Lady L

As Jennifer was later analyzing why the incident had pushed all of her psychological buttons, she began to contemplate the very strong and lasting effect her unique childhood had had on her. Why had being made fun of by one of her female students at a public high school in Germany for growing up as a white girl in a predominately African-American neighborhood in the US caused her to react so emotionally?

As an adult, she had very little contact with her childhood Hope Valley North neighborhood friends and it saddened her. She had always been overly aware of race, racism and race relations. She would sometimes think to herself that it was one of the reasons she enjoyed living outside of the US. One example was the fact that she would sometimes unconsciously call her female friends in Germany “girl” when talking to them in English, but would have stopped herself instantly if she had done so in the US, for fear of sounding like she thought she were black. She also had a pretty shirt with an African inspired print pattern, which looked quite good on her and that she only felt comfortable wearing outside of the US. She would never wear it in her hometown of Durham, North Carolina for fear of receiving similar looks to the one the African-American woman assisting her at the AAA office had given her the one time she had worn it. It often made her sad when she was home visiting and realized she was modifying her behavior in certain situations for fear of appearing clueless, racist, insensitive, or in the language of her youth, what she really feared was being seen as “a stupid white girl” in the eyes of African-Americans.

She had always wanted to write about her childhood experiences, but felt uncomfortable even attempting it. She imagined people thinking or saying, “Just who does she think she is?” or “Oh, cry me a river, poor little white girl grew up in a black neighborhood.” The last time she was home, she had seen a very cute little girl, who happened to be African-American, with her mother while she was grocery shopping. She realized she would never say to the mother, “Oh, you have such a cute little girl”, which she might have if the mother had been white. Even if the little girl had been biracial or an adopted African-American child, as long as the mother was white, she would feel comfortable saying something. Otherwise, she would instantly think of the scene from Alice Walker’s The Color Purple in which the white mayor’s wife remarks on how cute and well cared for Sofia’s children are and asks Sofia if she wants to be her maid. Sofia is later beaten and imprisoned for having refused the mayor’s wife with the words, “Hell no”. Jennifer shied away from doing or saying anything which could possibly bring painful racial memories to the surface for African-Americans.

In 2006, she went to see the musical The Color Purple on Broadway with a female friend who was visiting from Japan. Sachiko spoke only basic English and it was difficult for her to follow the plot. As Jennifer explained the plot and background of the story to her during intermission, she noticed the amused or puzzled looks on the faces of African-American women who turned around in their seats to see the white woman, who apparently knew the plot by heart, attempting to explain the purpose and perspective of a novel and play about African-American women’s struggles for identity, love and respect in the American South to a Japanese woman. Later, in the line at the restroom, she encountered a middle-aged, white Midwestern woman who whispered to her in an embarrassed tone, “Do you understand a word they are saying during the play because I don’t?” She remembered telling her that yes, she understood every word and realizing that, for “a stupid white girl,” she really did have a rare depth of knowledge of African-American culture

At age sixteen, she had worked as a cashier at the local Harris Teeter grocery store to save money for a high school exchange year in Germany. One day Lita’s mother came through her line. She was very happy to see Mrs. Rodriguez and it struck her that it had been years since she had seen Lita. She had lived up the street from Lita from the beginning of the third grade to the end of the seventh. During that time she became a fixture at Lita’s family’s house and it was still a wonder to her how kind and welcoming her mother had always been to her. After all, she was the shy, bookish, slightly chubby little white girl from up the street. Jennifer’s own mother had drilled into her how important it was to be polite and respectful to adult authority figures such as teachers and other children’s parents. So, perhaps it was her eager politeness and helpfulness which had won Lita’s mother over. Or perhaps it was the fact that her own husband, nicknamed “Lucky” Rodriguez, was Puerto Rican and she was African-American. Later in life Jennifer would experience first hand that it wasn’t easy being half of an interracial couple in the American South.

Lita’s house was a treasure trove of difference for Jennifer. She could still see her mother’s dressing table before her and she still saw it from the perspective of a child, who can just see over the edge. It’s surface was covered with a huge variety of hair creams, perfumes, lotions, make-up and bottles which contained products she didn’t even really know enough about to be able to identify.

Lita was beautiful. She had given Jennifer her first lesson on the very potent effect beauty has on humans. Lita was universally popular and Jennifer never once witnessed her being made fun of by the other children in the neighborhood for being biracial. For Lita had “good hair”, she patiently explained to Jennifer one day. She was rightfully proud of her black, curly, shiny, thick hair which came down past her shoulders. To help Jennifer better understand, she gave her an example. Jessica, a biracial girl who also lived in the neighborhood and had a German mother and an African-American father, most definitely did not have “good hair”. Jessica’s hair was brittle and very tightly curled. It was a light, lackluster brown. She was chubbier than Jennifer and, of course, than Lita and was very “light-skinned”. The day Jennifer had heard an African-American boy on the school bus chanting at poor Jessica, „Your daddy’s black and your mama’s white. No wonder you didn’t turn out right.” was still very much alive in her memory. Soon thereafter, Jessica would project her own insecurities onto Jennifer by laughing and declaring to Lita that, “Jennifer is real light-skinned”.

Jennifer remembered what an outsider she felt like when Jessica said this. At that moment, she wanted so very much to be black. Lita would describe to her how much she loved to go to the hair salon with her mother and how proud her mother’s gaze on her would become as the other women praised Lita’s good hair and exclaimed how lucky she was to have such a blessed daughter. Jennifer also had curly, thick hair, which was a reddish-blondish brown and for which she was also lavishly complimented on when her mother took her to a very different, mostly white, hair salon. The two institutions which seemed to be most stubbornly racially divided in her hometown were the women’s hair salons or men’s barber shops and the churches.

“My hair would be good if I were like Lita,” she thought to herself and imagined herself with long, thin, tawny-colored limbs that would not sunburn so badly, wishing the freckles which covered almost her entire body forever gone.

Lita was, for lack of a better word, cool. She had the Michael Jackson Thriller poster on her bedroom wall and had come up with her very own rapper name, Lady L. She knew all the best hand games with all the most forbidden lyrics, like Rockin’ Robin or Miss Lucy. Her big brother, who would reluctantly take Jennifer along with Lita to the local swimming pool as she was very bad for his image, was the president of the student council and the prom king at Hillside, the local historically black high school Lita would later choose to attend. Marcus was also an amateur rapper who owned his own turn table. His bedroom shelves were filled with the verbal boastings and musings of the likes of The Fat Boys, Run DMC, Public Enemy and Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five. Lita and Jennifer would sneak into his bedroom when he wasn’t there and gaze in awe upon this forbidden domain. Lita would transform into Lady L in front of the turn table and muster up the courage for a few fledgling attempts at rapping and beatboxing.

Lita must not have felt very comfortable at Jennifer’s house because she never stayed for long. Jennifer’s family genuinely liked Lita and her mother, encouraging the friendship, but Lita never lingered. She would come to the door and ask if Jennifer could come out to play and wait for her on the front porch unless insistently bid inside by Jennifer’s mother. It might have also had something to do with the fact that Jennifer’s two younger identical twin sisters had pretty much taken over the house from the day of their birth, when Jennifer was nine. This also attributed to Jennifer’s tendency to see Lita’s house as a much needed refuge.

Besides, where else could she hear Lita and Mrs. Rodriguez practicing gospel songs for Sunday’s upcoming service at the organ in the family living room or Mr. Rodriguez reminiscing with his former band mates about their good times in the 60’s and singing old hits like Sixty Minute Man by The Dominoes? The future Mrs. Rodriguez had been in the audience one night at one of their shows and the rest, as they say, was history. Jennifer and Lita would sit on the stairs which led to the upstairs den and sway to the vibrating, deep voices of the band members singing their old stand-bys in complex harmonies. In her adult life, Jennifer could be transported right back to that stairwell, could still feel the shaggy carpet rubbing against her calves, and the involuntary bobbing of her head and tapping her feet when she listened to Sixty Minute Man. She sometimes wondered if Lita could as well, and if Lita’s memory of the song included her, too.

When Jennifer tried to imagine Lita’s childhood perspective, her efforts to include Lita in her broader life must have been nothing short of traumatic. There was the time that Jennifer’s very Southern and unfortunately racist grandmother was down for a visit. When Lita came to the front door asking for Jennifer, Nan, as she was called by all her grandbabies, answered the door and announced in a loud voice, “a little colored girl is here to play with Jenny!“ Or when Jennifer attempted to have a sleep over which integrated all of her friends, Lita was the only African-American girl at the sleep over. She was heroic thorough out, but the horrified, pursed face of one of the white mothers when she picked her daughter up in the morning in a black neighborhood and laid eyes on Lita must have been a bit much to bear. Or there was the time that Jennifer’s father took both Lita and Jennifer out in the country to a very white, very Southern barbeque given by some older, rural work colleagues. The image of Lita sitting uncomfortably on the edge of her chair across from an older, very Southern lady of the house who perused her as if she were the latest specimen at the zoo, offering her a very white Cabbage Patch doll to play with, was forever burned in Jennifer’s memory.

When at age thirteen, Lita failed to invite Jennifer to her birthday party she was devastated. But, in retrospect, Jennifer now thought, maybe Lita had just been trying to spare her the same ordeal she had put her through. Jennifer would always remember it like it had happened just last Tuesday. She was at Lita’s house as usual after school one day. Mrs. Rodriguez came home from work and, assuming that Jennifer was invited to Lita’s upcoming thirteenth birthday party, started to discuss the party plans as she laid her purse down on the dining room table. Lita’s face fell and she rushed out of the room, banging the door to her room shut. Mrs. Rodriguez gave Jennifer a worried look and went into the hallway, attempting to carry on a conversation with Lita through the shut door. “Why don’t you want Jennifer to come to your party?” she asked. Lita replied in the tortured, impatient voice of a soon to be teenager, “Cause she’ll be the only white kid there!” “But, she is one of the few friends of yours I really like. You know I don’t approve of most of those kids you’re hanging around with these days!” Mrs. Rodriguez countered. But, Lita just announced in an exasperated voice that her mother didn’t understand and Jennifer excused herself, saying she had to go home. She slowly, solemnly walked up the street to her house, making her way back to mainstream America. For as much as Lita’s rejection had hurt her, all she had to do was turn on the TV to know it was OK, even good, to be white. Lady L didn’t have that luxury.