Sundays--Day 6--#Sol16

Sundays- #Sol16

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/416160821787619941/
"Be Still" by Courtney Loveless (I love this work of art! I used to make the same face when my mother combed my hair. There was always relief when the other hand was dipping into the grease not tugging at my hair.)

Before I turned 10, Sundays were the best. Sundays were about family, church, and my great aunt's uniquely delicious rice and beans and chicken in Haitian sauce. My mother, stepfather, siblings, cousins would join my two amazing great aunts for service and above all the food.

Sundays were about feasting!  

Sundays were about filling belly and soul to face the week to come. I could only imagine the stress my elders faced when they entered into the "white" world of work. My mother and stepdad, respectively anesthesiologist nurse and doctor, did their work with pride despite the cringing looks of colleagues whose ears shut from even the possibility of listening once an accent was detected.

It was also "my world": time away from a small private school where there very few black girls and boys - where recess time involved me playing the maid, where at the end of the day my hair disheveled would stick up from braids coming undone and someone always had to point, laugh, and remark, "Her hair is sticking up." Yes, my thick kinky hair could defy  gravity. At the time I did not even reflect on my classmates' cruel mocking words, I simply felt hurt. Maybe I even laughed along wishing the stares away. I do not remember.

I think I remember how I reacted to  "olive oil girl." Yes, above all on Sundays in my world, I did not have to cross paths with the girl who would yell in the hallway, "She puts olive oil in her hair." If she said, "You", she would have dignified me by actually talking to me,  so “She" it was. At the time, I actually did not yet know about the benefits of olive oil (I guess I should thank my "teaser" for the hair tip). This classmate's words felt like an accusation. She wanted to remind me: "You are not us. What are you doing here?"  And yes for the record every morning my mom greeted my scalp with grease as my hair also had to attempt to thrive in a foreign environment. On Sundays, however, I could look around church and see my cousin's hair parted into thick braids scalp shining with pride. There was no shame.

Oh, yes, what did I do to stop olive oil girl’s teasing? I am stalling. I am trying to escape the shame of sharing my revenge on olive oil girl, but if I am speaking of church I guess I need to confess. I think this is my revenge or did I make it up and come to believe along the years that like my rebellious hair I stood up and did not just take it. Okay, okay, I am stalling. I took her box of expensive Caran D'Ache pencils (the kind that can swirl into paint if you dip them in water) and threw it in the garbage. Yes, I did or did I?  Olive oil girl must have gotten used to my hair because eventually, the teasing stopped. Our relationship eventually improved...Back to Sundays...Days of feast not dread!

How did Sunday turn from family day to a day of stress and Monday preparation? Will I ever find the solace of rest and family again on Sundays? Can my dining room table be graced with flowers and yummy meals instead of papers to grade either on paper or Google Docs?

Death, Distance, and dollars (as in a need to work) have kept my family members from reuniting on Sundays to eat and feast...My great aunt is nearing 90! We all have made a vain attempt to emulate her rice. Even with not so perfect rice and beans, it would be great to meet again on a Sunday.

I wish one Sunday to relive that one day of the week when I, young, fell asleep during the rides home and magically landed snuggled in my bed.