Things Have Changed

Written 2017

2011 – Age
“He’s an old man, ignore him.
Don’t let his talk bother you–he’s stuck in his ways, you can’t change him now…
But things have changed, so you don’t have to worry about it.
It’s not like there will be a cross burning in the front yard tonight. ”

2003 – Waiting
Things have changed

“Things have changed,” I’ve been saying that to myself my entire life. Meanwhile,  at the same time I have felt a great urgency in the need to “save the world” from the unchanged.

But things have changed. I want to believe that, to feel safe;To feel safe like most people might expect to feel going anywhere, whenever and not worrying: about being kicked out, or made more than necessarily aware of one’s unwanted outlier presence. An outlier, a nuisance: that insect trapped in your space– only every too often you can see it, you swat, curse, but damn it, you just can’t get rid of, or kill it.

But things have changed. I am disappointed, being told this in grade school. In retrospect this is the most absurd response to have. But alas, poor me, the civil rights movement ended eons ago; women can vote; and freedom of religion is right there in the Constitution. No need for my good works, things had changed.

1995 – To Assume
I make a picture of the world, with people shaded peach, sienna, apricot, and black, like I  know from home, on Main Street, apt 7. Above the people is a rainbow and a yellow sun.– This is my rose colored reality. They told me things have changed. I do not completely understand how, why, or what change is. I assume this is how change looks. My teacher never corrects me so this must be right, her assumption must be the same as mine. I love my picture ,I  am proud , it is a beautiful drawing of a beautiful thing.

I do not consider how my teacher feels about the picture I made. This reality is beautiful to me, it must be beautiful to everyone else. Things have changed.

2010 – Beautiful
I am uncomfortable when my husband admires me. I am self conscious, my body is imperfect, not airbrushed like  celebrities. That does not matter to him. He says he loves me that way- the way I  am. I can almost accept these compliments now . Still uncomfortable I feel like he can see how I  feel about myself , and that he really agrees , and is just humoring me. No, I know that’s not really true, but I feel it.

He loves my hair, that I do like,  too . It took me most of my life to find it not beautiful , but acceptable .

1992 – Curls
Curls are cute on babies, but that is it. My hair did not “swish” like my friends’ did, no matter how hard I tried to make it.

“Why do you do that with your head when you walk? ”
“Do what? ”
“That thing,! You keep moving your head side to side, it makes your ponytail swing back and forth all over. ”

You’re so dumb, stop trying to “swish”-you can’t !

2015 – Colorblind
He puts his hand on my leg.

” I love the contrast. You’re so beautiful . ”
I push his hand away.

“What ? ”

He knows I hate when he does this.

Why doesn’t he understand, things have changed. Why does he have to see color- my color. I’m a shade, so is he (albeit lighter ).

This is greyscale.

I’m almost disgusted by his disregard to this truth,
things have changed.

1991- Writing
I write my name in cursive. I am 5.
My teacher looks at my paper. I am proud.
Her mouth is straight, not a curved smile as I hoped.

“This is America. In America write in American.”
I am lost. I wrote in English, and just the way grown ups do. What I did was “American”, like me, I do not know another way.
Things had changed.

1992- Shopping
I love to go to the store. I like the store where we buy clothes, and diapers, and toys. It’s fun here; not like where we buy the food, That store is so cold in some places, it smells like lunch meat and roses, and has the fake toys. This store is big and is always just the right temperature everywhere. But it also has all the good toys that they show on TV. That is the best part of the store. I don’t get the toys here, but I get to look at them when mom is done with what she has to do here. If I’m good maybe she’ll let me get one of the toys here. Maybe she knows what I’m thinking so I’ll be “on my best behavior.”

We are where the clothes are. This part is fun too. Here the clothes are hung up together like clothes trees; we are in a forest of clothes-trees. The three are up high and I can run my outstretched hands over them as we walk by. I hear the hangers “clink”. I put my face in between the clothes that are lined up close together. The fabric feels cool and slinky, and smells good- like mommy’s clothes when she takes them inside from off of the clothes line. I can’t see mama as I dare to go further in between but I know she’s just right on the other side of the clothes. I bet she has no idea that I’m in here!

I wait, I’m going to jump out and surprise her.

“Come on out cutie. It’s time to get going.”
“Boo!” I exclaimed leaping forward and out from between the hanging clothes.

My mom’s blue eyes seemed to brighten as they widened in surprise.
I jump back in the rack, and venture deeper still. Momma says not to wander, but she knows where I am. I burrow deeper and deeper still, and wait. I want momma to forget I’m inside and then,
“Peek-a-boo!” I jump out, leaping out at momma.

Except though the lady I am hugging tightly, has yellow hair, she smells like grandpa’s truck after my uncle smokes in it.
I’m silent, as the woman shoves me back.

“Momma!” I call out in panic.

“Baby girl! There you are, where have you been!?” she appears from behind a rack and lifts me in a hug, “thank you so much for finding her, I-”

“Learn to watch your kid, next time she jumps someone, they may not be so nice”

Summer 2008 – Grandpa
Women in my mom’s family never talk politics, ever. The majority, where they live, is Republican. This is not openly discussed. except in visuals of bumper stickers, wall mounted trophies, or in fraternal conversation. My mom and our little family keep quiet and do not mention our liberal leaning when we visit. But now that I am older, and social media has included even my grandparents, it is harder to keep our positions private. In our summer visit this year my grandpa, offhanded, mentions the current candidates for presidency.

“I can see a revolution, if that one wins… a civil war…”
I am surprised by his forthcoming on politics around me, but just shrug it off, unwilling to create a divide in our family. A revolution, a civil war–The statement sticks in my mind, and troubles me, and I remind myself, “things have changed.”

1993 – Difference
I hold my mom’s hand as tight as I can. I am less adventurous since I briefly lost her in the store recently. My little brown palm disappears under her pink hand, and I am reassured by the feeling of being connected, and covered by her.
But I am nervous about the people around us, as we walk by. I wonder if they see my mom as I do, or if they will focus on the color difference between her and I.
She is my mommy, but will other people know that too? Will they think I do not belong to her, and take me away because our skin colors do not match. This is my worst fear, and so I hold her hand tighter. Maybe I can meld into her and no one will ever notice any difference.

1997- Home
We moved into a house that we could call our own, when I was 10. I was so excited to live in a real house, not just an apartment building. Now we would be able to to run and jump, and make noise without mom or dad telling us the neighbors would get angry.

We moved in with a U-Haul truck, and I helped moving boxes that were small enough for me to carry, and watching over my younger more troublesome brothers. We stood on the front steps feeling triumphant, as mom and dad rushed past bringing more furniture inside.
That’s when the whispering started. I did not notice it until it started getting louder. A raspy voice, or one that was trying to sound raspy and low, from the next door neighbor’s first floor window. No face could be seen, with curtain drawn. But it was low and drawn out,

“Niii-gggers.”

And then it came again, but this time short and slightly louder.

“Niggers.”

“Niggers, niggers, niggers.”

“Kids, come inside with me,” mom said from the top of the stairs.
She brought us inside, and gave us a late lunch, on the table in our brand new house.
Things had changed.

2014- Driver’s Ed
No one ever told me there was a “how to” guide when it
comes to not being arrested. Nor that there was a method of how other than the golden rules to being a good person. I was never informed of what I realize now is a specific method-a sacred ancient wisdom- passed down through family lines.

From my upbringing the closest l have ever come to such a lesson was my dad telling me each morning as I headed out the door toward the school bus,

“Have a good day, be good, – study hard! l love you.”

Be Good.

So I was the “good girl”.
I never skipped class . I never snuck out . In never drank or smoked. My first date was at 17. Even in’ . college I never rebelled. Did I want to?- not really.
Either good girlhood was my natural M.0. or l had just convinced myself it was.

Study hard.
l already did that. So I studied harder.
I got A+’s in elementary school. So I studied harder.
I got A+’s in junior school. So I – studied harder.
I got A’s in high school (because “+” is not added to upper class grades). So I studied harder.
I got into my dream college. So I studied harder….

I do not know it my dad really meant every part of what he told me each morning- about being good , and studying. If he did not, l had been a fool all along.
I realize now that at some point “being good” and “studying hard” were not only what l was best at, but all I knew how to do.

So, when I was finally pulled over, for an insurance issue that I was unaware of at the time, I did everything wrong. Being “good” was subjective, and in the eyes of the law, it was not enough to get a panicked girl out of a ticket, or to reassure the officer that I should not be under suspicion, or a threat. I cried, I put my hands in the wrong places, I do not know how I managed to have an officer who would be irritated, rather than severe and aggressive with my ignorance of driver protocall when pulled over for a ticket. In reflection, I realize how damn lucky I was to still be alive, when everything this “good girl” did was wrong. I know this now, and I know how not act now, from my experience; things have changed.

1999 -Marriage
“Why did your mom marry a black man?”

“For the same reason my dad married a white woman; love.”

2017 – Salon
I asked her if she knew how to work with hair like mine. Enthusiastically she told me she had worked with many “ethnic” clientele. I bit my lip and made sure to remind her not to cut more than an inch because once dry my hair shrinks up. Her bobble head told me this was all known, but experience made me keep an air of suspicion in my gut, and so I watched the mirror like a hawk. I recalled more than once being told by a hairdresser they knew how to do my hair, only to have more than wanted cut, and added to the salon floor. I was quiet, and the hair dresser made small talk, about school, kids, curly hair, salon hours, and so on.
“How do you usually style your hair? ” She asked, as our session was coming to a close.
” I wash, comb, air dry and fluff it up more, as it dries.”
“Fluff it out?” She parroted, raising an eyebrow.
“In an afro.” I explained.
Her eyebrows remained cocked.

I stood from my chair, as she pulled the cape from my shoulders. Bending at the waist, I  threw my head down, and shook my head, to let the curls loose. They would stand up and out, as they dried. I smiled, stood upright, and combed a hand up into my hair, to give it more height; Things had changed.