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| New York Day Women |
| Today, walking down the street, I see my mother. She is strolling with a happy gait, her body thrust toward the DON'T WALK sign and the yellow taxicabs that make forty-five-degree turns on the corner of Madison and Fifty-seventh Street. I have never seen her in this kind of neighborhood, peering into Chanel and Tiffany's and gawking at the jewels glowing in the Bulgaru windows. My mother never shops outside of Brooklyn. She has never seen the advertising office where I work. She is afraid to take the subway,where you may meet those young black militant street preachers who curse black women for straightening their hair. Yet, here she is, my mother, who I left at home that morning in her bathrobe, with pieces of newspapers twisted like rollers in her hair. My mother, who accuses me of random offenses as I dash out of the house. * Would you get up and give an old lady like me your subway seat? In this state of mind, I bet you don't even give up your seat to a pregnant lady. * My mother, who is often right about that. Sometimes I get up and give my seat. Other times, I don't. It all depends on how pregnant the woman is and whether or not she is with her boyfriend or husband and whether or not he is sitting down. As my mother stands in front of Carnegie Hall, one taxi driver yells to another, "What do you think this is, a dance floor?" My mother waits patiently for this dispute to be settled before crossing the street. * In Haiti when you get hit by a car, the owner of the car gets out and kicks you for getting blood on his bumper. * My motehr who laughs when she says this and shows a large gap in her mouth where she lost three more molars to the dentist last week. My mother, who at fifty-nine, says dentures are okay. * You can take them out when they bother you. I'll like them. I'll like them fine. * Will it feel empty when Papa kisses you? * Oh no, he doesn't kiss me that way anymore. * My mother,who watches the lottery drawing every night on channel 11 without ever having played the numbers. * A third of that money is all I would need. We would pay the mortgage, and your father could stop drving that taxicab all over Brooklyn. * I follow my mother, mesmerized by the many possibilities of her journey. Even in a flowered dress, she is lost in a sea of pinstripes and gray suits, high heels and elegant short skirts, Reebok sneakers, dashing from building to building. My mother, who won't go out to dinner with anyone. * If they want to eat with me, let them come to my house, even if I boil water and give it to them. * My mother, who talks to herself when she peels the skin off poultry. * Fat, you know, and cholesterol. Fat and cholesterol killed your aunt Hermine. * My mother, who makes jam with dried grapefruit peel and then puts in cinnamon bark that I always think is |
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