For Black Girls Like Me

by Mariama J. Lockington

  We laugh and follow Papa up the path. Mama’s face is red with effort but glowing all the same and it feels nice to be doing something together. To be laughing and joking and moving our bodies. When we get close the air begins to smell like pennies or metal or rotten eggs. Mama tells us it’s the sulfur and that it’s normal for the hot springs to smell this way. I am expecting a round pool with concrete all around it like in a hotel but when we arrive the pools are shallow and spread out and all different shapes and sizes. One looks like a kidney bean. The other a small triangle under a rock. Another a long rectangular pool under a cove of trees.

  “Looks like we’re the first ones here today!” Papa is delighted. “Let’s get in!”

  We find a picnic table and drop our things. We strip down to our bathing suits and even though it is still mostly shady Mama makes us slather our skin with sunscreen and then wait ten minutes for it to dry. “Always protect your skin! The sun causes cancer.” She lectures.

  I roll my eyes. The thick SPF 50 sunscreen she makes us both use is too thick. By the time I have it all over me I look like a zombie and it never really sinks into my dark skin. And when I get it wet it’s even worse. I look like an actual ash monster.

  “Anna.” Papa yells from the kidney-shaped pool. “Come on! The water is delightful.”

  Mama steps cautiously over rocks and pine needles and joins him.

  “Let’s try that one.” Eve says pointing to a smaller pool. Hidden partially behind a big rock.

  “Sure.”

  We step our way over to it. Drop our towels and I back quickly into the water. The spring bubbles and steams. And it really is almost as hot as a hot tub. I close my eyes and take a deep breath with my mouth to avoid the smell. But before I open them Eve screams. “Keda! Get out get out get out. Ewwwww! Get out.”

  “What’s wrong!”

  “Behind you! Get out.”

  I turn around and see a naked man. Partially hidden by the shadow of the rock. A man with long stringy hair and a peace tattoo right above his you-know-what. Sitting. In the spring.

  “Good morning!” He says. “No need to get out. There’s room. It’s a beautiful day for the springs.”

  “Um no thanks.” I jump out so fast I forget my towel.

  Eve screams. And I scream. And we run back to our clothes and start putting them on as fast as we can.

  “What on earth is wrong?” Papa yells from the kidney pool.

  But at that moment the peace tattoo man walks up and waves. He’s still naked. “Good morning! I think I scared your girls. Most people don’t realize that clothing is optional here.”

  And that puts an end to our adventure. Mama leaps out and joins us. Pulling on her clothes. And Papa sits frozen in the pool with a sheepish look on his face until Mama yells at him to get out. We hike down that mountain so fast. And it’s not till we’re on the road home that Eve says: “Why on earth would you tattoo a peace sign above your penis?” And then we all laugh so hard we cry.

  Moonlight Sonata

  When Papa is home. Like tonight. Eve and I give recitals in the living room. After our hike I sit at the piano and look at the sheet music while Mama Eve and Papa sit on the couch in front of me. I always play first because if I play second Eve’s song gets all mixed up with my song and I forget the notes altogether. There is nothing worse than hearing Papa’s frustrated sighs as I try to recover by picking and testing different keys with my fingers. “Just read the music.” He’ll nudge. “The music is right in front of you.” But that’s the thing. Notes on the page look like some foreign alphabet to me. Instead of reading them I like to close my eyes and imagine the song as a movie or a shape or sometimes a dance. This helps me and my hands shimmy over the keys as if they’ve known the steps all along.

  Tonight I am playing the Moonlight Sonata. Eve will play Für Elise. Papa leaves at the end of the week for his international tour with the symphony. He’ll be gone all of June July and some of August and it really will be “just us girls.” I’ve been practicing for weeks to learn the whole piece perfectly. Every Wednesday morning Mrs. Umanski has been drilling us on scales arpeggios and music theory before letting us practice our new pieces. I pay extra attention to the notes at my lesson as well. If Mrs. Umanski suspects I’m playing the song by ear she raps my knuckles lightly while barking: “Start over and this time keep your eyes up!”

  But the Moonlight Sonata is my favorite. I know the notes by heart now. I’ve been waiting weeks for this. To feel Papa nodding his head in rhythm with me and only me. I close my eyes and get into position. The keys feel like the cool marble of a museum floor. Then softly. With eyes still closed. I start. The whole room swells. And I do not open my eyes. Not once. My fingers fly. Just fly. Mimicking each note perfectly like little brown thrashers gossiping in the trees.

  Insomnia (noun)

  The inability to sleep.

  It is around 1am. The Georgia Belles are nowhere to be found and my room is thick with darkness. I am in my bed. Sweaty from changing positions over and over again. Trying to get comfortable enough to dream. Outside in the distance I hear wild dogs crying. Their howls low and full of lonely. I am still not used to these desert sounds. To the way the front yard outside my window looks bare and still in the moonlight. How the ground seems to crawl with shadows. How the mountains shape-shift against the sky. Mama and Papa stopped arguing hours ago. But I can still hear pieces of their conversation echoing around in my head.

  It’s good you’re leaving. I need some space. The girls and I will be just fine.

  Are you going to punish me forever Anna? I’m trying to provide for you and the girls. This is the job. You knew what it required.

  I know. I know. But I’d like to provide too Daniel. I didn’t sign up for this. I was a star!

  Then why don’t you start up your teaching practice again? Get some students. I can help you make some connections—

  I don’t want your help!

  Then what do you want? You sulk around all day. You haven’t picked up your violin in months. What kind of example is that for the girls?

  I do EVERYTHING around here. I was the one who packed up all of our stuff remember? Who drove three days straight to get us here. You come home and marvel at how the house is coming together. Who do you think does that? Who is taking the girls to piano lessons to the library? Who is making sure they are safe and getting an education?

  Anna. You didn’t even consult me. You just pulled them out of school. I know we’ve talked about homeschooling the girls. But do you really think you can handle this right now? It’s almost summer so for now keeping them out of school is fine. But I’m not sure we should next fall.

  Absolutely not. They will not go back to that oppressive school. And how dare you question my ability to educate them! I’m self-taught you know. I read more books in a month than you do all year.

  I’m not questioning your intelligence. I’m just worried that you are not at your best. That you need to take some time to get healthy. Maybe talk to someone again. A professional.

  No. Daniel. We. We are not at our best. Don’t pretend like you’re not a part of this equation. And I don’t need a therapist. It never works for me. You know that. I’m just fine. I’m not going to have another nervous breakdown. That was years ago. I’ve kept it together haven’t I? Just go on your tour. You’ve barely been here anyway.

  At some point I pressed each end of the pillow so close to my ears that all I could hear were their muffled voices. And now. Hours later. The house is quiet. Too quiet. I sneak out of bed and down the hallway. I see Papa’s bags waiting by the front door. His shuttle will be here in a few hours. I hear a rustle in the sunroom behind me. Papa is sitting there. Meditating.

  “Can’t sleep?” He asks me. His eyes still closed.

  I shake my head.

  “Did we keep you up?”

  “Sort of.” I say taking a seat next to him on his yoga mat.

  “I’m sorry if we scared you. Your mom a
nd I. Well. We love each other a lot. But we’re two very passionate people. We fight. But we always snap back eventually. You don’t need to worry about us. We love you very much. It’s not about you. I hope you know that.”

  I don’t know. It sure feels like we are the problem sometimes. If Mama had never had Eve or adopted me she might still be playing with symphonies all over the world. She might be happier. But I don’t say this. Instead I ask: “How does it work?”

  “Meditating?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well. I try to relax my body. Take deep breaths in and out. In and out. The goal is to not think. To just focus on your breath.”

  “I don’t think I can stop thinking.”

  “That’s ok. It takes time.”

  We sit together then. Just breathing. In and out. In and out. But I can’t clear my mind.

  “Papa?”

  “Little scoop?”

  “I’m tired. Will you come sit in my room?”

  “Sure. But just for a little bit.”

  Papa grabs his mat and we tiptoe back to my room. Papa tucks me in like he used to when I was smaller. All the blankets tight around my body so that I am snug.

  “You know we’re going to FaceTime while I’m gone. And I’ll be back before you know it.”

  I nod.

  “Take care of your mama ok? I don’t like leaving for so long. But I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “We’ll be ok.” I say.

  Papa smiles and kisses me on the cheek. Then he sits down in the middle of my floor and starts to meditate again. I know I shouldn’t be scared. But I am. Don’t leave. I say in my head. Don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave me. I listen to him breathing in and out in and out. Eventually I slip away into a light sleep. When I wake up Papa is gone. And so are his bags.

  Part II:

  SUMMER

  June in the Desert

  Is dull. Dry. Full of coiled bull snakes and crumbling mud. Even the chickens have started to lose their golden fluff. Turned over time into dirty coats of brown and red feathers. And Mama too has lost interest in our routine. Three days after Papa leaves she looks up from the book she is reading at the table. Her hair wild and unwashed.

  “Where’s your sister?” She says.

  “Working.”

  “Working where?”

  “At the ice cream shop. She told you and Papa last week. She got a job at the Melody Icey down the street? Remember?”

  “Huh. Good for her. What about you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What are you going to do today?”

  “Dunno.” I say.

  “Better figure it out soon. I’d start with a book.” Then she goes back to reading.

  It is Monday. Midday. Mama and I are still in our pjs. The heat of the afternoon starting to simmer and sting. Or maybe it is my dry skin. I’ve run out of Stormy’s shea butter and no matter how many bottles of the organic unscented lotion I use I can never seem to get rid of the ash. Day after day I slather on layer after layer. Watching the thin liquid sink into my skin in seconds. The sun beating down on me until it’s gone.

  Whenever Mama and I go to the grocery store. I sneak away to the beauty aisle. I open the Jergens bottles. Let the smell of processed cocoa butter smack me in the face. I dream about my birth mom. Imagine her in a room with lavender walls. A dresser filled with pretty bottles of scented things and oils for my hair. In this daydream we never speak. Or touch. I sit next to her on the bed. She smiles. And then we rub our bodies with thick lotion until we sparkle. Until our skin is golden-black. Until the moon dresses us with the shimmer we deserve. I want a mother who shines like that. Who is as beautiful as wet sea stone at midnight. But I only have the Georgia Belles guiding me. Their humming and chattering around my room at night.

  I want a mother who sees me. Glistening. Even under all this cracked and flaking skin.

  Sweet Tomato

  “I signed you up for Girl Scouts.” Mama announces to me a week later. The three of us are at Sweet Tomato. A local restaurant that Mama likes because they serve all natural meat and organic produce. Eve and I pick at our pieces of dry artichoke and spinach pizza on whole wheat crust. “It’s much better than Domino’s isn’t it?” Mama says to us.

  “Not really.” Eve says under her breath catching my eye. I give her a small smile. But we don’t say anything else because this is the first time we’ve been out all together since Papa left ten days ago.

  “Makeda you start tomorrow. The troop meets at the community center. I can drive you or you can bike. It’s only a mile away.”

  “I don’t want to go. I’m too old to start now.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve always wanted to be a Girl Scout. You used to beg me in Baltimore. You wanted to join Lena’s troop remember?”

  “That was three years ago.” I mumble but Mama is not listening.

  “You’ve just been hanging around the house.” She continues. “Your sister has a job. I thought you’d like to be around some girls your age. Why don’t you just try it? I just…”

  And then for no reason at all Mama starts crying. Right there at the table over a stupid Girl Scouts troop. “I just want to give you girls everything. I want you to be happy.”

  I know Mama loves me. I just wonder if she likes me. If she likes any of us. Her family. Some days I feel like I am in her way. And others like she can’t live without me. One moment she is telling me to get out of her face. Read a book. Be independent. And the next she is begging me to come snuggle with her. To brush her long hair or bring her some tea. I do it all. I try to figure out what she needs before she needs it. But then she’ll yell at me to stop hovering or she’ll start crying over what feels like nothing. It’s confusing.

  Eve and I look at each other now as Mama blows her nose into a napkin. Eve raises her eyebrow and I shake my head so she raises it higher as if to say: Just do it.

  “Fine.” I say. “You don’t have to cry. I’ll bike there. But I’m not wearing that ugly green vest.”

  “Oh Makeda. Give it a chance. I think you’ll love it.” Mama sighs smiling through her sniffles.

  “And Girl Scout cookies are SOOOO good!” Eve chimes in. “You can sell them to me Keda. I’ll buy them.”

  “Sure.” I say. But I can’t even think about cookies. I have a bad feeling in my gut. How can I tell Mama that I’m worried about leaving her at home? All by herself.

  My Bike

  Used to be Mama’s old bike from when she was a kid. It’s dark purple like an eggplant with a banana seat and pink and yellow tassels on the handlebars. Eve tells me that it’s “vintage” that it’s so old it’s back in style again. The next afternoon I take it out of the garage and ride it to Girl Scouts.

  I love riding my bike. I pump my legs hard so that I am going as fast as I can. I stand up on the pedals and just cruise. I let the wind whip my face and it feels like I am flying. Like instead of being stuck between two mothers. Stuck in the desert. Stuck without my best friend. Without a papa. I am free again. To take myself wherever the road leads me.

  The ride to Girl Scouts is too short. Soon I am hopping off and locking my bike out front.

  “Are you the new girl?” I hear a voice behind me say. “I’m Lydia. My mom’s the troop leader. She sent me out here to meet you. I’m going to be your buddy for the day.”

  Lydia is wearing cat-eye purple glasses and a shift dress with multicolor flowers all over it. Her green vest clashes with the bright orange petals but she wears it proudly. She has about a million pins and patches she’s earned. They look heavy hanging off of her vest.

  “Yeah.” I say. Gathering my things. “I’m Keda.”

  “That’s a pretty name.” Lydia says then. “Well. Do you want to go in? And meet everyone?”

  “Sure.”

  “Cool bike by the way.” Lydia says.

  I grin. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

  “Lydia you lie. That bike is crazy looking.” A girl w
ho has just been dropped off says to us now. She’s a little taller than us both and has sharp brown eyes and long black hair pulled up into a high ponytail. As she walks toward us her ponytail swishes from side to side like a lullaby. She’s beautiful.

  “Hey Alma.” Lydia says. Her voice turned quiet and shaky. “This. This is Keda. She’s new.”

  Alma looks me up and down. Her glossed lips pull at the corners into a fake smile. “Hey.” She says. “No offense new girl. But that’s a hipster-ass bike. Like for real. Where did you even find that?”

  “It was my mom’s.” I say. “It’s vintage.”

  “It was my mom’s. It’s vintage.” Alma says. Mocking my voice. “You need to loosen up. You sound like a robot.”

  “Alma.” Lydia tries to break in. But Alma pays no attention.

  “Anyways. Welcome to the troop or whatever. I’ll see you inside new girl. You got a lot to catch up on.”

  “My name’s Keda.” I say after her.

  Alma lifts up her right arm and waves it. “Sure. Ok.” She says disappearing into the front doors of the center.

  “She gets nicer.” Lydia says apologetically. But I get the feeling Lydia is scared of her too.

  And even though Lydia is my buddy for the rest of the day. Even though our troop leader Mrs. Karen makes all the girls introduce themselves. I soon learn who is in charge. Alma. She swishes her ponytail and talks over everyone and all the girls follow her around like she is royalty. And every time I talk Alma looks at me like I’m an alien. Like she’s trying to figure out what planet I came from.

  Happy Birthday America

  On July 4th Mama wakes up bursting with energy. Or maybe she’s never even gone to bed. She runs around the living room unpacking her sheet music and violin scores. Sorting and resorting them into messy piles on the floor. Eve has the day off (finally!) and Mama promised we could all drive to see the fireworks downtown later. Eve and I tiptoe around the kitchen now trying not to make a noise or ask Mama if she needs help. We eat our oatmeal in the sunroom with the door closed.