Makes my hair curl
The humidity is so thick you could trace it on the windows, feel it on your skin, and smell it in the air – welcome to New Orleans. We went from “Damn it’s cold,” to “Can you believe how warm it is?” in the blink of an eye. At least, as I keep telling everyone, it’s something new to complain about.
I was walking around the still lagoon this morning after having an episode with Loca where a dog taunted her from across the street and she became super psycho dog. It was a no win situation. So I stood there in the midst of traffic and thought about something that had happened the afternoon before.
We were going for an afternoon family walk and ran into a neighbor who used the “N” word. We were so shocked, we just stood there speechless. Minutes before the same person had been speaking about whiny Jews, but that did not even get a bristle out of me. We walked away and I told T that if that happened again I would say or do something, but I had been so stunned that I couldn’t even respond.
Now standing on the streetcar tracks I thought about the Langston Hughes’ poem My People and the beautiful book someone gave Tin that has one after another of gorgeous black and white photos of African American people of all ages and how he LOVES that book and loves to touch the lips, eyes, and hands on the pages.
I thought about going to buy my first house in Bucktown in 1983 where the owner said, “As long as you are not black or a Jew, I”ll sell it to you. Har har.”
Then I thought about the moisture in the air and how it is bringing out the curl in my and Tin’s hair, it reminded me of my mom’s almost nappy and abundant hair.
I thought to myself as Loca and I were finally able to get across Carrollton how life is all about change, and humans are constantly evolving, and that sometimes, some people get stuck on their path with a language that has no meaning, with ideas that have no brilliance, with eyes that no longer see.
Meanwhile, Tin and I have curly hair today just like my mom and we miss her today as we do everyday. I thought about Loretta Lynn’s song, “Why is that old drunk still living, when a daddy like mine is dying…”