25 Jan Beauty Within
Black people are exquisitely beautiful – skin ranging in shades of dulce de leche to ebony, hair consistency of coarse curls to naturally soft ringlets, attitudes from salty to sultry, and body types from athletic to curves for days. Is it still a stereotype if it’s done in admiration? Maybe so, but it was the African-American community in the hamlet of Bellwood, Illinois which gave my immigrant family a place to call home, a safe space to open a family business, friendships, and refuge, so it’s no wonder I gravitate towards the black community.
“Is it still a stereotype if it’s done in admiration?”
Tanessa was named after the state of Tennessee where her ancestors once resided before retreating to the safety of the North. She lived with her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Lee, a few doors down from our family, on the way to Dadi and Dada’s gas station. Having flown into O’Hare during the fall of 1979 I don’t recall meeting Tanessa until the following spring, when the snow melted from one of the harshest winters that Chicagoans remembered, to thaw the land so children could gather and play once again.
Tanessa wasn’t allowed to play too far from home – only yelling distance or looking distance. If Mr. or Mrs. Lee stood on their front porch and looked left or right, Tanessa better be in their line of sight or else. I don’t think Tanessa ever pushed her parents to “or else” because most of us grew up in an era where whoppings were part of the parenting process and nurturing and allowing children to learn with a potential time-out was not commonplace.
“What’s your name?” the beautiful, little girl asked me.
“Samita,” I replied. Yes! My first question out of the gate and I understood it and replied correctly. Considering I had been learning English only for the last four months, dreamed in Urdu, only Urdu was spoken at home, it felt that I had just given a commencement speech.
Then Tanessa was talking and talking and talking. Maybe I understood a small amount but I read her facial features to gather information in order to react. Her tight curls bounced as she circled a fire hydrant: something about school, something about play, something about where I live. I pointed to the house across from the fire hydrant she was circling.
“You live here!” she exclaimed. “We can play together when your parents allow.” My parents, paternal grandparents, great-aunts, uncles, or aunts whomever is home at the time, I thought.
When I wasn’t doing schoolwork, reading the Q’uran, helping stock cigs (Marlboro reds on top and Marlboro golds on the bottom) and pops at the gas station, I could be found playing a never-ending game of Uno while drinking fruit punch flavored Kool-Aid (Is there any other kind?!) on Tanessa’s porch.
“Can I comb your hair?” Tanessa asked one day. “You gotta get your own brush, comb and ties. My Momma don’t want us sharing.”
I zipped home, hollered, “Eick second ki lahai mai eihey hou,” [I’m only home for a second] as I hustled to grab a brush, comb, and one cord. Tanessa’s porch was refuge and a vacation from home so every second away was time wasted and there was the chance Puppa (if he was home) would insist I stay back for no other reason but the mere fact that he wanted to show he still controlled me even though he was rarely around.
Panting and out of breath, “Here….Tanessa….I got the stuff,” I said.
“Why you out of breath?” Tanessa and I slipped in and out of slang when neither one of our families were in earshot.
Slang usage could warrant a whopping fo’ sure! Our families didn’t work so hard, giving us opportunities they never received, just so we could sound “illiterate” according to Mrs. Lee. I sat down, criss-crossed my legs, as Tanessa took a brush to my hair.
“Owww, that hurts,” I squealed.
“You too tender-headed,” Tanessa laughed as she tried her best to ease up.
She had a point; no one was allowed to touch my hair but Daada. He combed it after I showered, one strand at a time, to lessen the pain of the tangles. We watched many National Geographic animal shows together, with my legs criss-crossed on the floor, he on the couch, while the rest of the household chattered about the “unmanly nature” and “undignified behavior” of a grandfather with his grand-daughter (his only grand-daughter at the time). Their eyes – their hearts – were blind to the nurturing and care he gave me when everyone else was too busy trying to survive in a brutal climate and under the shame of illegal immigration.
“I want braids and beads like you, Tanessa,” I said. “Your hair is beautiful whenever you get it done.”
“Girrrrrllll, there is no way your hair can take braids like mine,” she explained. “It ain’t nappy enough.”
“Well, I want nappy hair too,” I replied.
“Well, I want nappy hair too,” I replied.
The sting of the brush whacking me on the head was swift and precise. Before I could absorb the hurt of the injury, the sting of the truth showered upon me.
“You not only tender-headed but you thick-headed as well! Don’t you know what I would do for your hair? It’s soft and silky with curls and you don’t need a relaxer with a bunch of chemicals,” she schooled. “You crazy! Don’t be wishing upon my hair – enjoy yours.”
As an adult, rainy days and humidity call out my natural curls – loose, nestled against my face, and calling attention to my heritage. On most days, when the SoCal sun is nurturing my skin, a nice, elegant slick backed pony-tail is easily put together with a hair cord and a bobby-pin. When I feel a bit elegant, I call upon my waves to add a vintage look to any outfit. And of course, a baseball cap, with ponytail through the opening is a go-to move even into adulthood.
Tanessa, I am enjoying my hair – all phases of it. Thank you for schooling a girl to appreciate herself when she didn’t know how. As a woman, I thank you.
Waves at the beach.
Tanessa in braids at the beach.
No Comments