When I was growing up, my dad’s friend told me that I sounded like a little white girl. I did not know how to respond to that and he felt free to tell me. I guess since I was not splitting infinitives or using profane mannerisms, this made me an entirely different race. My love for classical music did not help matters. My elementary school was predominantly made up of white latin children. High school classes often found me as the sole black girl in the room. The one black sorority on my college campus wasn’t accepting anyone new. My boyfriend was not black which destroyed my family unit as I knew it. Because the abandonment hurt me so much, the relationship was short lived. It was my personal vow to never venture outside of my race again. The damage had been done by my own family unit.
My life has had many different circles within its own cycle. Friends and associates have reflected different religions, various countries, and many races. There have been good friends and there have been friends to whom I have had to say farewell. As for the one constant squad of “homegirls” that surround me? This Tiffany Haddish norm has escaped me. However, there have been some memorable moments of friendship.
Approximately a decade ago, four of us would together for any and everything. Girls night. Wine time. Dick tricks. Whatever..we were going to roll, hang, and enjoy the company of each other. Our conversations were filled with tales of men, woes of work, and the next move for our lives. As with all things, this circle moved on due to the change in our lives. Someone got married and moved away. Another up and left the country. As for me, there were a few more discoveries in store for me which took me through twists and turns.
There was the sisterhood of the dance. Middle Eastern dance is intoxicating. While pursuing this hobby, a few faces kept popping up. Soon, all of our faces were together around healthy dishes of salad plotting our next project. There was always a hot workshop on the horizon or a new place with a house dancer that we wanted to support. Troupe costumes, hair perfume, tablas, and soon tarot. We were the rebel roma outside of Cairo. Again, the changes infiltrated. Motherhood called for one of my favorites. Another joined the army. I hung up the hip scarf and threw myself into pole.
A whole new world opened for me filled with dimly lit rooms and less clothing. Sensuality and sexuality combined to thrust me into another stratosphere. It was not long before the rainbow squad embraced me as their own. While I was not card thumping, my membership was real. My attire changed as did my hangout selections. Conversations were different. Personalities remained colorful. Life was fun…until it wasn’t. Relationships changed us all. My heart was broken. One became dark and spiteful. Tempers flared and one by one we were on different roads yet again. What say you now?
There is the pop in at the office to catch up or the drop in at a home for salad and a chat. Texting, FB, and weekly conversations keep me in touch with certain members. There are two that remain ever faithful in my constant development, and I would not be as together without them. Interacting with other women is important. Sheer fun and cackling conversations are a must. There has to be someone that is able to tell you about the shape of your hair without a frown crossing your face. Is that outfit too snazzy? No, its just you. That is real talk coming from the mouth of your friendly Aquarian. As 2019 winds down, I wonder what circle shall welcome me next.
It was the height of the massive weight loss. I sent the picture of myself in a Jamaican flag swimsuit. It was originally too small and now it was big on me. Friends sent words of joy and encouragement. My own mother responded with, “Great. Now all you have to do is lose another ten pounds.” Her text perplexed me. My weight was always more of an issue for her than it was for me. I informed her that she was the only one that had something negative to say. She responded with, “I’m the only one that told you the truth.” Her phone rang. My voice was soon heard explaining to her that I sent her that info so that she could be happy for me, not call me fat. The call did not last long because it was most unpleasant. In retrospect, I realized that she was jealous. My own mother was jealous of me. Unfortunately, I do not think it was the first time.
While preparing for my debutante cotillion, my dress had been fluffed. My hair and make up were complete. Someone was even present to make balloons for me. My mother said, “Boy, when you get old, no one pays attention to you.” Why would she make such a comment during such a happy time? She had a role in it. She put most of the after events together. Why then would she feel so insecure about herself?
At some point, my father told me that I was dealing with a fat, insecure, jealous woman. As an adult, I have often wondered what my father saw in her. She always complains and is never satisfied with anything. It has been one of the greatest mysteries of my life.