by L. Divine
“Jayd,” I hear Rah say as he walks in from the store side of the establishment with Rahima on his hip. Damn, this is not happening again. Why are he and Jeremy always in the same space at the same time, with me caught in the middle? I haven’t spoken to him since I left his house last night, and haven’t answered any of his messages today either. I’m still steaming from our encounter with Trish and the fact that I had to pick up his child from a strip club.
“Hi, Rahima, Rah,” I say, smiling at his daughter. Before we can get into it, our eyes instinctively follow a girl and a guy who look out of place in the restaurant, wearing dark clothes and baseball hats. Rah and I look around the restaurant and store, following the two strangers’ gazes before returning our focus to each other. We both acknowledge the similar feeling that the place is being scoped for a robbery, and try to shake it off for the time being.
“I’m glad to see you made it home safely last night,” Rah says sourly.
“Did Trish?” I ask. His brown eyes narrow in annoyance as he tries to think of a response. What can he say? Rah has no right to talk shit to me about anything and besides, this is not the time or the place. Sunday is the day he usually works on cars and I’ve got a lunch date.
“Babe, thanks for being patient with me,” Jeremy says, putting his arm around my shoulders before noticing my companions. “Hey, what’s up, man?” Jeremy says to Rah who returns the greeting with a nod. I look at Rahima, who looks like she could use some sleep.
“You need a nap, sweetie?” I ask Rahima. She reaches her arms out for me to take her. I can’t resist, and claim her from her daddy. Jeremy looks at the scene and I realize he’s never met Rah’s daughter.
“Rahima, this is my friend Jeremy,” I say, making the formal introduction. Rah looks like he’s about to bust a blood vessel he’s so jealous. Oh well. If he’d learned how to act maybe our relationship would have survived. But he poisoned it when he invited Sandy in.
“She’s a cutie,” Jeremy says, looking down at Rahima’s sleepy eyes. Jeremy’s own baby will be born in the next couple of months. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but I know his ex-girlfriend Tania’s running off with his unborn child to get married in New York has to bother him a little.
“Number forty-six,” Marty calls from her register. I can tell she wants to scratch her head even though she’s trying to control the urge. I hope she changes her mind about using Mama’s products.
“That’s us,” I say, kissing Rahima on the forehead and passing her back to her daddy. “Bye, baby,” I say, waving to her and Rah.
“We’ll talk,” Rah says to me as I follow Jeremy to the counter and claim our food. I’m so hungry I could eat both orders. I have a lot of thinking to do about my friendships with Rah and Jeremy. Maybe I need to make a list of good and bad qualities for both of them. And whoever has the shorter list of bull wins my time. That’ll have to wait until tomorrow. When I get back to Mama’s tonight it’s going to be late to do anything but get ready for school in the morning. Monday promises to be full, so I’d better enjoy what little time I’ve got left of my weekend.
8
Culture Shock
“We set da trend so what da fuss and dem all about?”
—BEENIE MAN
The month of February goes by so fast it’s a wonder anyone even acknowledges it. I can’t believe it’s already the first week in March. As usual, Black History Month was barely mentioned at our school, but that won’t happen next year. Once the African Student Union is up and running, we’ll officially take over the festivities for our month.
The school day went by equally fast and without much excitement, which I’m always thankful for. Mama and I are hard at work helping Netta clean the shop now that all the clients are gone for the day. I brought up the conversation about religion we had in class last week, and Mama and Netta have been on it ever since. And as usual, the conversation is intriguing and just what I need to hear.
“My problem with the way voodoo is portrayed in movies, novels, and other media outlets is not just the ignorant way it’s conveyed. The larger problem in my mind is the fact that they separate the religion from its African roots. Usually when you see a conjure woman she looks like Aunt Jemima did before they gave her a perm and put pearls in her ears. She was, and always will be, a mammy figure and I get tired of seeing that shit,” Mama says, scrubbing the floor harder with every racist memory she conjures up.
“Lynn Mae, do you remember that time those white women came to us for a divination back in N’awlins?” Netta asks, spraying Windex on all the mirrors before wiping them down with paper towels.
“Yes, I do. They couldn’t believe we were priestesses, saying we were too pretty to practice hoodoo the old way. They didn’t trust us and walked on down the road to one of the other houses to get a reading, which was just fine with me.” Mama puts the mop back in the bucket and wipes the sweat from her brow.
“Me, too. I’ve never taken too kindly to white folks participating in our religion. They’ve got their own way and they need to live it,” Netta says, and I agree. Mama’s ingrained that thought into all of her children’s heads. I think Daddy even feels the same way when it comes to his church. I’ve never seen a white person in his African Methodist Episcopal congregation or any of the similar churches we used to visit when I was younger.
“I agree one hundred percent. That’s why when we initiate people now we make them take an oath to never initiate non-Africans into our religion. They can come and witness, but these are our ancestors that we’re reclaiming, not theirs.” Mama’s very clear about that fact.
“That’s right, little Jayd,” Netta says, continuing with her cleaning. “They’ve got their own ancestors to worry about paying homage to, and so does every other culture on earth. You don’t see us trying to bow down to some other people’s gods, do you? That’s just plain disrespectful if you ask me, to both our ancestors and theirs.” I continue folding the clean towels and listening to the elders in the room. I feel better knowing I’m not alone in my thinking.
“We’re the survivors, Jayd, and there’s nothing to feel guilty about. Praising our own heritage is just one step in our collective journey to take back what is most important in every human experience: our true selves. It’s a sense of empowerment that our ancestors had to shield behind the guise of Catholic saints. But we don’t need the veils anymore.” Mama puts the mop and bucket in the corner and sits down in one of the empty chairs to let the floor dry. Spring cleaning always takes the best out of us. After I finish putting the fresh towels up I’ll move on to organizing the clients’ personal hair care boxes.
“We don’t have to hide anymore, and I’m so glad for it. I was tired of looking at white faces when praising my African deities,” Netta says, recalling worshiping when she was a child. “My nana’s still stuck in her old ways to this day, now more out of shame than fear. It’s almost as if she’s been looking in a European mirror for so long that she can’t see an African image staring back at her anymore, no matter how many prayers she can chant in Yoruba.” That’s some deep shit right there. I feel so blessed to have such strong African women in my lineage. I may have a lot of problems, but loving being black has never been an issue for me.
“It’s a shame, Jayd,” Mama says. “It’s really depressing when I think about it. That’s why I practice to myself and try not to worry about what the rest of the world thinks. Whether they consider themselves African or not, I know what I’m doing is for the survivors. I don’t have to prove my truth to anyone. I’m too old for that.”
“And it’s not our job,” Netta adds. “The orisha will take care of all of that pettiness. Our job is to take care of them,” Netta says, joining Mama on a break. When I finish with the clients’ boxes I’ll join them before Mama and I walk home. It was such a nice afternoon I decided to park the car at the house and take a stroll for old times’ sake.
“When do women get a break? It seems like we’re the ones always taking care of other people
,” I say, thinking about how Mama holds down the household duties, works with Netta and has her own clientele. I don’t mind working hard, but damn, do we ever get to chill for more than a few stolen moments in between chores? Mama and Netta look at each other and laugh at the young woman in the room.
“You’ll get a break when you’re an ancestor,” Netta says, leaning back in her seat. She’s looks tired but happy. Netta loves doing hair and working with Mama, and my grandmother feels the same way.
“We have a lot of responsibility on our shoulders, but it’s not our job to fight every battle that comes our way. Nor is it our job to go around witnessing to folks,” Mama says. “We don’t save people, Jayd. People save themselves. And when the orisha call we must answer, not only because it’s in our best interest to do so, but also because it’s in our blood. Generations depend on us accepting our crowns and all of the hard work that comes with them. You might as well go on and get used to it now, child.”
I know Mama’s right, but it seems like dudes have an easier life than women do. As Mama says, I can complain all I want, but it’ll do me no good. Besides, I know black women set the trends for the world to mimic, so why am I hating on us? No matter how unfair life can get, I know I’m strong enough to take it like the woman I was born to be, crown, mop, and all.
Friday couldn’t have come soon enough. This week has been very challenging for me. I’ve fallen behind on some of my schoolwork, but made up for it by studying during break and lunch. This morning has been filled with the usual quizzes in my first two classes and I’m looking forward to the same in the third.
“Hola, Jayd. Here, I have a note for you,” Maggie, my Latina homegirl, says, slipping me the rectangular paper. It’s our passing period so we don’t have time to catch up, but I do want to know what’s been up with my girl. The plans for the Cultural Awareness Festival next week are well underway, with fancy decorations popping up all over campus and getting on my nerves.
“How’d you get this?” I ask, looking down at my name. Who would send me a note through Maggie?
“Emilio sent it to you. He said he wanted to give it to you in class, but he didn’t want Jeremy to see. Ciao bella, mami.” Maggie says, picking up the pace with everyone else around us rushing to third period, including me. I don’t want to be late to government. Mrs. Peterson would love to give me my first official tardy of the spring semester and I’m not having that.
“Gracias y hasta luego,” I yell after her. I make it to my locker, switch out my books and race to beat the bell. I’ve successfully avoided talking to Emilio this week, even with him trying to get my attention in the two classes we have together. I can’t believe he turned out to be such an ass.
While speed-walking out of the main hall and into the history corridor, I unfold the letter and glance over the beautiful handwriting. Oh my. This boy’s really got it bad for me if he’s copying orikis for Oshune. The traditional songs praising my mother orisha are always flattering, speaking of her beauty and bountifulness. But this is one of the sexiest orikis I’ve ever read. At the end of the song are the words lo siento. I know he’s sorry, but it’s too late for that. Whatever small chance Emilio may have had with me is long gone.
“Hey, Jayd. What’s got you so dazed?” Jeremy says over my shoulder as he passes me by, beating me to our seats. Jeremy has been my study partner all week long and it’s working out well for both of us.
“Oh, nothing,” I say, quickly refolding the letter and taking my seat. After Jeremy and I left Simply Wholesome on Sunday, we talked about everything and cleared the air. Now things are good between us and I don’t want him to have any reason to cop an attitude again.
“Mrs. Peterson is absent today and I’m going to be your sub,” an old man says, entering the buzzing classroom. “Please put your books away. Your teacher has left your quiz and we’ll start in one minute.” Jeremy looks at me and makes a funny face. I’m glad we’re back on solid terms. I haven’t written his list down yet, but I know his good points vastly outweigh the negative. We’re from two different cultures with a tangled past, but who says we can’t work it out?
I was grateful for our substitute teacher in third period, even though he was more boring than watching paint dry. Mr. Adewale is like a breath of fresh air, even if some of my classmates stink. Today’s topic is interracial dating and has hit a sore spot with almost everyone in the room. For most of us, it’s a very personal subject and that’s why Mr. A’s making us talk about it.
“It’s different when black girls date outside of their race because there aren’t enough black men to go around. Y’all, on the other hand, have it made with all of the available sistahs out there and yet and still y’all date white girls,” I say, staring directly at Del. I saw him kissing a white girl last week and he knows it, too. I should out his ass right here, but I know he’d be crucified.
“That’s a load of crap and you know it,” KJ says. “We don’t have it quite like that because sistahs can throw too much attitude our way, for real.”
“Way too much, for real,” Money says, throwing his two cents in the mix and sounding like a parrot.
“So it’s okay if you date outside of your race as long as it’s because of a personality difference, is that what you’re saying?” Mr. Adewale asks, playing devil’s advocate even though I know how strongly he feels about this topic. He’s disappointed with me dating Jeremy, but Mr. A’s the only other dude up here I’m attracted to, and he’s too old for me. So what’s a girl to do?
“Yeah, it’s cool I guess. But some of us just date outside of the race because they like the money on the other side,” KJ says, looking dead at me, then Jeremy. He knows he’s out of line for that one. Before I can check my ex-fool, Jeremy does the honors.
“And then some see beyond race to how they’ll be treated,” Jeremy says, taking my hand in his and kissing my knuckles. “I treat my woman like a queen, period.”
“Damn, Jayd’s got that fool sprung,” Shae yells out, making the rest of the class laugh. I’m speechless after Jeremy’s confession and apparently so is Mr. Adewale, who’s just staring at me as Jeremy and KJ stare at each other. His sandy brown locks look lovely hanging loosely around his shoulders.
“Whatever, man. You and I both know the truth,” KJ says, not backing down from his insult.
“You can be of the same race but have very different cultures,” I add, hoping that’s the end of this conversation. I can tell Jeremy’s uncomfortable and so am I. Nigel looks ready to move on, too. He and Jeremy have become good friends and he and Rah are boys for life. The subject is not so easy for him, either.
“I feel you, sister,” Seth says, primping his bold side burns in his compact mirror. “That’s why I’m starting a club for the gay population at South Bay. We deserve our civil rights, too.” I look at Seth in disbelief. Another club? Great, just what we need. How many cliques can one school legally have?
“I’m just saying, why y’all always got to link gay rights with civil rights? They’re not the same thing,” Nigel says, voicing my sentiments exactly. I’m all for people living how they want to live and it’s true, gay people are discriminated against. But linking their struggle for civil liberties is not the same thing my ancestors endured, after toiling for this country without basic human rights for hundreds of years.
“I’d expect you to say something like that,” Seth says, rolling his eyes at Nigel, who is about ready to leap out of his chair and sock Seth in his glossy mouth. This is exactly why I didn’t want to be in a general education classroom. The environment doesn’t lend itself to friendly debate, no matter how diplomatic Mr. A tries to be. It’s all or nothing around here. Although I must admit, it is my most entertaining class this semester.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Nigel’s temper is on high right about now. Mickey massages her man’s hand, but it’s not helping to calm him down.
“It means that you’re a homophobe. And that’s exactly why we need our
own club.” Matt looks at his friend and shakes his head. Matt’s a typical surfer dude, much like Jeremy, but he cares less about academic prowess than Jeremy does. Matt and Seth are the exact opposites yet they’re the best of friends.
When I first met them in drama class I thought Matt was Seth’s boyfriend, but Matt quickly checked me on that notion. He’s been defending his gay homeboy since elementary school and considers him more like a brother than anything else. I know he’s got Seth’s back, no matter how obnoxious Seth can be.
“I’m not homophobic, dumb-ass. But I am tired of people using the Civil Rights Movement to push their own agenda. You’ve got your own movements to highlight your cause, don’t you?” Nigel looks around the room at KJ and his boys, who nod their heads in agreement. I know most of the black people in here feel the same way and yes, most of the boys are homophobic, unlike Nigel. He doesn’t tell most people, but his sister is a lesbian, no matter how much their parents pray for her so-called salvation. Nigel is the first to defend her and will kick anyone’s ass who tries to talk shit about her.
“Yes, but the Civil Rights Movement is just that: a movement for civil rights, and gay people are singled out in this country more than anyone else.” Seth can’t be serious. I want to jump in so bad, but I don’t want the spotlight back on me.
“What the hell?” Oops, did I say that out loud?
“Jayd, do you want to add to the debate?” Mr. Adewale asks, putting me on the spot. Why did he do that? Sometimes I think Mr. A loves to challenge me just for fun, but it feels more like torture, even on a good day.
“Oh no, my bad,” I say. Nigel looks at me in shock, but he’ll just have to ride this one out on his own. The last thing I want to do is make an enemy out of Seth—and, Matt, too, by default. They can make a sistah’s life in both drama class and the drama club more difficult than necessary. Even if I am a member of the ASU, drama is still my main love.
