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Hot Combs, Watermelon, and Hello Kitty Backpacks
By A'Rynn D
age: 16
“Momma, she bit me again,” I yelled rubbing the pain out of my
arm. “That stupid dog!”
“Tara, don’t talk about your sister like that! Sashay, get yo’
yella behind in here, now!” When she talked her voice clashed
with the silence like lightening, and her body rumbled and shook.
She was a big woman, dark and creamy skinned. Momma’s words could
squeeze the smallest tear from your eyes. Even when you weren’t
in trouble and she called your name, just the memory of that extra
cookie you took out of her special stash or the glass you dropped
and tried to hide the pieces behind the curtain gave your tear
ducts an 85 percent chance of a downpour even before you found
out why she was calling.
“Mommy, I didn’t bite her! Tara was listening on the phone first,”
Sashay whined.
“Only because you cut the hair off of Perming Ashinkishay Barbie!”
“That was cuz -- ”
“Girls! Lord, please deliver me from this evil!” Momma did that
a lot: dropped to her knees, looked at the ceiling, and prayed.
Sometimes Sashay and I got down and did it too.
That was the year of hot combs, watermelon, and Hello Kitty backpacks.
The three of us lived in a small three bedroom house where there
were really no hallways. When you walked out of one room, you
were already in another. One of the rooms was occupied by Momma’s
sewing machine and brought to life by the many fabrics that lined
the walls. All colors and prints; all awaiting to be designed
and structured into a dress for me, or a summer hat for Sashay,
or a table cloth for Christmas dinner. Momma didn’t believe in
buying things at the store when she could make them herself with
her own “God-given hands”, as she called them. We even had cabbage
and tomatoes planted out back and chickens squawking in the coop
beside the house. Oh, but our favorite was the watermelon patch
about a half mile from our house. It wasn’t exactly ours, but
the whole neighborhood owned it and took care of it. So when
the melons were ready, usually when it was hot outdoors, all us
kids would go pick a melon and sit out on the side of the road
having contests on who could eat theirs the fastest. Faces saturated,
hands sticky, and tummies juiced with melon, we’d return home
to disgusted mothers who had to hose us down before we could walk
inside.
Our days were structured with school during the day, and then
we played around in the neighborhood until it got dark. We pretty
much knew not to do anything we weren’t supposed to, because somehow
Momma would know about it before we even got home. She’d be waiting
for us on the porch with her hand propped up on top her hip and
her foot tapping the nails out of the porch frame. Sometimes
we’d think twice about opening the front gate, because we knew
that at that time, it was the only thing between Momma’s heavy
hand and…us. She’d tell us to pick a “switch” (a stick) and she’d
watch us as we trudged around the yard and decided our fate. She’d
whip us right there on the porch because she knew that if she
let us get in the house before her, we’d hurry in our room and
stuff our pants or put on extra layers to lessen the sting. To
this day, I can’t think of whose eyes told Momma on me and Sashay.
After our week of school, there was no doubt that we’d all three
be cleaning the house on Saturday and waking up for church early
Sunday morning. Momma woke up way before Sashay and I, cooked
breakfast and had our dresses hanging up on our door. By the time
we sat down to eat, she was dressed herself. We went to Fruit
of the Vine Baptist Church where either you were really old or
really young. Momma was the only woman her age. Most of the women
were old and brought their grandchildren with them and stuck them
in the back corner where all the kids were supposed to sit. We
didn’t; we sat by Momma where she could keep an eye on us. Momma
said that we’d “never learn anything about the good Lord sitting
back there. That’s why them kids is bad as they is,” she’d pull
us close and whisper in our ears. When we were younger we never
questioned why we did things so much differently from the other
kids; why momma wouldn’t allow us to grow as children first, make
childish choices and it be okay. But we came to the conclusion
that it wasn’t her fault. Momma just didn’t understand what it
meant to grow up. Momma unfortunately was never
our age; she was born old and will only get older!
We sat right up close, right in the first pew, farthest away
from the only ceiling fan that was in the church and that failed
to circulate any air, where, I swear, we could feel the preacher’s
sweat flinging from his face and meeting me and Sashay on ours,
where if you fell asleep, the preacher would come right up to
you and holler “amen” right in your face and the whole church
would laugh and say “hallelujah” as you jumped. Every Sunday somebody
was bound to catch the Holy Ghost. The preacher would get to shouting
and jumping on the pulpit and ask, “Do I have a witness?” and
the congregation would answer with a “well” and “yeah.” Hands,
by that time, were waving and voices, some yelling out loud and
some moaning to themselves. Then someone, somewhere, some lady
would pop out of her seat, scream, and she was off, dancing around
the church, and blaring to God words that only she knew the meaning
of. Everyone else in the church paid no attention to her; everyone
but me and Sashay and probably the other kids. We always watched
her and would giggle as if we’d never seen anyone act that way.
It was just a matter of time until Momma caught us and sent us
the look and we knew we were in for it when we got
home. Pretty soon, the dancing lady had everybody worked up,
and the whole church was clapping and jumping while the pianist’s
fingers ran across the keys and somebody else banged their palm
on a tambourine to the beat. When it was hot outside, it seemed
twice as hot in the church. My freshly pressed dress was wrinkled
and glued to my skin from all the moisture. My hair that was hot
combed and tied up with a bow that matched my dress, was curling
at the roots and had pieces of hair springing out all over the
place by the time we were standing up for the benediction.
About once a month, or whenever Momma was tired of fighting with
our hair, Sashay or I would be propped up on our knees on a kitchen
chair with a hot comb laying down every strand of our hair with
its intolerable heat. Momma would toast the cast-iron comb by
putting it on the stove and would test it by licking a finger,
quickly touch the tip of it, and the comb would hiss back at her
telling her it was time. After placing a towel on the back of
my neck, Momma would run the iron comb trough my hair in small
portions at a time, making the process even longer than it really
had to be. I’d flinch with every movement of her hand. Sometimes
when she hadn’t even picked up the comb, my back would already
be curled up tight, eyes clinched shut, jerking away from her,
anticipating the next stroke of heat that would slip through my
hair. Soon after, tension and fear were replaced with relief as
Momma freely combed through my hair with an ordinary comb. No
longer did Momma have to rake through it; no longer was styling
my hair a struggle of two forces: Momma’s hand and the underlying
naps residing in my hair. I opted to stay inside rather than playing
outdoors after having my hair hot combed, in an effort to preserve
my recently straightened hair.
There were only three reasons why a girl my age wasn’t found
outside in the evenings: sick, in trouble, or just got her hair
straight and didn’t want to reverse its results so soon. You knew
better than to come home with your hair returned to its recent
condition of thick wavy roots within the same week of its transformation
to silky, manageable locks. This hot combing process continued
until you were about 14, where you began going into the beauty
shop for relaxers. By that time you were a woman doing womanly
things to your hair like parting it and wearing it down rather
than up in five separate plats springing out from your head like
branches from a tree with barrettes that matched each dress.
I was ready to make that transition from girl to woman and strut
out of a beauty shop one day with hair lustrously straight, able
to swing it from side to side after hearing the town’s gossip
conversed between me and the other women with their womanly heads
in the shampoo bowls and under dryers in the shop. Until then
I had to endure the wrath of the hot comb and wait for my time
to come.
Sometimes, during the summer, we had church outside under a tent
with chairs spread underneath it. The heat inside the church would
be so unbearable that the direct beating of the sun outdoors somehow
felt better. The summer meant that we were free temporarily and
out on bond until we had to return back to school and to prearranged
days. Momma made a new pitcher of fresh lemonade every morning,
the house was cleaned, clothes washed, and breakfast prepared
by time Sashay and I were awake. To this day, I still wonder how
she did it. Momma’s day was well on its way when the rest of the
world was just rolling out of bed. The house was usually awakened
by the shaking of the screen door; no one ever knocked but just
rattled our old wire screen until someone rushed to answer it.
It was either some old woman from the church or a middle-aged
man coming by to sit and have coffee with Momma. As a child, you
never actually take in life’s beauty, but I always knew that Momma
had something that I didn’t see in other women; a glow about her,
making her set apart. I’ve come to realize that Momma was a beautiful
woman from the smile on her face, on down to the way she stuck
her chest out and arched her back when she walked, and to the
way you couldn’t help but listen when she talked. The words she
spoke were always as beautiful as the mouth they flowed from.
We called the love-struck men that visited Momma her boyfriends,
but she refused to agree that they were, even though the hint
of pink emerging from underneath her cheeks wished differently.
Momma and her guest sat on the porch while Sashay and I played
in the sprinklers and with the water hose in the front yard.
Momma always said not to listen in on “grown folk’s conversations”,
but when she’d be talking and sitting on the porch, I’d watch
her and observe everything she did, the way her mouth rounded
out her words, and the way her eyes never left yours when you
talked to her. Sometimes when me and Sashay played, I’d pretend
to be Momma and I’d try to walk slow but still cover a lot of
ground like she did, and make my hands cut through the air as
I talked. Momma was who I would one day become if I continued
to stay under her wing. If I kept practicing her moves, if I kept
sitting by her in church, and understanding why she gave us the
look when we did wrong, I’d allow her to mold me and make
me the woman my momma was. It was all a part of her master plan.
She knew one day I would understand what she was doing. She knew
that in time I’d realize that my momma was instilling morals and
the idea that I don’t have to accept the minimum that life hands
to us, but to go far and beyond the average and create my own
standards and live above them everyday.
It was then, the year of hot combs, watermelon, and Hello Kitty
backpacks, that I lost my mother and the same year that I found
out exactly who she was and who I longed to be when my time comes.
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