I Am My Hair
by Victoria Lawrence
W.P. Davidson High School
10th Grade
Ms. Smith/Creative Writing
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. Before you begin to think I am
Dickens, let me assure you I am not. It was the best of times because it was summer. No
more waking up from an adventurous dream to dash out for the always-ready-to-leave
school bus. No more staying at the library doing a project only to have its ancient
computers crash and lose all my hard earned work and have Mr. Perfect Teacher call my
“reason” the modern version of the dog ate my homework. Yes, it was summer time and
the living was easy. Oops! I forgot the worst of times part. This summer Nana said I
“couldn’t be sittin around the house, sleepin’ late and doing nuthin.” But what in the
heck was I going to do? That’s what I did in the summer. At least that’s what kids did in
my neighborhood.
My neighborhood is affectionately known as the Desire community, aka Desire
projects. While some view it as the Wild West, or as some of the old folks would say,
“Vietnam,” to most of the residents, and to me, it was home. The brownish-orange brick
building was our “deluxe apartment in the sky”. I lived on the third floor. I could look
over the balcony and see all the goings on in the courtyard, which was full of creativity
and energy. Small kids with little money and plenty of time could create the most
interesting toys and games imaginable. There were several that I remember well. There
was one game we created called, #@%+ can. I can’t say it. I don’t want Nana to wash
my mouth out with soap, especially that Dollar Tree soap. It burned the heck outta my
skin, so I could only imagine what would happen to my mouth. Just think, not saying
certain words saved me a trip to Charity. By the way it wasn’t’ the n-word game either.
That word and others are not as prevalent as some people think. Only rappers and rapper
“wannabes” use those words. I’m drifting. Sorry. The “can” game involved a stick,
usually, from a broom or mop, a ball, usually rubber, and cans. There were plenty of
cans – beer cans, soda cans, soup cans (not much recycling). We would stack six cans;
three as the base, two on top of those and one on top. There were two sets of cans
stacked about 10 yards apart. This was our playing field. One player rolled the ball in
front of the cans trying to knock them over. The opponent, poised with the broomstick
like Barry Bonds, tried to hit the rolling ball. If the ball knocked the cans over you were
out; if you smacked the ball, you ran around the makeshift field like in baseball. There
were complex rules that we developed. They were as difficult as the rules of chess. Only
residents of buildings 4 and 5 knew these rules. Who needed toys?
As long as the sanitation department neglected to do its job, as long as the stores
in the area sold beer, and as long as families could take their weekly trips to Wal-Mart to
buy the cheap Sam’s Club soft drinks, there would be plenty to do. Hopscotch, Double
Dutch, and basketball were played all the time. We had our talent shows and track meets
after dinner time, which was around 6 o’clock. That’s when it was a little cooler, if you
call 85 degrees cool. Many of the elderly women would sit on the stoop and keep an eye
on the kids. They would gossip about the daily project news. Who was sick? What
happened on the soaps? Who was put on blood pressure medication? It was an exciting
way to spend the summer. You played. You played outside. There were no televisions,
I-pods, or computers. Who would want to stay inside when you could shoot hoops, jump
rope, run relays, and do handstands and somersaults on old mattresses? No, Nana, this
wasn’t “doin nuttin”. I understood the sleep late part. I did sleep late. We did sleep late.
When you’re out fighting mosquitoes until midnight, you have to sleep late.
Sometimes parents (and grandparents) conspire against kids. That summer they
signed most of the kids my age up for a new program at the community center. Oh, I
forgot to mention, I am thirteen years old and about to enter high school. I don’t make
fourteen until November. The reason we hung out and played during the summer was
that there were no programs available to us. The center had gazillion things to do for
residents up to age nine. After that, you were on your own. I guess they wanted us to get
a job or something, or of course play around in the courtyard. But we were all told we
had to go to this new program. Apparently, the center had received grant money to start a
program for 13-16 year old “underprivileged” young women. I never could understand
that word, “underprivileged”. Nana said it was a nice way of saying “poor”. Nana was a
hum-dinger. She had a way of saying things like that. She was my maternal
grandmother, who has raised me exclusively since I was about six years old. My poor
mother passed away some years ago from something called leukemia. All I know about
leukemia is that it is some type of cancer. Cancer is a word that I hear all the time, but I
don’t have a clue as to what it is. I looked both up in the dictionary and although I could
read the words, I still couldn’t understand what cancer or leukemia was. I promised
myself I would try to find a cure for this terrible disease so no one would have to suffer
like my mom did. I want to be a doctor. I want to be able to help people like many of
those around who have helped me. I miss my mom, but Nana takes very good care of
me. If you were to see me in the morning, my hair will be neatly combed or brushed
back. I wear a tie that tries to keep everything in place. After school, or play, however,
who knows what my hair may look like. When Nana sees my hair like this, she screams,
“Girl, get a brush and fix your kitchen!” Nana won’t let me get a perm. She say’s I’m too
young for one. She says with all the jumping, running, and sweating I do that a perm
would be a disaster. Everybody in my group had a perm except me, but that’s ok. I knew
I couldn’t bring that argument to Nana. I didn’t want to hear “if everybody jumped into
the Mississippi, would you?” I knew what se meant – be an individual, make your own
decisions, don’t be a follower, etc.
I remember the time I mentioned to her something about being independent, when she
had made inquiries about stealing cable TV, like some people did. I remember saying,
“Nana, don’t I remember you saying, ‘I can’t understand why everybody be stealing
cable for. I know why you still water and electric. But nobody need cable TV. Ain’t
nuthin’ good on TV anyway. TV ain’t had nuthin good since they took off the Carol
Burnett Show’?”
Well, as they say, if looks could kill. But you know what? Nana didn’t get cable.
I’d like to think my little reminder had something to do with it. Nana was a good, decent
person. On her list of beliefs, honesty was on the top in bold print. She wouldn’t lie,
cheat or steal. Unlike some, she told her social worker the truth. When she made a little
extra money doing “sitting work”, she told her worker. When she got a few extra dollars
for ironing clothes, or cleaning an extra house, she reported it. She wasn’t about to risk
“going to jail over some food stamps”. Nana worked for a Jewish family who lived
uptown on Carondolet Street. She loved the family. They treated her with respect. Not
only did they pay her more than others had, they also paid into Social Security. Nana
said this would help her when she retired. Nana was always prepared. She was
especially a stickler for punctuality. Each morning Nana had to catch three city buses to
get to her job. She would leave at about 6 a.m. to get there for 8 a.m. Although she
arrived at about 7:15, she gave herself a “cushion”. You never know when you catch the
train on St. Claude Street or the bridge over the Industrial Canal. I mentioned earlier
about her employer being Jewish. I know this means a different religion, but why all the
fuss? I know about the Holocaust. I read Number the Stars in 3rd grade and The Book
of Daniel in 6th or 7th. I know what happened, but I don’t know why? Why there has
been such hatred toward Jewish people. The Cohens were very nice people. They
always send me cards for my birthday. They always sent me their daughter Sophie’s
clothing. Sophie wore nice clothes like Gap, Abercrombie and Fitch, and American
Eagle. I got a lot of attention when I wore those clothes. People would always say “Girl,
where you got that top from?” I didn’t lie. Who cares? Clothes don’t matter. “Nana got
them from the Cohens, the people she works for.” I wasn’t into clothes. As long as they
were comfortable (I hate tight fitting clothes) and clean it didn’t matter. Besides, all
those names are confusing. Clothes were clothes. Goodwill, Salvation Army, The
Cohens, T.J. Maxx, Macy’s, it didn’t matter. As Nana said, “as long as you wear clean
underwear, you’re fine.” As I mentioned, the Cohen’s were nice people. Apparently,
Mr. Cohen, Mr. David we called him, was a big time lawyer at a major company. He had
a lot of contacts with many famous people throughout the city. He wanted Nana to send
me to this “white” private school uptown on State Street. Brookfield was the name of the
school. Many famous people had attended this school. Mr. David said that he could get
me in and get me a scholarship. Nana thought this would be a great opportunity for me.
She wanted me to get a better education. She wanted me to experience life outside of the
project. The school had a program called Summerbridge in which they helped (again the
word) “underprivileged” children become better students. I rarely disagreed with Nana.
I respect her knowledge. I respect her judgment. I see all the time she spends trying to
improve my life. Nana was a widower. Her husband (my grandfather) was killed in a
boating accident on Lake Ponchatrain. Grandpa had been a longshoreman for twenty
something years prior to the accident. He and Nana had raised my mother in a
comfortable way. They had just purchased a home when the accident occurred. The loss
of Grandpa’s income eventually led to Nana and my mom moving to Desire. Sometimes,
Nana wanted more for me that I wanted. I didn’t want to live in Desire forever. I knew I
would eventually leave. I was going to graduate from college. I did not, however, want
to switch schools. Ruby Bridges had come to my school. I knew about integration. But
this was 2001. Schools had re-segregated. I didn’t want to go to Brookfield. It would be
like moving to another planet. We had interacted with white students before. They were
nice kids. We got along fine. This didn’t mean, however, that I wanted to go to school
two hours away. Nana had never seen me more determined. Nana understood. Nana
told the Cohens my decision and they understood. Mr. David, who had graduated from
Rutgers, promised to help me get into college. Nana said she was happy she worked for
liberal Democrats. Now I’m really confused: I thought she said they were Jewish. Well,
I guess you can be liberal, Jewish, and Democrat.
Nana, however, was too smart to have it end at that. We compromised. I had to
attend the summer musical theatre camp. Nana said that I needed “culture”. I was a
basketball player. I take after my father. (I don’t want to talk about him.) I had a radar
jump shot and an Iverson-like crossover that would break your ankle. Pokey Chapman,
LSU’s assistant basketball coach, said she wanted me to play there when I got older. I
enjoyed music, but knew nothing about musical theatre. Nana used to play all kinds of
albums on her turntable. I know all about Barbra Streisand, Liza Minnelli, Frank Sinatra,
and all kinds of different singers. I knew every Temptations and Four Tops song. You
learn what you listen to.
This musical theatre camp was fantastic. A middle-age man, Rick Jefferson, was
the director. We had musical accompaniment. We had dance instruction in Jazz, Ballet,
and Tap. It was as physically demanding as anything that I had ever done. We watched
tapes of great Broadway productions like My Fair Lady, Pippin, Sweeney, Todd, and
Hair.
I learned about Rodgers and Hammerstein, Stephen Sondheim, and Bob Fosse. The feel
for this music and dance became as natural as shooting a free throw. We performed a
musical celebration with songs and dances from a variety of Broadway musicals. My
favorite song was from Hair. This camp changed me. I loved it and wanted more. This
new “culture” had to be a part of my life. Thanks, Mr. Jefferson. Thanks, Nana”
I continued to play basketball, I did pretty well. I was recruited and offered
scholarships by scores of colleges. I chose to attend Rutgers University in New Jersey.
Mr. David was happy. It was his alma mater. I chose Rutgers because of the coach,
Vivian Stringer. She reminded me on Nana. (I still don’t have a perm.) I also chose it
because of the musical theatre program. Nana approved. I didn’t have to become a
doctor.
I love Rutgers. I love the basketball program, and I love the musical theatre
program. We made it to the Final Four in Cleveland. We played on ESPN. I wasn’t the
star like I was in high school, but I was a starter and I contributed. We played LSU in the
semifinals and won. Pokey Chatman had just resigned because of some personal
problems. We played Tennessee in the championship. We played hard, but that night,
they were better. We were sad, but proud. We had accomplished a lot.
I had heard of Don Imus, but didn’t know who he was. I know I won’t accept his
apology. I miss my father. He died in Iraq. He would have known what to do. I won’t
tell you my name because I only answer to my nickname, “Nappy”.