Every year around January 1, I start planning my birthday celebration. While others are trying to figure out how they'll trick themselves into believing they'll last more than 17 days on New Year's Resolutions, I'm searching retail sites, pouring over restaurant menus and Yelp reviews, and grinding my teeth in utter frustration at the STILL RAMPANT lack of killer stilettos in sold in wide widths. And, as many of you know, I also spend that time scouring hair sites to score some flawless birthday hair that I can swing like a drag queen at a Cher concert. Yes Gawd!! I send out emails, make phone calls, make reservations, and do my best to quiet that small churning in the pit of my stomach that always inevitably surfaces around birthday planning time. Would anyone show up?
See, I'm one of those that used to thrive on the approval of others--sad but true. I'm not 'shamed to tell you--and I secretly used my birthday as the day of obligatory approval and kindness. This is a day when everyone has to be nice to me. LOL! (of course, now, I know better than to think that but for a long time I did) And because I used to call a LOT of toxic people 'friend', that was the one day when, even if your level of emotional toxicity was higher than Keyshia Cole's mama Frankie, I could expect at least a kind word or two on my birthday. They HAD to approve of everything I did and give me what I wanted. So, I'd make all these plans, make a huge fuss about the partying we would all do, and set myself up to receive all the happy birthday wishes and the--again--obligatory kindness and niceties that I just KNEW would be flowing like Rose' on my birthday. Annnnd, no. Just no. Sometimes, yeah...but for the most part? Naw. Didn't go down that way.
I never had birthday parties as a child, and if I did have one, I certainly don't remember it. No one made a big deal about birthdays around my house, so I always had to overcompensate and remind myself how special I was on my birthday. There's nothing worse for a little girl than to wake up on birthday morning and discover that her Daddy doesn't even know why today is supposed to be special...for EVERYONE. So, I made it my personal mission to make sure to remind everyone in the most subtle (read: passive aggressive) ways I could that my birthday is on the horizon. Especially my dad. LOL! My close friends would do nice things and none of my friends ever forgot my birthday, which made me very very happy. But, I didn't get my first birthday cake until i turned 24 (Thanks Reina!) or have my first party til I turned 25. I spent most of the birthdays of my early 20's with my son's father and the most we ever did was go out to dinner and a movie. I wasn't ready to admit it at the time, but my secret wish was for everyone that I loved to care enough to come together--on their own--and celebrate my birthday; I needed it to be as special to them as it was to me. Unfortunately, back then, I kept alot of my personal relationships compartmentalized so I had, like, 4 separate groups of friends, who were ALL kept separate from the people I dated. How in the world I ever thought they would come together is beyond me. *smh*
Anyway, as I said, as I got older, I would make plans and invite folks to come out and celebrate with me. And everyone would completely validate me and say 'yeah, girl, we comin'! We gon' do it up!!" but then on the day of...'oooh, girl, sorry. Something came up last minute. Not gonna make it." or "Sorry, I gotta work" or the now-famous "Alandria! It's too COLD to do any partying this time of year!! But happy birthday, though!" It didn't help that, for the past 3 or 4 years, Mother Nature has seen fit to sprinkle cold white fairy dust all over the DC metro area in January and February. It also doesn't help that, from the moment i discovered what the NFL actually was, the SuperBowl is ALWAYS my birthday's direct competition for attention. My birthday weekend is ALWAYS the same as super bowl weekend (in 2006, they were the same day). I was so damn happy that my ex, Christian, wasn't into football I didn't know what to do! After spending most of my early years with a guy who was DEDICATED to the sport of football in so many ways, and having to share the air of celebration which I thought should've been dedicated to my birthday (hmmm, attention whore much, Alandria?) with the second most important day of the entire football season (the first being NFL Draft Day), I longed for someone who wouldn't schedule my birthday weekend plans around "anytime before Sunday at 6pm".
-___-
Each year since I turned 26 (a birthday I spent in LA auditioning to be an extra in the movie Dreamgirls) I've had less and less people show up for my birthday celebration. Last year was so pitiful, I wanted to escape into the bathroom and just cry my eyes out. Or, a friend from one group wouldn't show up because they knew someone from another of my group of friends would be there.. THAT'S how I came to the decision to celebrate my birthday all month long. LOL! I'd love to tell you that I, genius that I am, brainstormed the coolest of all cool ideas--that is, to celebrate my birthday for the entire month instead of just that one day--because i'm just, well, a genius. MmmmNo. Because all my relationships were so compartmentalized, none of my friends or boyfriends really liked to share party time with me. So, i spent my birthday DAY by myself, the night with whoever my boyfriend was at that time (gotta get that 'Don't Ever Let Yo Mama Find Out You Did That Nasty Sh*t birthday sex in chile. Betch, you BETTA get it in!), and over the course of the 4 weekends in February, celebrating with my friends and family....separately.
The one time that came close was my 28th birthday. A childhood friend had said that she really wanted to spend my birthday with me. Ok, cool. We'd been out of touch for a long time because she still lived in Richmond, and I didn't visit much. I had already planned this party, ordered a dress, and sent out the invites so I invited her to come stay for the weekend. And so began the nightmare.
The night before, my hair appointment was cancelled. I received an email that my party dress could NOT be delivered on time, as promised by Nordstrom. I don't remember what happened to the shoes I'd planned to wear, but I suddenly couldn't wear them and now needed to find new shoes...for a dress that I wasn't even sure would arrive in time for my dinner party. Le sigh. My rescheduled-for-early-the-next-morning hair appointment, the stylist left me hanging so I would have to do my own SEW-IN weave MYSELF, that day. My friend arrived the next morning at which point i informed her that we would need to do all this last minute running around. she seemed okay with it and I thought 'hey, this'll be a great time for us to catch up before the party.'
Fast forward to 4pm. We've spent the entire morning talking and laughing. The dress arrived just after 10am (thank God!) and we spent the day combing Pentagon City mall looking for shoes. Every shoe store this side of the MD state line, we tried it. But my Fred Flintstones--my affectionately named size 10W feet--simply didn't agree with any of the shoes we tried on. Not a single pair. She was tired and cranky, I was panicking and frustrated. But I kept thinking 'this is my birthday dammit! I'ma make this shit special if it kills me!!' (LOL!) My reluctance to leave the mall without even a 'maybe' pair of shoes kept us there way too long and, on the way home, we had to stop at Marshalls to use the restroom. On our way out, I just happened to swing by the shoe section and, lo and behold, I found them. I found my birthday shoes hiding in the size 7 section behind some ugly black kitten-heeled granny boots. AND they were only $39.99! #score! I tried them on and instantly that they wouldn't last the whole night without torturing my feet, but they would have to do. She was whining about missing her nap time, we were both hungry, I STILL had to do my hair, and I was getting emails and phone calls left and right from folks asking for last minute party details, or cancelling. I could tell that she wasn't used to my particular brand of chaos and drama, and that she may be feeling a bit perturbed. I, on the other hand, was completely in my element. I finally finished my hair, called the cab, and began to dress. As we were finishing up, she noticed a Vaseline stain on her dress (she uses it as her body moisturizer) and immediately flew into a raging panic. Of course, the stain showed up brightly on her bright green dress so, reluctantly, she threw on a blazer to cover it. That stain would be the stain that would ruin my birthday party.
The reservations were for 8pm...but the cab didn't show up until 8:15. I changed the reservations to 8:45. We arrived just after 9, and I think only 1 other person from our party was there. I'd invited at least 15 people but, as we waited for our table, one by one they began emailing or texting to cancel. The restaurant refused to seat us until at least half of our party arrived, so I had to keep changing the number of folks expected in our party. 15 became 12 became 10 became 6. Finally, one other person called to say she was right around the corner looking for parking, so they seated us. She never showed; I guess she never found parking. Reina was having trouble with her debit card working at an ATM so she arrived really late, which I didn't care about, but for a second, I thought she wouldn't make it either.
There ended up being 4 of us total. While waiting for Reina to arrive, we ordered drinks. She arrived just before the drinks did and, as the waiter listened to her drink order, he was also setting my friend's drink down in front of her. At the very same moment, Jesus decided that this particular birthday would not only serve as a time of celebration, but a time of endurance also. The waiter mistakenly set the glass down on the edge of her plate and, unsteady, it fell right on over. In her lap. All over her green dress. Yep, that same one with the Vaseline stain that she'd JUST finished being salty about. i thought we would have to restrain her from knocking him the hell out. She kept mumbling to herself "dont punch him, don't punch him, don't punch him...". We all got that she was blown about the dress, but it was a martini: nothing but Vodka. As soon as it dried, she'd be back in business cuz it would dry clear! But nope. She sat in that seat, scowling, wet and salty until her dress dried; then she was dry and salty. And still scowling. She didn't speak to any of us, she didn't dance, she didn't smile. She looked around at everything but us. At one point, she turned her back on the table to watch the people on the dance floor, refusing to speak. The other girls at the table were texting me discreetly, asking what her problem was. When I asked her, she lamented about the stain and then the drink and said she was ready to go. Now. I told her that, of course, I couldn't leave my own party but she wasn't hearing it. She was ret ta GO.
I was so upset, but refused to show it. I was appreciative that the few that had made it out, had taken the time to do so when so many others had flaked out on me, and I refused to let that be in vain by pouting over someone else's bad attitude. I couldn't believe she was being such an ass on my birthday. Didn't she know my birthday was all about ME, not HER??!! Hmph! The NERVE.
2009 was a hard year for me, and so was my 29th birthday. The year I turned 30, 2010, DC was covered in a blizzard the entire month of January and I knew there was no way anyone would come out to do anything for my birthday. By this time, i had a few new friends. One of my best friends' birthday is exactly 2 weeks after mine so she understood my pain when it came to birthdays. The snow was entirely too high to go out and do much on the day of my 30th birthday so I spent half of it at work, and the other half at home, thanking the Lord that I'd made it to see 30. There's something about turning 30 that changes your perspective. It was a milestone for sure. The next night, we were both drowning in cabin fever so as soon as the roads were clear, she called me with the escape plan. We partied SO HARD that night! And I partied with my other friends again that weekend! Totally unplanned and totally what a 30th birthday should be like.
Last year...eh, fuggedaboudit. Only 1 person showed up for my actual party. LOL! Bless her heart. She was one of the few who had always shown up for my birthday, and I will always be grateful to her for that. We don't speak anymore so I am pretty sure I won't spend anymore birthdays with her.
This year, I deliberately said I'm not planning anything. It's caused me a small amount of anxiety, lol, but i refuse. I didn't pick out or order a dress, no shoes, no reservations, nothing. I did do my hair, but that's about it. I told my best friend she could decide everything, all I would do is show up. I didn't invite anyone else. We have the most fun when we're out together anyway so *shrug* it makes sense. Errybody know how I love to eat (lol, shuddup) so I knew we would go to dinner somewhere but besides that, it's wide open. As long as there's music, and laughter, and cute guys (werk!) I don't even care what we do.
My dad forgot about my birthday again. *smh* *chuckling* If I don't accomplish anything else this year, I will learn acceptance. it is the only thing I wish for and resolve to do. I will learn to accept myself, to accept others, and to allow others to accept me as I am, right where I stand. So, it's okay that my dad forgot my birthday; he still loves me and he shows me every day in his own...twisted and dysfunctional...sorta way. That's just who he is, he forgets everyone's birthday. LOL. And that's alright too.
I told a friend this morning "I would've liked to not be short on cash on my birthday, but what I lack in cash today, God has made up for in love and support. I'm girded and surrounded by people who love me, are kind and patient with me, support me in word and in deed, and I have all I need and most of what I want so I dare not complain. I have less material wealth today than I think I ever did, and this is turning out to be my happiest of birthdays. God is so good, even when I didn't know how He would use a tragic situation and use it towards my future good." <---------- that's a true story.
Anyways, I can't WAIT to show you guys pictures of the foolishness we get into tonight! I'm interested to see what I come up with to wear but I already know it's gon' be a BURNA! The weather has been nice all week--unseasonably warm--most of my homework is done already, and I'm headed into a great birthday weekend with some folks who are really making the fuss over me that I've always wanted. Funny how that didn't happen until I stopped needing it. :-)
I will see you all on the other side of 32!
BeautifulDae <3
Friday, February 3, 2012
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Hmmm..what to wear, what to wear?
As usual, it's almost my birthday, I want to wear a bangin ass dress...and haven't got a clue which one to actually buy. *smh* Will I ever learn??
Here are some of my favorites:
Dear Amber Riley:
I simply adore you in this dress. Will you take it off so I can wear it for my birthday party? Please and thank you. Great.
Another favorite (from Torrid) that I've been drooling over since, like, November:
Then I found this one on the Igigi site:
Monif C has amazing dresses that I'd love to try but, quite frankly, my money ain't there yet. Not $300 for a damn birthday dress that I'ma wear once. No ma'am. Nuh uh. ShutItDown. buuuut, you know what I have been DYING to do, secretly?? These!!:
Yasssss Hunty! I'm so serious about these gloves!! Oh, and lets not forget these droolers:
I saw this fly beyotch on MadisonPlus a few weeks ago, and this heffa showed up in one of my dreams a few nights ago. in the dream, I was chasing her down a dark alley trying to take the dress off her in public:
Biiiitch, YASSSS! You BETTA werk in dat bodyglide ass green dress! I want that dress so bad!! That shat is layed like FIRST CLASS WHORE!!
-____-
Shit just got real. Cuz I probably won't be wearing NOT NA'N ONE of these dresses. *smh sadly*
What do you guys think? should I try for a dress last minute, or chalk it up to jeans and cute top?
Here are some of my favorites:
Dear Amber Riley:
I simply adore you in this dress. Will you take it off so I can wear it for my birthday party? Please and thank you. Great.
Another favorite (from Torrid) that I've been drooling over since, like, November:
Then I found this one on the Igigi site:
Monif C has amazing dresses that I'd love to try but, quite frankly, my money ain't there yet. Not $300 for a damn birthday dress that I'ma wear once. No ma'am. Nuh uh. ShutItDown. buuuut, you know what I have been DYING to do, secretly?? These!!:
I saw this fly beyotch on MadisonPlus a few weeks ago, and this heffa showed up in one of my dreams a few nights ago. in the dream, I was chasing her down a dark alley trying to take the dress off her in public:
-____-
Shit just got real. Cuz I probably won't be wearing NOT NA'N ONE of these dresses. *smh sadly*
What do you guys think? should I try for a dress last minute, or chalk it up to jeans and cute top?
Happy February!
One of my goals for the past few years has been to blog consistently. I was very hesitant to even get into blogging initially because, well, i'm pretty long-winded and blogging didn't seem to be the platform for that. After much discussion with my inner self, I decided to jump right into it. And immediately stepped on the brake. Whoa! What had I gotten myself into?? Uh, HELLO??!!!
Because most people know me as a makeup artist, naturally, everyone encouraged me to become a beauty blogger. The problem with that was always this: I'm not le product whore. Working makeup artists don't buy new products as often as makeup enthusiasts do, so alot of the FOTD that I did were using the same products over and over. That's what I did for clients, it's what i did for myself. Soon enough, i began to feel self conscious that I was employing enough variety in my makeup looks...so I stopped blogging. It went from being something fun that i looked forward to to being a chore that I had to constantly find new material for. it was a damn full time job!! I had NOT signed up for all that! Days, weeks, months went by and i found myself writing online but not in this blog. There were other issues and things I wanted to discuss that weren't makeup-related, so i made up, like, 5 other blogs just to talk about the things I wanted to talk about. And you guessed it, after about 2 weeks, I was wanting to erase the word blog from the English language. I couldn't figure out how other bloggers did it. Was i really supposed to talk about makeup and nothing else?? I ain't got it. And I wasn't gon' get it, either.
I was mad. LOL! At who, I don't really know but, yeah, I was hella salty that i couldn't combine all my thoughts into one blog. I had so much to say and alot of the times, most of it had absolutely nothing to do with makeup. Arrrgh!!! I.was.pissed! So finally, I abandoned my poor little blog. Each day, i would write posts in my head and promise myself to add them to my other blogs, but it never happened. I was too damn mad to write, lol. The makeup posts would come every now and then, when i was really in the mood but otherwise, eh. #pass. #fail. Eventually, I got tired of managing 4 different blogs, and tried to find a way to combine them. That didn't really work either, so I just shut the other ones down and opted to focus solely on this one. Then hell broke loose in my life and my last thought was "uh, blog who??" O_o
*scratches head*
It is now February 2, the day before my birthday, and I have a lot more free time to blog than I did way back when. Still don't have a lot of new makeup, lol, but I've decided that that don't e'em matter. I'ma just blog about what I want to blog about anyway, even if I'm the only one who reads it. *big cheesy grin* Jeah, cuz I goes HARD like dat in the paint!
(Not really. I'm just tired of having to manage so many separate blogs.)
Once I figure out hot to import all the other ones into this one, we'll be back in the sack!
Later gators! (i do have a lot more to say, but it's 3:04am which means it's time to blow this Popsicle stand)
B.D.
Because most people know me as a makeup artist, naturally, everyone encouraged me to become a beauty blogger. The problem with that was always this: I'm not le product whore. Working makeup artists don't buy new products as often as makeup enthusiasts do, so alot of the FOTD that I did were using the same products over and over. That's what I did for clients, it's what i did for myself. Soon enough, i began to feel self conscious that I was employing enough variety in my makeup looks...so I stopped blogging. It went from being something fun that i looked forward to to being a chore that I had to constantly find new material for. it was a damn full time job!! I had NOT signed up for all that! Days, weeks, months went by and i found myself writing online but not in this blog. There were other issues and things I wanted to discuss that weren't makeup-related, so i made up, like, 5 other blogs just to talk about the things I wanted to talk about. And you guessed it, after about 2 weeks, I was wanting to erase the word blog from the English language. I couldn't figure out how other bloggers did it. Was i really supposed to talk about makeup and nothing else?? I ain't got it. And I wasn't gon' get it, either.
I was mad. LOL! At who, I don't really know but, yeah, I was hella salty that i couldn't combine all my thoughts into one blog. I had so much to say and alot of the times, most of it had absolutely nothing to do with makeup. Arrrgh!!! I.was.pissed! So finally, I abandoned my poor little blog. Each day, i would write posts in my head and promise myself to add them to my other blogs, but it never happened. I was too damn mad to write, lol. The makeup posts would come every now and then, when i was really in the mood but otherwise, eh. #pass. #fail. Eventually, I got tired of managing 4 different blogs, and tried to find a way to combine them. That didn't really work either, so I just shut the other ones down and opted to focus solely on this one. Then hell broke loose in my life and my last thought was "uh, blog who??" O_o
*scratches head*
It is now February 2, the day before my birthday, and I have a lot more free time to blog than I did way back when. Still don't have a lot of new makeup, lol, but I've decided that that don't e'em matter. I'ma just blog about what I want to blog about anyway, even if I'm the only one who reads it. *big cheesy grin* Jeah, cuz I goes HARD like dat in the paint!
(Not really. I'm just tired of having to manage so many separate blogs.)
Once I figure out hot to import all the other ones into this one, we'll be back in the sack!
Later gators! (i do have a lot more to say, but it's 3:04am which means it's time to blow this Popsicle stand)
B.D.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
I Remember when...
This semester, I'm studying African American Literature, which means I'm reading a lot of slave narratives and pre-Civil War African American literature. For an upcoming assignment, I have to listen to various interviews conducted with former slaves, recorded during the early 1900's. The audio is barely audible because of all the static and the low quality of the equipment, and most of the interviewees have tremendously thick accents and poor English so it's hard to understand them. Nevertheless, my interest has been piqued by just listening to the voices of former slaves from the area where my grandmother lived/where my mom (and later myself) grew up, down in Norlina/Warrenton, NC right across the VA/NC state line.
Reading some of the online stories and listening to the interviews brought back so many memories from my childhood. The land on which my grandmother's house now sits--like so much of the land in that area--was owned by the Perkins family. The Perkins' owned a plantation (a bit further up the road) that was tended entirely by blacks/slaves, and later, by freed slaves, including my great-great and my great grandmother. My (paternal) great grandmother AnnaLee Scott worked as a maid on that plantation, and it is where I spent each and every summer of my youth until 9th grade. It is also where my maternal grandmother would later meet and fall in love with my grandfather (the son of my great grandmother). Hearing the former slaves interviewed and telling their stories of picking cotton, tobacco, cooking in the fireplace because there was no stove, riding on the back of horse-drawn carts through the damn fields in the HOT ASS NC sun...it all brings back memories. I, too, picked cotton and tobacco, tended the animals, rode tractors, rode on the back of horse-drawn carts, and cleaned the Big House alongside my great grandmother. Of course, at that age, i had no idea what it was; I just knew that everyone in my family had worked for Ellen and Ann Perkins at some point so that's what I had to do too.
We had no running water so all our water came from our well. Remember the well from The Ring? Yep. We had that, from which we drew water for everything. We had no bathroom or kitchen sink. We had no stove. We did have electricity but the TV was black and white and cable wasn't available in my grandmother's area yet, so shut that down. Like the former slave discusses in her interview, we cooked our food and heated the house with the same wood burning oven in the middle of the dining room floor, just like the one in The Color Purple. In fact, one of my most hated chores was chopping wood. I finally figured out a way to suck at it so my grandfather told me to just stop doing it. (Bwahahaha!) We hunted for a lot of our food, though it's important to note that that wasn't entirely necessary; my family was just a bunch of gun-totin' carnivores. *shrug* I learned to shoot a rifle before I got my first pimple. I spent far more time than I care to recount chasing chickens, bandaging blisters from cotton-picking (damn seeds are sharp!), and cleaning the innards of animals and fish. Oh, and shelling vegetables and canning preserves. Back then, we didn't have plumbing so we used chamber pots as our relief. But when they would get full, the whole house would STANK to the high heavens, and need to be emptied. It was my job (of course) to take the pot down to the outhouse and empty it. And let me tell you, if you ever wanna see me bitch-made, take me to my grandmother's house and tell me to go to the outhouse at night. It was the country; there was no light except the ONE light pole that lit the path to the outhouse. Only problem was, the path of the light stopped waaaay before the outhouse. So, between the light and the outhouse was just...darkness. I only got there because i had the way memorized. AND it sat right under a big ass oak tree. There was a pig pen on the right side of the path, the outhouse to the left...so sometimes, you could hear the pigs making weird noises at night. Sometimes, though, they slept and made no noise...and would wake up screaming into the night as I walked by on the gravel and leaves, startled by the noise. I killed many a snake during the day, but when night time came, it was far too dark to see any snakes slithering by. The other thing that terrified me was toads. They would camouflage themselves in the dirt in the garden so when I picked vegetables, I would reach down and the 'dirt' would hop up on my arms. At night, I couldn't see them until I walked into the stream of light on the path, but I could feel them hopping on my feet. The first time that happened, I dropped the pot in the middle of the path and ran screaming and crying back up to the house; I got a beating--with a switch--the next morning when my grandfather walked down the path and saw the huge pile of crap and yellowed toilet paper on the ground. I learned not to drop the pot after that night. From then on, I would just walk fast and cry to myself whenever I had to go out at night, trying to watch
My great grandmother wasn't born into slavery, but her parents were. She was raised with her mother--who worked on that same plantation--and she never knew her father. She could often be heard humming old hymns quietly to herself, her worn, withered face unsmiling. She rarely smiled, but she did tell me about her own childhood on that same plantation when I was little, every day as we cleaned the House. Her mother was freed but, unlike lots of other freedmen and women, opted to continue working at the Perkins'. She told me it was all she'd ever known, that she'd grown up there, and, from as far back as I can remember, it's all I ever remember her doing. She never went to school and could barely read or write; she'd learned much later in life the basics of writing but was well versed in the books of the Bible. She never worked anywhere else, or did anything else. We would arrive at the Perkins' each morning with the sun, and leave just before dark each evening, as she did throughout her life. On Sundays, she went to church, and that was it. She lived to be 94 (she died in 1988) and she worked in Ann Perkins' kitchen until her body simply wouldn't allow her to leave her home anymore. She lived out her last days in a small trailer on a tiny plot of land that she, too, never owned.
My (maternal) grandmother Martha also worked for Ann and Ellen Perkins, but because she was more the outdoors type, she worked in the fields. That's how she ended up meeting Joseph, my grandfather. He too worked at the Perkins estate and courted her--as any upstanding Southern gentleman should--until they married in the early 1950's. They were 'gifted' with the house as a wedding gift provided they tended the land--for free--for the Perkins'. The house sits on about 5 acres of Perkins land, acres of cotton, corn, and tobacco as far as the eyes could see. She never paid a dime for the house or taxes for the property, but every summer, we picked cotton, corn, and tobacco. Across the street, and behind the house, were gardens with rows and rows and rows of vegetables, fruit, and grains...you name it, it was growing in that damn garden. Next to the backyard garden was a huge tobacco shed where, after it was picked, it had to be stripped, processed, and cured. I spent so many hours cooped up in that shed smelling nothing but sweat, tobacco, and more sweat. And feet. *gag* I think that may be another subconscious reason why I hate cigarettes, lol (besides the other obvious reasons to hate smoking).
Ann Perkins, the daughter of the duo, suffered an injury as a child and grew up paralyzed. She could never leave a room without help: each morning she was carried in, placed in her favorite chair facing outside (so she could see all the comings and goings), and she sat in that room all day and watched TV on CBS from sun up to sun down. I was allowed to come inside at 11 to watch 'The Price is Right' each morning, and then to watch the news at 6 each evening; I had to get back to my chores immediately after. Ann was a kind, soft-spoken woman who rewarded me with peach ice cream on the sweltering days that I braved the heat on the second floor to dust The Doll Room. Servants were not allowed on the second floor except to carry her up and down the stairs, or to clean. Ann was a collector of dolls, new and antiques, as well as cats. She was the classic Cat Lady, with well over 20 cats living in the house and 20 more on the grounds outside. It was my job to dust the dolls in the doll room (which was stupid to me because no one was ever allowed to play with them so they never moved...but there was, admittedly, dust on them every now and again) and to collect the cats when they got stuck in a room or it was feeding time. A lot of times, i would spend that cleaning time pretending I was a princess who could afford to wear dresses and jewelry as lavish as those the dolls wore. They were my only real friends at that house, even though their blinking eyes creeped me the hell out, and my great grandmother always admonished me to never, ever touch any of them other than to dust them to perfection, lest I break or damage one that I couldn't afford to replace.
It was at that plantation house that I learned to fish, ride bulls (LOL), rope cattle, herd animals, and to stitch wounds (I never EVER wore shoes as a child and once, not paying attention while running from an angry pig, I stepped on a wooden plank with a rusty nail protruding through the top. She made me stitch it up myself as a lesson to pay closer attention next time, lol *you gon' learn today!*). It was also there that I was first exposed to the difference between light black skin and dark black skin. As a fairer child, I received more allowances and privileges than was typical for the servant staff. I was the only child allowed inside the Big House to watch TV; I was the only child allowed to work beside her relative, as most of the other maids had children that had to work outdoors all day. Most of the other children were boys, and were darker, and so weren't allowed inside. Ever, not even to use the bathroom. Most of the servants and their families used the outhouse anyway so it was expected of the children to use it too. I do remember using the bathroom inside, but only the one downstairs, NEVER the one that the Perkins' used upstairs. There were a few other little girls but I didn't play with them because they were mean to me; besides, I was a tomboy who played with the boys and the animals and never sat still long enough to do whatever it was they were doing. LOL. I was always in trouble for being somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. *smh* Very few servants were allowed in the house at all, namely my great grandmother, my grandmother, the young maid (whose name I keep remembering as Bet) who did the grocery shopping, and the foreman, Palmer, whenever he needed to bring in reports of whatever was going on outside. Palmer lived on the property in one of the little old cabins which, I later discovered, served as slave quarters way back when.
One day, during one of my can't-sit-my-little-ass-still adventures, I came upon an old dilapidated barn. It looked like someone had set it on fire but the fire had been caught before it could burn to the ground. I remember it being really tall, like the tobacco sheds, and having a chain and lock on the doors. Of course, I broke some of the slats on the door and squeezed my lil hind parts in. It was pitch black inside except for what little light shown through the one window all the way at the top. There seemed to be a million birds flying around above, and there was bird crap all over the dirt floor. it smelled AWFUL. Before I could even get to look around, there was a loud banging on the door and I got called out. Palmer snatched me out of that barn so fast I couldn't see straight. He told me to never go back in there, that it had been locked for a reason and I needed to stop being so damn nosey. I gave him the full court press about why I wasn't allowed to go in there when I was allowed to go everywhere else on the grounds. It took a while but he finally, in exasperation, told me the story of how that barn used to be where slaves were taken to be whipped and hung. Said his father told him stories about it that had been told to him by his father, that everybody knew about it and that's why they all avoided it. He said he'd never actually seen anyone killed or whipped there, but he believed the stories 100% and didn't want me to get my hide whipped for snooping around. Yeah, i didn't bother to go back to that barn. Like, ever again.
There was very much a residual slave mentality on the property. The older servants, including my great grandmother, even referred to (the deceased) Mr. Perkins as 'Massa Perkins'. I never met him and people rarely spoke of him so i didn't know much about him--and when they did, it was in very hushed tones.
My great grandmother always stressed to me the importance of putting God first, working diligently, staying out of trouble, and most importantly, keeping my head down and my mouth shut around White folks. (Clearly, she saw that I would have issues with this later in life) I think I annoyed her with all the questions of a precocious, curious child and more often than not, that got me smacked in the mouth on the REGULAR. LOL. Unlike my grandmother, my great grandmother thought it better to be unseen and unheard by White people and preferred to be left alone to quietly do her work in solitude. After she died, my grandmother began working at the House to recoup the loss of one maid. My grandmother was a tomboy firecracker who didn't bite her tongue for NOBODY and was all over the place, all the damn time. At one point, my grandmother got another job at a yarn factory and left the Perkins estate. When Ellen Perkins got sick, on her deathbed she requested that my grandmother be the one to care for her daughter Ann in her absence. So, after she would leave her full time job at the factory at 7 am, she would pick me up and I would spend my mornings with my grandmother running errands, cooking and cleaning, and entertaining Ann Perkins. By this time I was a teenager and would soon cease to spend my summers in the blazing heat of the NC country.
I hear her voice in the voices of the women interviewed, and can see her face as clearly as if she sat right beside me today. I can hear it in their songs, in how they tell their stories, talk about their parents and neighbors, how they seem to lace God and religion into every answer. Aside from the monotony and gloom clearly evident in their voices, it's clear how heavily they relied on God and faith to endure any given day. They spoke of life before the war, life after the war, hard life on the plantation...and though not all of them were from VA or NC, God is the one thing they all share in common. And any one of them could have been my great grandma, God rest her soul.
BD
Reading some of the online stories and listening to the interviews brought back so many memories from my childhood. The land on which my grandmother's house now sits--like so much of the land in that area--was owned by the Perkins family. The Perkins' owned a plantation (a bit further up the road) that was tended entirely by blacks/slaves, and later, by freed slaves, including my great-great and my great grandmother. My (paternal) great grandmother AnnaLee Scott worked as a maid on that plantation, and it is where I spent each and every summer of my youth until 9th grade. It is also where my maternal grandmother would later meet and fall in love with my grandfather (the son of my great grandmother). Hearing the former slaves interviewed and telling their stories of picking cotton, tobacco, cooking in the fireplace because there was no stove, riding on the back of horse-drawn carts through the damn fields in the HOT ASS NC sun...it all brings back memories. I, too, picked cotton and tobacco, tended the animals, rode tractors, rode on the back of horse-drawn carts, and cleaned the Big House alongside my great grandmother. Of course, at that age, i had no idea what it was; I just knew that everyone in my family had worked for Ellen and Ann Perkins at some point so that's what I had to do too.
We had no running water so all our water came from our well. Remember the well from The Ring? Yep. We had that, from which we drew water for everything. We had no bathroom or kitchen sink. We had no stove. We did have electricity but the TV was black and white and cable wasn't available in my grandmother's area yet, so shut that down. Like the former slave discusses in her interview, we cooked our food and heated the house with the same wood burning oven in the middle of the dining room floor, just like the one in The Color Purple. In fact, one of my most hated chores was chopping wood. I finally figured out a way to suck at it so my grandfather told me to just stop doing it. (Bwahahaha!) We hunted for a lot of our food, though it's important to note that that wasn't entirely necessary; my family was just a bunch of gun-totin' carnivores. *shrug* I learned to shoot a rifle before I got my first pimple. I spent far more time than I care to recount chasing chickens, bandaging blisters from cotton-picking (damn seeds are sharp!), and cleaning the innards of animals and fish. Oh, and shelling vegetables and canning preserves. Back then, we didn't have plumbing so we used chamber pots as our relief. But when they would get full, the whole house would STANK to the high heavens, and need to be emptied. It was my job (of course) to take the pot down to the outhouse and empty it. And let me tell you, if you ever wanna see me bitch-made, take me to my grandmother's house and tell me to go to the outhouse at night. It was the country; there was no light except the ONE light pole that lit the path to the outhouse. Only problem was, the path of the light stopped waaaay before the outhouse. So, between the light and the outhouse was just...darkness. I only got there because i had the way memorized. AND it sat right under a big ass oak tree. There was a pig pen on the right side of the path, the outhouse to the left...so sometimes, you could hear the pigs making weird noises at night. Sometimes, though, they slept and made no noise...and would wake up screaming into the night as I walked by on the gravel and leaves, startled by the noise. I killed many a snake during the day, but when night time came, it was far too dark to see any snakes slithering by. The other thing that terrified me was toads. They would camouflage themselves in the dirt in the garden so when I picked vegetables, I would reach down and the 'dirt' would hop up on my arms. At night, I couldn't see them until I walked into the stream of light on the path, but I could feel them hopping on my feet. The first time that happened, I dropped the pot in the middle of the path and ran screaming and crying back up to the house; I got a beating--with a switch--the next morning when my grandfather walked down the path and saw the huge pile of crap and yellowed toilet paper on the ground. I learned not to drop the pot after that night. From then on, I would just walk fast and cry to myself whenever I had to go out at night, trying to watch
My great grandmother wasn't born into slavery, but her parents were. She was raised with her mother--who worked on that same plantation--and she never knew her father. She could often be heard humming old hymns quietly to herself, her worn, withered face unsmiling. She rarely smiled, but she did tell me about her own childhood on that same plantation when I was little, every day as we cleaned the House. Her mother was freed but, unlike lots of other freedmen and women, opted to continue working at the Perkins'. She told me it was all she'd ever known, that she'd grown up there, and, from as far back as I can remember, it's all I ever remember her doing. She never went to school and could barely read or write; she'd learned much later in life the basics of writing but was well versed in the books of the Bible. She never worked anywhere else, or did anything else. We would arrive at the Perkins' each morning with the sun, and leave just before dark each evening, as she did throughout her life. On Sundays, she went to church, and that was it. She lived to be 94 (she died in 1988) and she worked in Ann Perkins' kitchen until her body simply wouldn't allow her to leave her home anymore. She lived out her last days in a small trailer on a tiny plot of land that she, too, never owned.
My (maternal) grandmother Martha also worked for Ann and Ellen Perkins, but because she was more the outdoors type, she worked in the fields. That's how she ended up meeting Joseph, my grandfather. He too worked at the Perkins estate and courted her--as any upstanding Southern gentleman should--until they married in the early 1950's. They were 'gifted' with the house as a wedding gift provided they tended the land--for free--for the Perkins'. The house sits on about 5 acres of Perkins land, acres of cotton, corn, and tobacco as far as the eyes could see. She never paid a dime for the house or taxes for the property, but every summer, we picked cotton, corn, and tobacco. Across the street, and behind the house, were gardens with rows and rows and rows of vegetables, fruit, and grains...you name it, it was growing in that damn garden. Next to the backyard garden was a huge tobacco shed where, after it was picked, it had to be stripped, processed, and cured. I spent so many hours cooped up in that shed smelling nothing but sweat, tobacco, and more sweat. And feet. *gag* I think that may be another subconscious reason why I hate cigarettes, lol (besides the other obvious reasons to hate smoking).
Ann Perkins, the daughter of the duo, suffered an injury as a child and grew up paralyzed. She could never leave a room without help: each morning she was carried in, placed in her favorite chair facing outside (so she could see all the comings and goings), and she sat in that room all day and watched TV on CBS from sun up to sun down. I was allowed to come inside at 11 to watch 'The Price is Right' each morning, and then to watch the news at 6 each evening; I had to get back to my chores immediately after. Ann was a kind, soft-spoken woman who rewarded me with peach ice cream on the sweltering days that I braved the heat on the second floor to dust The Doll Room. Servants were not allowed on the second floor except to carry her up and down the stairs, or to clean. Ann was a collector of dolls, new and antiques, as well as cats. She was the classic Cat Lady, with well over 20 cats living in the house and 20 more on the grounds outside. It was my job to dust the dolls in the doll room (which was stupid to me because no one was ever allowed to play with them so they never moved...but there was, admittedly, dust on them every now and again) and to collect the cats when they got stuck in a room or it was feeding time. A lot of times, i would spend that cleaning time pretending I was a princess who could afford to wear dresses and jewelry as lavish as those the dolls wore. They were my only real friends at that house, even though their blinking eyes creeped me the hell out, and my great grandmother always admonished me to never, ever touch any of them other than to dust them to perfection, lest I break or damage one that I couldn't afford to replace.
It was at that plantation house that I learned to fish, ride bulls (LOL), rope cattle, herd animals, and to stitch wounds (I never EVER wore shoes as a child and once, not paying attention while running from an angry pig, I stepped on a wooden plank with a rusty nail protruding through the top. She made me stitch it up myself as a lesson to pay closer attention next time, lol *you gon' learn today!*). It was also there that I was first exposed to the difference between light black skin and dark black skin. As a fairer child, I received more allowances and privileges than was typical for the servant staff. I was the only child allowed inside the Big House to watch TV; I was the only child allowed to work beside her relative, as most of the other maids had children that had to work outdoors all day. Most of the other children were boys, and were darker, and so weren't allowed inside. Ever, not even to use the bathroom. Most of the servants and their families used the outhouse anyway so it was expected of the children to use it too. I do remember using the bathroom inside, but only the one downstairs, NEVER the one that the Perkins' used upstairs. There were a few other little girls but I didn't play with them because they were mean to me; besides, I was a tomboy who played with the boys and the animals and never sat still long enough to do whatever it was they were doing. LOL. I was always in trouble for being somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. *smh* Very few servants were allowed in the house at all, namely my great grandmother, my grandmother, the young maid (whose name I keep remembering as Bet) who did the grocery shopping, and the foreman, Palmer, whenever he needed to bring in reports of whatever was going on outside. Palmer lived on the property in one of the little old cabins which, I later discovered, served as slave quarters way back when.
One day, during one of my can't-sit-my-little-ass-still adventures, I came upon an old dilapidated barn. It looked like someone had set it on fire but the fire had been caught before it could burn to the ground. I remember it being really tall, like the tobacco sheds, and having a chain and lock on the doors. Of course, I broke some of the slats on the door and squeezed my lil hind parts in. It was pitch black inside except for what little light shown through the one window all the way at the top. There seemed to be a million birds flying around above, and there was bird crap all over the dirt floor. it smelled AWFUL. Before I could even get to look around, there was a loud banging on the door and I got called out. Palmer snatched me out of that barn so fast I couldn't see straight. He told me to never go back in there, that it had been locked for a reason and I needed to stop being so damn nosey. I gave him the full court press about why I wasn't allowed to go in there when I was allowed to go everywhere else on the grounds. It took a while but he finally, in exasperation, told me the story of how that barn used to be where slaves were taken to be whipped and hung. Said his father told him stories about it that had been told to him by his father, that everybody knew about it and that's why they all avoided it. He said he'd never actually seen anyone killed or whipped there, but he believed the stories 100% and didn't want me to get my hide whipped for snooping around. Yeah, i didn't bother to go back to that barn. Like, ever again.
There was very much a residual slave mentality on the property. The older servants, including my great grandmother, even referred to (the deceased) Mr. Perkins as 'Massa Perkins'. I never met him and people rarely spoke of him so i didn't know much about him--and when they did, it was in very hushed tones.
My great grandmother always stressed to me the importance of putting God first, working diligently, staying out of trouble, and most importantly, keeping my head down and my mouth shut around White folks. (Clearly, she saw that I would have issues with this later in life) I think I annoyed her with all the questions of a precocious, curious child and more often than not, that got me smacked in the mouth on the REGULAR. LOL. Unlike my grandmother, my great grandmother thought it better to be unseen and unheard by White people and preferred to be left alone to quietly do her work in solitude. After she died, my grandmother began working at the House to recoup the loss of one maid. My grandmother was a tomboy firecracker who didn't bite her tongue for NOBODY and was all over the place, all the damn time. At one point, my grandmother got another job at a yarn factory and left the Perkins estate. When Ellen Perkins got sick, on her deathbed she requested that my grandmother be the one to care for her daughter Ann in her absence. So, after she would leave her full time job at the factory at 7 am, she would pick me up and I would spend my mornings with my grandmother running errands, cooking and cleaning, and entertaining Ann Perkins. By this time I was a teenager and would soon cease to spend my summers in the blazing heat of the NC country.
I hear her voice in the voices of the women interviewed, and can see her face as clearly as if she sat right beside me today. I can hear it in their songs, in how they tell their stories, talk about their parents and neighbors, how they seem to lace God and religion into every answer. Aside from the monotony and gloom clearly evident in their voices, it's clear how heavily they relied on God and faith to endure any given day. They spoke of life before the war, life after the war, hard life on the plantation...and though not all of them were from VA or NC, God is the one thing they all share in common. And any one of them could have been my great grandma, God rest her soul.
BD
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