It is no secret that in all of Disney villain songs, whether in the Silver Age or the renaissance age, there's always a neon green in every magenta background. Other than lime green color, the color burning red represents passion time rage, while pu...
Already sick and tired of the racial discrimination and disappointment, Davis struggled with taking his mother's advice. Elsewhere, The Facilier brothers put on a show. —————————————————— *Flashback-1969*
(Davis pov) This dinner has to go right.
"Hey yall!" Uncle Langston said, entering the living room with a Latin woman on his arms, putting the biggest smile as she waves to us. "Sunny! Who are these people coming in my house?" Mom yelled, poking her head out the kitchen as she sees the woman giggling at whatever Langston whispered in her ear. Hmm, this is going to be very interesting!
"Andelle, my sweet! Nice to see more of God's beautiful people, how's it going, sis?" He chimed in, ignoring mom's question, as he waves at her while holding his lady hands.
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"Armstrong! Little Davis, how are you?" Uncle Langston loudly greeted with a smirk he usually wears when he's in company. MAN, I WISH TO BE LIKE HIM AND DADDY someday! UNCLE SUNNY IS REALLY A DELIGHT *End of flashback*
In Psalm, it reads that, 'The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul.' I hope to lord that it's still true.
3 days after the restaurant...
"MOMMA!" I yelled, running to her who I think is in the middle of cooking dinner with her negro spiritual music playing as usual. Shaking my head, I figured I should just "..SO, MOTHER, YOU ARE looking lovely." I greeted, buttering her up with a smile and a quick warm hug as I went to try to help her.
While I set up the table, I was interrupted by the fiery noise of the steamy kettle corn in a big pot on the stove. On the left side of the stove, next to the pot of boiling kettle corn was the large white rice cooker, cooking mixed-vegetable rice. With that food being cooked and of course constantly watched over, I knew it was going to take a while to get momma's undivided attention. Man! Everything looks so good, I am sooo hungry!!
"Davey! HOW IS IT GOING, how was school!?" She asked, causing me to roll my eyes but not without her noticing. "Um, i-." I tried to answer but I ended up getting interrupted by a guitar being played.
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"Boy, you don't need to twist yourself into somebody else to be worthy." She stated sternly while her eyes softened at my shrugging as she gently squeezed my chins. My mother and I had this sorta intense eye contact that made me want to say something, but I couldn't really find the right words.
"Son, you know I've raised you to be re—"
"Momma, I know, I know." I pleaded. "What you taught me don't work the same outside this house." I confessed.
She sets the spoon down gently, but her eyes sharpen—not angry, concerned. "Respect always works."
"Respect don't stop them from staring." I mumbled, but before she could say anything, she quickly looked at the stove and went to check on the beef stew.
Keep moving forward. Easy to say when you'd survived as much as she had. Harder when every step felt like it was met with a shove back.
Third person pov
Davis sat slouched in his chair, long legs awkward beneath the table, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm only he could hear. Mama Odie watched him over her glasses, eyes sharp but tired.
"Boy," she said calmly, "you can't keep lettin' anger drive you like this. That road don't go nowhere good."
"They started it," Davis shot back. "Every time. School, the street, the store on Dauphine—doesn't matter where I go, somebody's got somethin' to say."
Before she could answer, a knock rapped against the front door—three quick beats followed by laughter. "Well, speak of the spirits," Mama Odie said, standing. "That'll be the Baptistes."
"Hello, Faciliers, how are you all?"
"We're doing well like always." Mama Odie replied, opening the door for the neighbors to come in. Entering the house, Davis helped them get settled while she finished cooking dinner. After helping them, Davis retreated to his room soon after, lying back on his bed and staring at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily.
Much later that week, the smell of sugar and yeast filled the air as Davis slipped into the bakery on Rampart Street. Warm light spilled from the windows, and the place buzzed with quiet excitement. His father and uncle were setting up for their show—half music, half storytelling, the kind that made folks forget their worries for a little while.
