For Black Girls Like Me

by Mariama J. Lockington

  “Want to watch music videos on my phone?” Eve offers scooping the last bite into her mouth.

  “Sure.” I scoot closer to her. So that our shoulders are touching.

  “It’s all clear to me now! I need everything organized so I can start fresh. A new beginning.” We hear Mama talking to herself from the next room.

  Eve turns the volume up all the way on her phone. “You pick first.”

  I type in Nina Simone “Feeling Good” and even though it’s not a real video but just a recording with pictures of Nina Eve lets me watch the whole thing.

  “I like that song.” She says when it’s done. “Now my turn.” And Eve picks the song “Roxie” from the musical Chicago. She knows all the words and so do I since we saw it live in New York two years ago on a family vacation. When the song ends I grab the phone from Eve and type something in secretly.

  “Remember this?” I say jumping up and getting into position. I stand in front of Eve with my palms pressed together in prayer.

  “‘How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria’!” Eve laughs. And then she gets up and stands next to me in the same pose. The Sound of Music is another one of our favorites. We watch it whenever we can. When the song starts we take turns singing and pretending we are the nuns. We shake our heads and act very concerned about all the mischief that Maria is causing in the abbey.

  “Let’s keep it going.” Eve laughs when the song ends and types in “My Favorite Things.”

  We yell-sing. Dancing around in our pjs just like the Von Trapp kids.

  Midsong Mama flings the door to the sunroom open. “Girls!” She yells. “Have you seen the paper shredder?”

  We shake our heads and I feel Eve moving closer to me. “Mama.” Eve says slowly. “What do you need it for?”

  “Oh I think it’s in the garage! Yes. Yes. That’s where I’ve seen it.” With that Mama flurries out and runs into the garage.

  “Let’s do another song!” I turn back to Eve with a smile but her face is a hard stone.

  She wrinkles her nose and bites her lip. “Follow me.” She says after a beat.

  We tiptoe back out to the living room. Mama has dragged the paper shredder into the middle of the floor and plugged it in. She’s wearing her nightgown and nothing else. Her large breasts swing slightly from side to side as she begins to shred every single piece of her music. Sheet by sheet. “I just need to start over.” Mama mumbles to herself over and over again. “A fresh start.”

  “Should we stop her?” I ask.

  “No.” Eve says her hands on her hips. “Come with me.”

  I follow Eve again. This time we duck into the laundry room across from Mama and Papa’s room.

  “Listen.” Eve says in her annoying big sister voice. “We might not make it to fireworks tonight. And I need you to not complain about it ok?”

  “What! But Mama promised.” I can’t help but whine.

  “I know. It sucks. But listen. We just need to let Mama do whatever she’s doing ok? Stay out of her way.”

  “Ok.” I gulp. But my head feels like it might explode. I stay out of Mama’s way all the time. “But why?” I can’t help saying out loud. “Why can’t she just be fine so we can see fireworks like a normal family? Nobody keeps their promises these days. It’s not fair!”

  Eve’s brow unfurrows. Her shoulders slump. But she doesn’t yell at me. She just shrugs her shoulders and bites her lip as if to say: I’m sorry.

  “Want to get out of here?” Eve says after I calm down. Her voice soft like it used to be when she let me hang out in her room more. “We can take a walk to the bird farm?”

  I do. Want to get out. But for some reason I also want to yell and scream and throw myself onto the hallway floor like I am a toddler. I hold back my tears. “Sure.” I say.

  We try to tell Mama where we are going. But she just waves her hand at us and continues shredding. So we leave through the back gate and walk along the ditch behind our house into the droning light of the morning. Eve charges ahead.

  “Stop walking so fast.” I yell at her.

  “Walk faster chicken legs!” She yells back with a grin.

  I stick out my tongue and try to keep up. I’m glad to be out of the house. Even if it means walking in Eve’s dust.

  What I love most about the birds is that I can hear them before I see anything. Then after a sharp curve in the path blocked mostly by the roots of a leaning cottonwood it appears: A canopy of sound and bright feathers as if someone is having a pillow fight with the rainbow. Peacocks. Doves. Parrots. Yellow canaries. Even a sad-looking ostrich. Eve and I never fail to lose our breath at the sight of it. A stain of some other world flung against the flat simmering houses of tan orange and burnt rose. Birds singing in the light.

  “Let’s try to get a peacock feather!” I say as we begin searching for a stick thin and long enough to fit through the wire fence keeping the birds in. The feathers collect like leaves against the edges of the cages and sometimes if we are lucky we can fish a perfect one out.

  “This time try not to get one with crap on it!” Eve teases.

  I crouch down low and roll up my sleeves. The ostrich turns its bulging eyes at me as if to say: Who are you? Batting away the crusty and feces-stained feathers I dig with the end of the stick until I find a perfect one and nudge it toward the holes in the wire.

  “Careful! Don’t mess it up. Slowly.” Eve is peering over my shoulder.

  I hold my breath and focus. I inch the feather out and grab the tip of it with my fingers.

  “Wow.” Eve says. “That’s a good one.”

  I grin wide. And for a moment I forget all about Mama and the shredder and this sucky day.

  “Let’s keep going.” Eve says.

  So we walk along the ditch for the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes we talk and sometimes we stare up at the blinding blue sky lost in our own daydreams. We smile at neighbors outside with their bar-b-ques fired up. We inhale the smell of smoke and meat and celebration. And we ignore our own growling stomachs. We poke sticks into the muddy ditch water and watch crayfish scurry out. We visit a couple horses that have sauntered over to a fence. We pet their wide noses and let their gummy mouths explore our palms. Around sunset we make it back home. Mama is in her room with the TV on but the living room floor is still littered with papers.

  Eve and I clean up and then make ourselves fish sticks for dinner. Around 9pm the fireworks start to go off downtown. So Eve and I climb up into the cottonwood and watch the sky. Hoping for a glimpse. But we’re in the valley. We are too far away to see much.

  “Well happy fricken birthday America.” Eve says with a sigh. Then she grabs my hand and squeezes. And we wait. Eventually a few big ones make it to us. They light the whole sky and then fizzle out. Then we are in the dark again.

  Girl Scouts

  The day after the paper shredder incident is Tuesday and we are back to our summer routine. Eve leaves for work at 10am and we are both up before Mama.

  “Make sure she eats. I made extra eggs.” Eve whispers to me on her way out. “Oh. And let’s not tell anyone about all the shredding business ok?”

  “Not even Papa?” I ask.

  “Especially not Papa. She seems fine now. Let’s not worry him.”

  And even though I notice that Eve’s voice catches when she says “fine” I am relieved. I promised Papa that I would look out for Mama. I’d just have to do better. Watch her even closer. Keep her safe. We’d all be fine.

  After Eve leaves I heat up the eggs and make toast. I leave a covered plate for Mama on the counter and then head outside to read in the sun. Around noon I see Mama in the kitchen. I watch her make coffee and eat a dry piece of toast. Then she heads back to her room. The plate of eggs is still on the counter. At 3pm I leave for Girl Scouts. On my way out I press my ear to Mama’s door until I hear her faint snores.

  For three weeks I’ve been attending meetings just to make her happy. Wearing my stupid kelly-green vest and keeping my head down.
But today when I pull up and lock my bike I feel uneasy. Like people are watching me. Like maybe they know Mama is not herself. When I enter the rec room I beeline to the craft table and pull out my songbook to work on some lyrics that have been bouncing around in my head:

  I am a girl

  I am a seed

  I am a song

  I am a weed

  I am my own

  I am alone

  Growing growing

  In this dry dry heat

  I hear Mrs. Karen our troop leader yell: “Ten minutes of free time girls! And then we’ll circle up.” But I keep my eyes focused on the page as the room chatters with activity. The rest of the girls’ voices buzz in my ears. And so focused am I on the uniform hum of their voices. So focused am I on trying to find the perfect lyrics to accompany the music of the room. That when I hear Alma call me a “dirty black orphan” I do not cry. I just look up at her standing over me with a mean smirk on her face and I open and close my mouth like a fish. I look around for help but Mrs. Karen has stepped out and the rest of the girls are gathering around to watch. Even Lydia hovers outside of the circle. Waiting to see what happens. Alma’s face is twisted into a sneer. I can tell she’s been waiting for this moment since I joined. Since she teased me about my “hipster-ass bike” on the first day.

  “You think you’re better than us?” Alma starts now. “Talking all proper like a white girl. You know you’re not white right? You know you’re just like the rest of us.”

  I look around at the rest of the troop. Twelve Latina girls. A couple of white girls including Lydia shuffling their feet in the corner. And me. A mismatched girl. No. I do not think I am better than you. I say in my head. I am just me. I am a seed. But my tongue swells in my mouth as if stung by a bee. And no words come out. I’ve barely spoken ten sentences to anyone the whole time I’ve been in the troop. Keeping to myself. What gave me away? I hadn’t let Mama drop me off once since I started.

  “Oh now you can’t speak?” Alma continues. “I know all about your family. Mrs. Karen said your parents don’t even look like you.”

  “I know who I am!” I yell back finding my voice. And then. As if someone has forced a finger down my throat I hear myself say: “At least I know HOW to speak English you stupid Mexican.”

  And I feel so heavy then. Why did I say that?! As if someone has filled my ugly green vest with sandbags. I can barely move my arms my legs. And so when Alma calls me a dirty black orphan along with some other horrible names I do not cry. I cannot cry because even my eyes feel weighted. I grab my things and walk out slowly trying to hold my head high. And Alma yells and yells and yells in my ear and some of the other girls cheer and cheer and cheer Alma on.

  QUESTIONS I HAVE FOR BLACK GIRLS LIKE ME

  posted July 5th

  Dear L

  I got the blues

  I got the blues

  Like Billie and Ella

  I’m so sad

  They sing the news

  They sing the blues

  I can’t sleep

  I can’t sleep

  So I listen

  I listen instead

  And how many ways

  Can I hear a song

  Can I lose myself

  In a song

  Can a song find me

  A lost girl

  Remind me of

  A singing kind of home

  I got the blues

  I got the blues

  And how many times

  Can I surrender

  To the jazz

  Of these women

  How many times

  Do I find myself

  Awake at night

  Hanging on

  To every sad note

  I am alive

  I am alive

  I am a searching girl

  I hurt

  I grow

  My heart is full

  Of singing ghosts

  XOXO

  K

  In This House We Believe

  On Wednesday Mama gets a call from Mrs. Karen. “Makeda!” She yells. “Get in here right now.”

  I slide into her bedroom. She has the TV on some loud talk show where people are booing and yelling at one another.

  “Have a seat.” She motions to a spot at her feet and then mutes the TV. “Do you know who that was?”

  “Mrs. Karen?”

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on? I never thought you’d say something so insensitive. You know that New Mexico used to be Mexico right? We don’t tease people because they speak another language. This is a country of immigrants. We are not bigots. Plus. Spanish is the second most commonly spoken language in the United States so you’d be smart to learn it and respect it. Of all people Makeda. I’m really disappointed in you. I expect you to write Alma an apology.”

  “Me! What about her? Did Mrs. Karen tell you what Alma said to me?!”

  “Yes. And Mrs. Karen assured me that Alma’s parents would be getting a call too. But Makeda. You’re better than your response. I know what she said must have hurt. But you know you’re not an orphan. You have us.”

  “She called me dirty.” I say quietly.

  “Well that’s just mean. But honestly. You’ve got to be the bigger person. Mrs. Karen said that you keep to yourself and that some of the girls think you’re shy. But I’m sure if you just give the troop more of a chance and maybe come out of your shell you’d make friends easier.”

  “Well do you have any friends?” My voice is shaking. Even my ribs seem to tremble. “You just sit in the house all day doing nothing. Why do I have to go out and make friends when you don’t even have to leave your bed?!”

  “Makeda that is not the same. I am the adult here. You are the child. Don’t be rude. I’m sorry about what Alma said to you. But what you said is also wrong and it’s offensive and we don’t say those kinds of things in this family.”

  Mama is rubbing her temples and has her eyes squeezed shut. I can tell she’s tired. “Do you remember what the sign says on our lawn?” Mama continues. “The one we brought with us from Baltimore. To let all our neighbors know what we stand for?”

  I nod my head. It’s hard to miss the sign. The first week we arrived Mama stomped down our long driveway to the end and then hammered the sign into the grass at the edge of our yard. The sign is white with rainbow lettering and it reads:

  IN THIS HOUSE WE BELIEVE:

  BLACK LIVES MATTER

  WOMEN’S RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS

  NO HUMAN IS ILLEGAL

  LOVE IS LOVE

  KINDNESS IS EVERYTHING

  “Well? Do you?” Mama is still waiting for my answer.

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “Good. Now please go write an apology and bring it to me when you’re done. We’ll drop it off at the community center later this afternoon.”

  “I’m not going back.” I manage to say. “I’ll write the apology. But I’m not going to be in the troop anymore. I just won’t.”

  “We’ll talk about it later Makeda. Right now it’s time to be the bigger person.”

  Mama unmutes the TV and I know she is done talking. I walk back to my room and slam the door but the sound is no competition for the TV. I grab a piece of white paper from my desk and a pen. I sit on my bed and stare at the blank page. Before I know it tears are falling onto the paper. I know what I said was wrong. It made my entire body heavy. But if we believe “kindness is everything” why doesn’t it also matter what Alma said to me?

  Dear Alma

  I feel really bad for calling you stupid. I know you are very smart and I know you belong in this country. I am very sorry. I wish I could speak two languages. But you should know I didn’t appreciate the names you called me. They were hurtful and I was just trying to stick up for myself.

  Have a great rest of your summer.

  Keda

  Melody Icey

  Mama skims my apology. “Good.” She says.

  “Did you read the whole thin
g?”

  “Yes.”

  I stand by her bed and wait for her to say more but she sinks back down into the sheets. No more lectures about being the better person or knowing how to stand up for yourself in ways that don’t hurt others. Instead of being annoyed with me she acts like I don’t exist. I wait a few more seconds and watch Mama try to get comfortable. Her face is full of pain as if she’s trying to nap on a bed of sharp things. “Makeda. Please stop hovering.” She finally barks and then turns her back to me and goes to sleep. I tiptoe out and leave her door cracked.

  At 4 o’clock Mama emerges from her room and drives me by the rec center. She hasn’t bothered to get dressed so I leave the note in Mrs. Karen’s mailbox by the front desk.

  “We won’t tell your father about this.” Mama says on our way back. “But don’t let it happen again.”

  “Ok.” I say knowing we probably won’t speak to Papa until the middle of next week anyway since he’s traveling in some remote town in South Korea now. And that Mama will probably forget all about this by that time. She’s been forgetting a lot these days.

  I glance up front. Mama’s freckles seem to jump off her face in the rearview mirror. Her cheeks are almost raw red. As if she is sunburnt and blushing all at the same time. She’s wearing a floppy straw hat and has pulled her hair back into a greasy ponytail that hangs down her back like a sad ribbon. I have the urge to cut it off. What’s the point of having hair like that if you’re not going to enjoy or take care of it? I pat my own hair. It’s grown out a few inches and even though Stormy told me to come back two weeks after “the chop” Mama hasn’t made another appointment in weeks. So I try as much as I can to take care of it myself. To pick it out with the Afro pick Mama had in her tub full of my old hair stuff. So that it’s even. But the back has grown out too much and in the mirror I can see I need Stormy’s help. If my hair could be long and smooth like Mama’s maybe girls wouldn’t tease me. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like such a twisted ball of yarn all the time. Maybe I’d still be in Girl Scouts. Or in 6th grade at El Rio. Maybe nobody would call me names.