As she dipped my bread in coffee, I got distracted by tiny particles floating in the beam of light entering the window above the kitchen sink. Ma Tante, ever vigilant of my feelings, asked what I was staring at. The peanut-butter-lathered bread I had been chewing stalled in the crook of my cheek. I pointed to the snowfall of particles. It seemed like the most magical thing I’d ever seen.
Ma Tante smiled. “Magical, non?” she asked, echoing my thoughts. “Things are always floating around us. But just like that sunbeam, it takes the light in our hearts to see magic that is invisible to most people.”
From then on, wherever I went, I searched for magic around me.
“Voilà,” Ma Tante would say to alert me to the tiny, everyday miracles in progress.
It was our secret.
I liked it better back when Tara and Tina were ignorant. Ever since the earthquake, this office’s two medical assistants (or, as Ma Tante playfully refers to them, “the lookalikes”) think they know everything about me. It’s only been five minutes since my sister, Anne, dropped us off here, yet I’m already annoyed.
A sympathetic expression stretches the corners of Tara’s eyes as she waits for my reply. She’s taller and older than her sister.
“Yup — I’m fourteen now.” I nod, squeezing the last bit of polite from my reserves. “And yes — both my parents are from Haiti.”
“Oh, you see, TiTi?” Tara nudges her sister with the back of her hand. “I told you!”
I shrug. People have assumed this before — that I’m only half Haitian. Or at least, those who can’t understand how a person with longer hair or lighter skin could come from Haiti.
My great-aunt is positioning her metal cane below her seat as she settles into her chair, getting acquainted with its contours in preparation for the long wait before her name is finally called. The doctor’s office is filling up quickly. Over the past few years, as Ma Tante’s painfully curved back has pulled her closer to the earth, the matching-scrub sisters started jumping her nearer to the top of the waiting list. But it’s still going to take time. Lots of it.
“Go sit down, baby,” Tara says, taking pity on me. “We’ll call your auntie’s name when the doctor is ready.”
I harrumph to myself on my way to the empty seat next to Ma Tante. When the doctor is ready. I could bet any money he isn’t even in. It never fails — halfway through our wait, the top of the good doctor’s ample-sized dome can be seen bobbing past the driveway-facing window. He thinks he’s sneaking in, but his conspicuously big head always gives him away.
Maybe it’s because he serves the elderly. Or perhaps he’s really Superman in disguise and there’s always one too many emergencies going on at the local hospital. Whatever his story, Dr. Bighead’s rarely in his office. Patients crowd the first floor of the converted old-time mansion that’s rotting in the East Ward of our fair city. Waiting.
The one TV hanging precariously high in the corner is the waiting room’s only timekeeper. Each program’s theme song chimes the passing of yet another thirty minutes. From daytime talk shows to the evening news, they wait.
“Judge Judy’s on,” the large woman spread out over two chairs mutters to no one in particular. “Been here since Good Morning America.”
Ma Tante’s done her share of waiting. She’s been their patient — right word for sure — for over a decade. Some of my cousins are physicians, and I’ve heard them asking Ma Tante (on more than one occasion) to switch doctors. The old lady’s too loyal to Dr. Bighead. She thinks he can do no wrong. But from where I sit, all he does is prescribe her more and more horse pills. And make her wait hours to be seen. Ma Tante doesn’t speak English, so one of us waits with her. That is, until my older sister, Anne, learned to drive. The past few times, we’ve dropped Ma Tante off and popped in five hours later in time to translate her consultation. Not today, though. Anne dropped us both off, promising to be back minutes after we call her. I couldn’t go home with her today because she said she had to go straight to a meeting. Yeah, right. Must be a really cute “study group” this time.
“Sal’ di?” Ma Tante asks in Creole when I reach her. She wants to know what all the discussion with the lookalikes was about.
“Rien,” I respond respectfully — i.e., in French — as I was raised to do when addressing an adult. I protect Ma Tante from the truth. It would hurt her to find out that, after all these years, the lookalikes have no clue that she is Haitian. Besides, Ma Tante thinks everyone adores her. And what’s not to love? Most folks see this charming old lady with a peaceful gaze and a curved back and they have to restrain themselves from crouching down to hug her.
Ma Tante likes to flash her toothy smile and give away the only English offerings in her cherished possession. “Tank hyu,” she answers, no matter what people say. Plus, Ma Tante treats Dr. Bighead’s office like a nightclub. She dresses to the nines for her monthly appointments. Besides church, it’s the only time she gets to go out these days. Today her flowery peach dress matches her hat, and she pulls an ornately embroidered handkerchief from her clutch purse.
“The lookalikes probably wanted to know where I’ve been,” she says proudly, patting her forehead with the hankie. “They haven’t seen me in a while.”
“Everybody misses you when you’re not around,” I say.
She knows I’m teasing. “That’s because they like how they feel about themselves when they see me,” she says with that wisecracking tone in her voice.
“Vraiment?” I ask, a bit surprised that she’s in the mood to talk. Ma Tante’s obviously glad for my company — which makes me feel bad about sulking. Usually in public, she likes to keep the appearance of being a quiet, sweet old lady — not the hilarious, observant woman I enjoy being around. “Really? And why’s that?”
“One look at my wrinkles, and they’re excited they’re not as shriveled up as me.”
We tumble into a silent giggle. Me, shaking my head no and Ma Tante gesturing oui. But as messed up as it sounds, Ma Tante’s probably right. Most people don’t recognize the gems in front of them. And to me, Ma Tante is the most precious kind.
“That’s not true, Ma Tante,” I say, and rub her forearm, enjoying the easy movement of her loose chocolate skin. “You’re a beautiful queen.”
“Aaah, Simone.” Ma Tante sings out my name in a delight that reveals she knew what I was thinking.
“Aaay, Simone?” This time my name rings out from a deeper voice. “Simone Thibodeaux?”
The first thing that catches my eye is his T-shirt. It’s blue like his jeans, but with bright-orange letters that grab me. It reads CARE-A-VAN and under that, Transporting Seniors to Caregivers. The brain works superhero-fast. Quicker than an eye blink, I recognize the name of the volunteer group kids at my school sign up for in a frenzy to reach their monthly community service quota. Another millisecond later, my eyes dart up to the shirt wearer’s face. What’s Louis Milton doing way over in this part of town? He’s from the West Ward.
“You’re a volunteer here, too?” he asks.
“Um, no,” I mutter, suddenly self-conscious. I clutch my phone. Why did Anne have to dump me here today?
“Oh,” he says, and I can see he understands. You’re from the East Ward. Before I can busy myself with a fake text, he continues. “Nice running into you, though.”
I recognize that sympathetic look. I’ve seen it every time I have to turn down my friends because my parents won’t let me go all the way to the West Ward at night. I hate that he feels sorry for me.
“Louis, help me out here, will you?” a girl calls from the front door. Oh, great. It’s Waverly Webber from my history class. She’s struggling to get an elderly man’s wheelchair through the narrow entrance.
“Excuse me,” Louis says to me before jogging over and pinning the heavy door wide open. Once Waverly and her senior are safely inside, Louis slips out.
“Gotcha here in one piece, Mr. P.,” Waverly announces proudly.
Perhaps it’s the piercing voice or the shift
in the air brought on by Waverly’s mere presence, but Ma Tante opens her heavy eyes wide and looks my classmate up and down.
“Sal’ yé?” Ma Tante sings out under her breath, basically asking WTF (minus the F) in Creole.
Funny how Ma Tante picks up in Waverly what I do. The girl’s actually never been mean to me or anyone else I know. It’s just that her “Me first!” vibe can be off-putting.
This office never looked terribly low-budget to me before. But now, seeing Waverly here — her velvet red ballet flats stepping on aged, peeling linoleum floors — it’s hard not to view things through her eyes. I suddenly feel exposed, as if Waverly just walked in on me getting my hair braided.
Good thing she doesn’t notice me. Waverly’s busying herself to our left, rearranging chairs to make room for her elderly companion’s wheelchair. As she jams it into a narrow spot, the rush of the empty row of chairs slams Ma Tante’s seat into mine.
Ma Tante reacts quietly. “Oh-oh?”
Mr. P. checks his neck for whiplash.
“There you go,” Waverly tells him, smiling. She wipes her palms against each other and reports to the front desk in three quick strides. “I’ve brought Charles Pemberton for his three o’clock appointment.”
If only Waverly knew that to Dr. Bighead, three p.m. means seven or eight p.m.
“Oh, and here’s a list of medications that Mr. P. is currently taking,” she says, not missing a beat.
“Okay, baby,” Tina, the younger lookalike, says, taking the sheet from Waverly. “When the doctor comes in, we’ll give this list to him.”
The astonished look that takes hold of Waverly’s face is priceless. “You mean he isn’t here yet?”
Ma Tante pauses her humming to give a quiet chuckle.
“He’ll be here soon enough,” Tina says dismissively before heading toward the break room.
Perplexed, Waverly stops short of scratching her head when she spots me. “What’re you doing here, Simone?”
“Hey, Waverly.” I don’t answer her question. This is my second chance to introduce Ma Tante, but I don’t take it. I feel bad about that, but my embarrassment at being seen in the ghetto doctor’s office outweighs the guilt.
But Waverly can’t be shaken off the trail that easily. “Is this your grandmother?” she asks. Then to Ma Tante: “Hello, I’m Waverly — I go to school with your granddaughter.”
“Mhmm. Tank hyu.” Ma Tante smiles politely.
“She speaks Haitian?” Waverly asks, obviously tickled by Ma Tante’s accent.
“Creole,” I correct her. “And French.”
Waverly finally asks her burning question. “So, you’re here . . . even though you don’t get any school credit for it?”
I nod. “I think they have new patient forms for the man you came in with,” I say, counting on the fact that Waverly hates to miss a step.
It works. Her lips form an O, and she pads over to grab a clipboard.
Louis comes back, escorting a woman who walks with a cane. He looks so gentlemanly with his elbow extended for her to hold. A celebrated football player at school, Louis is taller and bigger than the average guy his age — so I’m mesmerized by how much he outsizes his companion.
The elderly woman lets go of Louis’s arm and excitedly waves at Ma Tante. “Koman ou ye?”
“Oh!” Ma Tante sits up as best she can. “Madame Bertrand, koman ou ye?”
Louis seems touched by the women’s gleeful greetings. His round face lights up like a stadium scoreboard at one of his home games. Despite his bulk, Louis is delicate with Madame Bertrand as he helps her into the seat next to Ma Tante’s.
I get up to kiss Ma Tante’s friend on the cheek. Even though I’ve never met her, doing so is customary. I stay standing. Here’s my chance to redeem myself.
“Uh, Louis, this is my great-aunt, Ma Tante,” I say.
Louis respectfully takes off his baseball cap and shakes Ma Tante’s hand. He doesn’t know about the cheek kiss custom, so he gets a pass.
“Janti ti gason.” Ma Tante is impressed with him.
“Eh-heh.” Madame Bertrand accepts the compliment as if Louis is her grandson.
“He would make a nice friend for my Simone,” Ma Tante continues in Creole.
“I think so, too,” replies Madame Bertrand.
“It’s cute how they steal glances at each other, non?”
I can’t hide my surprise, and Louis takes notice.
“What are they saying?” he asks me.
“Uh,” I pause. “Just that . . . you’re a well-mannered young man.”
“Did he just ask you on a date, Simone?” Ma Tante is really trying to mess with me now.
“I’m going to have to separate you two,” I answer, sassy in Creole.
The women giggle over Louis’s confusion.
“I think they’re saying more than that,” he says, laughing and scanning all of our faces for clues. “C’mon, Simone, you’re holding back.”
“Simone, are you translating for Louis?” Waverly’s finished Mr. P.’s paperwork and is drawn in by our laughter.
“Something like that,” I answer, still blushing.
Waverly has an epiphany. “You can totally get credit for translating for Care-A-Van,” she says earnestly. “Some Haitian seniors in the program need translators.”
You know what? That could be cool. “That would be cool,” I say.
“I’ll introduce you to the program director, and you can get started right away,” Waverly offers.
Funny that her persistence feels a lot more bearable when it benefits me.
“April Johnson?” Tara calls a patient to the back. Finally.
The large woman using two seats gets up, sighs heavily, and waddles to the exam room.
Immediately, Mr. P. rises effortlessly from the wheelchair and strides to nab the now vacant best seat in the house for TV viewing. We all look on in stunned silence.
“I told that chile I ain’t need to be wheeled in,” Mr. P. grumbles.
Ma Tante and I look at each other and burst out laughing. Louis, Madame Bertrand, and eventually even Waverly and Mr. P., cackle heartily with us.
“Voilà.” Ma Tante winks at me.
I wink back.
I have two gorgeous older sisters, but let the record stand: I was the first Bose daughter to score a point in the Game of Guys.
His name? Dwayne.
The place? A playground across the street from our Flushing, Queens, apartment, where I’d swing, slide, and ride my bike along with hordes of other immigrant kids.
The technique? Dwayne screeched his two-wheeler to a halt in front of mine, patted his Jackson Five Afro, and said, “Going to White Castle for lunch. Want to come along?”
Dumbstruck, I shook my head shyly and biked away.
I was nine.
Looking back, I should have eagerly accepted: “Yes, Dwayne, I’ll go to White Castle with you. And then you’re taking me to the prom in a decade or so, got that?”
It would be the only romantic invitation I’d get for years.
Soon after Dwayne made his move, our family left New York and settled in a San Francisco Bay Area suburb. I was in middle school, and my sisters were almost done with high school. Sonali, the oldest (her name means “gold” in Bangla), was a numbers geek, and Rupali (“silver”) was an outgoing, leader-of-the-pack type. I came third (“friendly” — more valuable than precious metals in the long run, mind you), and my face was constantly planted in fiction. We Bose girls were nothing alike, but here’s what we had in common: all of us liked guys. It was so much fun to watch, crush on, and, we hoped, date them.
The only problem was that we were the first Indians to move into this California neighborhood. In fact, we were the only folk of Asian descent for miles around. Also, there were no signs of any Afros like Dwayne’s. The sea of whiteness didn’t hinder my sisters — turned out plenty of Bay Area college dudes wanted tropical teen arm candy to complement their hippie lifestyles. Sonali
and Rupali quickly ascended to expert level in the Guy Game.
Our parents knew nothing about this pursuit — they planned to arrange our marriages to suitable Indian men once we graduated with appropriate degrees in engineering or biology. Their ignorance was our bliss, we decided, especially when it came to dating. I kept my sisters’ secrets, but I also secretly kept score. A sibling got one point if someone asked her out. A second if he gave her a compliment. A quick kiss won her a third. That’s as far as I counted — going after a fourth point with the same guy would put my sisters in territory too dangerous to fathom. Heck, I figured if Baba caught them winning even one point, they’d be shipped to Kolkata and paraded before a bunch of parentally approved prospective grooms. Thankfully, Ma and Baba stayed out of the loop, and my sisters continued to accrue points right and left.
Sadly, when it came to me, Dwayne’s invitation was still my only score. And it didn’t seem like that was going to change too soon. At first, the other middle-schoolers in this born-in-the-USA neighborhood didn’t know what to do with me. A few mumbled “hey” from a safe distance; most totally ignored my existence.
I didn’t get why I immediately ranked so low on the social ladder, but in retrospect it’s not hard to figure out. I would have crushed the competition in a Fresh Off the Boat poster contest. I was the whole FOB package — parents with lilting accents, super-strict father who didn’t accept grades less than an A, house that perpetually smelled like turmeric and cardamom, ultra-traditional mother whose idea of party garb was six-and-a-half yards of silk saree and a forehead dot that mesmerized our neighbors. Plus, my skin was a color writers usually describe with food products like chocolate and coffee. At least my metaphors were addictive and tasty, right? I found it harder to define my classmates’ hues in my diary. They certainly weren’t milky white, but “skin like deli-sliced turkey” didn’t sound too appealing.
Surprisingly, the second time I gave myself a point in the game came after a few long weeks of peer-group silence. At lunch one day, a group of five geeks approached me. (You know the kind — precursors to today’s Lord of the Rings fans who still collect Pokémon cards by the time they get to college.) My ’70s geeks stood silently for a few minutes, elbowing one another to speak. One finally gathered his courage. “We need an Uhura,” he told me. “We’re heading to our usual spot over there. Want to come along?” The others nodded and waited eagerly for my answer.
Open Mic Page 3
