(Originally written in 2012, edited today.)
It’s in every home, apartment and even in garages—the fridge. For some, the fridge and in particular the fridge door, is transformed into the family bulletin board with: doctor’s reminders; kids’ arts and crafts; report cards of a “job well done!” and photos. However for me, the fridge door has had a different purpose: A cemetery of an imperfect past and an altar to perfect illusions.
I chose the right dress, a black and brown floral piece that I hadn’t worn. A garment that didn’t have the mark of error. Some argan oil was sprayed onto my split-end hair. Next I put on the vintage floral earrings I bought in a San Antonio second-hand store. The teal shawl was purchased during a trip with my mother. The weather was damp and offered opportune reason to wear the beige trench coat. I finally dressed up.
My memory fails me as to when I had last put on a dress for an official capacity. Easily more than four months. And I opened the closet to see the disarray and there it was, the bottle. I dabbed the last few drops of verbena perfume. It was supposed to be saved for a special date but then again, why not smell nice for the ultimate being instead?
You see, for some this was no regular day. Now, to be clear with you, I myself I am very unclear about the whole thing. Part of me feels that if I go past the point of no return, that if I venture too much into the whole affair, then I will be aware of some knowledge that will make it difficult for me to come back to the other side.
However, I woke up with some lines that pegged me as a sinner. Then later in the day and in my deprecating manner, I claimed to another stranger that I was so loaded with past lapses in judgement that now if I walked into the place the whole structure would come asunder. “Holy water evaporates on my skin!” And sin is relative. Maybe mine weighs differently?
So now I move the hamper. The “cleaned up” version reflected in the full-size mirror. When I looked at the boots, the bright scuffs shined. Now, since the belt was too tight around my waist, bending was a bit difficult but I managed to polish and cover the marks. It’s at this point that notice that my baby girl had clawed the leather. A bit of frustration set in, but within the nanosecond I realized I could have avoided the whole situation if only I had put things back where they belong! I was insta cool.
It didn’t matter. Where I was going they wouldn’t notice but someone above might. I combed my hair and twirled some of the ends into curls. A rarity for me but I wanted to feel special. And shouldn’t I feel special? I mean today someone gave their life for me. So surely, I must be it.
Twenty minutes were left on the clock and I put enough items in my purse to take me through. The book, some cash for donation–it’s at this point when the question of my stinginess enters. “Could I show more proof? Do I have faith? What is the cost of peace to ya?”
I gave what I had to give but sometimes not always for the best reason.
Down the block, there were promises of new luxury apartments which encroached in ghettoes. Women sat on the stoop smoking but guided me to the place. I rarely came up this way but took a wrong turn and almost blasphemed. Then I realized my soon-to-be hypocrisy. Today was the day to cease and desist.
Everything was damp. On the left and right, it seemed that every apartment was called “Mount Everly” while churches had engraved promises of “hope” and flanked by regal lions. Funeral homes took odd numbers and half blocks. Faith and Death were neighbors on this street and few ventured out. Emptiness accentuated by few stragglers made me clutch my purse. Then I see an old lady with a black fur coat clutching her cane. She took a cigarette drag. The high-bar fence separated us, but our vision was clear. Bars are no match for a union. We smiled.
But in the distance I see the long skirts and venture in their direction. Now inside the building ladies come adorned with green hats and faux pearls. Others take their fans to offset the humidity. It felt like Sunday church. I longed for my fan and hat to match. And so I promised myself that in old age I would return with a grand style.
And there she was spilling out of the chair, a beautiful purple lily with a wonderful purple hat that covered white. Her hands were like balloons, and I could just imagine eating her homemade biscuits. But then upon seeing her grace I was caught in words mixed with shame. And it wasn’t a lie but I wasn’t very clear either. She thought me one of them and I didn’t say anything further to correct the impression. I felt skinnier on my chair.
“I came early to get a seat,” I said to her.
“Oh, the brothers wouldn’t let you stand up. They would give you their seat…but you already knew that.”
And I didn’t because I wasn’t one of them. Now I kept losing the inches of my waist while she expanded like a hot air balloon.
Her voice was deep and sprung from the Carolinas. The 30 years up North didn’t dent her southern twang. The purple lily was a mother of eight and 47 years ago she had her first great-grand kid. “I stopped counting them after a while.”
Now she mourned her latest son. “He was so good, really he gave so much to others. I think too much…”
And all I could say was sorry and this was said honestly. Then the man at the front got on the podium and we laughed intermittently when he said, ” I don’t want to go to heaven! They don’t have sweet potato!”
The purple lily rolled her eyes and we laughed. Then the man spoke again: “And let’s get this right. Women didn’t bring sin. It was Man. So Man did it, we can’t blame her.”
I did my best to not say “amen” and jump off my seat. In the end, it didn’t matter who brought the sin.
“And it was through Adam that we became slaves to sin and death,” said the speaker.
But when the speaker presented himself upon the audience only the last name was given, Hickman. The memory rush kicked in.
“What are the odds?” I thought.
Hickman was the same name of the street which holds so much sorrow for me. The name for a street where my father found himself in a dead end. Now a man with more faith chose the same name. Even his skin was an opposite. A past was now reinterpreted into the present.
“Only 144,000 will be in heaven and they know who they are. It’s like when you go to a funeral and there is assigned seating. Those that are part of the family just know where to sit.”
But promises of sweet potato, wolves playing with lambs and children next to snakes were made. Cups with wine and leavened bread were passed. “This is no grape juice,” he said to bring humor.
And reminders were made of how this same moment had occurred for over two thousand centuries.
But the speaker quoted passages and I couldn’t show my lack of knowledge. Then I peeked at the purple lily and the direction in which her faithful hands flipped the pages of the book. Yes, I copied her and thought how this would make a funny story. Really, who cheats in church?
Several prayers were made. My mind went in and out. The moment ended and we all exited but I was stuck holding the door. A samaritan test. And men came out and only thanked me. And I did my best to rationalize. “The elderly couldn’t hold the door, but I still could.”
So I see them all in a file and hear countless “thank yous.” And right toward the end, I was relieved by a brother too old to hold the door. It didn’t matter, someone had to hold the door back then.
Ask anyone, the lady can dress.
Regardless of the day she wears fuschia blazers on gray dirt roads and desert heats. She commands her linen to defy wrinkles while on bus seats. Leopards gladly give their spots to her.
And when a pair of shoes doesn’t color match, then a quick trip to the corner store to find the dye to match. The same pair of shoes transforms to fuschia then lavender and finally to a lime-green in one summer alone.
“I always wore heels, even on unpaved roads!” she gloats about her ability to master the art of high-heel walking. “I went to the delivery room in platform shoes.”
Yes, the lady speaks little English but understands Coco, Yves and, of course, Oscar. She understands them so well, that she’s on intimate first name basis. As far as she’s concerned: The great ones live in eternity.
“Es clásico!” she dictates when one of her daughters begrudgingly tries on a navy vintage Ralph Lauren blazer with shoulder pads that would make 5-Star general jealous.
“Mom, this is an 80s blazer!” her daughter complains. “It’s no longer in style.”
But her daughter is wrong. The ’80s fad comes back again and even H&M makes a fortune. The Hispters have met their match in this motherly tastemaker. (Her daughter now refuses to toss the blazer.)
But crossing the USA street sometimes changes your suit. For over two decades now, the lady wears a Maitre d’ uniform. She had to trade the teal mini skirts for black slacks.
However, the fashion guardian angels strike and awake you like lightning. Her white blouse now has lace along the edges, the black vest is adorned with well-chosen teal pins. Her nails are always in lacquer. The hair is pressed so evenly that tar workers stand back in wonder.
Her lips look better in corals but she won’t stay away from shiny browns.
“Your face is your presentation card,” she says as she puts on her makeup. “It’s part of the uniform.”
But on days when she’s not working. She walks in her closet. With her eyes close she imagines herself in the Champs-Élysées. The Lady picks out a hat and wears shades. Finally after 58 years, the grand dame will cross the Atlantic.
“The lady prepares for the Mecca,” her daughter thinks as she sits on the bed. She holds happy tears and watches the fashion show.
And the lady still wears herself as always, our accessible fashion icon. Her catwalk is everywhere.
jumahchaguan 