I tossed the idea around for hours that day, scribbling down ideas and names for the business, even beauty retailers I could intern with to gain some hands-on experience. It all seemed to make sense, even in those first hours, tapping back into all the good feelings and good times I had growing up, when hair was love and brown skin was celebrated.
Immediately, I got to work with Joe’s sister, Kiara, who like Joe had an undergraduate degree and an MBA from Harvard. She was just as enthusiastic about the idea as I was. Just a few months after our son, Cassius, was born, Kiara and I opened the doors of Georgia, a beauty boutique and salon in SoHo. I named the store after my daughter, my golden-haired girl. This would be her legacy, and a bigger, more meaningful reason to go back to work.
My days at the boutique were long, and I embraced every part of the business. Kiara and I lifted the gate and opened shop in the early afternoons, then worked the register, greeted customers, researched new brands and product to stock the shelves with, and even interviewed and supervised all the hairstylists. There was always something new to learn, or something that desperately needed attention—like, say, a flood coming in from our upstairs neighbors who mistakenly left their water running. Only around midnight, when we’d crammed in all the work we could get in for the day, did we finally close the doors and lower the gate.
* * *
—
“Akwaaba! Akwaaba!”
Dr. G, Joe’s father and the eldest patriarch of our newly formed family, welcomed our guests as they began to fill the room. It was a Saturday in springtime, and our home was flooded with sunlight. Joe and I had moved into a spacious loft on West Broadway, perfect for our family’s growing size. We hadn’t furnished it yet, the windows still bare and the rooms practically empty, but our two large couches and one dining room table were enough for what we needed.
Our family and friends were gathering to welcome baby Cassius into the world. Normally fussy, crying and fretting for hours at a time, on this day he was surprisingly calm. I looked down at Cassius in my arms, less than three months old. He was tiny, born only in the ninth percentile in weight, yet he had eyes the size of a grown man’s. His hair was dark and curly, his skin brown and soft. I smoothed the long white christening gown we’d dressed him in and snuggled him closer in my arms, appreciative of his quiet.
Joe insisted that we have a traditional naming ceremony for Cassius, at which we would welcome our family—those still with us and those who had passed on—into the process of raising and protecting our child. I looked around the room, watching people filing in, waiting for the ceremony to start, and was proud of what I saw: our beautiful home, big enough for all forty of us—Joe, his two brothers and sister draped in Kente cloth, Dr. G speaking in Twi, laughing loudly with his older cousins, and my family comfortably mingling with our friends, who were taking it all in. Everyone at ease. I couldn’t have asked for a better collaboration.
I felt a tug at my pant leg. “Mama, do I have to wear the African cloth thingy Jo-Jo and Auntie Kiara are wearing?” Georgia looked around at her new family, Joe’s family, with worry in her eyes. “ ’Cause I don’t want to.” Almost everyone was wearing traditional African Kente cloth. I had wrapped a bright blue-and-orange swath around my waist as a skirt and paired it with a favorite white blouse.
“No, Ladybug, what you have on is perfect. Your pink tie-dyed outfit is beautiful.” She looked up at me, lips beginning to form a smile.
Many of our folks had traveled from as far away as Ghana—or Atlanta, as my mom had—all to be a part of this day. Even without knowing ahead of time what the ceremony would be like, exactly, or what Dr. G would say, I understood enough to know how necessary this ritual was.
“It’s not about what you’re wearing, Ladybug. It’s about what we’re doing, together, as a family.”
“We’re celebrating Cassius, ’cause he’s the first boy, Mama?” Georgia’s question hit me hard. Did she see this as a celebration of maleness? Or Africanness?
I chose my words carefully, knowing how Georgia must feel being surrounded by new language and customs and new faces attentive to our new baby boy.
“This is for all of us, so we can celebrate our heritage and be reminded of what’s most important in life.” I pulled her closer to my hip. “You stay next to Mama while Grandpa G and Papa Joe speak.”
With everyone formed in a loose circle around us, Joe’s father and Joe led the ceremony, the oldest man in the room alongside his firstborn son, uttering the same words spoken generation after generation by other men to their children. Our men, passing down the family wisdom.
Akwaaba! Grandpa G welcomes our first son, Cassius.
“This is truth.” Dr. G held a spoon to the baby’s mouth, pouring in a drop of water. Cassius was still.
“This is false.” He poured in another spoonful of liquid, only this time it was a bit of dark liquor. Cassius squirmed, moving his head from side to side, as the liquor touched his tongue. I, too, felt the reality of the words.
Joe took the baby from his father’s arms and held him high, announcing his full name: “Cassius Kweku Kofi Joseph Patterson Ghartey—Cassius in honor of the world’s greatest fighter, Cassius Clay, aka Muhammad Ali; Kweku for his grandfather, our oldest living patriarch; Kofi after the Ghanaian day of the week Jodie went into labor; Joseph after myself; and Patterson to carry on Jodie’s father’s name.”
Our ancestors were all there in the circle, too, taking up just as much space as the living. I felt my dad and my great-grandmother Lurline, and so many others, standing shoulder to shoulder, spirit to spirit, with Joe’s people, coming together to celebrate this new child.
Everyone cheered and laughed, the excitement reverberating in every corner of the room. Joe and I never took matrimonial vows during the hyperspeed that was our beginning. We didn’t legalize our commitment to each other, never stood before our family and friends declaring our devotion—instead, we committed ourselves to the unit that was quickly springing up around us. This ceremony, filled with family and friends and love, was our first official gathering as Man and Woman.
* * *
—
The ceremony set a powerful tone for our young family, one of respect for tradition and male leadership, and I was okay with that. With a six-year-old, a newborn, two working parents, and our new love, Joe and I both agreed we needed a solution to get us through all the tasks and responsibilities that seemed to be piling up, month after month. We needed a strategy, one that would allow us to divide and conquer and not break under the pressure. So, in spite of my earlier vow to be different from the parents I grew up with, different from the roles I wanted to break away from with Serge, Joe and I gravitated toward what was familiar. We did what we’d seen our parents do, taking on the distinct roles we’d witnessed men and women play, roles from which they didn’t stray. I became the moral compass of the family, and Joe became the provider. Although I worked at my store four days a week, sometimes putting in twelve hours a day, I saw myself best skilled at attending to the emotions of our family. Emotions and children became my territory, and Joe became our CFO. Every expense was his to cover: mortgages, babysitters, groceries, tuition, vacations, clothing—even the economic survival of my new and needy start-up business was on Joe’s shoulders.
Although I wanted independence, a career, and self-determination, I wanted a family, too, maybe even more, if I were forced to choose. And with our backs up against the wall, the pressure of all of our responsibilities pushing down on me, it became clear that I couldn’t do everything—at least not all at the same time. So with the reality of my growing family coming at me at a hundred miles an hour, I shifted into a familiar, old-fashioned gear, however flawed it was, to help me navigate so much new terrain.
The busier our lives became, the tighter we held on to those Man and Woman roles. I cooked all the family meals, made sure diapers were c
hanged, noses were suctioned free of snot, doctors’ appointments were kept, clothes were washed, and luggage was neatly packed for trips, in addition to running my business. Ms. Nancy, my longtime babysitter, helped out with the kids each week, but any “additions” I piled onto my plate, like working at the boutique or dinner with friends to maintain my sanity, were not to interfere with my main priority: making sure the children’s needs were met. If our kids were emotionally sound, I was doing a good job, and if they weren’t, by some mishap, I’d better hurry up and fix it.
On a certain level, there was a seduction to such clearly marked lines. When you’re in charge of a specific set of responsibilities, there’s an invitation to turn your brain off to the other things not meant for you to do. I tuned in to Georgia, Cassius, and my business and tuned out to the finances. Joe zeroed in on bills and our financial stability, taking a backseat on emotion.
Joe would often come home after a stressful day at work, giving me a kiss on the lips and a pat on the tush the way his father did to his mother, then plop himself down on the couch, still fully dressed in his suit and tie. While I was busy stirring something on the stove, Cassius swaddled and held tightly in my left arm, Joe would then wave his hands toward me, motioning for the baby.
“Does the king fancy his prince?” I’d smile.
“You’re hysterical, Jodie. Our in-house comedian. But seriously, I’ve got one hour, max, to babysit. After that, I’m off-limits.”
I’d bring Cassius over, privately a little annoyed but nonetheless relieved to have both arms free, and watch as Joe awkwardly held his son at arm’s length, bouncing him on one knee and forcing a not-so-funny face. I’d turn back toward the stove, finishing up my chopping and stirring while Georgia sat nearby doing homework, and when the food was ready and set out on the table, I’d take Cassius back in my arms and we’d all sit down to eat. This was our typical routine.
It all looked very provincial, the woman cooking, juggling two kids, and serving a nice hot meal for the family, the man coming in from the outside world and putting in his precalculated quality time with the kids. But I knew Joe was only doing what he’d seen—molding himself into the image of what he’d been told a man should be. And during those days of too little sleep and too much to do—starting early and ending late—I just knew that I was doing my part to help us cross our daily marathon’s finish line.
Although the roles Joe and I took on allowed us to feel productive, they also came with a catalog of restrictions. In exchange for the “perfect provider,” I willingly agreed to give up the power and authority of my say—specifically where our finances were concerned.
“You’re taking way too many taxis, Jodie. I’ve been looking over expenses and it’s over the top.” Joe was sitting at my marble desk looking at a pile of papers. According to Joe’s rules, because I wasn’t the person responsible for the money, I shouldn’t be the person deciding about it, discussing it, or voicing my opinions on where it should go.
“Babe, there’s no subway that works. In a cab, I can make my way across town to the store in ten minutes flat.”
“Then leave earlier and walk. Or take the bus—like a real New Yorker.”
I shot him a look. I was a real New Yorker—literally. He, on the other hand, was from the suburbs of Boston and preferred driving to and from work in his Aston Martin. I’d been taking subways all my life, but now, with a fifteen-pound baby strapped to my chest, yes, I needed a little assistance.
“Got it, Joe. I’ll try walking next time. But it’s going to take me three times longer to get to and from work.”
“Take all the time you need. This is about my money.”
So I did. The next day I walked home from work, slowly, comfortably, stopping for a slice of pizza and an iced tea, sitting on a park bench to talk with Amani, my best friend, when my legs started to swell. By the time we made it back to my place, Joe was enraged.
“Where the hell were you?” His loudness didn’t bother me; I’d grown up with my father, after all, a man who was always making himself heard. It was what came next that took me aback.
“You are so selfish, Jodie. You knew we’d be here waiting for you—Kiara, my brothers, Mom. You’re late. You’re always late!” He slammed his hand down on the kitchen table for effect. Joe made a habit of putting on a show whenever his family was around. As the oldest son, he was supposed to always be in control. And control, apparently, always sounded angry.
Joe’s mom, Penny, turned away from us, attempting to defuse the situation with her body language, drifting into the living room and sitting quietly on the couch, head buried in a magazine.
“This is what it looks like, Joe, when I walk home holding Cassius. Take a picture.” I knew I sounded obnoxious, but I didn’t care. “You can either sanction taxis,” I said, taking a long pause for my own dramatic effect, “or see me when you see me.”
I’d been doing my part for the family: nursing, cooking, then working, then coming home to start all over again. What else did he want? And what did the bus versus the taxi really matter anyway? We had enough money for me to take taxis for the rest of our lives if that’s what it took to keep it all moving forward.
I had seen this before, this correlation between money and control, where control is in the hands of men, and women are often excluded, or minimized, from the conversation. This wasn’t about taxis versus time, a few dollars spent here and there—it was about Joe waging a battle for absolute deference, maintaining the sole position at the head of the family table.
I deserved that head seat, too. Whether it was ten dollars or a thousand dollars, I wanted the authority to say how we would spend it.
We stared at each other from either end of our twelve-foot-long dark wood kitchen table—each of us seconds away from pouncing on the other. Joe’s brothers and sister stayed quiet but close by. Amani took Georgia, who was already home from school, back to her bedroom, making themselves invisible. And I got very still. I whispered to myself, “Yeah, that’s right. Taxis, damn it. Every damn day.”
In that moment I knew that taxis, aka power, would be something we’d be battling over for years to come.
And then I smiled at Joe, choosing not to press the point further. I’d learned early on not to go directly up against him, challenging his opinion and demanding things, or I’d slam up against a brick wall. Better not to say too much, I thought as I made the first move to break the stare down. It wasn’t over, not by any stretch of the imagination, but for now I’d just hush up and do what I needed to do—slowly, quietly, and consistently moving toward the things I wanted for our kids and myself. It would take that type of patience and reserve. “It’s cool, babe. We’re good,” I said as I excused myself, walking down the hall and into the bathroom to pull myself together.
We ate the beautiful dinner that Joe cooked that night, all of us, laughing about this and that, choosing on the outside to move past the argument. But inside, Joe and I—and everyone there—understood just how serious and unresolved the issue was.
Later that night I found a quiet corner of the loft, in the kids’ playroom, pretending to clean up the mess. I called my mom, trying to tell her about the things I hated in my relationship. About how controlling Joe was. I explained to her how small I felt when he cut me off or yelled at me in front of others, when he expected me always to do what he wanted. “If we’re together as a couple, raising these babies, we should be making decisions together—money, parenting, all of it.”
“Well, Jodie, that’s how most men are. They like control, so give it to them. Your father was the same way. And Joe, he buys you so many beautiful things. Can’t you just be a little nicer…easier with him? I don’t know, maybe get some new lingerie? Men like lingerie.”
I thought this was ridiculous, thinking lingerie could dissolve what I knew was sexism, plain and simple. But I tried taking my mother’s approach of b
eing less combative and more grateful with Joe. Sometimes it worked and I could hold my tongue, but as the disparities in our relationship grew, it became harder for me to defuse our fights. And often I was adding my own fuel to the fire.
Money and power—those issues alone could have broken us apart.
* * *
—
Meanwhile, as Cassius got older, the sheer physical energy he exhibited was starting to mystify me. Coming from a family of women, I often observed his actions like a tourist. He could spend half the day obsessing over his toys—separating the jungle animals from the trucks, the action figures from the building blocks, then lining up each grouping by size and color. He’d play with one set of toys before moving on to the next—never, ever mixing blocks with animals or Tonka trucks with action figures. Each toy was regarded separately, then set up for the main event: the crash. Houses were demolished and animals went head to head, then lay lifeless on their sides. One after the other, Cassius orchestrated each toy’s destruction, and when he was done, he sat back and took in the fallout, smiling at his creation. Happy with his work, he’d start all over again—building and breaking, building and breaking. The louder the crash, the bigger his grin. Where Georgia was soft in her forcefulness, Cassius was brute force unadorned.
I wondered out loud to Joe one day if Cassius were sick.
“Like a cold?” he asked.
“No, no—like sick in the head.” I just couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to destroy all the time. But Joe insisted that Cassius acted the way that all boys did—that it was just “how we are.” Cassius was a classic boy, I learned from Joe, and as a non-boy I didn’t need to understand, I just needed to adapt to the male psyche better, needed to figure out how best to navigate this foreign terrain.
The Bold World Page 13