the pinch…

A. sat politely trying to not fuss with the scratchy tulle detail at the collar of her special dress. She still felt the pinch from the last wearing of the pretty, hateful, Christmas present. It was quick and furtive but precisely aimed at the soft inner skin of her upper arm. Although lightening quick mama managed to sustain the pressure to bring her fidgets to heel. Even if an eye had caught the movement, it would have played as affection the way mama’s arm curled around her shoulders. The memory throbbed anew.
A. craned her head slowly up to the ceiling and back in a feeble attempt at relief. Resigned, she focused on picking the soft tissue around her fingernail, flinching when she pulled the thread of skin too far. She peeked at the red dot on pink flesh. A. knew better than to soothe the sting by putting it in her mouth. Not in public. Never in public. 

There was a check list of things to never do in public. It wasn’t handed out like a rule book, it was a living list, a work in progress constantly revised. Sometimes things were added to the list that A. had never even thought to do but mama had seen a white child do and didn’t want her getting ideas. If the list had a title it would be Manners. To be well mannered was ultimately the goal but there were no rewards for achieving it, it was just expected. 

When the hostess reminded everyone to leave room for dessert, the other children shouted a chorus of approval.  A. smiled with curious delight at the sudden clamor which the parents indulged with laughter. Even mama laughed, soundless but shoulders shaking and a wide smile. In the whoops of jubilation a small voice wondered if there was ice cream.
“Of course” the hostess assured her new fans. Jumping into the raucous joy A. shouted,
“Is there chocolate?” She barely heard the repeated “Of course”. 

The pinch was swift and precise, and just like a stubbed toe a great deal of the shock to the system is the double affront of not have seen it coming but knowing in retrospect that dangerous corner is always lying in wait. Her small spine snapped straight and her mouth closed over a gulp of air. She would hold that breath until the stinging impulse to cry subsided. 
“Finish your plate.” It was a clipped directive with an unspoken ellipsis. 

The hostess over rode mama’s objections to the ice cream.
“Oh just a little scoop”.
She savored every tiny spoonful knowing that after tonight she would be under heavy manners for a good while.

*
*
*

M. fretted as she set her hair for bed. She hoped she hadn’t left a mark. Why wouldn’t that pickney learn! How many times does she have to tell her, “Don’t give them cause”. Girl child doesn’t get to be spirited, the label becomes ‘unruly’, code for ‘unmanageable’. ‘Loud’ is a condemnation to be avoided at all costs. Back home they’d say obstreperous or ‘outta ordah’ but without censure. She remembers when she told B. about the broken vending machine, instead of Not Working or Out of Service, the taped sign said ‘Out of Order’. B. said “dem finally figure selling dat junk as food was well outta ordah”. They laugh like that less often now. It is a daily effort to monitor every turn of phrase so A. doesn’t accidentally slip into the patois from home. M. caught her kissing her teeth when she got a homework problem wrong the other night, but said nothing. It’s a habit none of them can break.
The girls at work claim boys are easier though they love their daughters. It’s just the endless stuff; you can send a boy out with a ball and a bat or a puck and a stick and they’re good for the day. Laughter. She smiles sadly, knowing they have no idea. To have a black son would be a whole other world of sorrow and struggle; he’d need so much more than a bat or a stick.

This is an excerpt from a larger piece, but I thought it illustrated some conversations I’ve seen about the ways Black parents have to think to keep their children safe; that there is a double standard assessing Black children and their behaviour. This is of course part of the larger conversation on being anti-racist.
Are people still talking? It’s hard to know, drop a line and let me know.