We ride home from work, Michelle weaving in and out in some seemingly haphazard pattern, one which only she understands. She reminds me of that Discovery Channel special on bees, with the way she drives — dodging and dancing through traffic. A bee after pollen.
Chatting and laughing, we mock those mellow, falsely fresh NPR disc-jockeys while her three-year-old wreaks havoc on my hair from her harness in the back seat. First she tugs sharply, and I wince, but I say nothing. Not even a quiet, ‘ouch.’ The attention is nice; I don’t want to discourage her.
I feel her miniature hands grasp at the strands of my unbrushed ponytail, the way she might hold tight to the string of a balloon, afraid it will lift away should she let go. For blocks she is silent, her fingers frozen, curled around my hair that is spilling through the gap between my headrest and the seat. Thread through a needle. And she can’t get enough of it. White girl’s hair.
“Like Rapunzel,” I say.
“No,” Thea says. “Like Barbie.” Only it comes out, ‘bah-bie,” her accent every day growing more and more to sound like that of her Indian babysitter, Mantaz.
Her mother laughs. “Poor Thea,” she says.
Her Carribean genetics, passed on from mother to daugher, will make Thea full-lipped and caramel-skinned, and her dark hair tightly curled. She will never have Mantaz’s cascading black mass of hair, or my thinner, paler version. She will not have petroleum-produced strands like Barbie–nor any other of Barbie’s plastic, pale features. She will instead be pouty, hot-tempered, mysterious and exotic. Poor Thea, indeed.
I feel her small digits tangle in the mess at the bottom of my ponytail as they work, with the still under-developed grace of her age, meticulously removing the knots and snarls. Petting and admiring. I will let her envy me for now–while my cookie-cutter sameness is fascinating and appealing, and before she develops a sense of self and moves on from that generic, stiff-armed doll. I will let her envy me for now.
She isn’t tired of Barbie yet.
Nice piece. We all envy each other at some time, don’t we?
You write beautifully.
It’s so hard being beautiful
or having a detachable ebony phallus, eh Rocco?
This was beautiful, moving writing. It brought back memories of my time teaching Head Start, when many of the African-American kids couldn’t get enough of my straight, fine, white girl hair. Thanks for reminding me of them.
if this is isn’t undeniable proof that you novel-author material, I don’t know what is.
You hang out with kids a lot, don’t you? What exactly do you do? And I’m not saying that to be rude or offensive, I’m genuinely asking because I’m curious.
I love how you described the child’s fingers. Because they fumble and grab and express their pudgy curiousity so purely. Ah, kids! And did you know? Midge doll is now pregnant and has a gold wedding band. The “Americans” (not sure who this refers to – probably some Republican league) have rejected the new Midge saying that she does not represent family values. Meanwhile the Canadians have embraced her. We’re an evil evil lot! Gay marriage, legalizing marijuana for medical use and now Midge. The 3Ms of satan!
P.S. Rocco wants your ass!
You’re damn right I do. Have you seen that juicy bubble of back seat goodness?
Ah, that all women could be blessed with a Rocco. It’s like Ass Appreciation Day every day.
But, don’t you have homework to do, College Boy?
You shouldn’t be so curt with your elders, young lady. I’m allowed to take time out of my very busy schedule to make fun of your slack-jawed, slobbering fans (and their trunk-endowed goddess).
Oh good grief, Rocco!
Go be angry at the world somewhere else. Maybe at IHOP.
But there aren’t any beautiful, poetic people at IHOP
Have you ever had to convince me to go to IHOP? Or am I not beautiful and poetic enough?
I’ll wear the leather pants…
You’ll do, but you’ll have to get real leather pants. None of this “Pleather”® nonsense. And you can’t borrow mine.