Happy Motherâs Day!
I think Iâve done a half-decent job as a mom. My youngest texted me the other day wondering what we were doing for Motherâs Day. At this writing, weâre still not sure but at least he asked. Well, he does have his hands full with an energetic 4-year old and a not so energetic, eight-months pregnant wife. Yes, itâs true â Grammy Tammy and Papa Allen are expecting a new grandbaby in June.
Iâll give Kevin a pass on Motherâs Day this year. Like I said, he has his hands full.
“Three hours south of Chicago. It’s in the Midwest.”
He pretends to know where that is while the spark of hope that I might be someone-who-knows-someone-he-knows fades from his eyes.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“Ivory Coast. You are from America, but you wrap your hair like an African woman.” Pride lights up his eyes, but I am not home for him, only a déjà vu of home in a sea of unfamiliarity and unfulfilled yearning.
Maybe my African brothers and sisters are upset that slavery happened too. Maybe my face is an unpleasant reminder of a past that some like to forget, floating around the grocery store investigating apples, examining yams, and frowning at palm oil prices. An anachronism of sorts. Perhaps I am a ghost of Africa’s past, present, and future swirled into one little Black girl looking both right at home and so far from it.