Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul (20 page)

No husband. No money. No style. Jan and Sue didn't seem to notice. They hustled the girls and me to the car and into our new lives. During this difficult transition period, they helped me cobble together a suitable wardrobe for job interviews. I, who was accustomed to drying children's tears and holding their hands, needed my hand held and my tears dried as I stumbled into a new womanhood. And, gradually, I remembered how to laugh.

One Saturday night, their heads popped into the bedroom.

“We're going out. Secret mission. We're not taking ‘no' for an answer.”

The kids were fine with a babysitter, so I reluctantly accompanied them. I loved my sisters, but I felt awkward compared to their casual chic. They took me to a mall, straight to a trendy women's boutique, the kind I'd avoided for years. Who had money for the latest fashion when invariably a child needed money for a class trip or a classmate's birthday gift? I dutifully followed in their wake, sighing at the prices. They stopped in front of a sweater rack.

Jan held out a pink sweater. Sue draped a blue one over my shoulders. I frowned at the beautiful garments and batted them away.

“Stop it! Buy something so we can go.” If I'd wanted to be embarrassed, I could've stayed home and studied my checkbook. They barricaded my exit, one on either side. Jan took my hands.

“Listen, Kar, if you don't start loving yourself enough to buy something new occasionally, how are you going to teach those daughters of yours to love themselves?”

Well, damn! Knock me over with a steamroller, why don't you? Even as I opened my mouth to say something really nasty, I realized she was right. Sue nodded in agreement. As tears welled in my eyes, I realized that my sisters loved me enough to do this.

I bought a midnight-purple sweater swirled with different colors—one that made me feel elegant and beautiful. Even more surprising, I felt a twinge of worthiness creeping over me.

I hugged them both, gratefully, for a feeling that had long eluded me.

Jan whispered, “Elegance is an inside job; the outside stuff is how you
celebrate
your elegance.” I nodded a silent understanding.

When we got back into the car, they had one more surprise for me. They reached into a bag in the back seat and emerged with Cherry Cokes and fudge brownies.

“It is clear we need to renew our vows!” Giggling just like we did as kids, they led me through the same oath we had taken more than twenty years earlier.

Sue smiled and said, “Now, about those girls of yours. It is time to get them some magazines, so we can initiate them into the club.”

Karla Brown

Friday Afternoon at the Beauty Shop

E
ach moment is magical, precious and complete
and will never exist again.

Susan Taylor

The sound of women's voices could faintly be heard over the hum of the hair dryers. As clients waited for their turn to be pampered, they watched one court show after another on the small television set at the front of the shop.

Occasional laughter erupted from various conversations around the room.

It was an array of washing, drying, cutting, styling, weaving and braiding—your typical Friday afternoon at the beauty shop.

At least it started out that way.

Asmy stylist was braidingmy hair, a few women behind me near the wash bowls began conversing about the music playing on the shop's portable boom box.

The song “In the Sanctuary” by Kurt Carr and The Kurt Carr Singers was brought in by one of the clients, unconsciously welcomed by all. Without much notice, the gospel CD replaced the old-school music that had played most of the morning.

The music had a contagious rhythm to it. Its lyrics drew you in, and before you realized it, you were humming along, tapping your foot, snapping your fingers.

Before long, a few of the patrons began harmonizing, as the others listened with interest. Toward the front of the shop, clients stopped their gossiping long enough to take note of the sweet sounds emanating from the back of the salon.

I quietly watched and listened to the transformation taking place. A peaceful calm settled over the room. It was as if someone new had entered the shop; a presence who didn't need a door to make an entrance.

For the next two hours, the song played nonstop. Giving little thought to their actions, the clients would take turns pressing “play” whenever the song ended. Occasionally other songs from the CD would play, but someone would always return it to the first track.

I continued to observe the diverse group of women with interest. Gossip turned to stories of spiritual discovery and enlightenment. Conversation about trivial matters was replaced with tales of hope and dreams. The presence even took my thoughts of responsibilities waiting for me outside the shop's doors and replaced them with wonder and praise for this day, for this moment.

Before long, one of the stylists recruited several patrons to join the others in song. Some could sing, some could not, but that didn't matter. What mattered was joining together to give thanks.

The afternoon reached a climax when the same stylist, using a comb as a conductor's stick, gathered the women and led them through a final playing of the song. Resembling a church choir, clapping hands and stepping from side to side, eight to ten patrons stood facing their director to sing one last time. It didn't matter that people walking by the storefront could see them draped in towels and capes, hair in rollers, weaves half-finished. The only important thing was that they sing this song.

For a journalist, watching the celebration was similar to “getting the story.” What I was witnessing was unique.We were experiencing a moment that would never be repeated in this manner again.

The song ended, everyone clapped and hugged one another. The CD's owner took her music and left. And as quickly as the transformation began a couple hours earlier, the activity in the shop reverted back to what one would expect on your typical Friday afternoon at the beauty shop.

Women's voices could faintly be heard over the hum of the hair dryers. Clients waited for their turn to be pampered. Occasional laughter erupted from various conversations around the room. The washing, drying, cutting, styling, weaving and braiding resumed as if it had never stopped.

On the outside, it was as if nothing had ever happened.

But on the inside, we all knew it had.

Michelle Fitzhugh-Craig

Sisters' Song

I
t is singing with soul that counts.

Sarah Vaughan

The Oklahoma City bombing had devastated our community; but just six weeks later the largest high school in Oklahoma City was having the baccalaureate service as usual in a neighborhood church. There was still a heartfelt obligation to affirm this end-of-year ceremony for our students. At our “Little United Nations,” as I liked to call it, we were a strong community of faith, and our young Vietnamese Catholics would worship beside our African American Baptists, in this, their next to the-last ceremony before they danced off into the world of college and jobs.

Court rulings involving separation of church and state meant the students and parents were totally in charge of this event. The students had to meet on their own for the rehearsal and to set the tone of the program. Even though it was difficult to “let go” of a service of this nature, as the principal I had done just that. From past history I knew that this release of responsibility had normally worked out fine, but this year was a difficult time for everyone.

Several students had loved ones injured and killed in the bombing.

As the principal, my role was minimal, but I was able to participate in helping students pin collars on their robes in the waiting area, help quiet the nervous jitters and supervise as they lined up for thismost important event—which many viewed as a dress rehearsal for commencement.

Finally, all was in readiness, and I slid silently into a back pew as the students began to proudly march down the center of the sanctuary. Many a parent's eyes dripped tears as a son or daughter quietly walked in line with their classmates to the front rows of the church, which had been reserved for the graduating class of 1995.

The program began normally with a routine of introductions and speeches. Finally, it was time for one of the most coveted parts of the ceremony—the senior solo.

Several students each year would try out for this honor, but only one was chosen.

One of our beautiful young ladies walked proudly to the lectern and prepared to sing. Her song was an old hymn and one that seemed especially appropriate after this recent tragedy—“His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” However, as she began to sing, something appeared to be wrong. She began to stumble through the first verse of the song, and tears started running down her face. Suddenly from the back of the church, the song echoed from another voice.

Her older sister had seen her distress and had come to her aid. She calmly walked down the center aisle of the church, keeping her eyes steadfastly on her sister, as she continued to sing along. She took her place next to her sister and placed her arm around her shoulder. They sang triumphantly, the original singer buoyed by the love and courage of her family member, until the song was finished.

There were other parts to the program, of course. A young minister encouraged the graduates with the theme that “the sun will come up tomorrow, no matter what happens.” The senior speakers were refreshing and challenged their young colleagues to seek significant tasks to the greater glory of mankind.

For me, however, the pinnacle of that program will forever be the performance by those two young women— especially the one who didn't stop to think of the possible embarrassment of walking down a long aisle from the back of the church to rescue her sister. Because at that one gleaming moment in their family history, the only thing that mattered was that her sister needed her, and she was prepared to answer the call and claim the victory of that moment.

Rita Billbe

5
THE POWER
OF A WOMAN'S
PRAYER

W
omen, if the soul of the nation is to be
saved, I believe that you must become
its soul.

Coretta Scott King

Divine Intervention

G
od, make me so uncomfortable that I will do
the very thing I fear.

Ruby Dee

I've always considered Southern California my home— a place where you can visit the beach to soak up the sun and catch a wave, and swoosh down the snow-packed slopes of Snow Valley all in one weekend. Besides the places to go and things to do, it was a wonderful place to raise our son, Shawn. My husband and I were amazed that our union in marriage created such a tiny, beautiful baby.

For the first time in my life, I felt whole. Our life was like a fairy tale that wouldn't end . . . “and they lived happily ever after.”

Unfortunately, our fairy tale began to decay and so did our relationship and my life. Shawn and I left, under duress, and we returned to my roots in New Orleans where most of my family lived.