| K.C, 21 |
Everyone calls me K.C, except for Grandma Katherine. “Why would you go and butcher such a beautiful name?” She’d ask with one hand on her hip and another hand waving around erratically.
When she was around, everyone knew not to call me Kat, Katie, K.C, or anything that was not Katherine. Nine words, two syllables, one word.
Remember that. If not, she’d make sure you’d never forget it.
In between work and classes, I found it hard to spend as much time as I wanted to with my grandmas. Apart from the Girls, my mom and my grandmas were all I had, so I made it my mission to talk to them at least once a week and visit one weekend in the month. “Grandma, you’ve got to move the phone away from your face. You’re too close.” I reminded her, admiring her natural beauty even though she was pushing sixty-five. Grandpa died years ago, but she was adamant about maintaining her natural beauty and dressing up for the sake of dressing up to please herself.
Although she was hesitant before, she was open to learning a few new tricks here and there. Teaching someone how to use an iPhone was harder than you’d think.
Three of my textbooks remained unopened on the bed — my paper wasn’t going to write itself, but right now, I was feeling unmotivated. Cadence, my roommate, had finished hers last week. Like everything else in her life, she was driven.
It bothered me that one of the frames on the wall was crooked. Actually, two of them were. The shelf wasn’t quite as high as I wanted it to be. I was a beginner at this DIY stuff. I was going to have to call A’ja. If you had a problem, no matter what it was, she would have a solution. In time I hoped she learned that not every situation has a solution.
She drew her hand back, “And?” She said. “I look better up close, you know.” She turned side to side to show me both of her good sides, pursing her lips with Rich Rosewood red lipstick. It’s the only color she wore. “A woman doesn’t have a bad side, Katherine; that’s just a figment of imagination.” She often said.
Cheerio, Cadence’s young cat, was busy running back and forth across the fuzzy tan rug I had on the floor. I preferred she do that than try to rip out all the fuzzy hairs. This was the second rug. I hoped it was gonna last longer than the first.
“I’m sure you do,” I said, chuckling. Only a few people would catch me with my black bonnet on. Everyone knows when a black girl slips on her bonnet, she’s done for the day. Don’t FaceTime her. Don’t stop by. Don’t ask to see her in any shape, or form unless you were on the approved list. Yesterday’s cornrows were already unraveling. My grip was never tight enough, so they couldn’t last more than two days.
In case you couldn’t tell, I was in full exam week mode: black leggings, oversized sweaters, lightweight socks, and slippers. My diffuser was on the nightstand, projecting Bergamot into my space.
She placed the phone on the kitchen counter to freely move around as she cooked. “How’d you do on your exam yesterday?” By the slow swirls of the wooden spoon, I knew she was making stuffed pepper soup. I could smell it from here.
When I flipped my paper over, I was relieved to see my grade. “I aced it with flying colors.” I applied another coat of chapstick onto my dry lips. I’ve never finished one of these things. Where do they disappear to?
“That’s my girl,” She said, taking two long sips of her tea. Grandma was a creature of habit. At this time, she was only sipping on Lavender tea. “you know you get your brains from me, right?”
“I get a little bit of something from each of you,” I said cocking my head to the side as I kicked my legs back and forth. “I get the body from Mom, my positivity from Grandma Cecile, and my intellect from you.” It’s the only explanation she’d approved of, but there was more to the story.
Ever since I lost weight, most people would say they couldn’t see the resemblance between me and my mom but it was there. I’d like to think there were similarities beyond our weight. Like the way we could never sit still. Our round eyes. Or even our canyon-wide gaps that we embraced.
My room embodied Grandma Cecile — plants, positivity, and passion. She was the one who taught me the importance of creating an environment that nurtured you and helped you sow seeds of success. On the shelf above my bed was Sue, my spider plant. At the foot of my bed was Penny, my pancake plant. And in the corner were the twin ferns, Frank and Fiona. The art on the walls were inspirational, reminding me of my strength, beauty, and purpose. And I was the one who brought the passion into the room each time I stepped in it.
She nodded her head. “Good answer.” She tasted the soup, closing her eyes to feel the flavor disperse throughout the taste buds and feel the warmth travel through her system. “So, when are you stopping by? I haven’t seen you in two weeks.”
“You’re seeing me now, Grandma,” I said, pointing at myself. My nails were uneven. I really needed to stop biting my nails. I resisted the urge to pop the pimple forming on my chin.
She sighed, “It’s not the same. This will never substitute the feeling of being in someone’s presence.”
And she was right. There was nothing like feeling her suffocating embrace, smelling Grandma Cecile’s concoction of essential oils, or seeing Mom’s beaming smile whenever she saw me.
This was the longest I've been away from home. “I know, but it’s the best we’ve got for now.” Wanting to go to school hours away wasn’t an easy choice, but we all agreed it was the right choice for me. Spelman College’s Pre-Health Summer Program (PHSP) proved I had made the right choice.
Shaking her head, she said, “You sound more and more like your father every day. It’s uncanny.” She pointed the spoon at the camera, dripping sauce on the lens.
Something about hearing that made me get all tingly. Sometimes I did feel sad because I didn’t get a chance to know him, but then I turned that thought around. I was glad that he was part of the reason I was here. “Tell me the story again, Grandma,” I didn’t have to say which one. She knew.
I dropped my pencil and tucked my hand under my chin, not wanting to miss a word. I knew every word of the story the same way I knew every word to each song on Taylor Swift’s Red album.
I was supposed to be writing my paper on black women and health disparities, but right now, all I could watch was my grandma reenact my parent’s chance encounter at the airport, of all places.