I have a habit, that I am not totally sure is a good or bad thing. I get about a year and a half to two years into a job, then get bored or start to feel restless… then I’m moving on. I don’t know what it is… other than an inexplicable need for freedom. I can do the work, that’s not the problem. I just start to want more for myself and for my life.
It’s starting to occur earlier than it did in the past. Now, I’m at the one year mark and looking around for an exit. I want to be independent, but I also need to have consistent income. So the question for me remains— how do I build something that actually fits me? That will provide the stable income while also allowing me to work how and where I want?
Still don’t have the answer for that.
Today’s Story
I wrote this story while still contending with my need for freedom. I know what’s expected of me, I just don’t want to do it. I’m beyond ready to live my life on my own terms, regardless of what other people may think. But also, with consistent money.
Anyway, enjoy!
Do Black Women deserve happiness?
My mom used to say of her sister, “She hit rock bottom and just kept digging,” to explain why they hadn’t talked to each other in over 20 years. As a child, I took it pretty literally. I could see my Aunt Yvonne, her clothes torn and her beauty hidden under dirt, furiously trying to free herself from a hole by digging herself in deeper.
“Yvonne is defiant, arrogant, and haughty,” my mom would say, in her warnings to me. “She fell hard, now look at her.” Sometimes my mom would say I reminded her of Aunt Yvonne. And she predicted I would turn out just like her.
My mom passed away a week ago. My sister, Antoinette, called me to share the news.
“She’s gone,” Antoinette moaned into the phone. As tense as things had been between my mother and I, this was the very last thing I wanted to or needed to hear. I felt my body crumble into the sidewalk.
One four-hour flight later, I landed in my hometown. It was just as quiet and serene as I remembered it, as I ran from it when I was 22. In front of my mother’s house were two large weeping willow trees, and the branches hung heavy with sadness. I sat in my tiny rental car and watched them for a few moments. We know that death is a part of life and that we all move through the cycles, but for a moment I just want it all to stop. This was too heavy, and I wanted to breathe.
Antoinette came to the front door, and waved to me. “Andria!” she yelled. “Come inside! You don’t see this storm coming?”
It was like instantly I noticed how the wind was swirling around the weeping willows, and tossing their branches violently to the left. I hopped out the car, grabbed my bags, and ran inside the house just as the rain started to fall.
Antoinette closed the door quickly behind me. “Here, gimme your coat,” she said. I shake it off my body and hand it to her.
“Be careful with that,” I said. “I just got it.”
“Yeah, it definitely looks fancy,” she sneered. She clearly wasn’t impressed. Her hair was pulled into a tight, long braid, and she wore a simple black maxi dress. I reached out to hug her, and she was taken aback.
“What?” I said. “I haven’t seen you in a couple years.”
She nodded, then leaned into a hug. “I’m sorry.”
“How are you holding up?” I asked.
“I’m here. I mean…” Her voice dropped into a whisper. “Aunt Yvonne is here.”
“She is?”
“Yeah, she came in about an hour ago. I just thought I’d warn you.”
I craned my neck around the corner to see Aunt Yvonne, sitting quietly in an armchair, watching the storm kick up outside of the window. My heart fluttered. I approached and tapped her on the shoulder.
Her hair was long, bone straight, and white, even though she couldn’t have been more than sixty years old. Her skin was tight and golden brown, and her large eyes were framed by vintage cat-eye frames. She was so stunningly beautiful. She resembled my mom, but her face didn’t have the hardness I had grown accustomed to.
“Aunt Yvonne?” I said, hesitantly.
“Andria Morgan!” She stood up and hugged me tightly. “Oh my! I couldn’t imagine you more beautiful!”
We sat back down. She settled back into her armchair, and I found a spot on the nearby couch.
“It’s so good to see you!” I said, unsure of what to say next, and hoping she’d be willing to direct the conversation.
“I just can’t get over it! Both you and your sister! I’m so sorry I didn’t see you more when you were younger.”
“I get it,” I said. “You had your own life to lead.”
We were quiet. I wanted to ask her about her life, about her rock bottom. She didn’t look like a woman who was suffering or who had a hard life.
She smiled, and sighed deeply. “Your mother and I used to hate storms. Grandma would make us turn out all the lights, and we would just have to sit and wait for it to pass. Now, it feels like a meditation of sorts. Just sitting silently in a dark room, watching the world move and change in front of you while you’re safe and dry inside.”
“When was the last time you spoke with Mommy?” I asked. Aunt Yvonne let out an uncomfortable chuckle. “I mean, if it’s not too personal.”
“Your mother and I had a… complicated relationship,” she said. “We loved each other very much, but we were just very different people who couldn’t meet each other halfway.”
“You don’t need to patronize me, Aunt Yvonne,” I said. “You’re being more gracious to her than she ever was to you. I can handle the truth, whatever it is.”
“Oh, I wasn’t trying to insult you or hide anything. We don’t speak ill of the dead, though.”
“You’re not speaking ill though, just truthfully.” I looked back towards Antoinette, who was busying herself in the kitchen. “My mother warned me against turning into you. I just wanted to know what was so bad, so abhorrent to her.”
My aunt inhaled deeply. Her eyes drifted back towards me. “I grew up seeing the burden of black womanhood. I saw the work they did, constant, neverending work. All the choices they made, the sacrifices so that someone else could have something. Your mom saw it as heroic. I saw it as foolish.”
My ears perked up. I studied her face as she continued.
“I wanted what I saw on TV. You know it was the seventies and eighties, and I loved soap operas. The gaudy excess, the ease of living rich. Girl, I didn’t know what I didn’t know, but I was sure that it was better than working minimum wage at a fast food joint, or cleaning somebody’s house. I was ambitious, but I didn’t know what my ambition was. I just knew I wanted to be rich. So, what were the examples around me? Date men with means. So, I started dating hustlers. Around then was when your mom and I lost touch, because she didn’t approve of my choices in men. Shit looking back, I wouldn’t have either. I quickly learned that leaning on someone else for my success was not going to work. I dated better men, but instead of looking to them for money, I took their knowledge and skills. Don’t get me wrong, if they offered me money I took it. But I also got connections and business acumen. I wiggled my way into party promotions, which led to event planning. Your mom saw me as a failure because to her, there was NO WAY I could be doing anything legitimate to survive. I had to be selling my body. I had to be doing something unseemly. After a while, I just let her think what she want.”
I knew what she meant. The disapproval my mother bestowed upon me weighed heavily now. She didn’t like any of my choices. She didn’t approve of my lifestyle, even though, for the most part, I was happy.
“You had to be happy,” I blurted out, surprised at myself.
“I deserved it. One hundred percent I deserved it.” Aunt Yvonne said. “Despite what she thought, I deserved it.”
“I don’t think my mom was happy.” I thought for a moment. “It’s crazy, but things seem so much clearer to me now.”
Antoinette entered the room holding a plate of mini fruit tarts. She placed them in the middle of the coffee table. “The rest of the guests should be arriving at any minute. Can I get you anything else? Water?”
I shook my head. “I’m good, thanks.”
Aunt Yvonne reached for a tart. “These look delicious dear.”
“Thank you,” Antoinette said without a smile. She went back into the kitchen.
Aunt Yvonne quickly put the tart back.
“Why’d you do that?” I whispered.
“She reminds me of your mom,” she whispered back. “And I made a rule. If that food ain’t cooked with love, I don’t eat it. Always gotta be mindful about what you put in your body.”
