The Blossoming Universe of Violet Diamond by Brenda Woods Page B

really easy to comb through, even easier than the stuff Yaz had helped me buy. Bibi said I could have the small bottle. She promised it would keep my hair soft and shiny but not greasy. “Thanks, Bibi.”
    And later, as I climbed into bed, she asked, “Do you say your prayers with your mother or by yourself?”
    â€œOh, I just make wishes, but Mom claims they’re really prayers,” I explained.
    Bibi’s face turned serious. “Do you believe in God, V?”
    I answered yes and pointed up. “I know He’s up there.”
    She kissed my forehead and said, “Good night and God bless.”

29
THE SUNDAY MORNING PARTY
    I f being at the market had made me feel like I was in another country, church the next morning made me wonder if I was in a faraway galaxy.
    It was called the Holy Trinity First Baptist Missionary Temple of Los Angeles. “Huh?” I asked.
    â€œMostly we just say Holy Trinity,” Bibi whispered. She was wearing a white suit and matching white shoes, not African clothes. In fact, since we’d left Seattle, I’d never seen her in African clothes.
    â€œHow come you don’t wear African clothes anymore?” I asked.
    â€œI only wear African garb for art events . . . it feels right to present myself that way.”
    One person was warming up the organ, another the piano, and a man strummed a guitar. The choir was just getting in place. We were early and the church was only about half full. “If you don’t get here early, it’s hard to get a seat,” she explained.
    Lots of people knew Bibi, and when one lady called her Sister Diamond, I asked, “Is she really your sister? I thought you didn’t have any.”
    â€œWe are Sisters in the Lord and interconnected by the Holy Spirit,” she explained. “Church Sisters.”
    We hadn’t been there very long before I found out that Bibi had a whole bunch of Sisters in the Lord.
    With a proud look she introduced me over and over again as her granddaughter. “My . . . my . . . ain’t you a pretty little thing,” one of the women, who Bibi called Sister Williams, told me. She was wearing a bright blue suit with rhinestone buttons and a hat in the same color that had three peacock feathers.
    â€œThank you . . . I like your hat,” I replied.
    â€œSome of the women here sure dress pretty,” I told Bibi.
    Bibi smiled.
    By ten o’clock, Holy Trinity was packed with African American people, old and young and in between, and the church was filled with music and singing.
    Suddenly, a man in a black suit appeared on the stage. “Welcome to the Sunday morning party! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!” he shouted.
    People all around me, including Bibi, stood up, raised their arms, and shouted, “Praise Jesus!” Some were clapping their hands and moving with the music and others sang along with the choir. It almost felt like I was at a concert, so I stood up and clapped to the beat.
    Then unexpectedly, everything got quiet. And as if they’d practiced it many times before, everyone began to sit down. It was like someone had let all of the air out of a balloon. Soon, I was the only one standing. Gently, Bibi took my hand and sat me down.
    â€œNow what?” I asked.
    â€œShhh.”
    The guy up front wearing the black suit quietly said, “Good Sunday morning. What a pleasure it is to have each and every one of you here today.”
    All around me people answered, “Good Sunday morning.”
    And when he commanded the people to open their Bibles to a certain place, like robots, everyone who had a Bible did.
    Bibi scooted me close to her and pointed with her finger to where everyone was reading and together we read along. It was in a section of the Bible called Proverbs.
    Then, like a teacher, the guy up front started to talk about what we’d just read. Some people even took notes. I wondered