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Carol Is My Middle Name

 Since I was a baby in the Pre-K, I was always called Carol. 

 I never understood the complication with my real name. It was given at birth. My mom calls it, my papa, gramma, uncle, and aunts. I would respond to Carol at Cactus K, back when I lived in the North Center (Suburbs) of Chicago. My hair started to grow longer and so nappy that it hurt when mama combed it. After kids at school would tell me my hair smelled weird, mama shampooed it with Strawberry and Kiwi Lime soaps. Then papa told me to ¨clean my room" for the first time, pick up toys, and take a bath. I remember missing one of those steps and was whipped by his belt on my hind legs. My legs that were still bony but tall enough and sturdy enough to take it. The morning after that night i told pops I hated him. During lunch, there were no snacks in my food sack. Little privileges like those were taken from me. I was so upset that I told my teacher how the scars happened, and dad was also taken from me. Men in blue outfits and black weapons arrested my father and my mother said it wasn't my fault. But it was. The bruises were the same ones on ma mama's legs, arms,  and face. The ones I saw her soak with water hotter than my baths. She drenched in the tub longer than I ever had. Even when playing with the dolls and the scrubs. She walked with limps from night to night, telling me that she fell. ¨Mama hurt herself, baby¨. I would pray and hope that I don't hurt myself like that when I get older.

  I was happy mama stopped limping and sitting in baths. I was happy to leave some toys out after play and wear my church dresses all day on Sunday's. My favorite dress was white at the top with a purple rose on the shoulder. It was so pretty with layers after layers. Lavander purple ribbon tied around my waist. Mama would make the most darling bows with the strands. The bottom half had the best floral design that almost matched the table cloth. When I wore the dress I received the most compliments from mama's friends. Her friends that loved the dress especially while my hair was straight and sometimes called me Carol, my middle name.

  When 3rd grade started, I met my teacher who was the same color as me and my dolls at home. Mrs. Hughston, she was called. Her hair was always nappy, like how mine was when I got out the bath before mama would make me comb it. It stood out on her like branches full of singing birds in her head. They sang the most beautiful sounds. The branches were wrapped tightly around each other, embracing each owns oxygens. She had a garden and she knew my name. 

  On the first day of school, I came prepared to hear Carol and accept it. But she said, Nearie. Nearie Carol Abion. It was like she screamed heaven for me and only me to hear. Even my classmates in the room had on wide mouthed faces. From then that teacher became my favorite.

  Every day I came to that class prepared to hear Nearie and to only listen for Nearie. One friday Ms. Hughston announced that she'd be moving back to the East Coast of Chicago. Before the day was over, she left gifts on everyone's desk. Little pencil pouch cases or packs of erasers, then farewell cards. On my desk was a bottle of oil. The oil was yellow and sticky like nectar. It smelled like her. Like a vibrant glowing wood pine tree in a dreamy forest. A smell I never smelled again. The trees outside weren't like that. The oils at the beauty supply stores didn't carry such. The things mom put in my hair didn't feel the same, either. My farewell card looked like the rest. A pink card that said how much fun she had teaching us. Except that mine had a side note. She wrote, "It will change".  I went home and ran the nectar feel oils into my hair. My curls swirled with each other, creating tiny knots towards the ends. Mama never noticed the smell, but it filled my room and the rest of the house. I cried. I cleaned my room. I put my dolls away. I took a bath. When mama's friends came over and one called me Carol, I did not make an attempt to correct her. There was no reason to. There wasn't anyone who saw much of a difference between the names, rather than Mrs. Hughston. When mama made dinner that night, she called me Nearie. I said, "Mama, why do your friends and people at school, call me Carol? That is not my name."

  "Baby girl, some people feel that they cannot pronounce our names. Same thing happened to your daddy, aunts, and uncle. Sometimes we just have to let it be" 

But I did not want to let it be. Becky is not the same as Sandy or Jack to Jon. 

   As I ate, I watched the white particles sink into my skin. In the bath, made my hair tangle. It even made my hair smell like artificial Strawberries, Kiwis, and Limes, instead of Nectar-filled gardens full of humming birds. Sinking into the water, I looked up at mama. A tall, strong tree. Mama was so beautiful. Lips plump like mine, brown almond shaped eyes, like mine. Her branches bent over, draping like straight strands of hair from her head above me. The ends straight and damaged but the roots remained curled and nappy, like mine.

On the school tables, it spread everywhere. 

  On the tables at home it spread, too.

Strangely, the most gentle effects of racism were just beginning.