“It feels like you are.” Angie took a small bite of her flapjacks.
“Well, that’s not my intention.” Her mother paused. She was obviously measuring her words. “I’m just concerned that you haven’t found your own thing that interests you.”
“Going there interests me.”
Her mother sighed. “That was her thing, Angela. She was into the whole black pride, we’re-all-Africans-so-let’s-unite thing. Going there, it made sense for her. But you’re different.”
“You don’t think I care about that stuff too?”
Her mother took a sip of her coffee. Angie waited. “Not really, no.”
“So I’m fake, is that what you think?”
Her mother reached out, put her hand on top of Angie’s. Her touch was warm, soft. “I think there are a lot of different ways to be black in this world, and you just need to find yours.”
She could barely concentrate at work, felt dizzied by the endless racks of clothing. When a customer entered her department, and began browsing, Angie was tempted to ignore her. The woman wore a tight V-neck sweater over palazzo pants, an outfit that didn’t flatter her body at all. Angie guessed that the woman was about a size 20.
The woman eyed her, so Angie made her way over.
“I’m looking for a pretty dress to wear on a date,” she said. “What can you show me?”
Angie beckoned, led the woman to a circular rack of primary-color dresses. She pulled one out for the woman to see. It was linen A-line, with a modest scoop-neck collar and a gentle flare out from the waist. “My sister bought these dresses in three different colors,” said Angie. “They never go out of style. They’re so flattering.”
The woman scrunched up her face. “Nah, not my thing. It’s a little retro, don’t you think? I like to be in style, up-to-date.”
“This is classic,” said Angie.
The woman shook her head. “I’m gonna keep looking around.”
Angie gingerly placed the dress back on the rack. She loved it, loved how Ella looked in hers, especially the purple one she wore to Angie’s high school graduation. They were all together, her mother and the girls, all happy. No one mentioned Denise’s missed college graduation, but that mishap underscored the day, made this one more acutely festive. The day was imbued with double triumph: Ella was drugfree, had reached her one-year anniversary, and was heading on a celebratory trip to Africa. Angie remembered how, when her name was called and she walked across the stage of Renaissance High, she couldn’t see her mother in the audience, but she spotted Ella’s purple dress. Just as she shook hands with the principal and gripped her diploma, she turned to see Ella waving at her, cheering her on—but to Angie, it felt like she was waving goodbye.
When she returned home from work, she found Denise and their mother sitting together, watching Beverly Hills Cop, the box for a new Video Cassette Recorder sitting open beside them.
“Is that what I think it is?” asked Angie.
Their mother looked up. “Can you believe it? You can watch any movie you want whenever you want.” She shook her head. “Denise insisted on getting me this newfangled thing. I told her I’ll never figure out how to work it.”
“And I told you it’s easy. Now that it’s set up, all you have to do is push a couple buttons.” Denise eyed her little sister. “I like that top.”
“Really?” said Angie, startled by the compliment. “It’s old.” She’d gotten the seersucker blouse from her favorite vintage store in Royal Oak.
“Could’ve fooled me,” said Denise. She took a swig from her Diet Coke. “Looks good on you.”
“Thanks.” She watched the movie for a few moments, enjoying the sight of Eddie Murphy in his Mumford High sweatshirt. “So this is a videotape we’re watching now?”
“Yep,” said Denise. “I bought a few more too. I got Under the Cherry Moon and Soul Man and The Color Purple.”
“Cool.” Angie wished she’d been able to buy her mother a brand-new video cassette recorder. Then maybe she’d think her youngest daughter’s life was on track.
“You look tired, Angela.” Her mother beckoned for her to sit. “Those are some long hours you work on weekends.”
“That’s retail for you.” She plopped down on the sofa. Together they watched the end of the movie in silence, Murphy’s goofy, hip slang unfunny to her.
As the credits rolled, their mother said, “We’re about to go for Chinese. Want to join us?”
Angie shook her head no. “I’m not really in the mood for Chinese food.”
“Well, we could do something else,” said Denise. “Just walk around Greektown, pick somewhere to eat.”
“I am actually pretty tired,” admitted Angie. “I’m not hungry. I’m just gonna chill out here.”
“Well, you could watch another movie on video,” said Denise. “There’s plenty to choose from.”
“Thanks,” said Angie. “I might.”
After Denise and their mother left, Angie popped in one of the movies Denise had bought and watched it appear on the TV screen. She hit the fast-forward button, it whirled ahead; she hit the rewind button, and it backed up. “Wow,” she said out loud. On a whim she got up, grabbed her purse and car keys, and left the house. She drove to the new Blockbuster in Southfield, signed up for a membership. She was overwhelmed by the number of films on display. She went straight to the classics section and strolled the aisle, thinking she’d rent an old black-and-white movie, or maybe one she and Ella used to watch together. Ella’s two favorites were Black Orpheus and Paris Blues. But as she walked the aisle, she saw, on the “Just Released” rack, She’s Gotta Have It. She’d seen the movie when it came out the year before, showing at the museum’s art house theater. She plucked the video jacket from the shelf—its quirky colors and floating black faces calling to her—and went straight to the checkout counter.
Back at home she watched the movie while eating a dinner of cheddar cheese and crackers. She was stunned anew by it, by the verve, the fresh portrayals, the lack of stoicism, the humor. She’d forgotten how exhilarating it was to see black people in a film who resembled people she knew, and she laughed out loud at the part where Mars Blackmon got in Nola’s face, begging for sex with his Please baby please baby please—as if she was seeing it for the first time. But as the credits rolled, she found herself sad, envious. Out there were Afro-Americans like this young guy, this Spike Lee, doing new and wondrous things. He’d figured out how to be black in the world. And in a modern, eighties way. What did she have but Ella’s worn caftans and a vague desire to “be part of something”? What was her thing? Would she ever know?
She took her plate to the kitchen and placed it in the sink. As she cleared the table, a folded newspaper caught her eye, its style of typeface telling her it wasn’t the Detroit Free Press. She picked it up, saw that it was the real estate section of The Atlanta Journal. Four ads were circled in the “Houses for Sale” section, listed under “downtown Atlanta neighborhoods.”
She stared at the red circles, their optimistic swirl. That’s what this weekend trip to Atlanta was about—house hunting. Her mother hadn’t said a word to her. What about me? Angie wondered. She put the newspaper back on the table, hands shaking, heart punctured. Who wants to live in fucking Georgia? she told herself.
In her room, a paper lantern covered an overhead light, casting a reddish hue. The longer she sat on her bed, the more her resentment grew. All these years, she’d done what her mother had asked of her. While Denise had been their mother’s protector, she’d been the compensator, making up for Ella’s failings. She’d gotten good grades, stayed away from drugs, had responsible sex with two different men, one in high school, the other in college (Solo didn’t really count). And even though she wanted desperately to return to U of M after Ella’s death, her mother begged her not to, as if the university campus itself would turn her into a Black-Power-fanati
c-cum-drug-addict. She’d done all of that for her mother—stayed nearby because she asked her to, because she needed her—and what had her mother done for her? Made plans behind her back to leave her, to move hundreds of miles away, near Denise. She felt tricked, her good-girl efforts mocked.
Angie leaned across the bed, grabbed the small wicker basket on her altar, removed its lid, and took out the old, pink joint she’d put there many years before. She sniffed it. It had no smell. She went to the kitchen, got a match from the box they kept below the counter, and struck it. She brought the flame to the joint, but on second thought, blew it out. She stepped out into the backyard, sat on the porch. The June night was hot-breath warm, the sky punctured with baby stars. She could hear someone gunning a car engine. She felt as though she was on the precipice of something new, still vague and out of reach, but close.
She put the joint to her mouth, feeling the importance of the act, its demarcation from old to new. She struck another match and lit it, sucked in, held the smoke in her mouth as she’d seen Ella do many times. She exhaled. She waited, but couldn’t taste, smell, nor feel anything. It’s too old, she thought. Part of her was relieved, and she pulled on it again, and again, content with the chance to smoke a joint and not actually get high from it. She still wasn’t sure whether she had “it,” that addictive personality. Out on the lawn stood the swing set her father had staked into the ground when she was a little girl. She stared at it, barely conjuring him, his strong arms, his rugged, outdoors handsomeness now a shadowy vision. She flicked the roach, ran over, and sat down on a swing, gripping the rusted chain. She pumped, taking herself higher and higher. The air rushed back at her and a gaggle of stars looked down as she pumped. When had she last done this, been a carefree girl on a swing? When she was eleven, and life was perfect.
Everything about that year at first was magical, starting with Jimmy Carter’s inauguration and all the grown-ups’ relief. To Angie, the world opened up. Even she, a sixth grader with a teacher excited about current events, understood the country’s collective sigh to be done with Watergate and Nixon and Vietnam. “He’ll pardon all those brothers and white boys who evaded the draft,” said Ella. And when Carter did so, she said, “See? I told you! It’s a new day.” All four of them gathered eight nights in a row to watch Roots, Ella commentating through it all. First night: “Maybe now folks will figure out that Africa is not a country.” On another night: “‘Bout time this country owned up to its slavery past.” Still another night: “Think black folks now will learn more Swahili than ‘Watu Wazuri, use Afro Sheen’?”
Angie also remembered that year as a time of goodbyes to ubiquitous icons. Seventeen-year-old Denise sat forlorn before the TV, watching the last episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. “What am I supposed to do now on Saturday nights at eight?” she said. Their mother watched the broadcast of Diana Ross and the Supremes performing their final concert in London and lamented, “It’s the end of an era.” And when Elvis died, their mother said, “If the King can die, anybody can.”
But Ella wasn’t saying goodbye to anything, rather rushing toward more political awareness. When her Afro-American studies professor, Dr. Jordan, invited her and other favorite students to join him as part of the US delegation to FESTAC, the household was abuzz in excitement. “My baby is traveling the world!” said their mother. “All my friends can’t believe it!” said Denise. Ella left for ten whole days to attend the arts festival, becoming part of the largest single group of Afro-Americans ever to return to Africa “in one body.” She returned home at her apex, at the height of her brilliance and radical shimmer. She moved differently, ivory bangles clicking on her arms, regal in her new tie-dyed and indigo-swirled long dresses. She’d discovered what it meant to be the steady object of men’s desire, and wallowed in Nigerians’ love of her ample body, her fleshy curves. Before, she’d exclusively dated African men, but now she moved as if an entire continent of them had lusted for her.
She came back with illustrious stories, told in a rush. “One day we saw dancers performing from Cuba and the West Indies, and the next day we saw liberation fighters and revolutionaries marching through the streets! And I met the UN ambassador, Andrew Young! And then another day, Stevie Wonder performed! At the closing ceremonies, Miriam Makeba, this South African singer? She sang. She was amazing, just amazing! And all of us from America yelled, ‘We’re an African people! We’re an African people!’” She didn’t pause, breathless with reenactment. “And Angie, we went to this place in the north, Kaduna, where they had this celebration called a Durbar, with hundreds and hundreds of men on beautiful horses and camels riding through the streets; they were just spectacular! Daddy would’ve loved it.”
Nigeria, Ella explained, was a rich country, dripping with oil money. More than three billion dollars had been spent on FESTAC, she said. “They built a new national theater just for the festival and an entire village for the guests,” she noted. “And you should see the modern expressways! Whatever you thought of Africa, you were wrong!”
Ella played those tapes of Fela’s Afrobeat nonstop for weeks. And she announced that she would only refer to herself and other black people as “African Americans.”
Most exciting of all for Angie: Ella came back in love. Nigel was president of the Black Student Union, a graduating senior, and part of the delegation. To Angie, he was just plain beautiful, with those light eyes and hair gathering to a tiny “V” on his forehead. “So many girls on the trip were checking him out,” said Ella. “Little women with skinny legs, narrow hips. He wasn’t into any of them, said, ‘I like a woman with some thoughts in her head and some meat on her bones.’”
They became inseparable. When Nigel graduated from U of M, he boycotted the ceremony and spent the day at Belle Isle with Ella instead. That summer, while the rest of the world was listening to “Hotel California” and “Tonight’s the Night,” Ella and Nigel played Bob Marley’s new album continuously on Ella’s bedroom record player. Once, Angie caught her sister alone, swaying her hips to the music as Marley sang out, Is this love, is this love, is this love that I’m feeling? Seeing her sister move that way both frightened and excited Angie, because it was so sensuous and radical. She knew it had something to do with Nigel. Later, Ella explained that she was reggae dancing, and taught Angie how to do it. “Just let your body groove to the beat” she coached. Dancing like that made Angie feel older, sophisticated, more advanced than her elementary school classmates disco-dancing to Chic’s “Le Freak.”
A memory: Angie awakening to a dark room. She sat up in bed, startled. Where was she? Then she remembered. Ella’s room. Her big sister had let her sleep with her that night, since they were the only two at home. But Ella wasn’t in bed beside her, and Angie panicked. She’d fallen asleep reading The Amityville Horror, and now she worried that someone, something sinister had entered their home, was coming after her. Had Ella left her alone, all by herself? She got up, crept slowly down the stairs. She smelled smoke, and terror gripped her.
“Ella?” she called out, tripping down the steps. “Ella?”
She stood very still in the middle of the living room. She felt a rumble beneath her feet, and then sounds. Music? Yes music! Coming up from the basement. She ran to the hallway door, flung it open. Smoke wafted up to her alongside the deep, baritone crooning of Barry White. Relieved that her sister was simply having another party, she ran down the steps, chasing after the booming sound of the Love Unlimited Orchestra. But she stopped abruptly on the last step, in awe of what she saw before her.
At least twenty people scattered around the room. Ella moved through the crowd, passing out pieces of paper and pens. She looked regal, her skirt and top made of beautiful, embroidered lace, head wrapped in matching fabric. Angie had never seen this outfit before. All of the partygoers’ heads were bent as they scribbled on pieces of paper. To Angie, it was a fantasy classroom scene, only the students weren’t at desks, rather curled up on the s
ofa and stretched out on the floor and writing against the wall. Lights were low, and all the brightness came from the far end of the room, where a cauldron of fire burned. The Love Unlimited Orchestra swelled in her ears.
“Ah, our youngest guest has arrived,” said Nigel.
Ella turned, beckoned Angie to join her. “Hey Princess. Did we wake you up?”
Angie shook her head no. Ella took her hand, walked her closer to the mini bonfire. “Cool, huh?”
“Yeah,” said Angie, enjoying the warmth of the flames, and Ella’s touch.
In the corner next to the built-in bar, a guy wearing a black beret was rifling through Ella’s albums. “This is some eclectic shit!” he said, cigarette burning between his fingers as he lifted Barry White’s orchestral sounds from the turntable, gingerly using a surgeon’s precision to replace the album with another. Right away, the wild opening chords of Parliament’s “Flashlight” charged through the speakers. Ella carried Angie even closer to the fire, so that its heat danced across her arm. “We’re writing down things we don’t want anymore, stuff we want out of our lives, and dropping them into the fire.” Ella smiled at her. “Wanna do it too?”
It was way past her bedtime, and Angie felt giddy knowing that she could stay up as long as she wanted. Their mother and Denise had taken an overnight trip to Muskegon to accept an award in their father’s name. Denise had been excited about the three-hour drive, newly minted with a driver’s license and thrilled to chauffeur their mother. Oddly enough, Ella hadn’t wanted to go, said she’d stay behind and babysit Angie.
“OK, somebody give my little sister a piece of paper,” said Ella to the crowd.
“I got her,” said Nigel, waving a scrap of paper overhead. He gave the paper to Angie, led her to a spot on the sofa, plopped down beside her. “What grade are you in?” he asked. She told him. “So, what annoying things are sixth graders doing these days?”
She shrugged, shy. He handed her a pencil. “Think. Any silly boys getting on your nerves?”
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