The Come Up

Chapter 5- True Friendship

Curvy and thick

Everything the typical Black man wants

That's who she was taught to be

Street smart and handy in the kitchen because "You know, my woman gotta know how to cook"

Intelligent but not too smart, rough enough for sex but weak enough for their control

A sassy woman who knows when to shut up and listen to her man

Brings his food at his demand

Questions no command

And for sure, follows the 10 Commandments

Because aside from her husband, black women must obey their God

You can wear weave but please don't let your tracks show

Speaking of tracks, if you're wearing a bra, cover that shit up

I don't want to know when you're on your period,

As a matter-of-fact, keep all signs that you are female under wraps -please and thank you

Be accessible to men but don't be a hoe

My mother must like you

My friends must want to sleep with you

You must be a worthy trophy

Above all things you must bare me children

And when you go through that 9 months of discomfort

You must accept the fact that I will probably leave before it comes.

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I take a deep breath as I stand outside Trisha's front door, literally swallowing my pride. It stings as it goes down, pushing against the abnormal path and struggling to come back up. Pride is something that we all struggled with in the hood, some more than others. I often chose to defeat mine by letting it go. I was still teaching myself that. Maybe by 40, I would have it all down.

A tall black man with a short afro and a wife beater with jeans opens the door. Trisha's Father, Carmine always had a cigarette in his mouth.

"Hello, Carmine." I say respectfully. He ignores the greetings as he often does and goes back to sit on the ripped up and worn couch, right in front of the TV. I stood in the dimly lit living room awkwardly.

"Trisha home?" I ask. He motioned his head to Trisha's room, right across from the living room couch. There was a sheet of beads hanging where the door should be. I part the beads to Trisha's room that was mostly taken up by a large mattress on the floor. A small TV is in the corner and her closet is to the side of her bed. I remember Carmine had broken down Trisha's door a few months back when he found out there had been boys over. She got a beating that day, it didn't matter that she was 17 years old.

Trisha lays on the bed pretending to watch TV and refuses to acknowledge my presence. 

I let out a heavy breath. "Trisha?"

"Mhm?" She answers, anger still evident.

"I know you been bored out ya mind since you left me." I say sitting on her bed.

"So?" She responds with the thickest attitude. Her room always carries the scent of cinnamon incense. I grew to love it. Her pink walls with pictures of us and her many little brothers and sisters are scattered around and connected by white Christmas lights. She really makes the crappy house look clean and comfortable.