Every Body Looking

by Candice Iloh

  I am thinking

  about what

  it’ll be like

  to be the oldest

  of three

  Friday morning I learn

  being the oldest means Aunty and cousins take my bed and what remains are my purple-and-pink blanket two pillows and me left to learn how to sleep above old carpeting like a camping adventure on this second floor of our suburban house and I will learn how to sleep with my face to the ground with my bed in the next room and my favorite dresser emptied so this house can fit us all

  Aunty thanks god in the doorway

  and greets me with a smile

  and long sucking of her teeth

  ah-ah! Ada, baby

  you have grown so much

  I see you have been eating well-well

  was di news, baby

  Aunty’s pidgin English

  is so cool

  I’m almost

  able to ignore

  that she

  has already

  called me

  fat

  I rush to hug her

  catch the familiar

  whiff of Nigerian sweat

  in the pocket of her neck

  where she holds me

  I can forgive it

  knowing she has

  been on a plane

  for fourteen hours

  with a toddler

  a baby

  and stockfish

  The first time Aunty cooked stockfish in our house

  I didn’t know // the stench would become like // catching a whiff of a girl in desperate need of a shower // probably two days into her period // the scent clinging to me too fishy and rank // the kind of scent // they say to look out for // a sign you’ve messed up // your body’s natural pH wearing panties too tight // or being too fast for your age // but stockfish // dried and hard // is a loved ingredient found in tons of Igbo dishes // tastes much better than it smells // sticks to my hair my skin all my clothes // too often the cause for the kids at school // to smell me coming // squeeze faces into judgment and looks of disgust // its flavor more important than my chances at anyone ever // wanting to get close

  Baby whimpers under Aunty’s squeeze

  and I almost don’t notice

  Aunty’s fingers clenched

  into the folds of my back

  then the thick of my belly

  then the roundness of my cheeks

  I’m smiling at baby’s soft skin

  big brown eyes staring back

  at me and I know for however

  long she is here I will make sure

  she is safe

  On the second day Aunty makes it known that nothing is safe

  not the bathroom

  not the kitchen

  not the tv

  not the closets

  not the basement

  not the garage

  not the backyard

  not any bedroom

  not the living room

  there would be no using up space

  for dancing like some kind of

  little monkey who forgot

  she is a lady

  she is the new woman of the house now

  and things must change

  And her first project is me:

  How to Fix Your Fat American Niece

  I made the terrible mistake

  of letting Aunty braid my hair sunday night

  before school the next morning

  I specifically asked for small cornrows like

  I’d seen Alicia Keys wearing on the red carpet

  her soft and kinky curls cascading in perfect lines

  flawless tight braids parted and woven back with beads on the ends

  on the red carpet she had been the most glamorous tomboy

  I had ever seen, donning tight jeans a leather jacket and sneakers

  Aunty oblivious, did not catch the vision

  her hands twisting and weaving my coarse strands into

  thick plaits clad with heavy grease was not the plan, when she finished

  I counted six horrendous things parted down the middle

  the next day an eruption of laughter let loose in the middle of the hallway

  all the black girls crashing into the lockers in disbelief

  and pointing, me wrapping each finger tightly

  around my books as I reached into my backpack for a place

  to hide

  Hide

  /hīd/

  verb

  to put

  or keep

  out of sight

  or

  conceal from

  the view or notice

  of others

  as in

  when the girls

  at school point

  and laugh

  in my direction

  I wish that I

  could hide

  as in

  I’m glad

  Aunty isn’t against

  makeup cause

  it’s the only thing

  helping me hide

  the hair on my top lip

  as in

  when Aunty cooks

  the stockfish

  I always close

  my bedroom door

  stuff a towel under it tight

  making Dad and Aunty

  accuse me of shame

  ask me

  what it is I’m trying to hide

  I had learned I couldn’t hide

  far before the sixth grade

  it had been five years

  since I’d kept my first journal

  five years

  since that Chicago apartment

  and saturdays with my father

  taking sips of his coffee

  while I slipped across

  the floors in my

  socks

  Today Aunty acts like

  it was just some book she found

  tucked in the top sock drawer

  while putting away laundry

  that she didn’t even do

  she had no business in my things

  but that didn’t stop her from

  snooping in places that did

  not belong to her I guess

  little girls aren’t supposed to

  keep secrets, even if

  it was an adult who told you

  this is just for you, that nobody

  has the right to look inside

  and judge your feelings here

  you are supposed to trust

  something that someone

  can find and hold against you

  like Aunty did to me that day

  when I was trying again

  because nothing is mine, not even

  this

  So you think your fahdah

  is supposed to be by himself

  you think he is all yours to keep

  forever? she asks

  you think all he’s here to do

  is raise you? spend all his time

  on you?

  never move on with his life?

  I’ve never talked to Aunty

  about Dad’s loneliness

  can not make out

  what would make

  her believe I’d think

  something like this

  about him

  when I’ve eaten

  popcorn I knew

  I wouldn’t like

  laughed at all

  his corny jokes

  to make my father

  happy

  had always

  discovered
his smile

  a big part of what

  my life is for

  But what I discover now

  is that fire can live in your bones

  that betrayal can

  strike the match and light your

  greatest fears ablaze

  where I couldn’t believe the words

  I’d written for myself

  about the women I didn’t like

  who weren’t Mama

  buying me things to be with my father

  had been seen by someone else

  I vowed to myself to never do this again

  I’d thought hiding it underneath

  my mattress would be enough

  to keep someone’s hands from

  reaching deep inside

  I thought the word PRIVATE

  would be a warning to someone

  who may not know if they should read

  I thought the word PRIVATE

  could still somehow mean

  don’t touch

  I thought PRIVATE

  was a place I could feel safe enough

  to speak and not be made fun of

  or spanked

  or called names

  somewhere I knew I would be believed

  I look up at Aunty

  my head hanging too heavy

  with what I know I can’t say

  bouncing back and forth between

  wanting to slap the smirk

  off her face and wanting to

  ease the burn behind my eyelids

  wanting to cuss and stomp and

  demand that she give me back

  my privacy my space everything

  she has taken by using my words

  against me

  she shifts her body in the chair

  but keeps her eyes locked on

  mine, her smirking turning to

  full-blown smile then ugly laugh

  knowing full and well she has

  taken the thing she believes

  no child should have and

  there is nothing I can do

  about it

  Back upstairs and in my room-not-room

  I slam the door closed

  behind me with all

  the force my arm

  can give

  bury my face

  in a pillow

  soak it

  with hot tears

  and muffled scream

  An hour later I rise

  from a heavy sleep, drenched

  in the stink and wet of sweat

  dressed in sad fatigue,

  my room a tornado of everything that

  once lived in the pink dresser

  Dad bought me

  the way my family sees me

  I am still only in the second grade with nothing

  I can safely call mine

  I count twenty

  of the first pages

  once written only

  for my eyes

  grab

  scissors

  cut

  rip

  go to the toilet

  flush

  In this house

  I’ve learned that children

  do not raise their voices to adults

  do not accuse adults of being wrong

  do not accuse adults of disrespect

  according to tradition, all of that

  is impossible

  The sixth grade was already impossible

  without Aunty’s return to change everything / now I can’t eat without permission / I can’t watch tv without permission / it’s now my job to clean the kitchen / as the oldest child / as the first daughter / learning her duties as a future wife / and mother / who was going to understand / that all I wanted to learn / was how to make friends / at school

  At school I was the funny black girl

  my voice an instant punchline

  my body an awkwardly shaped and useless pile of flesh

  my hair styled too many years back

  my clothes carrying the stench of stockfish and pepper soup

  my father too proud to understand

  being different meant being alone

  Sometimes when I’m alone

  I’m on a stage / there are lights / tons of lights coming from every direction / there are people in seats before me / their eyes glued to the jerk of my shoulders / the sway of my hips / the rhythm of my feet moving too fast for them / too smooth and I am perfect for the beat / my arms fling up and so does my body / I leap like I know this / I move like I’m seen

  COLLEGE

  I leave the cafeteria unseen just in time

  to witness Sophia

  finally making her

  way into the building

  with all her potential boyfriends

  heard her voice before

  seeing her face

  heard her heels before

  seeing them descend

  from the first floor

  into the basement

  where the cafeteria is

  and realize that everyone

  who’s poppin gets there late

  I technically can’t be late to anything yet

  cause class doesn’t start

  until next week so I figure

  I can wander this building

  where the smells of the cafeteria

  rise above it

  there are halls leading to offices

  on the first floor and a ballroom

  on the second where I hear

  music blasting

  for us new students on campus

  every corner of this place

  sounds like the parties

  I’ve never been to

  so I stay on the first floor

  and dip into one of the halls

  to look through everything

  I can find posted

  on the walls

  On the walls of a college campus

  you can find flyers to:

  get your hair done just as good as in a salon

  join weird clubs that are a safe space

  try out for a team that wins

  protest this fascist administration

  audition for the dance program

  apply

  for a job

  Dad said he would send me money

  every month so I could focus on school

  but I knew he’d use that to control me

  parents paying for their kids to be in college

  still try to tell you what to do from across the country

  but Dad wasn’t technically paying

  a scholarship means being here is what

  being smart earned me after all those nights senior year

  spent doing homework while kids my age partied

  I cringe remembering those nights

  my head bent over math books under a small desk light

  crunching imaginary numbers and symbols

  now remembering I still have to buy those books here too

  think back to parents weekend

  upperclassmen upended over horror stories

  where they’d spent hundreds

  on textbooks for classes failed for being boring

  I shake my head bringing myself

  back into this hallway eyeing the flyer

  for the job that had emails attached

  at the bottom for everyone to pull

  I pull one and feel the flyer

  with the dancer on it burning a hole into my chest

  I stare back

  take one of those

  too
/>   The dance department is too close

  not to go look

  I’m new here

  so I have

  every excuse

  to walk down hallways

  look into rooms

  open doors

  watch people

  I don’t know

  I’m making sure I’m not seen here

  walking

  just past dark studios

  quiet and empty

  hardwood floors

  glistening like

  they were freshly polished

  for chosen feet

  I peak around

  the corner

  of a door cracked

  exposing a soft ray

  of sunlight

  see her here

  by herself

  hair pulled back

  in a headwrap

  oversized t-shirt

  catching the air

  feet bare with

  spread toes gripping

  the ground

  watch her

  run back and forth

  across this studio

  rewinding the music

  keeping the volume

  low

  but loud enough

  for her to feel

  find it strange seeing her

  face all the mirrors

  smiling playfully into them

  as if telling herself

  yes that’s it

  get it, girl

  then stopping

  when she stumbles

  suddenly screaming

  NO

  DO IT AGAIN

  In high school I had overheard the girls at church

  talking about dance classes

  I figured I would go someday

  if it’s a class that would make me a student

  if I’m a student they’ll expect me to make mistakes

  I’m always making mistakes