by Omar Tyree
Victor smiled and shook his head. “Naw, I got something to do.”
Tracy then remembered her hesitancy to ride in his car in the first place. He was a drug dealer.
“I wanna talk to you about that when we get a chance,” she told him.
Victor ignored her. He knew what she was getting at. Several other girls had asked him how he felt about selling drugs to his people, and Victor gave the same response as all the other dealers, Nobody’s forcing them to take it.
“Come on now, I’m running late,” he told her.
“Not until you tell me that you love me,” she decided, playfully. I’ll talk to him about that drug-selling stuff at another time, she promised herself, realizing that he had brushed her off about it.
“Well, you gon’ be late for work then,” he warned.
Tracy climbed out of his car and said, “You’re gonna tell me that you love me one of these days.”
Victor had another laugh. “What ’chew think, you’re training me now or something?”
Tracy smiled at him as she walked toward the subway. “I think you wanna be my man.”
“Oh yeah? Well, why would I want to be your man after I already had you?” he asked with a smile.
“Because I’m flyy. And you know that,” she responded with confidence. I’m finally on equal footing with him, she told herself excitedly.
Victor rolled up his window and drove off, still grinning. “That girl’s getting too smart for her own good,” he told himself. “I like that.”
Tracy’s new job proved to be an effortless hype of self-esteem. Young black men from all over Philadelphia came to the centrally located store and bought more than they expected. They all wanted to keep “Flyy-honey-brown” in sight, pressing her for dates and for her phone number, while trying to give her theirs.
Tracy turned all of their offers down. Even her Italian boss, Joseph Bamatti, made moves on her whenever he could get close enough to her without the other girls noticing, and that only irritated her. Tracy feared losing her job in an argument about it, but she refused to be harassed.
Tracy called Pam into the dressing room in the back, so “Little Joey” could not hear her comments about him.
Pam quizzed, “What’s up, girl?” She was big-boned and taller than Tracy.
Tracy whispered, “Did Joey ever try to hit on you?”
Pam smirked. “Hell naw. My boyfriend would kill his little ass. But he’s sayin’ dumb shit to you though?” Pam was large enough to have a huge boyfriend. Tracy could see why she had nothing to worry about from Little Joey. “Look, if that muthafucka is bothering you, then tell ’im the fuck off. I do. That’s why he respects me.”
Tracy looked at Pam’s size again, thinking, That ain’t the only reason why Joey respects you. “Well, did he try any other girls?” she asked.
“He probably did, but nobody told me shit about it. And that’s probably why ’dem two Italian girls don’t like you in here.”
“You think so?”
“Hell yeah, girl. He was probably playin’ favors for them. And you the next trick on his list,” Pam said jokingly.
“No the fuck I ain’t,” Tracy snapped.
Pam said, “Well, look, I’ll talk to you on the phone about it, ’cause we losin’ commission.”
“Stop lunchin’ and start working, Tracy,” one of the Italian girls remarked.
“Ay Maria, come here for a minute,” Tracy called.
Maria had an outright attitude. Disgust was written all over her olive-colored face. “What?” she answered skeptically.
Tracy asked, “Why don’t you like me?”
“Who said I don’t like you?”
“I mean, by the way you act toward me, it’s obvious.”
“It’s not that I don’t like you, it’s just that you spend too much time bull-shitting around and not enough time working.”
“Well, Joey ain’t complainin’,” Tracy said purposefully. She wanted to see if that was the problem.
Tracy hit pay dirt. Maria snapped, “I mean, are you fucking Joey or something?”
“No, are you fuckin’ ’im?”
Maria rolled her eyes and said, “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
Tracy felt like smacking the color out of her. But it wouldn’t look good for her image, since it would be painted that they were fighting over her boss.
Joey interjected, yelling from the front counter, “HEY! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TWO DOIN’? Come on, get a move on! We got customers in here ready to spend hundreds of dollars. Look, this guy here wants to buy a sweat suit. I mean, are yous’ workin’ or not?”
• • •
“Ra-heem-ma, let me tell you, girl-friend. I was so ready to kick this Italian bitch’s teeth in today,” Tracy told her neighbor.
Raheema was enjoying the spring night air as Tracy walked up. “Why?” she asked, smiling. Tracy always had a story to tell.
Tracy shook her earring-wearing head. “This bitch think that I’m fuckin’ my Italian boss named Joey, and she be havin’ attitudes with me. And oh my God, I felt like kickin’ that bitch’s ass t’day. But then everybody might think that I was fighting her over him. And I don’t like this other Italian bitch in that store either, but I wanted to kill that Maria bitch.”
Tracy was right out in front of her house, cussing up a storm. Raheema sat there chuckling.
Tracy finally calmed down and took a seat on Raheema’s steps. “Damn, I hate petty bitches!” she claimed. “So what’s the news, ABC Channel 6?”
Raheema paused. She didn’t have any good news for Tracy. She said solemnly, “Victor got locked up today.”
Tracy responded hoarsely, “What?”
“They said that he resisted arrest, and they had a warrant for attempted assault and battery against him, up in Cheltenham. Jantel told me about it.”
Tracy trembled and choked up. “I don’t . . . Why . . . Dag!”
Raheema moved closer, feeling almost as bad as Tracy did. She squeezed Tracy’s hand, trying to comfort her.
“After all this shit,” Tracy muttered sorrowfully. “Why did they have to get him now? Those muthafuckas just had to wait until now. Didn’t they?” She bit her lower lip, trying to hold back the tears. They started falling rapidly down her face.
Tracy snatched her hand away from Raheema and stood up. “The Cheltenham police are racist anyway. Fuck the cops!” she exclaimed. She began pacing down her block toward Wayne Avenue.
“Where are you going?” Raheema asked her fearfully. She was afraid that Tracy might try something stupid in her rage.
“No-fuckin’-where!” Tracy fumed. Raheema followed her as she pouted. “I don’t believe this! And the police are never around to lock up criminals when you need ’em to. They just know how to take niggas away, that’s all. Punk-ass cops!”
Raheema realized that Victor was in the wrong, and although he had been Tracy’s first love, Raheema suspected that her neighbor/girlfriend knew it, too. It was just the wrong time for Tracy to admit it.
That next Sunday morning, Tracy had promised her college friends that she would go with them to an African Cultural Festival in Fairmount Park. She tried to back out, but Lisa and Kiwana would not let her. Lisa had room in her car to take Raheema, since Joanne was back in New York.
“You gotta get out and shake this thing off, girl. And you should’ve never stopped hanging out with us in the first place,” Lisa was saying to Tracy. “I mean, just because you and Carl couldn’t work things out doesn’t mean that you had to cut us off.”
Kiwana said, “I know. Girlfriend just up and disappeared on us.”
Lisa and Kiwana both wore African Kente outfits. Raheema and Tracy wore matching Nike sweat suits, looking like twins.
“So I guess you know what your name means, right?” Kiwana asked Raheema.
“Unt unh,” Raheema responded shyly, especially around Kiwana. Kiwana looked so healthy. Her skin was clear and as smooth as a baby’s.
“It’s a Muslim name, meaning kindhearted and good,” she told Raheema.
Raheema nodded, embarrassed by her acne-prone skin, wishing she could have Kiwana’s.
“I’m gonna get you some vitamins, and some aloe vera products to heal your blemishes. You have to stop eating oil-producing foods, too.”
Raheema was all ears and no complaints, with advice coming from someone as beautiful as Kiwana.
Lisa interjected, “Yeah, remember? Joanne had acne real bad when we first got to school.”
“Yup. And we got her on a vegetarian diet and eating the right foods, and it straightened her right out,” Kiwana said. “But the key is not to damage your skin. Acne can be taken care of. It’s the scars that do the real damage.”
“Yeah, and you just gotta start feeling positive about you as a person,” Lisa added. She could tell that Raheema was guarded.
Tracy said, “I didn’t know that Joanne had acne.”
“Yeah, when we were freshmen,” Lisa answered, as if it was years ago. They were only sophomores.
Kiwana asked Raheema, “What’s your sister’s name?”
“Mercedes.”
“God. Why did your parents name her that?”
Raheema smiled. “Because my father wanted one.”
They all roared with laughter inside of the small car.
Kiwana shook her head. “That’s a shame.”
Lisa asked, “So who named you?”
Raheema answered, “My mom did. She said that she knew this Muslim girl in high school, and she told me that she had always liked her name.” She was beginning to open up to them.
“Oh,” Lisa said. “So your mom and her are still good friends?”
“No. They didn’t hang out or anything. My mom just liked her name, and she said that she moved to Washington years ago.”
“Washington, D.C.?” Kiwana asked.
“Yeah,” Raheema answered.
They pulled up to Fairmount Park and found a parking spot. Black men wearing black suits and bow ties were yelling and waving newspapers. “FINAL CALL! GET YOUR FINAL CALL . . . FINAL CALL! GET YOUR FINAL CALL!”
They were sharply dressed, clean-looking and masculine. Tracy heard her college girlfriends talk about “The Nation of Islam” before, but she had never seen any up close. They looked strong and upright.
“Hi are you sisters doin’ today?” one asked.
“We’re doing fine,” Lisa answered for all of them.
“All right, now. Y’all have a good time,” he said. He continued waving his papers as they passed. “FINAL CALL! GET YOUR FINAL CALL!”
Tracy said, “They look like they can kick some ass.”
“Yeah, but I’ll take an Afrocentric man, myself,” Lisa retorted.
“Here you go with that again,” Kiwana responded to her. “We gotta stop separating ourselves like that. I’ll take any black man who has his head screwed on straight, and who is willing to go to battle culturally, religiously, economically, academically and spiritually. I’ll take a Muslim brother any day.”
Lisa contested, “Yeah, you talk that stuff, Kiwana, but all the guys at school say that you think you’re all that, with your nose all up in the air.”
“Well, if any of them start knowing how to act on our campus, then just maybe they would find out that I’m trying to become a queen first, by getting to know who I am and my strongest aspects. And then I’ll look for my king, who knows who he is and what his strongest aspects are. And that may take years,” Kiwana announced.
Tracy and Raheema were thinking that Kiwana was already “a queen.” Tracy figured that she had found her king, but he was behind bars, awaiting trial.
Tracy had never seen so many bright and cheerful colors in her life. African descendants definitely had a way with using attractive colors. Bright oranges, blues, yellows, purples, greens and earth browns were everywhere, as they sold their handmade Kente outfits, clothes, hats, and shirts, along with carved art, paintings and ethnic foods. The girls were having a good time, and Fairmount Park was packed, vibrating with the sounds of celebration and the drum.
The sun was out with a vengeance that afternoon, heating things up. The African Cultural Festival lasted until seven o’clock. They then planned to go see the Spike Lee Joint, School Daze, but first Kiwana wanted Tracy and Raheema to listen to a lecture being given by African, Caribbean and African-American poets.
An older black man with graying dreadlocks held the stage. He wore a long, earth-tone cloth from his neck to his ankles. He looked to be sixty or more, and had the strong and steady eyes of wisdom, as if he could see through walls. And he spoke with a Caribbean accent.
“Our wi-mon in Ameri-ca, on de Islands and on de mainlands of Afri-ca must a-gain be the tea-chas of our chil’ren. We cannot raise any proper nay-shun without our sistuhs knowing exactly who dey are and what dey should be do-eng. Dey must know how to feed themselves propa-lee to be able to give propa nurturing to our future generay-shuns.
“Our wi-mon of old, have been our Nandi, raising Shaka, our Candice, fighting de white barbarians in Ethiopia, our Nefertiti, Hat-shepsut, Cleopatra, Harriet Tub-mon here on de mainland, sistuh Rita Marley in de Islands, and our mother goddesses, O-shun and Isis.
“Our wi-mon must know dare past to be able to plan for our future. Any nay-shun with mothas who do not know dare past to teach dare chil’ren can not possibly rise. So I say to de wi-mon on dees day that you must know your desti-nee. You must know your divini-tee. And you must know, dat through you, all nay-shuns live, all nay-shuns die.”
“Well, you got one more year, Tracy, and then you’re on your own,” Patti said, getting Jason ready for his last week of first grade. It was also Tracy’s last week as a high school junior. “I see you went back to that old ‘natural look’ again,” Patti added with a chuckle.
Tracy smiled and looked into her mirror. Her hair was twisted-up again. She had stopped working at Jeans & Shirts after the first two months. She was turning down a lot of money, but she was tired of being exploited for her looks. For her last day of school, she was wearing a collage t-shirt, sunglasses, blue-jean shorts and no socks with her tan Dockside shoes.
“What is that?” Patti asked, noticing the small wood carving of a naked black woman hanging from her daughter’s neck on a black leather string.
Tracy eyed the naked black woman, bouncing against her chest and held it in her hand. “It’s a fertility symbol, mom.” She smiled, feeling bashful. Kiwana had given it to her a couple of days ago. “Raheema got one, too.”
“Well, what’s with all this African stuff, all of a sudden?” Patti asked. She was curious, noticing the books that Tracy was reading.
“I don’t know. I’m getting it from Kiwana.”
“Tracy goin’ to Africa, mom?” Jason asked.
“I don’t know. Are you going to Africa, Tracy?” Patti said sarcastically.
Tracy grinned. “One day.”
They then headed downstairs to the kitchen.
“And what’s with this health-nut stuff you been getting into? Is that from Kiwana too?”
Tracy laughed. “Mom, I don’t believe you.”
Patti didn’t know much about things outside of Philadelphia. But she wasn’t stupid.
“I’m sorry, mom. I love you,” Tracy said, realizing her careless thoughts.
Patti looked at her as if she was crazy. “I love you too, honey, but you’re starting to act a little loony on me now. I’m gonna have to take you to a mental health clinic soon,” she joked.
Tracy asked her mother while pouring some orange juice, “Did they teach you much about African health methods and whatnot when you were in that nutrition program, mom?”
“No,” Patti said curiously. Tracy may have been learning some things that she didn’t know. “Well, go ahead, ‘Ms. Africa.’ Teach me something,” she responded. Patti smiled and sat down. And she was serious.
“Don’t you have to be at work soon, mom?” Tracy asked,
backing down from her mother’s challenge. She was embarrassed.
Patti joked, “Oh, naw, Ms. Africa, ma’am. I ain’t gotta be t’ workin’ for ’da massa till tin ’dis here mornin’.”
Tracy giggled. Then she got serious. “Well, I was reading this book that Kiwana gave me, and it said that women only bleed with periods because of their appetites, and that the chauvinistic environment in America is stopping women from developing their full feminine capabilities. And Kiwana said that white women are not really developing power with their feminist movement, they’re just getting to be as aggressive and destructive as men are, like Margaret Thatcher in Britain.”
“Go on, girl, teach me,” Patti said excitedly. She was proud that Tracy was using her mind and exploring things.
Tracy asked, “You ever notice that African women look a lot fuller than us, mom?”
“Yeah, I’ve always been saying that. And they don’t be fat either, just healthy-bodied. But I got a nice shape though,” Patti said, standing up to check herself out.
“Yeah, well that’s because we lack proper nutrients and vitamins in urban areas with all this fast-food stuff and canned foods. You notice how women down South and out in the country are shaped more like African women? That’s because their food supply is healthier.”
“Go ’head, girl,” Patti cheered her on. “Well, I’ve been feeding you the right foods in here, and I do know the proper food groups,” she responded.
“But mom, I don’t know if them white doctors are teaching us the right stuff, ’cause they’re still experimenting with different foods and all. Africans mastered what and what not to eat thousands of years ago. But see, black people think that white people know everything and that we don’t. But we’ve had vegetarian and fruit diets before the white man even came out of his caves. And they didn’t have any fertile land to learn from, until the turn of the century when they started attacking everybody.”
“GO ’HEAD, GIRL! THAT’S MY DAUGHTER!” Patti shouted.
Jason ran into the kitchen to find out what was going on. “What she doin’, mom?” he asked.
“Dag, mom,” Tracy responded, surprised by her mother’s excitement. “I mean, I got a lot more to learn, but I’m getting there,” she proudly added.