Chapter 14 #2
I sat and bit my lip to keep from laughing. Brief was an understatement. I’d expect more from my fourth graders, who would also be doing Black Women’s History Month projects.
I loved history but coupling it with and placing the spotlight on women who impacted the world and looked like me made the month a precious gift.
That good sentiment led me to allow them to choose their own subjects, as well as take a class vote on the project format.
My students opted for social media. They would create profiles, hashtags, posts and more for their subjects, displaying them (hopefully) artistically on tri-fold poster boards as mock computer screens.
I handed the card back to my son. “Why the brevity?”
“I wanted to save the good stuff for the essay.”
“Understood, but Mr. Daniels needs more substance to know you’ve landed on an appropriate subject and are headed in the right direction. Include more about Miss Freeman.”
“Like what?”
I tapped the index card against the coffee table.
“You said she walked a long way. What was her starting point? Where’d she go?
Why? And when? State who she is and why she’s significant.
It doesn’t have to be lengthy. Just share what made you excited about her when Dad sent you that Black History Tidbit. ”
Even as I offered suggestions something weird happened in my hands. My skin. Like warm jolts. Tiny tremors. I stared at that card, dismissing the idea that it was the reason.
Make the appointment, Lynette.
The minor health inconveniences I’d managed had increased these past few days.
Headaches. Acid reflux. And now jitteriness.
I deemed them stress responses to what was occurring with Granny when in truth, other than the jitters, they’d existed prior to last weekend.
If my grandmother’s episode showed me anything it was that even with proper care and medication risk existed, but my family’s being intentional about Granny’s health supported positive outcomes and mitigated fragility.
The point being to access available care versus being negligent. Dang, Nette!
It wasn’t always like this. I used to have focus and energy for greater effort.
That was before my son’s diagnosis and the demands it presented.
Before Rodney relocated west and Shay moved further south and my support system was interrupted.
Mama was endlessly helpful, but I often hesitated asking for anything knowing she was occupied with Granny.
Other than the occasional after-school Friday night dinner and drinks with Nichelle and our colleagues, I rarely socialized outside of family.
I’d fallen into the mom trap, putting everything and everyone else first and myself last.
I owed it to myself and my son not to sweep my health issues—minor though they might be—under the rug.
Ignorance wasn’t bliss. And I couldn’t afford to continue downing Tylenol and Tums, numbing myself or neglecting my wellbeing.
Feeling convicted, I chose to act like a good and grown woman while doing my multitasking thing.
I conversed with Justus about his assignment, launched my health care app on my phone, and looked for the first available appointment. The middle of April being more than a month away, I added a calendar entry to call my doctor’s office during lunch tomorrow to be added to a cancellation wait list.
Might as well go whole hog.
My mammogram was up to date and I wasn’t due for an optometric visit until next year, so I called my dentist and made an appointment after scheduling my annual pap smear.
Now about those homemade manicures and hairdos.
I studied my fingernails, offended by my critique of a polish job I considered decent. And so what if my hair didn’t cost a car note and wasn’t sewn or glued to my head. My gun-collecting cousin, Shelby, was an amazing braider who kept my “wig” stylish. In my humble opinion.
I hopped up and stood in front of the silver-framed mirror mounted to the great room wall to study my crochet curls, confirming they—unlike my nails—looked professional. Not homemade.
“Hey, Mom, when’re you gonna respond to your grad school invitation?”
I looked at Justus’ reflection in the mirror. “After I pray about it.”
“You prayed before you applied. If God didn’t want you there you wouldn’t have got in.”
I turned and stared at him. “Snatch me up, and amen then. I’m going to make the salad.”
More like open the mix, add grape tomatoes, black olives, cucumbers, and get to tossing.
It was a school night. I’d missed two days of work. There were things to catch up on. I did my best to provide fresh meals, but quick and easy was a welcome go-to. Especially tonight.
Placing the tossed salad in the refrigerator, I remembered the Ziploc bag full of Mama’s milk bread we’d brought home from Sunday dinner. I pulled two rolls out to warm in the microwave only to feel as if I was in my mother’s kitchen.
It was a flashback that felt real with smells of pot roast and yeasty bread, and my asking about Grandma Zinnie. Who was she? How had she escaped what I’d considered my broad knowledge of family history?
Ignorance was humbling.
I pulled my laptop from my oversized tote perched on the kitchen island, opened it, and launched a browser to access the ancestry website housing Mama and Aunt Pauletta’s family archive. Only they were account holders authorized to make changes, but as an added member I could view all content.
I typed Grandma Zinnie in the search feature. Within seconds the message No Search Results Found appeared.
“That makes zero sense. Granny said she saved us.” How was still a mystery. But someone so significant couldn’t be absent. I removed the title “Grandma” and tried a second and third time without success. “What the heck?”
I remembered the Google spreadsheet Mama used as backup and tried that instead. Even there, Grandma Zinnie was absent. How was she nonexistent when Granny said without her we wouldn’t exist? Baffled and frustrated, I grabbed a notepad and pen from the drawer. Quickly, I scribbled the little I knew.
Mannequin’s costume. Saved Nana Nettie. Water sacs. Businesswoman. Open hands.
I stared at what I’d written. Nothing felt useful. I needed the family historian. “Hey, Siri, call Mama.” I’d barely given my phone the command when Justus burst into the kitchen.
“Mom, look! Her hat’s just like the one from Granny’s mannequin.”
He thrust his Chromebook at me as the oven timer rang, indicating the lasagna was ready. I silenced the timer, staring at the image on my son’s device, too transfixed to open the oven.
“Who’s this?” I posed the question while reading the caption on a Black History website he’d accessed.
“Zanitha Freeman. My Black Women’s History Month essay subject. I guess I’m a bad researcher ‘cause I didn’t look for pictures before. There’s a bunch more. Well… they’re mostly the same… but still!”
Goosebumps danced across my skin as I stared at the black and white image of a deep brown woman in a cameo-like frame, visible from the waist up only.
Waist up proved more than enough.
That now familiar hat on her head, she was the epitome of no nonsense.
Severe. The delicate satin bow at the throat of her blouse peeking above her buttoned-up jacket did little to soften the sense that her broad, unsmiling mouth seemed capable of speaking volumes even in silence.
Her face was keen, intelligent. But it was her eyes that arrested my attention.
Her gaze was steady. Focused and intense.
The deep of the ocean, the mirror of the ancients.
Her eyes held her hurts, her history. Line upon line of several lifetimes and the sorrows of each.
In her eyes lay the whispers of untold secrets, wisdom, and strength.
And something that felt like ignored, interrupted innocence.
Yet there was no denying the kindness in their depths.
“Oh my God, Justus.” Shivers ran through me, those same shivers I’d often experienced since making the mannequin’s acquaintance. The same sensations that led me to make overdue medical appointments. Were they connected to Zanitha Freeman? “You found her!”
“Who?”
“Grandma Zinnie!” I nodded rapidly when he stood there, eyebrows knit, staring at me. “You’re the best researcher ever, kid!”
He reexamined the photo, absorbing details. “Hat. Jacket. The shirt.” He pointed at the screen. “She’s wearing Queen Lazuli!”
I leaned in, seeing the brooch I’d missed, fastened to the lapel of her jacket.
“Zanitha. Zinnie. Mom, it’s a nickname! Grandma Zinnie is Zanitha Freeman? Maybe?”
We grabbed hands and hopped in a circle, celebrating.
“Lynette!”
In our excitement I’d forgotten I’d phoned my mother until her voice drifted to us. I placed the phone in speaker mode. “Mama, guess—”
Justus barged in before I could finish. “Nana, Granny’s ghost is a real woman.”
“What ghost?”
“The attic mannequin,” Justus continued. “And guess what? She had three daughters and loved plants and herbs just like you. She walked from Mississippi to the west. She’s in history books and on the internet. Since we’re her descendants does that mean we’re famous?”