Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul Page 11

  The next twenty minutes were a blessing. A warm layer of sesame oil coated my back and shoulders, the rich nutty smell filling my nose and soothing my nerves. She then began working and pounding all my muscles until the very thought of tension slid off the slick surface of my skin. She followed this with a salt exfoliant, rubbed into my skin, peeling off layers of hurt and offense before they hardened and callused. After rinsing off the salt, she splashed on a layer of cucumber cream, the melon-scented wash purifying and sweetening me. She ran her fingers through my hair and washed it, scrubbing deeply, the tips of her fingers caressing my scalp, washing away any residue of negativity. Then she let me rest.

  When I stood up again I was refreshed and clean, and my heart was restored to health. The massage woman motioned for me to take a soak in the bath with the on-looking ladies, and I did so with minor hesitation. But as I settled into the water the ladies smiled at me and went back to their soaking, the steam rising from the hot water filling our lungs and wrapping us all together. After a final rinse I left the spa, my eyes red from tears of relief and my hair a giant Afro. That night my friend, my Afro and I hit the town, eating and dancing into the early hours of the next morning, the day of our flight out.

  I often wonder about the massage woman. Could she smell the fear and hurt on my skin? I believe she was sent as a representative of all the wonderful people who exist in this world. For every person who fears you and allows racist misconceptions to justify his abuse of you, there is someone far greater who will love you as a human and treat you with kindness. If I hadn’t ventured out that day I would never have learned this; I would remain doused in fear instead of the sweet emollient of love.

  Adiya Dixon-Sato

  My Cup Runneth Over

  Once you know who you are, you don’t have to worry anymore.

  Nikki Giovanni

  When I returned from a quick weekend trip to Atlanta, Robin, my youngest daughter who was pregnant with her first child, called before I could get my bags in the door.

  “Mom! I didn’t think you were back yet! I am so glad you’re here! We’re on our way to the hospital!”

  My heart started pounding with excitement. “We” were going to have a baby!

  I raced to the hospital to meet her and stayed until I was deliriously tired. After eight months of daily anticipation about this child, my grandson finally arrived around 6:00 A.M. I loved being a grandma the second time just as much as the first. I could not get enough.

  When the baby was one week old, the phone rang in the morning and my son-in-law said frantically, “Robin cannot move her left side, and we are on our way to the hospital! Can you meet us there?”

  I stopped breathing and went to the hospital on “automatic pilot.” I prayed for my daughter’s well-being all the way there. I prayed for the strength to be of help to her and her husband. I prayed for faith that we could see whatever this was through.

  After all tests were run, I could see the concern and agony on the faces of the medical team as they approached us. They dropped the news like a bomb. “Robin has had a stroke and is completely paralyzed on one side.”

  I felt like I had been hit by a ton of bricks! My head was spinning with too many thoughts firing all at once: Oh my God, it couldn’t be! She is only thirty-five years old and never even had high blood pressure! What about the baby? What are we going to do?

  A stroke simply never entered my mind. I had to get myself under control because I knew they would be depending on me to be strong and, as broken as I felt, there was nothing I could do—except pray. I found a quiet place, allowed myself a quick cry to release the intensity of fear and concern I was experiencing, and began to pray. I needed peace of mind so that I could figure out how we were all going to handle this. That was the beginning of my daughter’s extended stay in the hospital.

  I visited Robin each day, and on her twenty-second day of confinement, a wave of emotion overcame me as I climbed my stairs. I had to hold on to the banister while I staggered—blinded by the flood of tears that came. It caught me completely off-guard. I knew I couldn’t visit her that day; all I could do was lay down and sleep. I woke up hours later, and shortly afterward my girlfriend Valerie called and asked “Nik, how are you doing?”

  It must have been the manner with which she asked such a simple question, because suddenly the words describing my breakdown came pouring out. She listened carefully and then said, “You know, your cup is running over and you released the excess!”

  Surprised by her comment, I asked, “What? What do you mean?”

  She replied, “I’ve always admired the way you handle things when they happen. But I’ve often wondered what was in your cup! You never talk about anything that bothers you.”

  I was shocked.We had been friends for more than thirty years. Speechless, I had to wonder whether that was really true. Naw, uh-huh. Not me. She was wrong! Or was she?

  There was something in what she was saying that capti-vatedme— I just wasn’t sure what it was. I was so absorbed in my thoughts I don’t even know what I said in response, but within seconds after hanging up from her I had gone from a state of disheartenment to total excitement.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The next morning I called her to continue the conversation. She had barely answered before I blurted out, “What’s in the cup? I can’t figure it out?”

  She laughed and said, “I don’t know exactly, Nik, but it’s stress.”

  I quickly said, “Stress? Well, what’s the stress?”

  She said, “That’s what I don’t know—only you know!

  After all, it is your cup.”

  I knew God was using her to reveal something huge to me. I could feel it, but I could not see what it was. When I hung up, I sat quietly and waited for answers, but they didn’t come quickly enough.

  I went to the hospital to help pack up my daughter’s belongings because she was going home. She had to relearn all the basic things we take for granted—including walking. She had good use of her right side and, incredibly, could hold and take care of her baby. The many prayers of the righteous had truly been answered.

  No matter what I did, I continued to think about “my cup.” There was a mystique about this that was calling me.

  Whenever I asked someone else, each would not hesitate to tell me what was in their cup. I heard things like, “I get tired of being responsible for others,” “I always put myself last,” or “People take me for granted and do not appreciate who I am.” The list went on and on, but I knew I was looking for something else; I was looking for what was in my cup but still did not know what it was.

  I was on a mission. Sometimes God only gives us one piece of the puzzle at a time because that is all we can handle, and that was the case with me.

  My “moment of understanding” came in a conversation with my cousin Drina. We used a dilemma that was going on to explore “the cup.”We jumped in feet first and started digging like we were searching for gold. She kept asking me questions and I would respond with how I felt about whatever we were talking about. I started hearing myself say things I had never said, and I didn’t want to stop—and neither did she. All of a sudden I had the epiphany: Feelings were what was in my cup!

  The puzzle started coming together in a huge way. All the pieces began to emerge. I could see them now. Valerie was right! There was so much I felt that I had never expressed . Just as I had done when I learned about my daughter’s stroke, it was my pattern to “fast-forward” over whatever feelings I had, always thinking I had to be the one to figure out what needed to be done. I had to be the strong one. Then, there was my conditioning to internalize and to please others and be whatever they needed me to be. Usually I was the listener and, for whatever reasons, felt that my own “stuff” was a burden—no matter how much others poured into me. Oh, the cost of that was far too high. I was giving too much of myself away and not honoring my heart and my needs.

  This conversation pierced the sludge and sewag
e in the bottom of my cup—the mass of junk that had been there for years. It came oozing out with every word. I was emptying my cup. What a release!

  When we finished talking I felt a freedom—like I had been touched by the hand of God. Now that my cup was running over with something different, rather than stress from stored-up emotions, feelings of being understood, validated and accepted flowed freely. In that moment, I vowed to tell every woman I encountered that we must value and take care of ourselves first and make certain we release the contents of our cups daily. That is what our sister-friends are for. Our feelings shall set us free!

  Nikki Shearer-Tilford

  Meet Me in the Middle

  I used to want the words “She tried” on my tombstone. Now I want “She did it.”

  Katherine Dunham

  I’ll never forget my first African dance class with the Ko-Thi Dance Company. I was a timid college student and the instructor was a kindhearted, strong-willed woman named Ferne Caulker, who took me under her wing and taught me a thing or two about my culture—and myself.

  That very first class is where my schooling began. We learned several dances and just as the class was nearing the end, the instructor moved everyone into a large circle.

  Uh oh, what is this? I was cool with the line dances and the group dances—the ones we did in unison—but this dance was different. This dance was freestyle and called for each of us to dance into the middle—by ourselves—to show our own personal moves. As the drummers’ pace and volume began to increase so did my anxiety. Ferne explained that in Africa individuality was highly prized, and solo dancing in the middle of the circle was a way to “let your soul out” and “show your own beautiful self—to shine .”

  Hmmmmm. I don’t think so. I was beyond petrified and figured it was time to leave, and that is exactly what I did.

  I glanced at my watch, acted surprised that time had passed so quickly, grabbed my things and left without even seeing the circle dance and hoping no one was the wiser. I wasn’t about to get out into the middle and “shine” or whatever . I had spent years perfecting my style of fitting in called “the blend,” and I wasn’t about to pull out from the crowd and draw attention to myself now.

  Of course, Ferne saw it differently. The next time I went to class, toward the end—just when I thought we’d made it through without the circle dance—she made the loud call for the dancers to make a change, “Eh, eh!” Without missing a beat, she grabbed my hand, and circled the dancers up. As I tried to imagine how I was going to sneak out this time, the drummers accompanying the class began to beat the drums even more passionately, and what I saw in that circle took my breath away.Wow! There were several people who were born in Africa taking the class, and you could see that this was truly their favorite part. Before the explanation of solo dancing was even finished, they began taking their moves to the center with wild abandon. I watched in astonishment at their boldness and their beautiful movements done in sync with the drums—and even more so, at their joy . They loved to “shine,” and shine they did. They were sparkling!

  It was then that it occurred to me that “the blend” was strictly born of the American part of my culture, and perhaps there was something to experiencing this aspect of my African heritage. This was an African dance class, after all.

  Almost as if my hips were willing me forward—I know now that it was my soul—I started to move into the middle. I moved slowly at first, afraid of what would happen when I abandoned my highly perfected ability to blend and discovered what it truly meant to be myself—to sparkle and shine like a brilliant diamond. What would those around me do and say as I stepped out and up? What would they think?

  My heart kept beat with the drums, as my head, my thoughts and my fears were simply suspended. My consciousness was entirely in my body—in the way my feet met the earth, my braids jumped with my body, my hips moved seductively to the beat, my lungs took in the air and my brown skin glistened with beads of sweat. Over the frenzy of the drums, I heard my sister and brother dancers shouting their encouragement, yelling my name repeatedly. They whooped and hollered and clapped around me while watching my moves. Even though they surrounded me, forming the circle, I could feel them in the middle with me—smiling, laughing, pounding, stirring, planting, harvesting. They shared my joy, while I shared our ancestry.

  I moved to the edge of the circle as the next dancer entered, I yelled her name and clapped my appreciation, encouraging her along with the other dancers. As the dance came to an end, I took note of how I felt. It was as if my consciousness just moved back into my head, and I needed to assess any damage I may have endured from this act of boldness. At one with the other dancers, all I felt was joy, power, beauty and strength. Ironically, expressing our individuality seemed to unify us.

  That was many years ago, and I have since gone on to become an African dance teacher myself. Following in Ferne’s footsteps, I instruct brothers and sisters of all cultures to find their inner beat and share their moves in the center of the circle.

  I invite you to join us.

  I’ll turn you away from the mirrors and encourage you to look inside at how you feel instead of outside at how you think you look .

  I’ll grab your hand and call out loudly, “Eh, eh!” to let you know it is time to change. Smiling, I’ll pull you and the other dancers into a circle, anticipating what is coming next. I’ll move to the center and beckon you to join me, knowing you will never be the same.

  “Come,” I’ll say with my head held high and my hips moving to the beat. “Let your soul out! Show us your beautiful self! Come. Let us shine!”

  You’ll meet me in the middle—and that is where I’ll truly meet you, too.

  Yes, meet me in the middle and we’ll dance. . . .

  Connie Bennett

  The Dreadful Story

  I’ve learned to take me for myself and to treat myself with a great deal of love and a great deal of respect ’cause I like me. . . . I think I’m kind of cool.

  Whoopi Goldberg

  I vividly recall the first time my mama sat me in a tub to rinse that Ultra Sheen lye-based permanent-relaxer out of my head. “What’cha doin’ to the child’s head?!”Daddy asked.

  “Her hair is too thick and nappy! This’ll help me manage this mess!” Mama resolutely responded.

  “She’s too young for all that in her head!” Daddy pressed.

  “No, I got my hair relaxed when I was even younger!” Mama tilted my head back under the tub faucet to rinse out the smelly, caustic gook.

  “But—she’s fine just like she is, and I. . . .”

  “Well, it’s too late now,” Mama said as she began my lye cleansing–deactivating shampoo. “And I’m the one who has to try to get through this child’s long, thick head of hair every day!”

  “You gonna do her sister’s hair like that, too?” Daddy asked.

  “No.” Mama lathered my hair. Her fingers stung into my tenderized, chemically softened scalp. I winced silently.

  “Good!” Daddy sounded relieved.

  “Well, her sister doesn’t need it. She has good hair,”

  Mama said matter-of-factly.

  “Mama,” I whispered having just received the revelation regarding my naughty hair.

  “Yes, baby?” Mama answered tenderly as she tilted me back into the cool stream of the tub faucet.

  “Am I gonna have good hair now, too?” I asked, in search of something “good” out of the strange hair ritual I’d just endured.

  “Yes, baby,” Mama assured me.

  I smiled, squinting my eyes closed to ignore the burning, stinging pain that had been circling the edges of my right ear throughout the process.

  The next day all the little girls in my kindergarten class wanted to touch my long silky braids. I felt so pretty . . . despite my scabbing, throbbing ear. My mother had neglected to put enough gel (grease, really) on my right ear before she began relaxing my hair. The lye had been left to sit directly on my ear, causing a n
asty chemical burn. I didn’t care though. My hair was being so “good.”

  “Lisa Bartley,” my Afro-wearing teacher remarked with a tender smile, “Don’t you look pretty today!”

  “Thank you, Miss Jackson!” I gleamed.

  About thirty years later, I got up one day and looked at the smiling black beauties on my box of Dark and Lovely permanent-relaxer. I looked past their smiles into their eyes, then into the mirror. Those who have known me for a number of years know that I have gone from color to color, style to style, and in and out and back again with my hair. I’m an artist at heart and my head has been a special kind of canvas of self-expression. I’ve always loved trying out different hairstyles. I have sported various relaxed styles, the infamous “flip,” braids, the “bone-straight” look, twists, and so on. I was, however, growing weary of the eternal process of trying to maintain so-called “good hair” status.

  I began to dread having my hair done . . . when all of sudden it occurred to me, perhaps I should “dread” having my hair done! I tossed out my Dark and Lovely, turned up my Bob Marley Legend CD, grabbed my beeswax, and went to work on the first step of “locking” my hair. I began by sectioning it into individual single-strand twists of hair that I rolled into separate sections with sticky dollops of beeswax. I was so engaged in what I was doing that time passed quickly, even though it was six hours later when I smiled broadly at the results—a head full of dreads. Of course it would take another six weeks for them to really begin to tighten, get nappy and all “locked up,” but in the meantime, as I looked in the mirror, singing right along with Marley (for the hundredth time that day), I nodded my absolute approval.

  The next day at work, people kept looking at my hair, but they didn’t say much. I chuckled on the inside at their perplexed sideways glances. They were white, mostly middle-aged or older folks. They knew something looked different because I usually wore my hair in relaxed, silky little twists. At this point, my hair appeared basically the same as the twists but subtly different. Things really developed as my hair began to lock up. I could tell that they could not really figure it out. They would look, and some would even make awkward attempts to ask me about it, but I felt free! I felt even better than I had felt that first day at school after my first relaxer, and this time there were no burns. Imagine that! I had never been so happy with my hair, my skin and my nature—my authenticity. I felt like a queen . . . a God-crowned queen!