11/22/2005, Tuesday
"Does your dad own any guns that you know of?"
"Baby, he's going to
like
you! Please stop worrying about it?"
Our usual lunch spot in the Student Union cafΓ©. Tomorrow was
Meet The Parents
day
(dun dun duh!),
and I'd be driving her home to Kalamazoo.
"Machetes? Swords? Bowie knives?"
Nia was giggling as I thought up all kinds of lethal weapons. "
Stop!
"
"Cannons? Guillotines? Ray guns? Attack dogs?"
Laughing out loud now, "It's going to be
fine!
Would you
stop??
"
"But I'm just so nervous! I've never done this before, 'Meet the Parents.' And you said your dad doesn't like white men, so he's especially not going to like one dating his daughter."
"Listen, we'll deal with that
together
, okay? It's as much my problem as yours, after all. Out of all the boys I've ever met I chose
you
. *I* made that choice, fully aware of the consequences."
She looked at me dead-seriously, her eyes full of meaning, and that sobered me up. Because all this time I'd been making it
my
problem, something *I* had to get through. But I didn't have parents or any other family I had to worry about justifying my black girlfriend to, while she still had parents and aunts and cousins and friends back home, and interracial relationships like ours (black woman, white man) were still relatively rare.
"I'm sorry, Nia. I totally hadn't thought about the impact of
us
on you. Thank you for choosing me, and for thinking I'm worthy of putting yourself through....whatever's about to happen."
She looked at me still serious. "Mark, I
love
you. I'd walk through fire for you, or whatever people do. And it's not going to be that bad, you'll see. Mama will love you, and Daddy will come around. They both
love
me and I think
trust
me enough to make good decisions. And if they don't..." She kissed me quickly then hugged me, not letting me see her face. But I thought I could tell from her hug that she'd choose me over them if it came to that. Which I wouldn't want her to: no one should lose their parents, even a little bit.
Conversation petered out while we ate, each lost in our own thoughts about tomorrow. I'd noticed before a copy of
Ebony
on the table next to ours, so I stretched out and grabbed it.
The Annual Hair Issue
it proclaimed on the cover, so I thought we could look at it together. Remember how I said before that there were about a hundred ways black women could do their hair? They were all in there.
The first part was super-fancy stuff like you might wear to a wedding or a ball or something, too "busy" for everyday wear, I thought. But then there was a section for like
Styles for Work
, and they were nice, but still looked like a lot of work. Next was something like
Everyday Styles
, and those looked much more practical. There were natural styles (afros, tight or large), straightened hair, weaves, corn rows (I commented, "Like yours."), and then I turned a page and there was Nia's poofy/frilly hair staring at me; different face, but the same hair.
I must've paused a moment too long before turning the page. "Did you like my hair like that?"
"Yes," and I quickly turned the page. But she turned it back.
"Did you like it better than
this
?" She asked, pointing to her head.
Yes, very much better!
was what I thought, but I only said, "Both are nice."
"Mark, we've promised to never fib to each other." She used her hand on my cheek to make me look at her. "Which do you like better?"
"This way," I said, pointing to the picture. I thought it would be over, but...
"Why?"
I thought for a moment about how to say it just so, then said, "Well, that's how I met you, and..."
"And what else?"
"And it just matches your face and your free-spiritedness..."
"And this? What do you think when you see me like this? Don't fib, please."
Oh boy, she wasn't letting me off the hook. "Nia, I fell in love with your mind, you know that. But you're very attractive too, beautiful even. Your body, your face, your voice, your demeanor, your....I don't know,
all
of you!"
"But I'm not as attractive with this hairstyle." Not a question; the girl could read me like an open book. And she looked at me in a way that demanded the truth.
"No, not with this hairstyle. You look...
harder
. Before, you were soft and giggly and cuddly, but that hairstyle changes you too much for my taste. I mean, I know you're the same girl inside, but when I see you now....it's hard to explain, but I have to just go back to saying you're not the same girl I fell in love with that wonderful weekend."
Nia studied me for a time while I felt miserable. She didn't seem mad, just that she was trying to understand. Maybe see herself through my eyes.
Then she smiled a timid smile. "Thank you for being honest with me, babe, even though you didn't want to hurt my feelings. But why didn't you say so before?"
"Well, it wasn't my place to, was it? You can wear your hair or your clothes any way you want, and I'll just have to get used to it. I mean, if youβ"
"I did it for my Dad." An abrupt silence as we stared at each other. "I think he wanted a boy, but he got me first. So from a young age my hair was always in braids or 'rows or a tight Afro, I guess to look more boyish. For him. And then he got my sister, and only finally my brother, but even after that I never really changed.
"But when I came here and saw how the other girls were wearing their hair: straightened, weaves, curly, poofy, I decided I could do that myself. And I loved it! And I loved that
you
loved it."
"I didn't sayβ"