Ashira's World (Kofi Siriboe)

Love Trusts

I'm sitting at the breakfast nook daydreaming with my eyes closed, sipping warm ginger tea from my favorite cup, when my mind slips back to my childhood. It's been 10 years since I saw my family. Sometimes I feel guilty, like I abandoned my little brothers and sisters, but I vowed to leave that life behind, and I haven't looked back. It feels like my old life is still haunting me though.

I'm more like my mother than I ever wanted to be. I don't think I ever saw her do anything selfish. She always took care of everyone, except herself. She washed and ironed all of our clothes and prepared full-course, home-cooked meals every day. Well, before we moved to Englewood, anyway. Momma always put tender loving care in everything she did. Like when she ironed daddy's church shirts. She paid special attention to every detail, laying the shirt across the ironing board so carefully, as if daddy was actually inside the shirt. Momma sprayed the collar and each arm with Niagara starch, then ironed and creased them to perfection. The shirt would be so stiff that it could stand up on its own.

Momma cared for everyone at church too. She took care of the children at the day care center, taught Sunday school, served on the usher and nurse's board, and helped cook First Sunday dinner. Momma was an amazing cook. Her seven-up pound cake was fluffy and moist on the inside and golden brown on the outside. You could smell the aroma of real butter filling the house. We couldn't wait to taste it. Momma always made us sit still while the cake was in the oven so it wouldn't sink in the middle. We would tiptoe and look inside the oven window to see if it was almost done. She let us lick the mixing spoon and bowl so the anticipation wouldn't kill us. Momma's seven-up cake was the favorite at church.

Smiling, I remember my mother in her church nurse uniform. She always looked so pretty in her perfectly pressed white dress and nurse's hat with white opaque tights and flawless white lace up shoes. She was an usher on Sunday morning and a nurse on Friday nights for tarry service. Brother Charles played a tune that sounded like blues music as Ashur banged away on the drums. "Thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus", the church members chanted in unison as everyone danced around. Momma would scurry with the red blanket to the rescue of church members who "caught the holy ghost" and fell out cold in the floor. 

 Sister Partridge completely lost her mind when she caught the Holy Ghost every week. She would hit people, bump her head on the wooden church pew and work her way to the altar, fall out on the plush crimson red carpet, skirt flying up revealing her white silk slip and matching granny panties. I guess that red carpet was the blood of Jesus washing away all her troubles, the way she rolled around on it with no self-control. We would snicker and shake our heads, wondering why the Holy Ghost didn't tell her not to bump her head and show her panties to the whole church. I understand better now, catching the Holy Ghost was the only therapy Sister Partridge had to cope with her cheating and beating husband. I wonder if she's still with him, I think to myself, shaking my head.

Momma's salmon patties were my favorite. I would stand next to her at the kitchen counter and watch her mix the canned salmon with eggs, onions, and green peppers in the big white mixing bowl. She let me shake salt and black pepper into the mixture. Then she would roll the salmon into balls and mash them gently with the palm of her hands into perfectly round patties. She would dip them into a flour and corn meal mixture and place them carefully onto the big, black cast iron skillet where a dollop of lard had been melting on the stovetop. Those salmon patties always tasted as good as they smelled, yummy.

Momma baked our birthday cakes from scratch and decorated them herself. Our parties were always special. Of course, I had to have Wonder Woman decorations for my party. Momma made our Halloween costumes herself, too. I remember the time she dressed me as a witch. I was 5 years old and I felt so grown up when she put that long black wig and red lipstick on me. I had the pointy hat and long black dress, too. I chuckle to myself just thinking about it. 

Momma made us popcorn balls from scratch. Her popcorn tasted so good. She would pop it in the same pot every time, a big grey pot with green top. I always wondered why the top didn't match the pot. I loved to hear the sound of the kernels hitting the pot top as the pressure built up slowly at first then rapidly, then slow again as the last kernels exploded into fluffy white blossoms. Momma would melt butter in a skillet then pour it over the popcorn and sprinkle just the right amount of salt. It tasted better than movie popcorn. I loved to crunch on the half-popped kernels. Popcorn is still my favorite food.

Great food is my best memories from childhood. Playing outside with our neighbors is also a fond memory. "Ms. Mary Mack, Mack, Mack. All dressed in black, black, black. With silver buttons, buttons, buttons, all down her back, back, back", Tony would sing as she and her sister Sugar turned the jump rope in perfect rhythm. I was the Double Dutch queen. Tony and Sugar would get tired and I was still going strong. I had so much energy. No one could keep up with me.

My mind drifts to the children at the community center. They come to the center with stress lines covering their foreheads and worry on their faces. I feel sorry that they don't get to play like we did. Video games, computers, IPads and IPhones have replaced good old fashioned fun. At least the girls can be children and feel free while they dance at the center. I better get up and get ready, I think to myself as I bound from the barstool and run up the spiral staircase to my bedroom to get dressed. It's the first day of class for the summer program, so the children come in the morning instead of the evening.

I walk through the glass doors painted with a mural of children dancing with a blue sky, white clouds and bright yellow sun in the background as if they are floating in the air. I feel excited to meet a new group of twenty 5 to 13 year old girls, but also sad that these children have so many struggles at such a tender age. I feel hopeful that each of them will be transformed as they dance.

As I walk to my office, my eyes fall on Mina crouched on the floor in the corner of the room at the end of the mirrored wall wearing a black leotard and pink tights. I recognize her from the picture sent over by Child Services with her application. She is a thin, tall 13 year old with long black hair, big, round, black eyes and caramel-colored skin. She looks Middle-Eastern, I think to myself. I ask my assistant, Pamela to line the other girls up for warm up. I walk over to Mina and reach out to her, smiling kindly, as she looks up at me. She reaches back and I guide her to my office. As I close the door behind us I hear Pam begin the warm-up.

"What's wrong, honey?" Mina looks down at the floor and doesn't answer. I take a deep breath in and ask myself, how do I reach Mina? Immediately I sense that I've seen Mina before. هل تتحدث الانجليزية, I ask in the Arabic Alia and Ahmed taught me. "لا", she replied. I had a feeling she was Middle Eastern, so I asked her if she spoke English and she replied, "No". أنت آمن، ثق بي " You are safe, trust me." I reassure her. I see a hint of a smile as I reach out to her again and twirl her gently. I lead her back to the rest of the group, smile, run back to my office and close the door. I fall onto the plush yellow leather couch in my office, weeping uncontrollably. When I touched Mina's hand the second time I saw a flash of her and immediately knew why she seemed so familiar. How did she get here? I must find out what is going on. I will look into it when I get home.

I was distracted the rest of the session. When it was finally over I lock up the center and run to the subway, hop on the Red Line to Grand Central Station, then take the S train to Manhattan. The ride takes 30 minutes and it feels like I will never get home. Thankfully the trains are not that crowded. I sit shaking my leg nervously thinking about Mina. Finally, home. I run up the spiral staircase to the master bedroom, sit in the middle of the floor in lotus position, close my eyes and breathe. One, two, three, I count to myself as I breathe in and out deeply through my nose. When I get to ten I ask, take me to Mina. I am in the room again. Two young Middle Eastern women who seem to be 19 or 20 years old are hugging me, trying to comfort me as I sob loudly. "It's okay, you'll get used to it like we did."

"You tricked me!" I scream in reply, pushingthem away. "My parents think I am a nanny. You lied to them!" Myvoice is trembling as my body shakes in terror and pain. I am Mina. Later that same night Ahmed's partner comes into the room where I was raped,grabs me by the arm and pulls me up. I try to pull away and he punches mein the face. I fall onto the dirty mattress and he takes out a needle andsticks it into my wrist. I lose consciousness. I wake up with a dirty brownblanket wrapped around my face and body, my arms tied behind my back with arope, lying on the floor of a van. I am terrified.