bottom of the eight-foot-deep pool, hoping to find comfort in the clear blue vision of the water.
It was spring break 1994, and “Whatta Man” was the only song I was determined to memorize before I had to return to school at the close of the week. The Dallas sun had made me three shades darker, and my week at Auntie Wee Wee’s apartment had introduced me to Jamie, my latest crush. He lived in the building adjacent to Auntie Wee Wee and Mechelle. Jamie was a year older than I was, with anearly shaved head of dark brown fuzz and matching thick eyebrows. His skin was smooth and all the more golden from the sun.
Swimming to the edge of the pool, I unwound my purple scrunchie and let my drenched curls drop over my shoulders. Wet and full, my hair glistened while soaking up the heat. Jamie placed his golden hands against my black hair. My heart raced as I sat shin-deep in water. Though kids were splashing around us and screaming “Marco! Polo!” I felt as if Jamie and I were all alone, the hot cement under our butts. His eyes twinkled under the reflective light of the moving water. I wanted to kiss him and ask him to be my boyfriend, but I knew that would be taking it too far.
“The food’s ready,” Mechelle called from just outside the gate. “We gotta go.”
She had stopped swimming on day three of our break, weary of dodging the splashes from the pool. “They too wild,” she complained during her final swim, adamant not to get her fresh just-permed edges wet. I told Jamie I’d be back outside after dinner as I pulled my hair back with both palms, tying it with my scrunchie. My tank top and shorts stuck to my skin as I walked over to Mechelle, who pursed her lips at me.
“Pinkie-swear you won’t tell your mom,” I told her as we made our way up the stairs to her apartment. It was probably the fourth time I’d made her promise not to blow my cover. She finally relaxed her pursed lips, smacking them in defeat as her pinkie met mine. I knew she thought the Keisha game had gone on too long, but I also knew she’d keep my secret because I was her favorite cousin, and she was mine.
Keisha was more real to me than I was to myself. There was no doubt when I was in the moment as Keisha. She was fully me, the me I knew myself to be in those quiet instances when all I had to do was merely be. But I was certain the falsity of Keisha, no matter how realshe felt to me, would result in a whipping or something worse. The boundaries of gender, I was taught, were unmovable, like the glistening white rocks that surrounded Grandma’s crawfish ponds. Keisha proved, though, that self-determination—proclaiming who you were to others—wielded the power to lift those rocks toward a more honest place.
Mechelle and Auntie Wee Wee’s apartment was the only quiet place I remember in Dallas. It wasn’t filled with gossip or cluttered by the noise of children running around. My aunt, willowy and sweet, created this home for mother and daughter. There were bursts of purple and green throughout their apartment, resembling a ripe eggplant at a farmer’s market.
I admit that I was envious of Mechelle’s life, which probably fueled my snap decision to introduce myself as Keisha to her friends. I didn’t consult Mechelle. She followed my lead. I longed to wear her barrettes, to shake her pom-poms, to bask in a boy’s attention, to call Auntie Wee Wee Mom. Mechelle had a room of her own, a sacred space that I wouldn’t have well until adulthood. Her room was occupied by Barbies, a Lite-Brite, an Etch A Sketch, coloring books to fit any mood, and videotapes of Free Willy , Aladdin , and my favorite, Beauty and the Beast. I wore that tape out to the point where the ballroom scene played through a layer of permanent static. I see Belle clearly now, spinning on that dance floor in her golden gown as everyone looked on. I yearned to grow to be as beautifully bookish as Belle.
The usual vanilla scent of the apartment was dominated by a
It was spring break 1994, and “Whatta Man” was the only song I was determined to memorize before I had to return to school at the close of the week. The Dallas sun had made me three shades darker, and my week at Auntie Wee Wee’s apartment had introduced me to Jamie, my latest crush. He lived in the building adjacent to Auntie Wee Wee and Mechelle. Jamie was a year older than I was, with anearly shaved head of dark brown fuzz and matching thick eyebrows. His skin was smooth and all the more golden from the sun.
Swimming to the edge of the pool, I unwound my purple scrunchie and let my drenched curls drop over my shoulders. Wet and full, my hair glistened while soaking up the heat. Jamie placed his golden hands against my black hair. My heart raced as I sat shin-deep in water. Though kids were splashing around us and screaming “Marco! Polo!” I felt as if Jamie and I were all alone, the hot cement under our butts. His eyes twinkled under the reflective light of the moving water. I wanted to kiss him and ask him to be my boyfriend, but I knew that would be taking it too far.
“The food’s ready,” Mechelle called from just outside the gate. “We gotta go.”
She had stopped swimming on day three of our break, weary of dodging the splashes from the pool. “They too wild,” she complained during her final swim, adamant not to get her fresh just-permed edges wet. I told Jamie I’d be back outside after dinner as I pulled my hair back with both palms, tying it with my scrunchie. My tank top and shorts stuck to my skin as I walked over to Mechelle, who pursed her lips at me.
“Pinkie-swear you won’t tell your mom,” I told her as we made our way up the stairs to her apartment. It was probably the fourth time I’d made her promise not to blow my cover. She finally relaxed her pursed lips, smacking them in defeat as her pinkie met mine. I knew she thought the Keisha game had gone on too long, but I also knew she’d keep my secret because I was her favorite cousin, and she was mine.
Keisha was more real to me than I was to myself. There was no doubt when I was in the moment as Keisha. She was fully me, the me I knew myself to be in those quiet instances when all I had to do was merely be. But I was certain the falsity of Keisha, no matter how realshe felt to me, would result in a whipping or something worse. The boundaries of gender, I was taught, were unmovable, like the glistening white rocks that surrounded Grandma’s crawfish ponds. Keisha proved, though, that self-determination—proclaiming who you were to others—wielded the power to lift those rocks toward a more honest place.
Mechelle and Auntie Wee Wee’s apartment was the only quiet place I remember in Dallas. It wasn’t filled with gossip or cluttered by the noise of children running around. My aunt, willowy and sweet, created this home for mother and daughter. There were bursts of purple and green throughout their apartment, resembling a ripe eggplant at a farmer’s market.
I admit that I was envious of Mechelle’s life, which probably fueled my snap decision to introduce myself as Keisha to her friends. I didn’t consult Mechelle. She followed my lead. I longed to wear her barrettes, to shake her pom-poms, to bask in a boy’s attention, to call Auntie Wee Wee Mom. Mechelle had a room of her own, a sacred space that I wouldn’t have well until adulthood. Her room was occupied by Barbies, a Lite-Brite, an Etch A Sketch, coloring books to fit any mood, and videotapes of Free Willy , Aladdin , and my favorite, Beauty and the Beast. I wore that tape out to the point where the ballroom scene played through a layer of permanent static. I see Belle clearly now, spinning on that dance floor in her golden gown as everyone looked on. I yearned to grow to be as beautifully bookish as Belle.
The usual vanilla scent of the apartment was dominated by a
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