I will never forget the night I first saw a wig pinned to a Styrofoam mannequin head.
It's actually one of my absolute favorite stories from my childhood. On many occasions (which you will read in this book), when my mother knew she had nowhere for us to sleep that night, she would trick us into thinking we were going on an adventure. (Thank you, mom.)
I was young, very young, maybe five or six years old and I can intensely recall one of these adventures.
The night was so cold, it had to be either the dead of winter or the very beginning of spring. I cannot remember how we all ended up in the car of a drag-queen, a friend of my mothers, yet somehow, we were there. All five of us, my mother, my sister, my two brothers, and myself; all snuggled on each other's laps with bags.
We were crammed in the drag queens small car, driving to a place we had never been and none of us children seemed to care or question why - we thought it all a bit of fun. We didn't think of how late it was, why we waited for him to arrive standing on a corner, or why we held tied-up black contractor bags, full with our belongings, on our laps. We drove down the narrow street; my mother and the drag queen cracking jokes, making us all laugh - performing for us. My siblings and I laughed so hard that every window began to fog up. The drag queen joked that our hot breaths were keeping us all warm as he wiped his windows with his sleeve. We all followed suit; me wiping away the back passenger window, Phil drawing a star on the left driver-side window.
The car became ridiculously foggy from the sheer heat of our bodies overfilling the car; my sister pushing the loud shiny bag from her face so she could see better. The drag queen stopped in the middle of the road, vigorously wiping his clouded windshield which was forbidding him sight to the road. Phil rolled down his window to let some air in and was interrupted by my mom screaming, "ROLL THE WINDOW UP! It's too cold!"
He did as he was told. I watched as Phil took his thin jacket off and began using it as a way to wipe his foggy window again. My mom told all of us to take our jackets off and wipe the windows, "Just keep them from fogging up." ,she laughed. Randy and I pushed bags aside, slipping through the open space between the driver and passenger seat to wipe the front windshield as the drag queen drove. "Yes, keep wiping, keep wiping", the drag queen said - his long nailed thumb flicking us a thumbs up.
I don't know why but that was always so fun to me - our tiny black bodies down to t-shirts and tank tops, laughing, unknowing of the truth.
When we arrived to his house, I was amazed. I stood staring up at the tall penny-colored brownstone with it's large gables and small roof balcony. He opened the main double doors and motioned for us to follow him up.
OH MY GOD! I cannot begin to tell you how many flights of stairs we walked up. My little twigs for legs felt as if they were going to fall out from under me; carrying the bags also didn't help. Phil had to run down on two occasions just to catch the small bag I dropped. When we finally reached the entrance of his apartment, I was exhausted. He opened the door and all I could remember thinking was: Wow! It was the most beautiful and spacious place I had ever been in. I had never seen or been inside of a home this big before, especially an apartment. I kept asking him if the whole thing was his apartment; my arms was stretched out wide as I spoke. He told me yes - he had the entire floor.
There were silky green and mauve-pink caftans draped over chunky cushioned furniture. Even when the lights flicked on, it was still dark and mysterious. Maybe because the floors and the walls were so dark. He divided rooms with reddish brown antique folding screens and I remember his kitchen being the biggest kitchen my six year old eyes had ever seen. I was in awe.
After showing us where the bathrooms were and where we would be sleeping for the night, he and my mother sat down, talking. (About grown-folk stuff.) My adolescent curiosity got the best of me as I began tip-toeing around his house, opening doors to linen closets, discovering rooms I should not have been in.
I will never forget when I saw it. I opened a door, a door I had no business touching, and that's when I saw them in all their glory. Wigs. Lots of them. A platinum blonde wig was pinned to a white Styrofoam head next to a pair of black nylon tights. There was a red wig, as red as a fire-hydrant, draped from a hanger, surrounded by the most elaborate clothes I had ever seen. There was sequins, glittered heels, golden trophies! (Oh, my!) I stepped inside, running my tiny fingers along the perfectly organized clothing, listening to the sound of the beads under my hands, feeling the feathers on a coat.
I was interrupted by someone behind me. As I turned to see the drag-queen standing in the open door-frame, looking down at me, I realized we were both smiling.
YOU ARE READING
Three Miles in Baltimore
Non-FictionI was born in Baltimore, Maryland to a single struggling mother of four. Last year, in the midst of a mental breakdown, I began writing. I wrote in hopes of understanding my depression. I wrote to calm my ever present anxiety. I wrote to acknowledge...
