It's All Love

by Marita Golden

  In short, women spoke in metaphors, much like the songs of the masters; the soulful crooning balladeers sang about some hot topics (all I have to do is say Barry White and Marvin Gaye; Luther is in there, too, with Smokey et al.), but it was done with style and class. I can't account for men-talk; I wasn't in the room with them growing up. They pulled a quarter out of my ear and sent me on my happy way with a kiss. I was primarily in the company of women.

  Lemme tell you how it used to go. You had to get delicious information in layers, like a butter-rich homemade cake. It took time, was offered by degrees when you were ready for it, and once fully iced, you were fully grown. My family was a lively bunch too, so it wasn't all shrinking violets or women with no experience, no, siree. These ladies had much to tell, I later found out. It just wasn't for my consumption until I was allowed to be in their sphere. Only then could I dip into their conversation, and only laughing at first. Had to wait till some of them died, literally, to be able to have anything to say.

  Sounds crazy, but it was the truth. I think it served me well, but you decide. All I can do is explain it the way I heard sensitive information spoken around children. Perhaps their methods were too extreme, but I think somewhere on the continuum of truth-telling lies a happy medium. But here's the way I remember it.

  When I was younger, people spoke about this thing called sex in hushed tones. It was grown folks’ business. It was an entity, something that could possess you and make you lose your mind. From snippets of conversations I'd eavesdropped on, this thing could have you talking in tongues and calling on the Almighty. Chil', yes. And my aunties and older cousins would be laughing about this very mysterious thing that could take you over and make you act a natural fool. Something so powerful that it could actually make you love somebody's last week's dirty drawers. Eeeiwww!

  That was my reaction as a child listening to conversations that were way over my head. Nasty. Disgusting. I was never gonna let that thing take me over, eva. Nope. Even though I didn't know what it was. And I was more than happy to go on playing with my toys and cousins at these events that drew family together, because they were talking about some ol’ yucky stuff I didn't wanna hear nothing about.

  But as time wore on and I graduated from being shooed out of the bean-breaking sessions in the kitchen to becoming a part of the all-female crew, I started to learn how to decipher this verbal code. My body was changing too. I was getting older, boys weren't so foreign a species, and my ear became tuned to hearing what this mysterious and seriously fine creature was all about.

  Graduating to be in the company of women was a process of position changes, though. You didn't just get right in to be a part of the conversation, oh, no. First, when you got old enough to carry something important, you were on coat check. You had to run up and down the steps with coats, so you heard virtually nothing. Then, if you were efficient, you got promoted to set the table—not the good china and certainly not alone, mind you, but you were allowed to handle any flatware and items that, if they were broken, you wouldn't stop your momma's heart.

  However, being sent in and out of rooms made sure that you were in and out of sensitive convo and could only get information in fits and starts. When a child crossed the kitchen threshold, the old dolls went back to speaking in code or just went dead silent with Cheshire cat grins until you left. Occasionally if you slowed around too much, one would come hug you, laughing, and say, “Baby, now git on. Whatchu want?” You were busted. Had to go on and mind your beeswax. Then, as soon as you were gone, the kitchen would erupt in peals of laughter again.

  Finally, you were put on KP, kitchen patrol, helping to do the cleanup. By then you were a teenager, and a lot of the discussion ironically centered around the misfortunes of those caught up by this entity. By then they were close to calling it a beast, glimpsing at any budding young lady in the kitchen with a meaningful glance—and you knew you didn't want to get caught by this thing, turned out so badly that you didn't know up from down.

  Alas … but human nature being what it is, and raging hormones being what they are, it does catch you. Oddly, these wise women of the pots and pans seemed to know that too, no matter how discreet you'd been. That's when the discussion, ironically, took another twist, and a new entity got talked about, this one came as a duo—love and heartbreak. Hmmm …

  I watched huge military-sized pots bubble like cauldrons and trays of sumptuous dishes come out from the oven piping hot as stories of yet another being taken over by these entities were told. You waited your turn like rites of passage. Older girl cousins, maybe just your senior by a year, got picked on first. You knew your time was coming, especially when all the female griots got wind that you had a boyfriend. They ganged up on you at family dinners, summer barbecues, holidays, and they had no mercy. They warned you of pending doom from these things that could take you over. I have to call them entities, because to anyone listening, the women spoke as though a third party had done the deed.

  It was all told in parables, never saying the young man's name, and they talked about the teen kitchen initiates as though they weren't even in the room. I remember when they got me; it was my initiation into the conversation, to be mentioned. It was just before I was about to go on my junior prom. I should have been ready for them, but I wasn't.

  “You know what got her.”

  “Uhhhmmm, hmmmm. Knew it would.”

  “See, that's what I been tellin’ that girl. But she let it roll right up on her.”

  “She need to go to church.”

  “Well, church might help, but you know when it hit ya, ain't too much you can do but—”

  “Ride it out.” (Sassy auntie—drawing hoots.)

  “Strong. But she too young to ride nuthin'.” (General agreement with nods and smiles.)

  “Don't listen to them, chil'. You just be strong.” (Confusion for a minute, slow on the uptake; then your cheeks burn and you look away)

  (Laughter.)

  (If you could disappear, you would. If you could slide into the toes of your shoes and be gone … oh, Lord! They know you've been making out, and the conversation keeps going.)

  “True, true, but when you get a little older, it'll make you call, Jesus.” (Sidebar from the auntie at the stove.)

  (More laughter and several high fives.)

  “Y'all best not be blaspheming!” (This from the eldest auntie, who was laughing, nonetheless.)

  (You really want to die now, wondering how much these wise women can see.)

  “You need to leave that po’ chil’ alone. She'll be all right, and she ain't no different than when y'all was her age.” (Bless you, Nana ‘Re—always had my back.)

  “Go put the ham on the table, chil', and get on outta this kitchen.” (Momma's salvation, once her child had been teased enough. Knew you were chastised enough to let you know they weren't stupid.)

  Slowly, and very surely, and as I listened very carefully, I saw the magic wisdom that got sprinkled in by the elders. By the time I'd hit my twenties, they revealed more, gave advice about what to do with a wayward man, laughed harder, let a little more of the veneer come off the conversation, but never enough to be entirely specific. Love, sex, makeups, breakups, money, affairs, and fights, all was cataloged between the pots and pans, told while folks moved and provided. But little ears were none the wiser. Even good and grown women had to let their own creativity be their guide. The group just offered parameters. Nobody talked about things in graphic detail.

  That's my serious two cents. My real question is: When did we get to the point where we talked about what we've licked, sucked, humped, and bumped with babies of cognitive age on our laps?

  I know I'm dating myself, showing my age. I confess that now, as an old doll of forty-seven, I'm one of the main kitchen infantrywomen in my family. Got young girls at my behest to go fetch me this and that off the table as I stand with my cousins barking orders so that a meal fit for royalty can be served. Just did it this holiday season, in fact. Watched my
po’ chil’ (sixteen years old) get run out of the kitchen, her face red, from my cousins getting on her—and I let them with a chuckle in my heart and swallowing a mother's appreciative smile. History repeating itself. I was inducted like that, so she may be. That's love.

  But when did we let babies hear how a no-good SOB got his tires slashed, and how we sought our feminine revenge when we caught him with that skeezer? {Nary an expletive edited out for young ears.) When did the four-year-old on the hip while we're on the telephone with a girlfriend get allowed to hear about how that man gave it to us doggie style, uh-huh, and went downtown? Or when did it come in vogue to let a little kid know that the reason he was being sent over our girlfriend's house to play was so that we could get ours?

  Don't get me wrong. I've been a single mom too. I ain't saying I haven't done any or all of the above—no, siree. That's not what I'm talking about. I've had drama over affairs, wanted to cuss a brother out (and have), got mine, all of that, but not in earshot of a child. Old-school.

  My issue is trying to understand when children suddenly became inanimate objects, like plastic dolls that couldn't see, hear, think, or process anything we said, so it was all right to say any ol’ thing in front of them … and then we still want the old-school respect we used to give mommas? I'm just curious. How does that work?

  Then I wonder what will happen to those little kids on hips, on laps, and in earshot of this very, very visceral adult reality that is so commonplace. I worry about obscure topics like how will young persons who weren't privy to grown folks’ business find another like themselves out there in the world? How do they ultimately find a mate who will raise their children as children (not mini-me adults), value them, respect them, and have a little decorum and discretion? I do not envy teenagers or young adults today. It's gotta be like finding a needle in a haystack. If the standards are gone and the standard-bearers have all died off, then what? Where do we go from here?

  See … I'm having a problem, I admit. I try to mind my business and try to subscribe to the theory of to each her own. My bad. Maybe because I'm a writer I have this affliction with listening to what folks say. I can't seem to turn a deaf ear and a blind eye to the things I hear and see on public transportation when little children are involved. Can't shake off what sisters walking out of church service are talking about (so let's not go there: Church folks are just as sloppy with their conversations). Can't shake off what assaults my sensibilities in the stores. Can't help grabbing my teenage daughter's arm when we hear it while out together, and I don't have the personal discipline to keep from threatening her life—telling her that if I ever, God as my true and only witness, hear her talking in the street like that about her business, I will kill her.

  Yes … admittedly, maybe it's just me. But I just don't remember all of this. We ain't showing children no love if we're showing them all of this, are we?

  That's more than my two cents, maybe a quarter's worth, and it's definitely more than one question involved … but you feel me. I know you do.

  Love Is a Verb

  KIM MCLARIN

  HERE i STAND, slightly more than a decade into this mothering gig, and what have I learned?

  The usual things: how to change diapers and burp babies, how to install a car seat like a professional and cut a child's hair so he doesn't look too much like a refugee. How not to panic when the blood is gushing from a son who's going to need stitches, or not to panic when a daughter shivers so fiercely her little lips turn a striking shade of blue.

  What I have not learned is many of the things I had expected, many of the things I was told, with great assurance, I most certainly would. I have not learned patience. I have not, I'm afraid, learned selflessness. I have not learned to slow down and look at the world through the ever-wondering eyes of a child. On the way to school each morning, when my son wants to stop and examine every pinecone that we pass, I shamelessly tell him the principal is waiting, standing at the door, clipboard in hand.

  As for that thing which mothers are most expected to learn from this experience—The True Meaning of Love—well, I'm still struggling with that one too. I do, however, believe I've picked-up on something important in that regard, something critical I did fully understand before having children. I've learned that love is a verb.

  This idea is not original with me, of course, but even the commonplace can be profound once you finally get it. Love is a verb, which means it is an action. Which means you can act it whether you feel it or not.

  Love is a verb and you can act it whether you believe it or not at that particular moment; whether you want to act it or not, whether your own parents were able, in their struggle, to do the same. Love is a verb, and if you act it, in the acting, if you're lucky, love itself becomes reborn.

  Here's an example.

  Yesterday my daughter did something that pissed me off.

  It was silly, really, scarcely worth mentioning. I'd been running around all day, as usual, fifty or sixty balls tumbling through the air and about to drop. I'd been dealing with bosses and deadlines and bills and other adult concerns, and then it was time to pick the children up from school and rush my daughter to her orthodontist appointment, where I would shell out some ridiculous amount of cash to straighten teeth that are already better than my own.

  When we got to the appointment, however, my daughter found out that she was not, as I had told her, getting braces that actual day. She would get them the following week. No big deal—except it meant she had to go back to school the following morning without the braces she had bragged about getting (braces having become, mysteriously in this generation, a declaration of maturity and a source of pride instead of embarrassment). She would have to face the mean girl brigade. This, naturally, embarrassed and worried her. She burst into tears, stomped down the stairs, hurled accusations my way. Why did I tell her the wrong thing? How could I make such a terrible mistake? Why, oh, why was I messing with her life?

  This is typical preteen, preadolescent behavior, of course, and I know much worse is yet to come. I should have laughed it off. I should have just taken a deep breath and let the clouds roll right on past. Instead, I got furious. I stomped right down the stairs behind her, pulling my poor son along. I raised my voice. I yelled at her. I wanted, with all my heart, to make her cringe.

  Most people would be happy for another week to eat bagels and candy, why are you crying, I get so sick of you guys crying every time I turn around, it drives me nuts, if this is the worst thing that ever happens to you, you ‘11 be lucky, if I had ever spoken to my mother this way she would have smacked me from here to kingdom cornel

  Even as I was yelling, some part of me realized that my anger was all out of proportion to the misdeed at hand. These maternal moments of madness worry me sometimes. I know that mothers are human, that just because a woman produces a child it doesn't mean she turns automatically into some kind of saint. Still I worry, during these moments when I look at my children and feel something much closer to a word I cannot even, in this context, bring myself to write than to love, that something is terribly wrong with me. I wonder if I should have ever become a mother in the first place. If I am somehow constitutionally unfitted for the job. Are people like plaster, malleable when wet, brittle when dry and unable to shift? And if there's a hole in that plaster, can it ever be smoothly filled?

  But that's a pretty labored metaphor. Here's what it really is: Do I have enough love to give my children? Do I have all the love that they will need?

  BUT i NEED to be careful here, because someday, perhaps sooner than later, my daughter will be reading this.

  Somehow this is a late-breaking revelation to me; it occurred two years ago, when the hot-off-the-presses first copies of my latest novel arrived in the mail. My daughter was beside me as I ripped open the envelope and stared at the books in that moment that always encompasses such possibility and hope. Together we looked at the cover and ran our fingers over the binding and grinned at the letters that s
pelled out my name. My daughter clapped her hands with delight. But then she did something she would not have only a year before. She asked, “What's it about?”

  That made me step back a little bit.

  The novel, called Jump at the Sun, is a novel of motherhood. It is also a novel of race, of love and sacrifice, of contemporary life and the continuing legacy of slavery, of the costs and responsibilities of living the dream for which our parents and forefathers fought and several other things, but primarily it is a novel of motherhood. And whatever else it may or may not be, it is not a Hallmark card.

  When I began the novel, my daughter was three, my son just months old, and the hormones of early motherhood still held me in their grasp. During the long, sometimes painful, sometimes tedious four years it took to complete the book, I worried some about what my mother would make of it. I wondered what my sisters and my aunts might think. It never occurred to me, however, to wonder how my children would receive the book. Their favorite piece of literature at the time was Goodnight Moon. It hardly seemed possible that they would one day advance beyond finding the mouse on the windowsill.

  But one thing every parent eventually gets, and gets hard, is that children grow up—and fast. My daughter is ten now, my son a bit younger. Both are reading; both are curious; both may someday read my books. What will they think of them; what will my daughter, especially, think of this work, especially? Will she wonder if, in fact, Grace, the heroine of Jump at the Sun, is just a stand-in for me? If her feelings are not really my own?

  Because of course they are not. Because of course they are.

  I SAW A BUMPER STICKER once that read “Motherhood: A Noble Profession,” or maybe “Motherhood: The Most Noble Profession” or maybe “Motherhood: The Most Important Profession in the World.” Something like that. I don't remember the words exactly; this was years and years and brain cells ago. I do, however, remember my reaction. I laughed.