Skin and bones, p.9
skin & bones, page 9
We move about the kitchen, half the food being prepared, the rest already on the stove or in the oven simmering, sizzling, or baking.
Aaliyah says, Tell me more about Great-Grandma. I wish I knew her. Was she born here like me?
Aunt Aretha says, No, baby, she was born in Arkansas. Her parents moved to Oregon because her father found work. Got a job working for the railroad. He convinced the family that living out west wasn’t that bad. She shakes her head and sighs. They were too naive to understand it’s bad for Black folks everywhere. She takes the bowl of cheese from Aaliyah, sets it aside, motions for a pot, and fills it with water.
Aunt Aretha turns to Aaliyah. My momma and daddy—your great-grandparents—met at a dance hall and married two months later. Now that ain’t enough time to know if the heart is in love or in fantasy. My mother didn’t give herself enough time to learn that what my daddy really wanted was a servant, not a wife. That he wanted sex, not intimacy. She didn’t give herself enough time to know what she wanted, that she could want. Then Aunt Aretha turns and says to me, Ain’t no rush. A woman should be allowed to take her time when it comes to who she’s giving her heart to.
Soon, there is a quiet in the kitchen. No more clanking pots, running water, slicing knives. Everything that needed to be prepared is complete and is cooking. We’ve washed and put away the dishes, and now, we wait.
Aaliyah peeks in the oven, watching the cornbread. Aunt Aretha, why do you own a soul food restaurant if soul food kills people?
I try to explain, Aaliyah, soul food doesn’t kill—
But Aunt Aretha said that Great-Grandma—
Oh, well, sweetheart, I’m sorry I confused you. Let’s clear this up. First of all, not everything a grandmother or mother says is the truth.
When Aaliyah hears this, she looks at me like she wants me to confirm if this is really how it is.
Aunt Aretha continues, Momma was right about a lot of things, but she was wrong about that restaurant. That was the best decision I ever made.
Now, I’m the one with questions. Grandma didn’t want you to open the restaurant?
Oh, my, not at all. Every time I saw her, she’d say something negative about the restaurant. Or me. You don’t remember that? Maybe you were too young.
I pull up memories that have been dormant for years. What first comes to mind is being at a family dinner and hearing Grandma say to Aunt Aretha, You might have to close that restaurant down if you can’t control yourself from eating all the food. Your hips and belly are telling all your business—you supposed to be serving the food, not eating it all.
The whole family laughed.
I can’t remember what Aunt Aretha did.
Or what Honey did.
But I know I laughed too.
The thought of my hips and belly telling on me was hilarious. Would my hips tell how I practiced my sexy walk in the mirror? I was just eight or nine and could hardly walk in Honey’s heels and couldn’t fully define the word sexy, but I knew there was a walk that beautiful, wanted women had. I wanted to master it. Switch, switch, switching down the hallway, looking in the full-length mirror to make sure my hips were swaying the right way. What would my hips say if they could?
It didn’t dawn on me then that Grandma was saying Aunt Aretha was gaining weight, spilling out of her clothes, and clearly indulging in her the-boss-eats-free perk. Grandma’s words didn’t mean much to me back then, but sitting here now with forty years’ worth of weight on me, I think about what she was truly saying—that you could lie or be in denial about what you were eating, but the body would always tell the truth.
grandma
Aunt Aretha has been gone for a while now. I am in Aaliyah’s room, helping her choose a book. Since she was a baby, it’s been a ritual for us to read together on Saturday evenings just before bed. She is old enough to read to me, sounding out the hard words, so proud of herself when she makes it to the end of a paragraph without my help. But sometimes she just wants to listen to me, just wants the story to wash over her and lull her to sleep. We haven’t done this since I called off the wedding. It feels good to have some normalcy, to have some quality time.
This one! Aaliyah says.
What about one of the chapter books I brought home from work? You practically know all sixteen of these poems by heart.
Because it’s my favorite, she tells me, as she opens Honey, I Love by Eloise Greenfield. Remember when I thought you wrote this for Honey?
I do.
But then you told me it was written for girls like me.
It was.
We cuddle on the yellow chaise in Aaliyah’s reading corner. Just as she is about to start reading out loud, she closes the book and says, Actually, can you tell me a story instead?
Sure. You want to make it up with me? We can go back and forth.
No, I want a real story, a true story. Tell me something about Great-Grandma and Honey and Aunt Aretha and you when you were my age. What do you remember?
I pull Aaliyah close, mine stories from my childhood. I’m hardly getting started and already Aaliyah is asleep. I don’t wake her right away. Instead, I sit and hold her, close my eyes, and remember all I thought I forgot.
What I remember is the Strawberry Shortcake bike I got for my birthday. It was pink and red with a basket at the front. Red, pink, and white streamers hung from the handlebars, and the banana seat was decorated in strawberries. I rode that bike everywhere. Sometimes I’d collect flowers and put them in my basket. On days when I wanted to leave for a long time and spend the whole day with my friends, I’d sneak snacks from the pantry and store them in the basket so I’d have something to eat while I was out exploring the neighborhood. Twinkies, Hostess apple pie, whatever treats Honey had bought at Safeway.
I remember one day I came back home from my excursion, and Grandma was sitting on the porch with Honey. Before I could even get off the bike, here she came walking over to hug me. When she let me out of her embrace, she saw all the empty wrappers in the basket. The look on her face told me I was in big trouble, but instead of scolding me, she turned around and went off on Honey.
You letting this child eat this junk? When she get diabetes, ain’t gonna be nobody to blame but you.
Honey didn’t say a word, hardly looked at her mother at all.
I’ve been wondering what you feedin’ this girl. Every time I see her she bigger and bigger. You better get that under control before it’s too late.
Grandma took the wrappers out of my basket and walked into the house to throw them away. I heard her mumble to herself, Better be careful when you take them training wheels off. That bike might not be able to hold her up, all that weight on it.
I just knew this would be the last day in my life that I’d have anything sweet. I expected Honey to raid the kitchen and throw away anything Grandma deemed unhealthy, but a few days later when we went to the store, she filled the basket with milk and eggs and bread and fresh spinach and chicken to bake and fish to fry and sweet potatoes to roast
and Twinkies and Hostess Apple Pies
and Slice soda and Johnny Apple Seeds and Nerds and Push Pops
and Cookie Crisp cereal and Pop Tarts
and Pepperoni Hot Pockets
and Cheese and Sausage Bagel Bites.
I remember.
I remember feeling caught in the middle of a grandma who wouldn’t let me have any of it and a mother who let me have it all.
I remember feeling confused by Grandma’s blatant disdain for my body and her palpable affection all at once. What I remember is Grandma reaching into her pocketbook, pulling out a five- or ten- or twenty-dollar bill, telling me to get myself something just for me. I remember her patience with me when I was sounding out words too big for my little-girl vocabulary, but just the right challenge for my curious mind. I remember her buying me books, so I could keep them forever and never have to return them to the library. I remember her nursing me on days I was too sick to go to school and Dad and Honey had to work. Her around-the-clock care included watching a marathon of soap operas and Oprah Winfrey at four o’clock, and always ginger ale and saltines—every Black woman’s medicine. What I remember is her miracle hands in my scalp, combing, parting, pressing, barretting. When you gonna lose this baby fat? she’d ask. Even when I was five and six and seven and eight and nine and ten and sixteen and twenty-one, and not any age close to being a baby. You want men to want you, don’t you? You have such a pretty face, got to get the rest of you together.
Got to get the rest of me together.
I remember wanting to be put together for Grandma. Always proud to show off an accomplishment, always afraid to admit I had done something I knew she’d disapprove of. When I found out I was pregnant, she was the last person I told. I waited and waited till I couldn’t hide my growing belly anymore. For the longest time, no one knew unless I told them. Looked like I had just gained more weight. I never had that perfect round pregnant belly, so it was easy to hide. When I told Grandma, to my surprise she said, Well, Lena, I’m glad you found someone to love you even with all that weight. I was worried for so long that you’d die without ever being loved.
I remember.
Grandma died before Aaliyah was born. She died without knowing her name, without holding her, without knowing Bryan would leave me and his daughter to chase his dream in another state. She died without seeing me fall apart at his leaving, without seeing me rebuild and heal.
Just like Honey, I never said anything to Grandma and neither did Aunt Aretha. Not verbally, anyway. Maybe we are all responding now. Aunt Aretha with her restaurant that is thriving and about to open another location out in Gresham now that Black folks have moved over there. Her unapologetic self-love at every size she’s been, will be. And Honey, who, with her body that has relatively stayed the same, stayed acceptable to Grandma’s standards, and who refuses to judge or make comments on anyone’s body. And me, not being tricked by the mirage of love. Me, trying my best to get myself together… for me.
hair
I was always jealous of Kendra’s hair. It was thick and could do every Black girl hairstyle. I swore her mom worked as a hairstylist for Ebony magazine, the way she’d come to school one day with her hair bone-straight and jet-black, not a nap to be found, and then she’d rock Brandy braids, baby hairs slicked, and every part down her scalp straight like a ruler had been used to measure the gaps between each single. Kendra loved to experiment. She’d dye it, cut it, weave it, perm it, braid it. Always, she was photo-shoot ready. Her hair was not merely her crown, it was fine art, her masterpiece.
Aspen couldn’t do much. Not living under Deacon Brown’s roof. Everything about her hair was modest. Ms. Brown wouldn’t even let her get a perm. She pressed it up until high school, then started getting it flat-ironed. The most creative Aspen could get was choosing how short to cut her bangs or where to part her hair. Usually she parted it on the left and swept her hair over to add a little something, and senior year, when she gained a little weight and her cheeks grew fuller, she parted her hair down the middle so it could drape her face, hide some of the puffiness. She never, ever pulled it into a ponytail, even though her long straight hair would’ve been stunning swaying from side to side, so long that even when it was pulled up she still had hang time. My face looks bigger when my hair is pulled back, she’d said. Makes me look like a little girl.
When Kendra realized Aspen had never had a perm, she couldn’t stop teasing her. Girl, everything about you is a virgin.
Grandma or Aunt Aretha usually washed and styled my hair because Honey’s arthritis made her hands weak, and combing through my thick tresses was too much for her. In elementary and middle school, I wore it in ponytails and braids, mostly. In high school I chopped it off, wanted to look like Toni Braxton. Honey hated it, Aunt Aretha loved it. Bryan said he missed running his fingers through my hair when we had sex. I grew it back out in college and started wearing it natural: kinky twist-outs, braid-outs, high puffs, pineapples. Once Grandma said to me, You like everything big, don’t you? Big hair, big hips, big butt. She was laughing like what she was saying was loving jest, not offensive insult. Folks sitting behind you can’t see over you and folks walking behind you can’t get around you.
training wheels
The library is having a citywide professional development day. A young White woman is leading the workshop, and after all the logistical announcements, she begins the session by saying, Public libraries and school libraries are under attack. We are here to talk about how to fight legislative censorship and book challenges. It is our hope that today, you all leave feeling empowered and equipped with all you need as you go back to your communities and advocate for liberty and justice for all—especially when it comes to reading.
And as these things go, it has to start off with get-to-know-you icebreakers with colleagues who work at other branches. We’ve been asked to partner with someone we don’t know well. I don’t have much choice, since I am standing at the coffee station and there’s only one other person over here who’s come for a refill too. I’ve met him before, so I try to think of his name without looking at his name tag. Before I guess it, he sticks his hand out to me, says, Lena, right? I’m Blake. We met last month at the mixer. Want to be partners?
Hi, Blake. Nice to see you again. I pour my coffee, reach for the sugar but then grab Splenda instead and pour a splash of cream. I see Cynthia, a Mexican woman I used to work with before I transferred to this branch. She smiles at me with a knowing look, as if to say, I’d rather be partnered with you. I smile back, nod, telepathing my response. Girl, you know the only two Women of Color can’t be in the same group.
Alright everyone, the workshop facilitator says. We’re going to play Two Truths and a Lie. She goes over the instructions, and already I am checking the clock to see what time it is. We’re not even thirty minutes into this workshop, and I’m ready to go home. Your partner will have to guess the lie, she says, with too much enthusiasm for a morning meeting.
I go first:
I hate spicy food.
I don’t know how to ride a bike without training wheels.
I graduated summa cum laude from the University of Oregon.
Hmm. Blake looks me over, thinking, thinking. He is taking this serious, as if there’s some kind of grand prize if he guesses right. He leans back in his chair, runs his left hand through his messy nineties-boy-band hair. Okay, the lie is that you don’t know how to ride a bike. I mean, who doesn’t know how to ride a bike? Especially in the Pacific Northwest.
I smile. You guessed wrong, I tell him. The lie is that I hate spicy food. I actually love it.
So wait—you really don’t know how to ride a bike? What, are you against exercise or something?
He doesn’t mean to say it. I can tell because immediately his face turns red and he starts apologizing profusely. I—um—I didn’t mean it like that—
Like what?
Like, I wasn’t saying that a woman your size—I wasn’t implying… what I meant was… Blake sighs. I hope I didn’t offend you—
It’s your turn. You should go before we run out of time, I say. Because really, what am I supposed to do in this moment?
Well, hell, I—the only statements I can think of are definitely true: Hi, I’m Blake, and I’m an idiot. Hi, I’m Blake, and sometimes I don’t think before I speak. Hi, I’m Blake, and—
The facilitator is at the front of the room, gently ringing a chime that echoes through the space. Time to gather back into our full group, she says. Please thank your partner before you head back to your seat.
Blake thanks me and apologizes one more time. His face is still red, his cup still full of the coffee he never took a sip of.
For the first half of the day, I can’t focus on anything being said. I am thinking about my Strawberry Shortcake bike and the day Dad tried to get me to ride it without training wheels. Dad came into the living room early one morning while I was watching Saturday-morning cartoons, saying, Go on and get yourself some breakfast and get dressed so we can get outside. Today’s the day you’re going to learn to ride your bike without your training wheels. He was all smiles and so proud of himself for already taking the training wheels off. He had been talking about it for weeks, but I kept saying, Just one more ride, just one more with them on. I’m scared. I don’t want to fall.
I’ll teach you, baby girl. I won’t let you fall, he’d say every time. Today, he didn’t let me protest. He went into the kitchen, poured me a bowl of Cookie Crisp, and got the milk out of the fridge. Just as The Smurfs went off, I finished my cereal and got up to get dressed and ready to go outside. I tried to think of an excuse, but nothing came to mind. I definitely didn’t want to lie and say I was sick. That would mean staying inside all day. I was halfway down the hallway to my room when I heard the theme song to Punky Brewster come on. Dad, please? Please can we wait till this goes off?
One last show, Lena. And then it’s me, you, and Miss Strawberry Shortcake.
After Punky Brewster, I got up the nerve to go outside and was grateful no one else was out playing. My bike looked different without the training wheels, looked like a big girl’s bike. Maybe I would start riding with some of the older girls who lived down the street if I could muster up the courage to learn how.
Alright, here we go, Dad said. I’m going to hold the back of the bike while you get on.
I straddled the bike but hardly sat down. Grandma’s rebuke had been months ago, but still, it rang loud and clear in my mind. It had been on repeat since the day she said it: That bike might not be able to hold her up, all that weight on it.
I couldn’t get on.
Lena, just sit down. I got you. I’m holding the bike. Dad was calm and gentle, and I believed that he believed I would be just fine, but I believed Grandma more. I didn’t want to break my bike, the gift my parents surprised me with. I didn’t want to fall to the ground in front of nosy neighbors peeking out of their windows.
Aaliyah says, Tell me more about Great-Grandma. I wish I knew her. Was she born here like me?
Aunt Aretha says, No, baby, she was born in Arkansas. Her parents moved to Oregon because her father found work. Got a job working for the railroad. He convinced the family that living out west wasn’t that bad. She shakes her head and sighs. They were too naive to understand it’s bad for Black folks everywhere. She takes the bowl of cheese from Aaliyah, sets it aside, motions for a pot, and fills it with water.
Aunt Aretha turns to Aaliyah. My momma and daddy—your great-grandparents—met at a dance hall and married two months later. Now that ain’t enough time to know if the heart is in love or in fantasy. My mother didn’t give herself enough time to learn that what my daddy really wanted was a servant, not a wife. That he wanted sex, not intimacy. She didn’t give herself enough time to know what she wanted, that she could want. Then Aunt Aretha turns and says to me, Ain’t no rush. A woman should be allowed to take her time when it comes to who she’s giving her heart to.
Soon, there is a quiet in the kitchen. No more clanking pots, running water, slicing knives. Everything that needed to be prepared is complete and is cooking. We’ve washed and put away the dishes, and now, we wait.
Aaliyah peeks in the oven, watching the cornbread. Aunt Aretha, why do you own a soul food restaurant if soul food kills people?
I try to explain, Aaliyah, soul food doesn’t kill—
But Aunt Aretha said that Great-Grandma—
Oh, well, sweetheart, I’m sorry I confused you. Let’s clear this up. First of all, not everything a grandmother or mother says is the truth.
When Aaliyah hears this, she looks at me like she wants me to confirm if this is really how it is.
Aunt Aretha continues, Momma was right about a lot of things, but she was wrong about that restaurant. That was the best decision I ever made.
Now, I’m the one with questions. Grandma didn’t want you to open the restaurant?
Oh, my, not at all. Every time I saw her, she’d say something negative about the restaurant. Or me. You don’t remember that? Maybe you were too young.
I pull up memories that have been dormant for years. What first comes to mind is being at a family dinner and hearing Grandma say to Aunt Aretha, You might have to close that restaurant down if you can’t control yourself from eating all the food. Your hips and belly are telling all your business—you supposed to be serving the food, not eating it all.
The whole family laughed.
I can’t remember what Aunt Aretha did.
Or what Honey did.
But I know I laughed too.
The thought of my hips and belly telling on me was hilarious. Would my hips tell how I practiced my sexy walk in the mirror? I was just eight or nine and could hardly walk in Honey’s heels and couldn’t fully define the word sexy, but I knew there was a walk that beautiful, wanted women had. I wanted to master it. Switch, switch, switching down the hallway, looking in the full-length mirror to make sure my hips were swaying the right way. What would my hips say if they could?
It didn’t dawn on me then that Grandma was saying Aunt Aretha was gaining weight, spilling out of her clothes, and clearly indulging in her the-boss-eats-free perk. Grandma’s words didn’t mean much to me back then, but sitting here now with forty years’ worth of weight on me, I think about what she was truly saying—that you could lie or be in denial about what you were eating, but the body would always tell the truth.
grandma
Aunt Aretha has been gone for a while now. I am in Aaliyah’s room, helping her choose a book. Since she was a baby, it’s been a ritual for us to read together on Saturday evenings just before bed. She is old enough to read to me, sounding out the hard words, so proud of herself when she makes it to the end of a paragraph without my help. But sometimes she just wants to listen to me, just wants the story to wash over her and lull her to sleep. We haven’t done this since I called off the wedding. It feels good to have some normalcy, to have some quality time.
This one! Aaliyah says.
What about one of the chapter books I brought home from work? You practically know all sixteen of these poems by heart.
Because it’s my favorite, she tells me, as she opens Honey, I Love by Eloise Greenfield. Remember when I thought you wrote this for Honey?
I do.
But then you told me it was written for girls like me.
It was.
We cuddle on the yellow chaise in Aaliyah’s reading corner. Just as she is about to start reading out loud, she closes the book and says, Actually, can you tell me a story instead?
Sure. You want to make it up with me? We can go back and forth.
No, I want a real story, a true story. Tell me something about Great-Grandma and Honey and Aunt Aretha and you when you were my age. What do you remember?
I pull Aaliyah close, mine stories from my childhood. I’m hardly getting started and already Aaliyah is asleep. I don’t wake her right away. Instead, I sit and hold her, close my eyes, and remember all I thought I forgot.
What I remember is the Strawberry Shortcake bike I got for my birthday. It was pink and red with a basket at the front. Red, pink, and white streamers hung from the handlebars, and the banana seat was decorated in strawberries. I rode that bike everywhere. Sometimes I’d collect flowers and put them in my basket. On days when I wanted to leave for a long time and spend the whole day with my friends, I’d sneak snacks from the pantry and store them in the basket so I’d have something to eat while I was out exploring the neighborhood. Twinkies, Hostess apple pie, whatever treats Honey had bought at Safeway.
I remember one day I came back home from my excursion, and Grandma was sitting on the porch with Honey. Before I could even get off the bike, here she came walking over to hug me. When she let me out of her embrace, she saw all the empty wrappers in the basket. The look on her face told me I was in big trouble, but instead of scolding me, she turned around and went off on Honey.
You letting this child eat this junk? When she get diabetes, ain’t gonna be nobody to blame but you.
Honey didn’t say a word, hardly looked at her mother at all.
I’ve been wondering what you feedin’ this girl. Every time I see her she bigger and bigger. You better get that under control before it’s too late.
Grandma took the wrappers out of my basket and walked into the house to throw them away. I heard her mumble to herself, Better be careful when you take them training wheels off. That bike might not be able to hold her up, all that weight on it.
I just knew this would be the last day in my life that I’d have anything sweet. I expected Honey to raid the kitchen and throw away anything Grandma deemed unhealthy, but a few days later when we went to the store, she filled the basket with milk and eggs and bread and fresh spinach and chicken to bake and fish to fry and sweet potatoes to roast
and Twinkies and Hostess Apple Pies
and Slice soda and Johnny Apple Seeds and Nerds and Push Pops
and Cookie Crisp cereal and Pop Tarts
and Pepperoni Hot Pockets
and Cheese and Sausage Bagel Bites.
I remember.
I remember feeling caught in the middle of a grandma who wouldn’t let me have any of it and a mother who let me have it all.
I remember feeling confused by Grandma’s blatant disdain for my body and her palpable affection all at once. What I remember is Grandma reaching into her pocketbook, pulling out a five- or ten- or twenty-dollar bill, telling me to get myself something just for me. I remember her patience with me when I was sounding out words too big for my little-girl vocabulary, but just the right challenge for my curious mind. I remember her buying me books, so I could keep them forever and never have to return them to the library. I remember her nursing me on days I was too sick to go to school and Dad and Honey had to work. Her around-the-clock care included watching a marathon of soap operas and Oprah Winfrey at four o’clock, and always ginger ale and saltines—every Black woman’s medicine. What I remember is her miracle hands in my scalp, combing, parting, pressing, barretting. When you gonna lose this baby fat? she’d ask. Even when I was five and six and seven and eight and nine and ten and sixteen and twenty-one, and not any age close to being a baby. You want men to want you, don’t you? You have such a pretty face, got to get the rest of you together.
Got to get the rest of me together.
I remember wanting to be put together for Grandma. Always proud to show off an accomplishment, always afraid to admit I had done something I knew she’d disapprove of. When I found out I was pregnant, she was the last person I told. I waited and waited till I couldn’t hide my growing belly anymore. For the longest time, no one knew unless I told them. Looked like I had just gained more weight. I never had that perfect round pregnant belly, so it was easy to hide. When I told Grandma, to my surprise she said, Well, Lena, I’m glad you found someone to love you even with all that weight. I was worried for so long that you’d die without ever being loved.
I remember.
Grandma died before Aaliyah was born. She died without knowing her name, without holding her, without knowing Bryan would leave me and his daughter to chase his dream in another state. She died without seeing me fall apart at his leaving, without seeing me rebuild and heal.
Just like Honey, I never said anything to Grandma and neither did Aunt Aretha. Not verbally, anyway. Maybe we are all responding now. Aunt Aretha with her restaurant that is thriving and about to open another location out in Gresham now that Black folks have moved over there. Her unapologetic self-love at every size she’s been, will be. And Honey, who, with her body that has relatively stayed the same, stayed acceptable to Grandma’s standards, and who refuses to judge or make comments on anyone’s body. And me, not being tricked by the mirage of love. Me, trying my best to get myself together… for me.
hair
I was always jealous of Kendra’s hair. It was thick and could do every Black girl hairstyle. I swore her mom worked as a hairstylist for Ebony magazine, the way she’d come to school one day with her hair bone-straight and jet-black, not a nap to be found, and then she’d rock Brandy braids, baby hairs slicked, and every part down her scalp straight like a ruler had been used to measure the gaps between each single. Kendra loved to experiment. She’d dye it, cut it, weave it, perm it, braid it. Always, she was photo-shoot ready. Her hair was not merely her crown, it was fine art, her masterpiece.
Aspen couldn’t do much. Not living under Deacon Brown’s roof. Everything about her hair was modest. Ms. Brown wouldn’t even let her get a perm. She pressed it up until high school, then started getting it flat-ironed. The most creative Aspen could get was choosing how short to cut her bangs or where to part her hair. Usually she parted it on the left and swept her hair over to add a little something, and senior year, when she gained a little weight and her cheeks grew fuller, she parted her hair down the middle so it could drape her face, hide some of the puffiness. She never, ever pulled it into a ponytail, even though her long straight hair would’ve been stunning swaying from side to side, so long that even when it was pulled up she still had hang time. My face looks bigger when my hair is pulled back, she’d said. Makes me look like a little girl.
When Kendra realized Aspen had never had a perm, she couldn’t stop teasing her. Girl, everything about you is a virgin.
Grandma or Aunt Aretha usually washed and styled my hair because Honey’s arthritis made her hands weak, and combing through my thick tresses was too much for her. In elementary and middle school, I wore it in ponytails and braids, mostly. In high school I chopped it off, wanted to look like Toni Braxton. Honey hated it, Aunt Aretha loved it. Bryan said he missed running his fingers through my hair when we had sex. I grew it back out in college and started wearing it natural: kinky twist-outs, braid-outs, high puffs, pineapples. Once Grandma said to me, You like everything big, don’t you? Big hair, big hips, big butt. She was laughing like what she was saying was loving jest, not offensive insult. Folks sitting behind you can’t see over you and folks walking behind you can’t get around you.
training wheels
The library is having a citywide professional development day. A young White woman is leading the workshop, and after all the logistical announcements, she begins the session by saying, Public libraries and school libraries are under attack. We are here to talk about how to fight legislative censorship and book challenges. It is our hope that today, you all leave feeling empowered and equipped with all you need as you go back to your communities and advocate for liberty and justice for all—especially when it comes to reading.
And as these things go, it has to start off with get-to-know-you icebreakers with colleagues who work at other branches. We’ve been asked to partner with someone we don’t know well. I don’t have much choice, since I am standing at the coffee station and there’s only one other person over here who’s come for a refill too. I’ve met him before, so I try to think of his name without looking at his name tag. Before I guess it, he sticks his hand out to me, says, Lena, right? I’m Blake. We met last month at the mixer. Want to be partners?
Hi, Blake. Nice to see you again. I pour my coffee, reach for the sugar but then grab Splenda instead and pour a splash of cream. I see Cynthia, a Mexican woman I used to work with before I transferred to this branch. She smiles at me with a knowing look, as if to say, I’d rather be partnered with you. I smile back, nod, telepathing my response. Girl, you know the only two Women of Color can’t be in the same group.
Alright everyone, the workshop facilitator says. We’re going to play Two Truths and a Lie. She goes over the instructions, and already I am checking the clock to see what time it is. We’re not even thirty minutes into this workshop, and I’m ready to go home. Your partner will have to guess the lie, she says, with too much enthusiasm for a morning meeting.
I go first:
I hate spicy food.
I don’t know how to ride a bike without training wheels.
I graduated summa cum laude from the University of Oregon.
Hmm. Blake looks me over, thinking, thinking. He is taking this serious, as if there’s some kind of grand prize if he guesses right. He leans back in his chair, runs his left hand through his messy nineties-boy-band hair. Okay, the lie is that you don’t know how to ride a bike. I mean, who doesn’t know how to ride a bike? Especially in the Pacific Northwest.
I smile. You guessed wrong, I tell him. The lie is that I hate spicy food. I actually love it.
So wait—you really don’t know how to ride a bike? What, are you against exercise or something?
He doesn’t mean to say it. I can tell because immediately his face turns red and he starts apologizing profusely. I—um—I didn’t mean it like that—
Like what?
Like, I wasn’t saying that a woman your size—I wasn’t implying… what I meant was… Blake sighs. I hope I didn’t offend you—
It’s your turn. You should go before we run out of time, I say. Because really, what am I supposed to do in this moment?
Well, hell, I—the only statements I can think of are definitely true: Hi, I’m Blake, and I’m an idiot. Hi, I’m Blake, and sometimes I don’t think before I speak. Hi, I’m Blake, and—
The facilitator is at the front of the room, gently ringing a chime that echoes through the space. Time to gather back into our full group, she says. Please thank your partner before you head back to your seat.
Blake thanks me and apologizes one more time. His face is still red, his cup still full of the coffee he never took a sip of.
For the first half of the day, I can’t focus on anything being said. I am thinking about my Strawberry Shortcake bike and the day Dad tried to get me to ride it without training wheels. Dad came into the living room early one morning while I was watching Saturday-morning cartoons, saying, Go on and get yourself some breakfast and get dressed so we can get outside. Today’s the day you’re going to learn to ride your bike without your training wheels. He was all smiles and so proud of himself for already taking the training wheels off. He had been talking about it for weeks, but I kept saying, Just one more ride, just one more with them on. I’m scared. I don’t want to fall.
I’ll teach you, baby girl. I won’t let you fall, he’d say every time. Today, he didn’t let me protest. He went into the kitchen, poured me a bowl of Cookie Crisp, and got the milk out of the fridge. Just as The Smurfs went off, I finished my cereal and got up to get dressed and ready to go outside. I tried to think of an excuse, but nothing came to mind. I definitely didn’t want to lie and say I was sick. That would mean staying inside all day. I was halfway down the hallway to my room when I heard the theme song to Punky Brewster come on. Dad, please? Please can we wait till this goes off?
One last show, Lena. And then it’s me, you, and Miss Strawberry Shortcake.
After Punky Brewster, I got up the nerve to go outside and was grateful no one else was out playing. My bike looked different without the training wheels, looked like a big girl’s bike. Maybe I would start riding with some of the older girls who lived down the street if I could muster up the courage to learn how.
Alright, here we go, Dad said. I’m going to hold the back of the bike while you get on.
I straddled the bike but hardly sat down. Grandma’s rebuke had been months ago, but still, it rang loud and clear in my mind. It had been on repeat since the day she said it: That bike might not be able to hold her up, all that weight on it.
I couldn’t get on.
Lena, just sit down. I got you. I’m holding the bike. Dad was calm and gentle, and I believed that he believed I would be just fine, but I believed Grandma more. I didn’t want to break my bike, the gift my parents surprised me with. I didn’t want to fall to the ground in front of nosy neighbors peeking out of their windows.
