When the officers who shot three teens in
South Bronx faces no charges, protest break out. Two months had past and no one knew about the incident that left two dead and one alive.
Faith Sojourner Williams wants nothing more than to forget that nigh...
Sweat-covered and my body near exhaustion, I drop onto my floor mat. The woman next to me still stands as the instructor compliments her on her stamina as if she's a racehorse. I want to comment that she isn't even in her forties yet, but the burning in my calves and abdomen is enough to keep me quiet.
This—pilates—along with yoga and a luxury apartment gym is what I have been subjected to for the past almost two months. Going from the fast food king, to miss health-obsessed is like an antipode, night and day. Once she heard that exercise and healthy eating could improve my mental health as well as my quality of life, it was like her gears shifted into overdrive. From early morning workouts or yoga sessions to going ham in an evening gym session. My oiled filled and cholesterol-loved life toppled over with her mostly plant-based lifestyle.
Sure, my medication dose is lighter to near nonexistent from when I first started, but at times it feels like she's plotting to kill me. Add in the lax style of parenting and what she calls 'trust', it's like a culture shock. To top it all off, she took all outbursts without the reaction I would be met with had it been my father. It's a no-brainer that a family dynamic would slowly develop.
Taking a swig of her water and chucking my bottle at me, she looks my way. "What do you think about going to brunch with your father this weekend?" She asks suddenly.
"Brunch? My father?" I ask, with furrowed eyebrows. Darius Williams and brunch do not belong in the same sentence.
"I know you haven't seen him in a while. I think it'll be a great idea to catch up."
"My father isn't a brunch fellow. He is more of call dominos and have them deliver sort of guy."
"Ah yes. That heart attack diet he insists on killing you and himself with." Had it been a month ago, I would have made a comment about her not being there and having no right to comment. Now, I let it fly. "He was complacent with brunch."
"Darius Williams?"
"Yes."
"I see."
The conversation ends that way. I figured I would have to see it to believe it and that I indeed do. The moment we walk towards the preppy little restaurant, the hooded figure pushes himself off of the wall. He's wearing his best pair of jeans, the blue ones without the rips or stains on them.
I can see his eyes widen as he looks past the woman walking in front. There his daughter with the tweed, multi-colored suit tries to avoid any eye contact. The knee-high, high heel white boots are an accessory that mummy dearest insisted were meant for the two-piece set. I can't help but stand out to my father who is not keen on having a daughter that is visibly feminine. Our shopping trips when I was younger consisted of big tees, jeans, and sweats. The closest I came to a skirt was my school uniform or when my aunt would buy me clothes that I wouldn't dare wear. His face was visibly impacted by my outfit or the fact his daughter is pounds lighter. Either one is a safe bet.
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As we get closer, he turns and opens the door. He waits for my mother and me to both enter before following behind us. I can tell by the looks of the lobby that this is probably the fanciest restaurant he has been in. We are instructed to hang our coats before we have a chance to really greet each other. To my surprise, my father is wearing a purple button-down. I've never seen him wear anything remotely close; not even when I graduated middle school.
"We talked dress code." My mother says to him.
His jeans and jays are probably a discouraging factor for her. It doesn't sit right in her perfectionist view. I bite my lip to hide my laughter when my father rolls his eyes.
"Be happy I wore the shirt,"
"That shirt is as old as your daughter."
"Yeah, prom." He seems proud that he kept it in his closet that long.
It's her fault. She's lucky he even wore the shirt in the first place. He's more an I-hop fellow than a fancy restauranteur. It's the same for me, but I am less of a thug than my father.
"Unbelievable," she sighs and turns to the lady at the desk who says something.
"Aren't you gonna give your pops a hug?" He asks. My eyes dart up from counting dust on the floor, to his face.
A hug? Hugs are like his version of being a flat-earther. "A hug?" I ask, trying to make sure I heard him correctly and that I am not having auditory hallucinations.
"It's what I said." I awkwardly move towards him, not knowing what to expect. He engulfs me despite my hesitation. He squeezes me as if I was in the army and was away for a year. "You know I missed you."
I am in complete shock, my hands still at my side at attention as I process the change in my father. It's like satan suddenly becomes good. It's a hard concept to grasp since his whole persona is based on evil. Darius William's persona is a stone-cold gangster. His words, not mine.
He lets me go and that second she comes back. "Who knew there was a young lady under there, huh." She jokes. Seeing that she can not leave the house unless every hair is laid and her outfit is presentable, Josephine was not a fan of Darius' idea of how I should dress.
"You have not been feeding my child."
" I've been feeding our child. I just stop giving her that crap you gave to her."
"Crap? Crap kept her healthy and alive for seventeen years."
"Oh really? It's amazing she was in perfect health considering you've fed her little to no vegetables. Did you even teach her what fruit was or was it just fried chicken?"
"If cared so much, where were you?" He asks.
"Don't start this Darius because I can expose all your dirty laundry."
"It's always my fault, huh?"
"Your table," the server tries to get their attention, but their bickering session continues.
I want to hide in shame. For a father that teaches etiquette, he has none whatsoever.
"Sir. Ma'am." He tries again.
"Should I try?" I ask the college student-looking male. He nods, his moppy brown hair moving with his movement. The people around us are giving them strange looks and I want nothing else but to pretend I don't know either of them. He looks at me with a look that says I must get their attention before they are kicked out. That won't be good for the Josephine image. I clear my throat. "I am pregnant."
"You're what?" They both snap their heads toward me at the same time.
"Yeah, right." It's my turn. My head snaps behind me and there they are; the brother who spends his day annoying me and the one I haven't spoken to in ages.
