by MrAshleyD
****
Inspired
Seventeen-year old Tamara Dubois rushes into her bedroom and slams the door behind her. Tears stream down her face and over her honey brown complexion of her cheeks. “ I hate you,” she screams at the closed door. James Dubois sits at the dining table sipping a cup of coffee. At 43, his age shows through traces of gray in his jet-black curly hair and hairline that starts in the middle of his head. He has gained a few pounds with age and it shows from his tight post office uniform. He sips his coffee with a wrinkle in his brow as his wife Debra stands from the table with her plate in hand. Wearing a blue floral housedress and slippers, she makes her way around the table to collect James’ plate. Debra, the same age as James, has aged well only showing her age around her eyes. She reaches over to grab the half eaten plate of food that resides next to James. “I think you were a bit hard on her,” she says, breaking the silence.
“No daughter of mine is going off to some studio with some sleazy producer to sing some butt-shaking song, “ he shouts loud enough for her to hear him upstairs.
“Your such a hypocrite James,” Debra snaps. “ She is good. Damn good, and this could be a great opportunity for her.”
“We are a Christian family and I don’t want my daughter singing about such worldly things,” James protests. “That industry is not for a young woman. There are too many predators, weirdoes and sexual deviants running around.”
“To crush her dreams like that?”
“I don’t want…” Debra waits for her husband to complete his sentence. James stares into his cup for a moment before drinking down the rest of his coffee. “It’s not going to happen,” he declares. “ End of conversation.” Debra watches as her husband leave the room with a look anger and disgust on her face, but continues to clear the table without a word spoken.
A banquet of food clutter the middle of the table as the family gathers around at James mother’s home. Tamara sits with her hands in her lap staring at her plate. Tamara’s grandmother, a heavy-set black woman in her 70’s with long wavy grey hair, notice child’s distance. Handing a tray of black-eyed peas to James she says, “Tammy, you sure sang good at church today.” James and Debra both agree as James passes the rice to Debra.
“She sure did,” Debra announces, staring at James.
“Umm hum,” James mumbles. “Real good baby girl.” Tamara never looks up from her plate.
“But not good enough to sing in a studio,” she responds.
“ Those are not good Christian songs,” James demands. “I raised you better than that. The same as my momma and daddy, Lord rest his soul, raised me. Go on Momma, tell her.” James’ mother stares at him awkwardly for a moment, while searching for words.
“You’re right James,” she responds softly. “A young Christian woman should not parade herself around in a negative way.”
“But Nana, there is nothing wrong with the songs,” Tamara responds in an uproar. “There isn’t any cursing, talk of sex, or…”
“Now you wait a minute young lady,” James yells. “You better watch your tongue. I said no and that’s that.” Tamara pushes her plate away and leans backward in her chair with her arms folded. Tamara’s grandmother gazes at her with much worry as Debra glares at James while he eats.
“Come with me darling,” James mother announces as she stands and grabs Tamara’s hand. “I want to show you something.” James stops in mid chew staring at his mother in shock and shaking his head slightly. She waves him off as she and Tamara depart for her bedroom.
They enter into her grandmother’s bedroom and sit upon her neatly made bed positioned under a picture of Jesus Christ. “Nana, it isn’t fair. All I want to do is sing and he won’t let me,” Tamara sobs.
“Oh child, your father is just trying to protect you,” she responds.
“From what?”
Tamara’s grandmother eases from the bed and makes her way over to her closet. She opens the door and pulls out a large odd shaped box. She then places the box onto the floor next to the wall, opens it and plugs it in. The box is an old reel-to-reel recorder. She fumbles around with it for a moment then a song begins to play. A sweet melodic voice comes through singing a lovely ballad.
“Is that you Nana,” Tamara asks in astonishment.
“It is darling.”
“You sound fantastic.”
“I had a dream too,” she responds.
“What happened?” She unplugs the radio from the wall; killing the music, she grabs the recorder from the floor and sits next to her grandchild.
“I was just like you,” she answers wearily. “All I wanted to do was sing. And everyone knew that, even the man that produced this song.”
“What do you mean Nana?”
“Let’s just say, your grandfather isn’t your biological grandfather.”
“What? Does my dad know?”
“He does. That is what he is trying to protect you from baby-girl. He doesn’t want the same thing to happen to you.”
“I’m so sorry Nana.”
“Darling, I know you are a very good singer, but you have to be smart if you plan on pursuing this. Any fool with a sweet voice can sing, but only the smart ones succeed.” She hands the recorder to Tamara. “ I want you to keep this and always remember this conversation.” Tamara reluctantly takes the recorder without a word. She stares at it long and hard. A tear from her face falls in between the reels. She looks up from the recorder and she is no longer seventeen, but a grown woman in her 30’s. She lefts the recorder and places it onto a shelf in between two Grammy awards.
