Momma hasn’t felt safe since June of 2016
Holds her breath at work, waiting for the call saying they don’t need her anymore.
Sits at her desk, her pen tapping against the cool surface.
She walks down the hallways and peeks through the doors to make sure Dr. Wyle isn’t there to pull her aside. That he doesn’t explain to her—somberly, of course—that there’s an overflow of staff and dammit, the only alternative is cutting back. Sorry to see you go. Best of luck to you.
But he doesn't really mean it.
Momma drives the two littles to school in the blue Sienna. At the intersection, she pulls to a stop. K-LOVE is on, and Sarah and Kendra
both wave their hands back and forth to Danny Gokey singing another one of his hits. Tires screech and a rusting pickup skrts beside
the van. A man in a yellowed tank leans out of the car and sticks his middle finger up in the air, screaming obscenities before slamming the gas. Cover the girls’ ears, they are too young to hear the word nigger. Too young to be self-conscious of their skin, of the absorbing melanin that makes them so unique.
They should be proud, not ashamed.
Every morning, Momma puts on her blue Sketchers and goes outside. Rain, shine, snow—she trudges up the hill next to our house and begins her trek around the block. Small, dark arms pumping by her sides, her little chest rising with each step, and she smiles not because she likes walking up steep, concrete hills, but because this is the time when she talks to God and God talks to her and for an hour everything is fine. Sometimes her friend from church walks with her too.
Comes home crying from her walk. Dad appears from round the corner and sees those large brown eyes wet with tears, her fingers ripping away at the strings that glue her Sketchers to her feet. Words are fumbled, mumbled, jumbled, coming out in spouts of confusion and Dad tries to slow her down, but with her accent and English being her third language she can barely get the words out. All that is pieced together is that a man down the street made her very, very sad.
“My heart is broken,” is all she can hiccup, and, “He doesn’t want me here.”
She explains to Dad of how the man assaulted her with questions of where yuh from’s and yuh sure yuh really live in this neighborhood? The man’s southern drawl oozes out like the tobacco he spits out the side of his truck. She explains how she stared, unsure of what to say, feeling the food churn in the pit of her stomach. Remembers what happened last year with George Floyd and dozens of other innocent people in the past and she freezes. Because that is what we Black people do in America. We do not retaliate, but bow in fearful respect praying, hoping, pleading with God to let us live yet another day. Asking Him to bring peace within our country because we don’t know how much more we can take.
This is Momma’s reality.
Calls Dad when he’s at work. On the street where the man stopped her a police car now sits. Tinted windows make her uneasy and her blue Sketchers can’t move from where she plants them. Fingers curl into a discombobulated blob of nails piercing skin as Dad tells her it’s okay, to just walk away, but for some reason she doesn’t know if she can. She throws worried looks behind her as her feet tap against the crumbling asphalt, whispering prayers to the Almighty that he won’t follow her.
The policeman is there almost every time she goes down that street.
Just a few months ago, Amanda told Momma that there was no racism in the workplace. How could there be? It’s 2021 and everyone loves the LGBTQ+ community and encourages diversity. There is no reason for Momma to feel how she does. In her eyes, Amanda sees nothing wrong with what Momma has endured the past few years. “Pulcherie,” she says with a smile crinkling around her eyes. “There is no such thing as systemic racism. What you experienced was pure bad luck.”
Racial slurs, being looked down upon, refused of service that everyone should be given, fired for no reason, and you call that bad luck? We know that it’s not the system. We know that it’s certain people in the system, people who just don’t care enough about who we are but rather our crinkled hair, our darkened skin. How can we trust people to listen to us, to accept us as who we are?
Forces a smile and agrees.
Because there is little else she can do except nod and smile and pretend everything is okay.
Because that is what we Black people do.
Grandma Lodemay calls the Gordon home every couple of weeks. West Africa is far, but Momma still keeps in contact because she is in her heart a Beninois and is proud of that fact. For our African family, food is hard to come by and Dorcas isn’t feeling well again. Lambert’s ministry needs support too, not just through prayer, but also money. Where Africa lacks America fills. Middle class America is upper class Benin. Momma makes promises to wire enough money to tide them over another month. “How are the grandkids?” Grandma always asks. Her face is blurred on the screen, and her voice crackles with bad reception.
“Fine,” Momma replies, fiddling with the phone that holds Grandma’s face. She stares at the blue walls with Kendra’s butterfly portrait made from the outline of her hand. A whole continent away and yet Grandma can still hear the sad tone in Momma’s voice.
“How is America?” Grandma then says, and we watch as Momma’s face
falls
falls
falls.
Nicole Gordon was born and raised in West Africa. Nicole is very interested in the brain and how different people function. She also self published a book when she was thirteen and hasn't stopped writing since.