “I have no intentions of going to bed naked when I’m married. While you all are running around in silky negligees—and let me tell you silk doesn’t breathe as well as cotton—or just naked, my husband will have to find me within the folds of the sweat suit.” I laughed at my own wit, proud to defend the sweat suit and happy that I’d cleverly come up with the latter part to support my statements.
“Find you? No man has time to find you when he wants nookie at night. Keep that up and you’ll get divorced quickly!” my mother said.
Thanksgiving dinner was usually at my mother’s house and one year I found myself practically falling asleep post-dinner, succumbing to the itis. I walked into my bedroom; my absence was unnoticed by my family since they were engrossed in round two of turkey dinners, pecan pie, and pina coladas. Two minutes later I emerged wearing a sweat suit. Immediately, my cousin Leah started laughing hysterically and asked, pointing to my ensemble, “What is that you’re wearing?”
“What? My sweat suit?” I asked, surprised.
“You’re ridiculous. I can’t believe you’re going to the gym on Thanksgiving.” Before I could respond, Cousin Leah continued, “If anyone should be going, it’s me. Relax yourself because those fitness instructors are out eating turkey too.”
While she had a point regarding the gym, Leah was also five feet two inches and two hundred pounds. Since she had misconstrued my sweat suit intention, I made an attempt to clarify the situation, saying, “Hello! I’m not working out. I’m getting ready for bed.”
Raucous laughter from my other cousins ensued, encouraging Cousin Leah to continue. “In that? You’ll sweat to death!” she said in between gasps for air.
“Excuse you. I happen to get cold at night,” I explained. “And since it’s almost 10 PM—my usual bedtime—my body is ready to feel the warmth of the sweat suit.”
“You don’t have a comforter?” Cousin Leah asked.
“I’m anemic,” I defended. “My doctor said so.”
“If you’re still cold wearing that sauna suit, I’d say you’re sick. It’s a wonder you didn’t melt away yet.”
Soon after, my mother joined the impromptu roast on my behalf adding, “She sleeps in that outfit every night—with the hood on her head. I keep telling her that when she gets married, she can’t sleep like that. She’ll have to wear a little teddy.”
“Or nothing!” Cousin Marie squealed, simultaneously getting up to high-five my mother and other cousins. “Me nevah wear nothing ahtall ahtall to bed wid me husband and we me have plenty fun, gyal!” she added.
“First of all, this is an inappropriate conversation, especially on a holiday like this. My virgin ears are bleeding,” I said.
“Gyal, bedroom talk is nevah inappropriate. We di try give yuh some tips to tantalize di mahn, but yuh di talk foolishness ‘bout virgin,” Cousin Maria said. “I mean fuh sey, how old dey now? Yuh nevah been wid ah mahn yet?”
I was mortified.
Chiming in, Cousin Leah added, “We are all family giving you advice. Good advice. I’m listening too,” she said winking.
“Second,” I continued, ignoring them, “No one uses the word ‘teddy’ anymore Mommy. That’s so old school.”
“You knew what it meant, didn’t you?” my mother countered laughing.
Undeterred, I said, “I have no intentions of going to bed naked when I’m married. While you all are running around in silky negligees—and let me tell you silk doesn’t breathe as well as cotton—or just naked, my husband will have to find me within the folds of the sweat suit.” I laughed at my own wit, proud to defend the sweat suit and happy that I’d cleverly come up with the latter part to support my statements.
“Find you? No man has time to find you when he wants nookie at night. Keep that up and you’ll get divorced quickly!” my mother said.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
ANECDOTE TUESDAY--COUSIN MARIA PACKS A PANTY
By now, I'm certain you believe I only see Cousin Maria at backyard cookouts, but, there was this one time my family drove to a beach in Long Island…
****
Even though it was midday on a sweltering Saturday, things were going well. My family had secured three picnic tables covered with food and drinks, and any grub that wasn’t on the table was still sizzling on the grill, which Cousin Maria manned. The peas and rice and was in the cooler to prevent it from spoiling. Someone had brought a super size radio that needed eight D-batteries so we could all jam out. It was turning out to be a good day—until it was time to go swimming.
****
"Psst," Cousin Leah said, beckoning me over. "You see anything on my pants?"
"No. Why?" I said.
"My friend came unexpectedly and I don't have anything," she said, stressing friend and anything to let me know it was that time of the month. She had asked the other women in our family for sanitary supplies, but no one had any with them. Except Cousin Maria.
Since Cousin Maria apparently had bionic hearing while manning the grill, she overheard the exchange between Cousin Leah and I.
"Whey wrong wid yuh?!" Cousin Maria shouted, bringing unnecessary attention to herself. She was completely sober. "Yuh neveah even ask mi! Oonu treat me like strangah!"
Embarrassed and exasperated, Cousin Maria and made the request.
"Hmphf, I shouldn't give yuh anyting ahtall ahtall, but wait," Cousin Maria said. She had left her grill station, with Cousin Leah and myself in tow, to rifle through her bag.
Looking quizzically at the bundled up beige polyester cloth Cousin Maria proffered, Cousin Leah said, "What do you want me to do with this?"
"Yuh crazy or what? It's ah pad and ah panty. Me walk wid dem eena mi pocketbook every single day! You nevah know when somebodie wahn have ah accident."
NOTE TO MEN: Most women do not carry drawers and sanitary supplies daily.
****
Even though it was midday on a sweltering Saturday, things were going well. My family had secured three picnic tables covered with food and drinks, and any grub that wasn’t on the table was still sizzling on the grill, which Cousin Maria manned. The peas and rice and was in the cooler to prevent it from spoiling. Someone had brought a super size radio that needed eight D-batteries so we could all jam out. It was turning out to be a good day—until it was time to go swimming.
****
"Psst," Cousin Leah said, beckoning me over. "You see anything on my pants?"
"No. Why?" I said.
"My friend came unexpectedly and I don't have anything," she said, stressing friend and anything to let me know it was that time of the month. She had asked the other women in our family for sanitary supplies, but no one had any with them. Except Cousin Maria.
Since Cousin Maria apparently had bionic hearing while manning the grill, she overheard the exchange between Cousin Leah and I.
"Whey wrong wid yuh?!" Cousin Maria shouted, bringing unnecessary attention to herself. She was completely sober. "Yuh neveah even ask mi! Oonu treat me like strangah!"
Embarrassed and exasperated, Cousin Maria and made the request.
"Hmphf, I shouldn't give yuh anyting ahtall ahtall, but wait," Cousin Maria said. She had left her grill station, with Cousin Leah and myself in tow, to rifle through her bag.
Looking quizzically at the bundled up beige polyester cloth Cousin Maria proffered, Cousin Leah said, "What do you want me to do with this?"
"Yuh crazy or what? It's ah pad and ah panty. Me walk wid dem eena mi pocketbook every single day! You nevah know when somebodie wahn have ah accident."
NOTE TO MEN: Most women do not carry drawers and sanitary supplies daily.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
ANECDOTE TUESDAY- COUSIN MARIA'S STRIPE SHIRT
At every family event, I arrived with my big-mini paparazzi camera, which most of my kin detested until Cousin Maria announced that she was traveling to Belize for the holidays. Our other cousins there wanted to see current pictures of “di fahmly eena di States,” because it had been over a decade since we last saw each other. Putting their annoyance aside, my stateside family smiled slightly, and for once, I was capturing more than palms.
****
”Whey yuh di snap dey evalastin’?” Cousin Maria asked, pushing back errant strands of her salt and pepper wavy hair that escaped from her taut ponytail. Without waiting for my response, Cousin Maria said, “Mekka see.”
I handed her my camera and showed her how to scroll through the current images as well as the ones I had forgotten to delete from our holiday and backyard gatherings. The more family fetes Cousin Maria saw, the more her smile faded away. After looking at four events, she had turned completely sullen.
"What's wrong?" I asked, concerned.
"Dis," she started, pointing to herself and leaving her fingerprint on my camera's screen. "In every picture me di wear the same shirt."
I looked. She was right—and she was wearing the same black and white stripe shirt that day.
"It's alright, we're family," I said, trying to comfort her.
"No! Everybodie have on ah nice pretty frock or press-up dungarees and me one have on ole clothes. Even mi shoes dem look mashup eena di pictcha and now dey have a hole," she said showing me.
I looked. Two of her toes peeked out.
As Cousin Maria’s brows furrowed and her big brown eyes started to water, she picked up her bag to leave and announced, "Me wahn juss stop come out." And at that, she was gone.
****
”Whey yuh di snap dey evalastin’?” Cousin Maria asked, pushing back errant strands of her salt and pepper wavy hair that escaped from her taut ponytail. Without waiting for my response, Cousin Maria said, “Mekka see.”
I handed her my camera and showed her how to scroll through the current images as well as the ones I had forgotten to delete from our holiday and backyard gatherings. The more family fetes Cousin Maria saw, the more her smile faded away. After looking at four events, she had turned completely sullen.
"What's wrong?" I asked, concerned.
"Dis," she started, pointing to herself and leaving her fingerprint on my camera's screen. "In every picture me di wear the same shirt."
I looked. She was right—and she was wearing the same black and white stripe shirt that day.
"It's alright, we're family," I said, trying to comfort her.
"No! Everybodie have on ah nice pretty frock or press-up dungarees and me one have on ole clothes. Even mi shoes dem look mashup eena di pictcha and now dey have a hole," she said showing me.
I looked. Two of her toes peeked out.
As Cousin Maria’s brows furrowed and her big brown eyes started to water, she picked up her bag to leave and announced, "Me wahn juss stop come out." And at that, she was gone.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
ANECDOTE TUESDAY - REEFAH
With much groveling, I had convinced my parents to allow me to attend a public high school instead of the all girl-girl Catholic school I had been accepted to on an academic scholarship.
At my mother's insistence, I had signed up for keyboarding class, electing to sit next to a girl who warmly smiled and waved me over. As soon as I sat down and squeezed my new five-subject spiral notebook and pens into the tight space between our archaic typewriters, the girl scooted her chair closer to me, then tossed her knapsack on her thighs.
"Yo girl," she said, startling me.
She doesn't seem so friendly anymore, I thought.
"Hi," I mumbled feebly.
"Look over here," she said pointing to her lap.
I looked at what seemed to be dirt in a plastic bag. "What is that?” I whispered.
"Weed."
"What?
"Weed."
"Dirt?" I asked in response. At fourteen, I had never heard that word nor seen weed.
"No," she hissed. "Weed. To smoke." She rolled her eyes, taxed that she had to even explain what it was.
I looked again and a light bulb went off in my head. "Reefah? I said, my Belizean accent automatically changing the "er" to "ah." I had only heard my mother mention reefah when referring to wayward, often ostracized family members.
"What?" The girl snapped.
"Reefah. That's what that is, nuh? Drugs?"
"No one says reefer anymore, and it's not really drugs. Just a little something to mellow you out," she explained, once again smiling.
I was rooted to my chair in fear of being labeled a drug-user, or worse, expelled. My public school experience was turning out to be nightmare. Maybe I should go back to Catholic school where it is safe, I mused in my naiveté.
"Here, try it," the girl said, offering me a smaller baggie. "I'll give you a free sample and tomorrow you can buy some from me."
"Um, well, my parents wouldn't want me to have it in the house so..."
"Smoke it in your bathroom when they're not home and spray some air freshener. You do know how to smoke, right?"
I avoided her question, instead saying, "Well, I...I won't have any money tomorrow. I think I'll pass, but thank you for offering," I said cordially.
She looked at me with disgust and started pitching the other student to the left of her. In an attempt to be helpful, I interrupted the girl’s presentation and showed her a sign that read, Say No to Drugs.
She glared at me then scooted her chair further away.
At my mother's insistence, I had signed up for keyboarding class, electing to sit next to a girl who warmly smiled and waved me over. As soon as I sat down and squeezed my new five-subject spiral notebook and pens into the tight space between our archaic typewriters, the girl scooted her chair closer to me, then tossed her knapsack on her thighs.
"Yo girl," she said, startling me.
She doesn't seem so friendly anymore, I thought.
"Hi," I mumbled feebly.
"Look over here," she said pointing to her lap.
I looked at what seemed to be dirt in a plastic bag. "What is that?” I whispered.
"Weed."
"What?
"Weed."
"Dirt?" I asked in response. At fourteen, I had never heard that word nor seen weed.
"No," she hissed. "Weed. To smoke." She rolled her eyes, taxed that she had to even explain what it was.
I looked again and a light bulb went off in my head. "Reefah? I said, my Belizean accent automatically changing the "er" to "ah." I had only heard my mother mention reefah when referring to wayward, often ostracized family members.
"What?" The girl snapped.
"Reefah. That's what that is, nuh? Drugs?"
"No one says reefer anymore, and it's not really drugs. Just a little something to mellow you out," she explained, once again smiling.
I was rooted to my chair in fear of being labeled a drug-user, or worse, expelled. My public school experience was turning out to be nightmare. Maybe I should go back to Catholic school where it is safe, I mused in my naiveté.
"Here, try it," the girl said, offering me a smaller baggie. "I'll give you a free sample and tomorrow you can buy some from me."
"Um, well, my parents wouldn't want me to have it in the house so..."
"Smoke it in your bathroom when they're not home and spray some air freshener. You do know how to smoke, right?"
I avoided her question, instead saying, "Well, I...I won't have any money tomorrow. I think I'll pass, but thank you for offering," I said cordially.
She looked at me with disgust and started pitching the other student to the left of her. In an attempt to be helpful, I interrupted the girl’s presentation and showed her a sign that read, Say No to Drugs.
She glared at me then scooted her chair further away.
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