by Saeeda Hafiz
“Why are you messin’ up your life?” she said, wringing her well-used school-bus-driving and bowling hands. Her hands looked like she could pack a punch, too, reminding me of the one time when I was a teenager, she did slap me across the face for not hanging up the phone fast enough for her liking. I could still hear that slap ringing in my ear.
“You know, I’ve hardly ever asked you for anything. In fact, I have contributed a lot to the family since I was nine years old. I have always worked and have never caused you trouble. The one time I need you, I get, ‘You weren’t invited here.’ As long as I’m what you want me to be and you can brag about it, all is well. But as soon as you have to put some effort into being a mother, then it’s, ‘Why are you messin’ up your life?’ ”
I felt total relief. Everything was coming out so clearly. I had run this conversation in my head with her ever since I was fifteen.
“You don’t think giving you a roof over your head and food to eat is being a mother? Girl, some folks don’t even do that. You better go’on somewhere with that foolishness. You have no reason to be messin’ up your life like this. You had opportunities that I never had.”
“You had opportunities, too. I resent that you always try to live through my life. Get your own life, Mom, live your own life.”
“I have my own life. Sy, I think all that New-Age stuff has screwed up your mind. Since that diet change, you have been trying to drive a wedge between us. You have been exposed to lots of religions and doctrines, and I think you are all confused and mixed up.”
“Mom, it’s my New-Age training that keeps encouraging me to try to fix my relationship with you, to love you unconditionally. Which is hard, because that is not how our family loves one another. Everything has always been conditional. You and Dad love us, conditionally, so we can make your unfulfilled lives look better.
You both keep saying we have no reason to be messed up. You don’t know why Rahima and Samir are drug addicts. Ma, they are addicts because they are in a lot of pain. They are hurting from all the beatings you suffered. They had to hear it and watch them up close. You don’t think listening to our mother scream at the hands of our father has no effect on us? We’re all messed up behind it. How can you not understand that?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yeah, but we all still feel the pain. Some times are more painful than others. And you live in a way that you ask us all the time to suppress it, but it gets expressed in one way or other. Mom, almost all of your kids are addicts. And what drives me crazy is, you constantly say things like, ‘I didn’t have to give you birth.’ And ‘All the sacrifices I made for you.’ ”
“That’s true, I didn’t have to give you birth.” She paused. “And I have made sacrifices you don’t even know about.”
“But the thing is, you did give me birth, and still I’m made to feel like a burden on your life. Not a good thing for a kid to grow up with. You gave birth to me, and yet I feel like you and Dad abandoned me. Then you and Dad try to live through our accomplishments but never take the blame when things go wrong. Your love has always been conditional. And I resent that the most.”
“If you don’t like it here, you can leave,” she said while she leaned back and pursed her lips. I recognized that confidence; it usually came with that old-fashioned statement in African American culture: I’m the HNIC—Head N-word in Charge.
I went to bed that night thinking that this is not the mother who reupholstered that ratty chair and that scratched-up dining room set. I wanted the mother who knew how to transform a beaten down object into a work of art, but perhaps that mother was long gone. The next morning, I woke up sneezing, but I knew that I was not to blame. And, more importantly, I knew that I needed to be in a place that wasn’t toxic, physically as well as emotionally. I packed up my bag and put my turtle-rock inside of it. I walked past the red mailbox and down those stone stairs to catch a bus.
CHAPTER 13
Friendship
I LEFT MY MOM’S PLACE that morning and arrived at my friend Red’s apartment that afternoon. Red and I had become friends when I first started my holistic health study, and we had frequently shared meals together.
When I entered her building, my breath was short and the pulse in my neck was strong. I was nervous. I didn’t want to be judged, again.
Red opened her door and stretched out her long arms, wide. She stood close to five feet four inches, her dancer’s body lithe, yet strong. She looked like Tilda Swinton, except Red had long, curly red hair. Her hug held me so tight that I was filled with gratitude.
“Thanks for coming,” Red said.
Red had been in a minor car accident and thought that she might have a fractured hip. She wasn’t sure if she should be standing or walking on her leg. I offered to cook her meals, and she offered me a place to stay.
The first night, over cups of Sleepytime Tea, I brought Red up to date on all the details, from my failed business in Atlanta, to my visiting Child Protective Services, to my failed attempt to visit my sister in jail.
Red watched my tears flow. She listened, and I trusted her. She allowed me to break down. This was new for me because I was never allowed to have a breakdown growing up. My feelings were always minimized. I was told, “Stop crying, you don’t have problems.”
Red shared her life with me, too. She had finished her master’s degree program, worked at an overwhelming job as a counselor, and had some troubling family issues of her own.
I went to bed that night on Red’s couch, and I woke up at 5:00 a.m. in a room that felt warm. I was not sneezing, and it was easy for me to bounce into preparing for my day. I went into the kitchen to make breakfast for the two of us. It was brown and sweet rice combined, cooked slow and topped with an applesauce-fruit compote. While I was cooking, I woke Red up to the sounds of soft Zen music playing. She prepared herself for work and, once she was dressed, she sat down to a candlelight breakfast. We chatted over our morning porridge and then went about our respective days.
Next I practiced my yoga routine, showered, and visualized a one-step-better future for myself: for example, to cook more and watch less TV. Then I sat down to plan the week’s menu according to my seasonal food education. It was fall; the leaves were changing color and the morning air was crisp. This was doubly important because, according to Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM), autumn was the time to strengthen the lungs and large intestines through food and exercise. In the TCM system, emotional problems can show up physically and there is a season when that ailment is more pronounced. If a person has had grief or abandonment issues, it could adversely affect the lung and large intestines. I found this philosophy compelling because all my life I have suffered from asthma, and have also always felt abandoned by my parents. Considering this vulnerability, I made sure that I ate according to the season and practiced the appropriate yoga postures.
I went to shop at the East End Food Co-op for some staples and fresh produce. I saw some familiar people and places. My heart smiled, even though prior to leaving Pittsburgh, in my mind, I had arrogantly sworn that I would never return. But now here I was again, humbled.
When Red returned home, I had dinner all prepared: carrot-ginger soup with a miso swirl, arame strudel, collard green ribbons, brown rice and lentil pilaf, and apple kuzu pudding for dessert. We ate slowly and talked even more slowly.
Red was one of the smartest people I knew. She was well read on Spinoza, Kant, and other philosophers. She once told me that, as a little girl, she would spend hours lying across her bed, just thinking. She was the first person I had ever met who didn’t automatically buy into the “pursuit of happiness” model. I really liked that. This was somewhat similar to Buddy’s philosophy of “becoming more of who you really are,” but happiness mattered a lot to Buddy. Perhaps Red and Buddy were more alike than unalike. They both helped me understand who I wanted to become. I enjoyed the option tha
t a static state of happiness was not necessarily the goal. I was open to happiness being a byproduct, not the whole story. We chatted until ten that night.
I went to bed, satiated—mind, body, and soul.
A few days later, Red found out she didn’t have a fractured hip.
Since her hip was fine, she didn’t necessarily need me to cook for her; but we continued our breakfast and dinner routine. Red said that this routine fed her, too. She knew how tough it could be to prepare a good quality meal when she was working full time. She appreciated waking up to a good breakfast and coming home to a candlelit dinner.
During my new regular routine, I watched very little TV, but I was hooked on Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. I had watched it as a kid, but this was different. I loved the simplicity of it and the care he showed toward the children. I loved the Land of Make Believe, the Trolley and that whistle. When I was watching Mr. Rogers, I felt like I was being re-parented, properly.
About a week after staying with Red, I woke up at 5:00 a.m and caught myself singing, off-key, Mister Rogers’ theme song, “It’s Such a Good Feeling.” Without shame, I sang it when Red sat down for breakfast, a morning serenade:
It’s such a good feeling
To know you’re alive
It’s such a happy feeling
You’re growing inside
And when you wake up
Ready to say,
I think I’ll make a snappy new day. “Snap Snap!”
Red smiled, laughed, and joined in. Weird, I know, but it felt lovely. It was the lullaby that I’d needed growing up. Red and Mr. Rogers fed my soul a different kind of holistic health dish.
Each day I felt stronger and stronger. I was growing more into who I really was. I gained more weight, which was good. Life was starting to feel abundant. I started returning to my spiritual group’s weekly meditation meeting and world peace visualization sessions. In this group we encouraged each other and created a place where we could be vulnerable as well as safe. During one of our weekly meetings, I found myself sharing my Atlanta journey.
At the end of the meeting, a woman named Pamela approached me and asked what I did specifically for Care International and the bank. I told her that I programmed and managed their marketing database for clients. “Hmmm. I have a hunch,” she said. “You should come by and interview with our company, Aaliyah. It’s a strategic planning company. We’re expanding our marketing efforts and could use someone who knows how to set up and manage a database.”
I told her that I would love to interview for the job, but that I had left all of my professional business attire in Atlanta. I only had my tattered blue jeans and long-sleeve T-shirts with me.
“Come as you are,” said Pamela. “We’re not like that. We’re looking for talent and how you dress doesn’t matter. We’re professional, but not corporate.”
Next thing I knew, I had agreed to go in for a job interview. During my first meeting with Aaliyah, I watched a presentation about their company. The first thing that flashed on the screen was . When I saw the first slide and noticed that their business logo was the female version of my food and yoga logo, I excitedly interrupted. “Your logo is the Egyptian symbol for woman. My food and yoga business logo is the Egyptian symbol for man!”
The president of the company explained why he uses this symbol and name for the company. “The name ‘Aaliyah’ means to take things to a higher level in both Arabic and Hebrew.”
I smiled, thinking, “This is where I’m supposed to be, taking my life to a higher level.”
A few days later, I was offered the job.
In October 1995, I was temporarily living with Red in her cozy environment. I had a job at Aaliyah, which sold software to help businesses function holistically. I still made the daily meals for Red and myself. More and more each day, we worked and ate well, and lived out the lyrics of Mr. Roger’s song: It’s such a good feeling, to know you’re alive. / It’s such a happy feeling, you’re growing inside. I stayed with Red for five weeks. It was one of the happiest times in my life.
Leaving Red’s place in November 1995 was bittersweet. I was happy to be moving on and making enough money to get my own apartment, but I was deeply sad to give up that daily bond of friendship.
I thought about the last two months. I had traveled from Atlanta to my mother’s house to Red’s place, only to land in my own attic apartment on Broughton Street. The apartment was right around the corner from my new full-time position at Aaliyah, Inc., where I was a marketing database manager. I had officially moved back to Pittsburgh.
The street was lined with big oak trees, shady and colorful. Every so often, the leaves made a crackling sound. The house sat on a round corner, and every time I made a smooth turn, whether I was walking or biking, I would think that my life was definitely rounding the bend, too.
I started my new life with very little, but the puzzle pieces slowly began fitting back together.
Red did for me what I had wanted my mother to do. I had hoped for healing time between a mother and her daughter, but instead our mother-daughter relationship was strained. Now that I was back on track with a daily yoga practice and eating my own home cooking, I could see that I had gotten what I needed. It just hadn’t come from my mother. It had come in the form of friendship instead, and for this, I was grateful.
If Red and her friendship nursed me back to health, then it was Caroline and her friendship that trained me for life’s marathon. Caroline and I had worked on the same floor at the bank. She was an international banker who spoke Spanish and Portuguese, as well as her native language, English. She and Derek, her Scottish doctor boyfriend (soon to be her husband), would invite me for dinners and include me in their sports activities. Caroline told me that when she first saw me on the tenth floor at the bank, she knew that we would be friends. She said she’d assumed that because I was long, lean, and wore my hair in a style that most African American women didn’t, a short natural, without hearing me speak, she was sure that I was French African.
I have to say, I was skeptical. I wasn’t sure why she wanted to be friends with me, especially once she knew that I wasn’t French African. I suspected she was exoticizing me. We didn’t have much in common, with the exception of our both being in our mid-twenties and working at a bank.
Caroline would do sixty-mile weekend rides on her bike, for fun. She lifted weights, ran, swam, speed-skated, rollerbladed, and windsurfed. While athletic, she was also beautiful in a dainty way, like a Southern belle. She had long, blonde, curly hair, a wide smile, and a laugh that was unapologetically loud, playful, and contagious. I didn’t think I could keep up with her, but the first thing she gave me was the gift of self-acceptance. When some people commented on my being “weird,” she made me feel I was extraordinary. She was interested in me and in my views on food and yoga. I started going on sixty-mile bike rides with her and her other friends. I enjoyed this crowd. One day I heard Caroline describe me to one of her friends: “Saeeda is my best friend, and if she were a man, I would’ve married her.” Caroline had a unique way of making me feel precious!
But I wasn’t like her at all. I wasn’t a sports activity enthusiast. We were from two different worlds. Her parents were well educated, even professorial. When she was growing up, her dad made pancakes on Sundays. Her family had real vacations. She knew about the United States firsthand because her family traveled throughout the country during her childhood, but she wasn’t American.
Although she was altruistic toward me, I didn’t know if I could trust her. I feared that once she got to really know me, she wouldn’t like me. I also didn’t want to be anyone’s exotic “black” friend. I had heard that highly educated, white middle-class women longed for one. You know, the black friend that lets them confirm for themselves how cool and liberal they are. Besides, in general, it took me a long time to trust people, but I didn’t know that about myself at
that time. I knew that I could be close to people and even love them, but still not trust them. When I’d moved to Atlanta, Caroline had been sad to see me go and she had missed me. When I returned, Caroline warmly welcomed me back.
Every few weeks, Caroline had a Martha Stewart–worthy formal dinner party. The meals had plenty of food options for me to eat—no dairy, no sugar, and no meat. She made fish and meats for the other guests, but always had a few dishes that were Saeeda-friendly. After Caroline married Derek, she would often invite me over for dinner and make the foods that I really liked, much to Derek’s chagrin. One night, Derek said, “Why all these macrobiotic dinners? Let’s mix it up. Caroline, what happened to the great chicken and lobster dinners you made before we were married?” We all laughed, but in that moment, I realized that he was right. In the food department, Caroline mothered me.
One weeknight, while her husband was working a late shift at the hospital, she and I were having dinner alone, sharing even more personal stories about our childhoods, our families, and our imperfect mothers. She said, “Sy, it’s okay. We can mother each other.” And that felt good. I still didn’t fully trust her, but I did trust life. I thought, “Maybe it’s okay to fully let my guard down with Caroline.”
Caroline was usually doing something constructive; she didn’t sit around watching TV. One day she invited me to go with her to the Carnegie Museum of Art, perhaps because she knew that I needed to see our city in a different light, or maybe she just wanted some company.
The day we went to the museum, a peculiar spark ignited inside me. I watched visitors, people who had paid money to be there, enjoying learning about our city and its history. I decided to start living in my home city as a visitor. I didn’t know how long I would be staying in Pittsburgh, but I was going to do all the things that visitors did when they came to town.