My mum and I were recently in a shopping mall when I noticed that some women do very strange things to the heads of their infants, like taking the only three strands of hair available and pinning them with a bow — lest anyone confuse the gender of their daughter — on the side, leaving the kid both distressed and terrified because they know they have an arrow outbound and they can’t do anything about it.
She scrunched her face and said “no. You were too cute. When you stopped being sooooo ugly.” As my photos tell a tale, my mother possessed a Stepford quality in her approach to my immaculate presentation. I was always in matched leggings, dress, shoes + poncho (I had dozens), because my mum took “indigenous” to a whole new level. INCAS!! CALL ME!!
When she wasn’t Stepfording it, she was making fun of me. Until today, she will tell anyone that I was an ugly child and she tried to give me away to some passersby when first born. I was skinny and leaky, so I understand her dilemma.
In her hysteria to not birth your webMistress, she “escaped” (her word, not mine) from the ward and ran upstairs two floors. If neither her husband nor the doctors could find her, she wouldn’t be forced to have a child. In many ways, my own logic is a reflection of my mum’s brand of crazy.
Even my early photos are of me with my face half covered by mum. She says it was never on purpose, because she is a liar. In fact, most of my early photos are of her carrying me in one hand while illustrating the perfect Heisman with free hand in the face of the camera.
My mum has an interesting way about her; she has a habit of being very forthright in a very innocent way. Like that time she told my girl Roor that she had a big ass. Not her (my mum), but rather that Roor had a large bottom. And that it wasn’t balanced by the size of her boobs.
Had anyone else said this to Rawda, I imagine she would have dabke’d over their heads, but because it came from Maha Momma, it was acceptable. Just ask her hairdresser.
Because one time, I was seated waiting for mum to have her hair did when I overheard her yell-ask over the sound of the hair-dryer “WHY ISN’T YOUR HAIR CURLY?!”
Her hairdresser is African American. So naturally…
Which she followed up with “Are you from Jamaica or Hawaii?”
And finally ended with an attempt of Mandarin. The language, not the fruit.
Pretty much, she can get away with anything because of how she looks. And she does, alhamduliLah.
Long live mommas.