Since this is my first official book review, I chose to keep it brief and straight to the point. Also, since this is my own opinion, I decided that it’d be best if I described my thoughts and feelings about it quite honestly, yet thoughtfully.
When I first picked up this book, I didn’t think it would bring much to the table. Written by Dorothy Ehrhart-Morrison, PH.D, the book travels its way all the way back to the early 1900′s when some of its interviewees were born. It then exposes up to an era where segregation was popular and hard to combat. The book didn’t wow me at first because after all, it was written in 1997; I thought that a lot had changed since then and that the resources available to us today are a lot different. But surprisingly enough, the book had some of the strongest messages I have ever read.
The book is about various successful African-American women who originated from many parts of the United States and the world. The book features powerful names such as Donzaleigh Abernathy who is the daughter of Civil Rights Movement leader Ralph Abernathy; Norma Sklarek who was the first African-American woman to receive a license to practice architecture in the United States, Susan L. Taylor who was the editor-in-chief of Essence magazine and many others who wowed me and gained triumph in many difficult circumstances, and succeeded with ease.
The book also featured many passages that took these women on a journey from start to finish. It exposed the readers to the women’s roots from early on with home education to public education. There were many memorable quotes that I won’t bother getting into since this is my first review. Would I recommend this book to anybody? Probably not. Would I advise a Black woman that they should at least look over this book? Absolutely! There are a ton of valid points that are still relevant till this day. Kudos Dorothy!
Sadness seem to have invaded her acne-abandoned, yet smooth face. Wrinkles were nowhere to be found, as if they were granting her an unusual pass to regain sanity, before they featured themselves all over her once head-turning visage. Her eyes were always full of worries and “what’s-nexts”. Her hands told stories that she never dared to tell herself, in fear of refreshing all her unhealed yet closed wounds. Her lips never gave my eyes the privilege of seeing a smile nor a twisted smirk to indicate that la joie de vivre hadn’t completely left town. Watching her, I noticed that her back begged the car seat for temporary support; the only time she allowed something to have her back, knowing she couldn’t rely on anyone else. It hurt me so deeply…all the way to the core of my soul, to see her so alone. Many nights I’ve turned in my uncomfortable bed, trying to come up with new ideas that were good enough to reason with her Maker, in order to switch places with her and ease her of her burden, that was otherwise known as her misery and unhappiness. Many nights I’ve banged my head against my headboard, in an attempt to knock the horrible memories out of my head of seeing hot tears stream down her face, as she cried bitterly and regretfully about the unfortunate path that she willingly took in the name of love. I kept asking and not answering my own questions of why and how her life could’ve possibly turned out the way it did. Did spells indeed exist or did someone else’s bad karma direct itself toward her, and ruined any chance that she had at obtaining happiness? I tried to revisit her childhood as I drove our nineteen eighty-four Honda Civic…I tried to track where everything went wrong. I tried to understand why her “fate” decided to treat her so unfairly after she clearly had one of the best hearts that a human could ever have the honor to possess.
_ _ _
She vaguely explained to me what it was like to grow up with the mother that was “assigned” to her. She mentioned how difficult it was to communicate with her, and how impossible it felt to open her mind up to wonderful things that would’ve perhaps changed both of their lifestyles for the better. Her face became so ashamed when she explained how awful the feelings that she unwillingly developed for her own mother. How her heart and the help of her rebellious side pushed her to choose between judgemental family members or the strange hope of falling in love and being happy for once in her life. She once laughed at how silly the idea sounded when she tried to explain it to herself. She recalled how silly the look on her heart’s face was when she tried to persuade it of the endless and euphoric effects that love could have on every part of her. She told me how miniature her obstacles felt when her soul was already determined on collaborating with her to conquer misery and make happiness their kidnapped servant.
The car’s speedometer flashed an inappropriate sixty miles per hour in a residential area, and I instantly slowed down as I gripped the steering wheel and glanced at her through the rearview mirror. Why she chose to sit in the back and not the passenger seat, I failed to realize it at first. But I’m starting to believe it was because I arrived late to pick her up for her important meeting, that she felt the need to quickly open the closest door to her, so that she could throw herself inside the vehicle, as she tried to scold and dictate how fast I was going at the same time. I smiled at how responsible she always seemed to be, and at how I could never bring myself to turn out as good as she did. I frowned at how she always looked so lonely when I casually looked inside her dark-brown eyes…they always looked so strong, so passionate, so deep, and so miserable. How she could always multi-task so well with every part of her, was truly a mystery to me. A jerk honked his horn, a child waved at a neighbor, and a dog barked before I could bring myself to stare into that rearview mirror again…this time catching my own reflection and lowering my gaze almost instantly. I hated the chill that ran down my spine when I saw so much of her in me, yet not enough to please me of how things turned out…for her at least.
_ _ _
With the things that she never said and my wild imagination, I figured that her “I Do” must have been a painful one. I could only picture her disappointed face as her swollen hand ran over an even bigger tummy. Her inexpensive ring and her new-born bitterness. Her non-brand lipstick and her cheap mascara. Her loyal friends and their sad “congratulations”. But clearest of all, I could picture her dress…I could almost feel how unpromising it looked and how much of a mockery it made out of her silly little fairy tale. My breathing came back to normal when I pictured how satisfied she forced herself to be while welcoming me to Hell. How happy she tricked herself into being when she held me in her arms for the first time. How optimistic she allowed herself to get when I hungrily sucked on her breast and made strange little noises as I drained the youth out of her. A tear threatened to make its appearance as I thought about the others that came after me. My jaw tightened when I felt her dreams being swept onto a dustpan, and placed quickly into a simple trash bag. I grew uneasy when I thought about all the constant sacrifices that she’d be making as a result of having brought us into the world…having brought me into the world.
A red light growled at me and I eased my foot onto the brake pedal. I didn’t dare glance at her again, I just sat still and listened to her steady heartbeats. How can they sound so alive when she was obviously a living dead with hideous scars? How did they manage to give a hint of hope after she’d been through Hell and not back? I was so frustrated at her beautiful spirit…so angry at her lovely soul. Didn’t they know when to give up? When to take the beauty out of her face and replace it with the monstrosity that unfortunate events forced her to go through? Pathump. Pathump. Pathump. Her heart kept chanting. Rebellious bitch. You should be dead and cold by now. But yet, it kept beating…kept surviving.
The light turned green and a migraine invited itself inside my head. The impromptu pain was triggered by the thoughts of how happiness fooled her again for the second time. I cringed when I pictured her defeated look as she was laughed at by happiness and ridiculed by other people’s good fates. How ridiculous she must have felt when she discovered that the better parts of her that she thought would be better, were just disgusting reminders of how she was never meant to have happiness in the first place. I grimaced and terrified the driver to my left, when I thought about her mistakes that I was repeating and turning into tragedies when they could have be fixable. I rolled my eyes at the fake “real life” couple on a billboard who smiled and embraced one another as they’ve found love while advertising a KAY Jewelers expensive piece. In frustration, I turned away from the gigantic scheme only to be slapped in the face with small stores decorating the outside of their businesses with pink and red dreams and “seems-like” as they announced an upcoming Valentine’s Day.
I became annoyed at how slow that middle-aged woman was suddenly driving in front of me. I became distraught at how life seems to keep casually going as if the first woman who I’d ever fallen in love with, wasn’t miserable and broken. I became pissed off at how permanent regrets seemed to be and at how impossible it was to erase pain. I wanted to stop my car in the middle of the boisterous traffic and shout at the sky “WHY?!” and expect a quick and effective answer. I wanted to butcher anyone who had ever hurt her…myself included. I wanted to steal Adam Sandler’s “Click” remote, and rewind and cut out parts of her life that she wanted to change and delete. I wanted to wipe out that silly thought she once had in her head about falling in love and following her heart, that misleading cunt! I wanted to forbid sadness from ever crossing her path. I wanted to intimidate all tears from ever daring to appear throughout her eyes, and having the audacity to roll down her honey brown cheeks. I wanted to apologize, I wanted to beg for forgiveness, I wanted to suggest a different route that she could’ve followed instead, I wanted to cry for and not with her. I wanted to love her more than I already do, and to say it without causing more bitterness to shine through her. I wanted for her to bless me with a smile, one that could match the hope that her heart seemed to still present forth. I wanted to do so much as I pulled up to her destination, but all I could do was say: “I’ll pick you up later mom…” when she stepped out of the vehicle and into the cool Autumn air, before I drove away and prepared my own fate for a not-so-fortunate ending.
* * *
“She was so young with such innocent eyes…she always dreamt of a Fairy Tale life…and all the things that your money can’t buy…and she thought that he was a wonderful guy…and suddenly things seemed to change…”
“All of your life you have spent burying HURT and REGRET… Oh Mother, we’re stronger for all of the tears you have shed…Oh Mother, don’t look back ’cause he’ll never hurt us again…So Mother I thank You…for ALL that you’ve done and still do…You’ve got ME, I’ve got YOU…TOGETHER we’ll ALWAYS pull through.”
Two cheap wine bottles and a pair of broken-strap evening sandals lounged lazily on the dirty carpet, as Becky gathered all the courage that she didn’t have and sat up in her queen-sized un-made bed. Instead of the usual “good morning” that many people received as they stepped out of bed, Becky gained the firm “welcome back, you’re still alive!” greeting from the headache that was freshly birthed from her hangover, and the too many sleeping pills she had managed to swallow the previous night. Becky held on to her head with both hands and heard a loud grunting noise escape from her throat.
Her feet touched the floor, and reality inappropriately kissed her lips and caused her eyes to open…fear and disappointed flashed through them. She was almost certain that her plan had worked this time, she had no doubt whatsoever…but like all the other times, failure comfortably took a seat next to her broken spirit and smirked at her misery. Becky heard a loud knock on her door, and rolled her eyes at the childish excuses that her irresponsible roommate was about to tell her.
“Hey Beckz…are you awake?” Annita Brookfield, Becky’s twenty-three year old roommate said before letting a loud and obnoxious cough slip out of her system. Without waiting for a response, Annita barged into the room and automatically placed her right hand over her nose in disgust. “Holy shit Beckz! What have you been doing in here? It smells like a dead body has been rotting in this piece of shit!” Becky, who took no offense to her roommate’s insult shot her an annoyed look and waited. “Look Beckz, I know I’ve done this last month…but this month I’m gonna be a lot shorter than expected…and I won’t be able to make rent…” Annita begun to say but stopped shortly and allowed her dark brown eyes to travel across Becky’s nightstand, and toward the empty bottle of pills. Annita’s round and beautiful brown face fell and sudden tears cascaded down her cheeks. Without following her gaze, Becky laid back on the bed and placed her dirty pillow on top of her face to hide yet another disappointment that she had just caused. Without another word, Annita turned on her heels and headed back out the door, that door.
* * *
Rebecca Dunn, remembers very vividly when she was pinned against that very same door three years ago. She remembers how the walls cried when her pants came off. She remembers how the off-gold doorknob felt against her cool skin at approximately three in the morning. She remembers how empty she felt when Christophe forced his way into her innocence and ruined her sanity. She remembers that old vintage lampshade that her Greek grandmother had given to her when she was just four years old and how disappointed she had been, when all she wanted was a porcelain baby doll. Becky was only referred to as “Rebecca” by her family members. She hated the fact that they ignored her wishes and insisted on using her entire first name instead of her casual nickname. Becky looked up toward the ceiling and felt a drop of unsanitary water fall down from it, and landed on her forehead. The previous night rain was unmerciful and delivered water damages and memories that Becky thought that she had long-buried. Becky glanced once more at the door and thought about the time when she carefully made delicate white lines of death on her hand-mirror, her back pressed against the white door as she inhaled away all her troubles…temporarily. She also remembers all the frustrating times when her fist pounded relentlessly against the door, as her thin lips tasted the bitter tears that were provoked by all the sins that she was once so willing to commit.
The white door knew all her secrets, regrets and even her rare hopes. It was that same door which allowed Annita to hold her against it, as she puked out all the anger she had toward the world after a night filled with careless binge-drinking adolescents. The door witnessed it all as her roommate confided all secrets and regrets of her own in her friend. Annita was unapologetic as she explained the permanent departure of her young mother due to an abrupt rendezvous with her bottle of pills. Becky remembers how frazzled her roommate’s body felt against her as she cried and revealed to her the dangers of leaving confused loved ones behind. As far as Annita was concerned, Becky was all she had and she made it clear that she couldn’t go through life without a friend as reliable as Becky, and her understanding white door for support when difficult times came about.
* * *
Becky never noticed Annita staring at her as she took a sad trip down memory lane. Annita quietly came into the room, paintbrush in hand and asked out loud: “What color would you like our new lives to be?” Becky’s thoughts now interrupted, looked up at her friend and smiled.
