Chapter 4 #2
I swished mouthwash, disturbed that my forebears’ movements were restricted by racist policies and practices—limited or even prohibited with Whites Only signs enforced with a vengeance.
My grandparents were proud people and Terracina Braxton struggled beneath such restrictions, navigating racist waters for the welfare of herself and her children.
But being a natural fashionista, she had a pronounced contempt for clothing stores with policies not allowing African-Americans to “try before you buy.”
We weren’t allowed to put our feet in the shoes. And they sure wouldn’t tolerate us in their fitting rooms. We couldn’t even touch what we wanted. We had to point at it and wait while white customers were tended to even if they came in after us.
Items were shoved into bags by disinterested, hostile salespersons. Change was slapped on the counter to prevent hands touching. Return policies suddenly became nonexistent.
They took our money but treated us like a disease. So, I said to heck with those crackers and subjecting myself to that tomfoolery. I made good with my own sewing machine.
My grandmother—a homemaker of a certain generation—responded to bigotry by utilizing her gifts as an exceptional seamstress in ways that helped support her five children. To hear Granny tell it, she was an accidental entrepreneur and closet activist.
I sewed as a teenager to help Mama pay bills and found myself sewing for my own family to keep us from experiencing “store-bought indignity,” but folks took to asking where I bought this or that. I told ’em I made it. Next thing I knew I had orders coming in.
I relieved myself and washed my hands before massaging cleanser onto my face and turning the shower on full blast.
I admired Granny for using her earnings to supplement my grandfather’s income as a railroad porter.
Together they supported their family of seven.
Thanks to the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s challenging race-imposed restrictions, and with hard work and tenacity, Grandpa was eventually promoted to a more lucrative position of conductor that he held until retirement.
Even so, Granny continued as a seamstress, churning out choir robes, costumes for school productions and church plays, and designer-worthy dresses.
Granny did the dang thing. And successfully.
“But why she has that mannequin suited up like Little House on the Prairie meets a Church of God in Christ convention is beyond my comprehension.” I stripped and stepped into the shower, laughing at the oddity of the mannequin’s attire.
Yet I couldn’t ignore the sense that its presence was intentional, impactful in ways I couldn’t determine.
You ATE Nana Nettie’s ASHES?!
Oh! My! God! #cannibal #hannibal
Laughing at my sisters’ texts earned some censoring and shushing from Justus.
“Mom, you’re on your phone? You said we should be present when doing something. That means you should pay attention.”
I whispered an apology before quickly offering my two cents in our sisters’ group chat.
It was an involuntary taste test, Shay. I ain’t Hannibal Lecter. Yet.
I dropped my phone in my purse, turned my attention to the fight scene on the big screen involving Marvel’s fantastical superbeings, and shuddered at the memory of tasting the contents of Granny’s brooch, aka Queen Lazuli.
Never had I ever wanted to ingest placenta.
I pulled popcorn from the bucket Justus and I shared and tossed some in my mouth as if my tastebuds needed a reset. I adored my family. Revered my ancestors. But dining on “water sacs” had never been, would never be, on my To Do list.
Was preserving placenta a thing back in Nana Nettie’s day? And who the heck was Grandma Zinnie?
I watched the big green guy take down a supersized villain while mentally dredging family lore for anyone by that name.
When nothing came forward, I allowed my thoughts to flow to the Black history facts I’d learned and the books I’d read.
My recollection glimmered faintly with stories of enslaved women burying a newborn’s afterbirth to honor life and nourish the soil.
My phone vibrated in my purse, interrupting my train of thought. I reached for it on the sly to avoid my son’s detection and lectures about being present in the moment. I expected a cannibalistic comment or additional teasing from my siblings. I found a text from my ex instead.
Hey, Nette. Can we chat later? J wants to extend his summer stay.
The back of my skull tightened, and an inexplicable tremor passed through me.
It wasn’t due to concerns about subpar parenting.
In many ways Rodney was the better parent.
Practical. Level-headed. Patient. A good listener.
Uber intelligent. He was a big-hearted man with a dose of nerdiness Justus inherited.
The two shared an enviable bond despite imposed geographical distance.
To his credit, my ex was actively involved in our son’s life in all the ways a father could or should be.
In short, Rodney Adams was serious about his baby.
Rodney’s commitment to our son was evident in their nightly phone calls and regular FaceTiming.
I had negative-zero concerns about his viability as a parent or his love for Justus.
My reaction to his text was an involuntary, fearful response to what might be the beginning of the end of our mother–son living arrangement.
Lynette, you agreed. Don’t backtrack.
I reminded myself I’d agreed to our roles reversing—to Justus living with his father when he was older if he so desired—and Rodney becoming the primary parent and caregiver. But for me “older” was twenty-six or fifty.
I peered at my son in the darkened theater, wishing I could keep him my baby forever. Safe. Protected. With me fighting the world for him, and at all costs retaining his innocence. That was wishful thinking. Such truths didn’t minimize the unexpected sense of loss I experienced.
You’re jumping from A to Z, Nette.
Extending his stay wasn’t the same as Justus wanting to move in with his father. Right?
“Hey, J…” I whispered so as not to disturb our fellow moviegoers. “Your dad said you want to stay longer this summer…”
He was too engrossed in the magic of Marvel to look at me, simply tossed his voice like a little ventriloquist. “Yeah… the whole time. Not just until the start of July.”
“Mind my asking why?”
He shrugged. “I miss Dad. A lot.”
I inhaled, exhaled, to calm my racing heartbeat.
Even though our love story had met its end by then, Rodney’s returning home to California for an amazing business opportunity three years ago had been difficult on all of us.
We’d dealt with it as best we could, partially by allowing Justus to spend every other major holiday and most of the summer with his father.
Rodney flew to Texas once a year to enjoy Justus in his own environment.
Still, I understood my son’s viewpoint. Holidays and periodic trips weren’t the same as seeing his father on a regular basis.
I get it, baby. I’m not down for you moving, but your dad’s a good man worth missing.
I grabbed more popcorn and focused on the big screen, telling myself the soft tingle my admission caused didn’t merit analysis or investigation. Tingles were a reasonable response for someone who was celibate and hadn’t been on a date in two years.
Check your emails and status portal.
I launched my internet app and reminded myself I was forty-six, overworked and underpaid, and a headache-dodging single mother too busy for dating games.
I checked my inbox for communication from UT Austin.
With my family’s encouragement, I’d lost my right mind and applied for graduate school.
My passion for teaching had declined and I was nearing exhaustion after two decades in the classroom.
Still, I had too much experience and was too close to retirement to walk away.
A master’s degree would enable me to move into more meaningful roles.
More importantly, I was doing this for myself and Justus.
My employer provided decent enough health benefits.
Additionally, Justus was also on Rodney’s coverage.
Even so, there were additional resources I wanted for our son that were beyond the scope of our insurance, and that could help support his journey with neurodivergence.
His creature comforts and essential needs were met.
In truth, Justus lacked nothing. But if Rodney ever decided to act a non-participatory fool or his child support payments ended, my teacher’s salary was nowhere near his six-figures.
My son’s lifestyle would suffer. Earning my master’s would be a true bonus.
Not to mention no more constant in-service days and professional development sessions cutting into our summer breaks or throughout the year and that feel endless.
Or buying classroom supplies with my own money thanks to budget cuts.
Or staying up until almost midnight some nights grading papers, making lesson plans; catching up on emails from parents and guardians, submitting attendance records, or handling other job-related business untouched during the school day.
Sometimes it was overkill and entirely too much.
My son needed and deserved more of my time and attention.
I needed to get into UT Austin.
Nervous anticipation had me visiting the online portal despite The University of Texas at Austin’s admissions notices not being expected until mid-month. I checked, preferring possible futility to thoughts of Rodney and celibacy.
I exhaled quietly when I found no early emails from UTA. There was nothing significant besides an announcement for an upcoming author event at a Black-owned bookstore, a routine pap smear reminder, and a sticky bun recipe from Nichelle.
“Mom…”
I looked up from my phone to see Justus holding his backpack, open and ready.