"...behind the
facade of a
perfectly made
up face, a sassy
mouth, an
incredible sense
of style, and a
quick brain (she
was a junior in
High School at
15) lay the
broken remains
of little girl who
wanted to be a doctor when she grew up, but was being
molested by her much older brother, with whom she lived..."
I was reading a book two weeks ago as I waited for the bus. The main character, a blonde Georgia peach, had just broken up with her fiancé.While she was out fundraising, he had cheated on her with a newly hired co-worker--someone Ms. Georgia Peach considered to be loud, scandalously dressed, and improperly made up. Someone who, although she hadn't all the advantages in the world, still spoke her mind and was comfortable with her sexuality. In fact, this woman was someone she, herself, had never dared to be.
O...k.
That's the point where Ms. Georgia got me. That's the point where we connected. Because I could remember my best friend in high school. She didn't have much... not much hair, not much clothes, not much looks (at least not compared to me). But darn if she didn't have some smarts, some great dimples, and some sex appeal. In fact, that's how we met...
Picture it: Maryland, 1982:It was my junior year in high school. I was on my way past the ladies' room, when I decided to use it then instead of later. As I swung the door open and entered, I saw four African-American girls surrounding a petite girl. She looked defiant as the tallest and prettiest of the girls took centerstage, neck circulating and finger pointing as she spewed her venom. “I don’t know what he sees in you anyway, with your ugly, ball-headed, fast self!” Ms. Pretty said.
I paused, debating whether to continue any further. These folks looked kinda busy. But then I heard Ms. Pretty say, “When we get through with you, you’re gonna think twice before messing with anybody’s boyfriend." She looked at her "crew" and barked, "Hold her!”
Now you’d think that, with the odds at four to one, petite little Dyan would have used those smarts of hers to talk the situation down. Nah...that would have made waaaay too much sense. She was reading them left, right, and center, and she set the record straight. “Girl, please: I don't want your ugly, wannabe-a-player-but-he-can’t-hang boyfriend. He's the one panting behind me like a dog! Ask my gurl here.”
All six of us turned around and looked behind me. I probably would've kept right on looking for her gurl, but the silence kinda clued me in--I might just be the “gurl” to whom she was referring. So, summoning all my “down” speak, I put on my “cool” face and turned around to face them. “Yeah," I said. "His simple behind always in our way, talking 'bout 'can I buy you and your gurl lunch?'” I walked over to stand beside Dyan. How was I to know that this boy (who I, mind you, had never seen) had never offered to buy Ms. Pretty--or any of her crew--lunch? It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. En masse, the crew began closing in on us--but their main focus was still Dyan.
Then, with courage I’ve never exhibited before or since, stood firm. In my most disparagingly adult voice I said, “Four to one. That’s hardly fair odds, and though I hate fighting, if y’all wanna do this, y’all gonna have to go through me first.” I was five foot six and solid, and I guess I must have presented a convincingly scary picture. The crew backed down and left the bathroom, vowing to catch Dyan when her bodyguard wasn’t around.
Do you think Dyan’s mouth was quiet through all this? Noooooo. She was on her tiptoes peeking over my shoulder as they left, shouting, “Bring it on!” I turned around and leveled a look at her that brought a half sheepish expression to her face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to get you involved, but that’s all I could think of at the moment.”
“It’s alright,” I said, as I wondered to myself--
Did she know the guy had a girlfriend? Did things really go down the way she said? She does have a reputation. But heck, even if she was dead wrong, Ms. Thing shoulda handled it herself, instead of tryna pull a black-mama-beatdown! Out loud I said, “Look, I’ve seen you around my area. If you want you can take my bus and I’ll meet you between classes to make sure there’s no trouble.” She shrugged her shoulders and said, “It’s up to you,” but I could sense her relief.
Dyan became the first inductee into my “Save a Friend From Herself Caribbean Club.” I later learned that behind the facade of a perfectly made-up face, sassy mouth, incredible sense of style, and quick brain (she was a junior in high school at fifteen) lay the broken remains of a little girl who wanted to be a doctor when she grew up--but who was being molested by her much older brother, with whom she lived.
My older brother and mother warned me about my association with her. She had a reputation of being fast. They couldn't understand how she was able to come and go as she pleased. Nor could they understand why I invited her to so many sleepovers. They thought her behavior was of her own choosing. They didn't realize that it was just the symptom of a deeper problem, a cry for help, if you will. But it was not my story to tell. So I listened, I cried, I ranted, I urged her to speak out; but Dyan's fear and distrust held more sway over her than my advice did.
Suddenly, her popularity with the opposite sex and her earthy sex appeal were no longer sources of envy for me. But I will confess that I still did envy her outspokenness and the fact that she didn't lose sight of her dreams. When I encountered a similar situation a year later, after moving in with my dad in New York (against the advice of my older sister), I better understood Dyan's inner urge not to tell. But I still don't know how she managed her sunny disposition or held on to her dreams--unless she resorted to prescription drugs, like I eventually did.
When our most prized possession is taken away by force, not by a stranger but by a blood relative, what have we to lose? What boundaries are left to be broken? Who do we trust?
To Be Continued...
