Love The Girls
a short story
Colorism- or skin color stratification, is a process that privileges light‐skinned people of color over dark in areas such as income, education, housing, or discrimination in which people are treated differently based on the social meanings attached to skin color.
For as long as I could remember, I always wanted to be pretty. I remember dressing up my dolls and begging mama to make me an outfit that looked as fine as theirs did. My clothes were never that fancy, and mom never got around to duplicating the outfits because she always worked. Dad too. I hear my Aunt and Uncle-in-law say that “we should be thankful for what we have, that we are ‘middle-class’ we are the lucky ones”, whatever that means. All I know is my parents work hard. And them working hard usually means I am the first one home off the school bus frantically tackling homework. We live in a decent neighborhood, with tree-lined streets and toppled over waste cans. The lawns are sprawling with new roots, and freshly dying leaves wet with the dewy steam of daybreak. I attend a private school with strict classes and sharply pressed uniforms. I am one of the only black girls who attends ISLEVILLE Prep, a ninth through twelfth grade Academic prep school for advanced students here in Baltimore. These classes are specifically designed to prepare students for college. At graduation, you receive a diploma and an Associate’s Degree. I have two more years until I get to that point, but I will get there. Lacrosse keeps me busy even though my parents try-they nearly always miss my games. I’m not always alone though, I have a few friends, one is Latinx and the other Afro-Latina. We like to get ice-cream and sit on the bleachers watching the football team practice, and laughing at them silly white girls. I have white “associates”, those who continually ask for help with work but really just want me to do their work. I don’t let that fly. In addition to those friends, mom and dad send me downtown to visit my Aunt and cousins Cleo and Taylor ever so often. So, yeah, I’m far too busy to play dress-up anymore or to ‘feel’ pretty.
“Hey Hun, what ya’ thinkin’ about doing with your hair.” Aunt Pat asked with a deep raspy voice created by years of smoking Newports. She twirled in her black salon chair and stretched her feet out for a long cat-stretch. “Whew, I have a long day ahead of me everybody and they mama want they hair done for Easter service tomorrow.” “I know!” Yelled Taylor with an enlightened tone, walking in full stride towards me. “Whatever she gets, she needs bangs to cover up that big forehead.” “Be quiet.” I mumbled. I never was one to talk a lot in public, and definitely not loudly. I was to be respectful and meek, says ma. Although, what Taylor said made me look across the room into the spritz covered mirror. Is this really how people see me? Is this really how I look? “Come on big-head look in these magazines and find what you want, my mom has us three to do before her other clients, and I don’t want to be sitting up here all day. Mom had dropped me off downtown last night so Aunt Pat could annually wash and style my hair for Easter Sunday. A day all black people far and wide spend way too much time and money to show off for church that lasts 6 hours. My family and I don’t attend church, but Aunt Pat swears by it. Whenever I do go to church with her, she fake-catches the ‘holy ghost’ so she can dance around bouncing her butt around in front of the choir’s drummer. At least that was last year. I don’t know who the rump-shaking seeks to devour this year. I don’t go to church, but I don’t believe the holy-ghost should be used that way. Anyway, “Alright Cleo, come on girl, I already know what you want, come to the shampoo bowl.” Aunt Pat said, gazing her eyes sternly over to Taylor, probably for what she said to me. “A ‘right mama.” said Cleo. In addition to her hair styles, Cleo seemed to always have life together. Even at 16 years old. She knew what she wanted, when she wanted it. She was looked upon by others like teenage royalty. Her aura-or whatever they call it, was strong. She made good grades, she had great style, she walked on clouds and drank unicorn tears, which hydrates and creates her beautiful skin. Her skin. She was fair-skinned, she almost looked mixed with something. Aunt Pat would go on to tell us that Cleo’s father was mixed, like President Barack Obama, you know, black and white, never being all of one thing. But no one has seen her dad, and if you let Cleo tell it, it wouldn’t matter a damn if she ever did. She flipped the page to Ebony magazine and popped her bubble gum while her mom lowered her back into the shampoo bowl. It was dramatic, like a baptism, like her hair was a sacred thing. Her hair was thick and bouncy, she didn’t need a relaxer like I did. Her hair was manageable with a few squirts of water. “Pick your jaw up, man.” Taylor spewed, scooping up my chin and making me clench my teeth. “Ouch, aren’t you tired of being so mean? What do you have against me?” I said, coming close to tears because I hate being confrontational. “Cuz, cuz, calm down. You know I don’t mean no harm, I’m just excited to see you, what’s it been? A year.” “Yes, last Easter.” I scoffed.
I looked around the salon after two hours had passed and I still hadn’t been touched. I sighed, and I rocked. Looking at all the salon characters. You had your flamboyant gay stylist, your butch woman barber, the client that only wore wigs, and the salon braider. I had become restless of making up stories about them before my Aunt signaled me towards her.
Cleo was just finishing up, her freshly- curled ponytail swinging side to side with a mind of its own, as if its greatest pleasure in life was to be on her crown. Aunt Pat took her cape off and she rose and spit out her gum. I took her place, trying not to hear my Aunts grimaces while she worked at brushing my hair out before washing it. An hour later, I sat at the shampoo bowl, beaten and bruised, scalp feeling crucified as my Aunt lowered me down in a rush to rinse the relaxer out. I took off my glasses and closed my eyes.
“I will praise him, praise him every day, I will praise him, praise him every day..” the youth choir sang-all 19 of them, sleepy-eyed, crusty mouthed and for the most part, unconvincing. They had just finished the last of three songs presented to the congregation to liven up the environment and show that the youth of the church can contribute something to honor the day. I wasn’t convinced. Taylor made funny faces throughout the entire performance which led Aunt Pat sitting next to me whispering under her breath and gesturing Taylor to stop what she was doing. It never works, and only provides, for me, comedy at its finest. I sat in the polyester lined pew unsettled as the dress I borrowed from Cleo had wool and ruffles that irritated my skin. I don’t’ see how she wears these things. Uncomfortable is an understatement. The lace and chiffon pricked my legs and the wool made me unbearably hot. I don’t believe wool should be worn in April, but I had nothing nice enough to wear, and it was kind of Cleo to lend me a dress. It also didn’t help that there was no air conditioning in this 100-year-old church and I dodged all I could to not get smacked upon the side of my head by the old lady who sat next to me. The fan was square and held together by what seemed to be a large Popsicle stick right down the middle. It had a picture of the pastor sitting in a chair next to his wife with arms folded. The tone was very serious and not so inviting. But here we are. “Thank you, youth choir! It is a blessing to see the young rise early in their lives with the love of God in their hearts.” The Pastor exclaimed. “Now let us pray. Father God. We thank you for this beautiful Sunday morning. We thank you for the grace given unto us to see another day, this day-this marvelous day to reflect upon your goodness and your Son’s sacrifice. Help us to know Thee more and more each day, and trust in your word by and by. Draw us near to you as we celebrate the blood you’ve shed for us, and what that means in our lives. We are made clean, we are free, white as snow…” I peeped my eyes open half an inch to see Cleo laughing in the pews behind the pulpit. Taylor was passing notes and threw a balled-up piece of paper at the side of a head that belonged to Evan White-Her crush. All the kids in the pews were laughing now, but the Pastor continued praying. Aunt Pat was infuriated, but most of that may have been embarrassment. Taylor had always been the troublemaker. It’s believed she acts out because Aunt Pat and her father divorced when she was seven. Still, that was eight years ago. I always look at Taylor when deciding how NOT to act. She marched by the beat of her own drum though, no matter who’s feathers ruffled by the sound of it. More than I can say about myself. I don’t really know what it means to infuriate my parents, or struggle in school. I guess it is different when you don’t have a father around. But then, Cleo seems to be just fine. “Amen.” said the congregation in unison. The youth choir began leaving the stage. I flicked a piece of bang out of my face and looked at Taylor, she was signaling me to step out. “Aunt Pat, I need to go to the restroom, I’ll be back.” she sighed. “Jessi, don’t let those girls get you into some mess.” she replied, rolling her eyes and fanning her face profusely. “Okay, Aunt Pat.” I said as I stood up and inched my way out of the too-tight church pew saying excuse me what it felt like 200 times.
I met Taylor in the church foyer, she looked suspiciously over to me and signaled me to where she was standing, right in the middle of about 10 other teens from the choir, noticeably absent- Cleo. “Where’s your sister?” I asked her as I walked in closer. Being in a group of people always made me anxious. I never knew what to say, or if I did, when to say it. I always felt like I didn’t belong. “Damn, I don’t know.” she yelled. “Shhhh..” I said. The group laughed. “This is my cousin y’all. She from Isleville, she don’t know nothing about these Downtown B-More streets.” I waved, awkwardly. Peering over the group of miscreants. Evan White stood there leading the charge with jokes and other off –kilter banner. “Hey y’all, let’s go to the alley.” One of the kids suggested. Taylor looked at me auspiciously. Maybe this was her chance with Evan after all. She could get the attention she so desperately craved from him. I wasn’t sold but I knew not to openly disagree-especially with Taylor.
The group of ten of us walked out the side doors of the church and began walking behind it where the fence separated the parking lot from the grocery store that shared the same lot. The fence was halfway standing as kids would use it to climb over and throw rocks at it. I would have opted to go back inside immediately after going out, but the air felt good outside and the sun was warm-cool on my skin. I looked up and gazed at the clouds. “Okay, so why’d you throw that at me man?” Evan asked Taylor. “Cuz.” she replied. In the absence of words, I heard her holding onto the idea of coming clean to him and saying it was because she like him. She craved his attention and frankly the only reason she is a part of the youth choir to begin with is to be close to him. But she said none of this. “I don’t know why you keep playing with me, I don’t like yo’ black ass. Leave me alone.” Evan said as the crowd burst out in laughter. “Nah, nah forreal.. You got the short end of the stick, Cleo’s fine ass can’t be related to you, hell, you and your cousin. I mean, Jessi, with all due respect- you BLACK, black. Y’all look more like sisters than your real sister.” I stood there in shock. When did I become part of the conversation? I didn’t throw anything at him. What did it mean to be Black, black? The laughter became more of a roar. I looked down at my skin trying to find something to say to justify my being and belonging, but I could not find one thing. I could not find one.
