we watch our mothers sweat in front of televisions—tapes growling in the vcr; women yell through screens to never give up because a moment on the lips is a lifetime on the hips; our mothers bend and contort, mimicking the bellyless women;
are women always so pliable?;
we watch as they dart back and forth in enclosed courts, swinging racquets, the winged fat of their arms soaring toward balls that bounce against walls or their friends’ racquets; we feel the vibration of their effort, hear the squeaks of their nikes and new balances just outside the court, the tv airing hey arnold failing to swallow their noise; they look funny, we think, grunting and dashing as if they didn’t hit the ball knowing it would bounce back with fervor, but we are only children, only assuming;
in time we will learn it’s not the ball that terrifies them; it is the winged fat weighing them down, the slowness of their dashes, the inability to maneuver their bodies in ways they once did with ease;
some of our mothers have bellies that plunge, some just a little pudge that sticks out cheekily, some have nothing and hold their breath and suck in their stomachs—ribcages poking—as if there is something we can’t see; but they’re all in pain when they stand in front of these screaming, muscled women or when they dash between walls;
we sniff them when they’re done, try to recall what they smelled like before, but we’re distracted by the novelty of their sweat.
we are hurdling closer to double digits; our plush baby bellies poke through pastel tops decorated with sparkles and peace signs; our mothers point at each of our stomachs;
toni looks down at the manicured fingernail, wondering if her mother will reach for a cheek to pinch in awe of her cuteness, this cuteness that spawned from promiscuity and her parents’ need to extend themselves, see themselves as someone else;
but she says, it’s bout time to get ridda dis belly; don’t wan get stuck with dat;
our mothers tell us we need to commit to a sport;
we are becoming too big for bellies.
toni chooses swimming; she pities the ones who choose dance or karate or even gymnastics; she wouldn’t want to have her body on full display, wouldn’t want coaches tampering with her legs and arms with impatient hands—trying to adjust her, fix her;
she almost chose soccer because swimsuits feel too close to nakedness, but toni prefers to kick beneath the surface than run after a ball—shins sweating beneath guards and thick socks; she prefers for her sweat to blend into the chlorinated water as if they’re indistinguishable, as if it’s not her body exuding exhaustion; she’s convinced she’ll be safe in the water with the others;
she imagined the children returning to land in groups, if not all at once—she was right; it seemed silly in her head then, the idea that water could protect her from gazes reminiscent of her mother’s, but she holds onto it even as it trickles through her fingers; she continues holding after practice when it’s just her and her mother in the car—toni’s skin dry and cracking from chlorine, her mother’s shining from the heat and length of the day.
one easter, we each dine at our favorite hotel buffets;
our mothers pace themselves; they cater to their stomachs’ echoes with salads first: a dark, leafy green, diced and shredded vegetables piled high, turkey or baked chicken slices, a toss of olive oil and balsamic (someone on the food network deemed it a healthy salad dressing alternative); they remove extra plates from beneath theirs, shovel some of their mountain salads onto them, and hand the little mountains to us;
we’re not allowed to venture into the buffet until we’ve finished our salads;
it’s good for you, they say;
we lean our heads closer to their fathers (the only men allowed to question their eating—our fathers know better): das all you havin? / all dis money i spen and das all you eatin? / you have my grandchildren hungry at dis table waitin for you to bring back salad?;
we stretch our ears to the opposite side of the table to listen to their mothers: mm, look healthy / you still on a diet, ay?;
our mothers roll their eyes, kiss their teeth playfully; dismissively, they say: this only the first thing we eatin, daddy / your grandchildren could eat whatever they want once they finish, don’t worry / i just tryna keep up witchu, mummy;
we finish the salads by imagining the cold lettuce as ice cream, by tasting the makeshift dressing as chocolate syrup, by thinking of the chopped cucumbers and tomatoes as sliced bananas and cookie crumbles, and by thinking of the shredded carrots as sprinkles; when it’s time for dessert, it’s as if we’ve devoured sweetness twice: once in preparation for freedom, and once in preparation for freedom to be captured and stored for another day, another time;
we are clever this way.
on days our mothers come home huffing and sighing, everything we or our fathers say seems to bring heat to their bodies;
it starts with the feet, always the feet, and climbs up their shins, and suddenly they’re on their tippy toes, trying to remove themselves from their own bodies; the tension rises to their arms and their hands become fists—their necks craning toward jesus and his patient, wounded body; we watch their breath rise and fall slow, like the way traffic moves in the afternoon, and they don’t utter a word until they come back down to mars, eyes still closed;
take that somewhere else, please, they finally say, eyes scanning the room;
we jump to our feet with our dolls in their skimpy clothes and chunky shoes; we jump to our feet with our books, margaret’s prayers in the back of our minds—are you there, god?;
i jus reach home and the first thing you ask me bout is dinner?; our fathers wave their hands, trying to dismiss their mistake, trying to summon time and push it backward; our fathers suck their teeth and mention kfc—a bucket of fried chicken!; we salivate;
on our way to our rooms, we watch our mothers reach for bags of mini colorful marshmallows/chocolate bars/candy corn/hot chips; some think we aren’t looking, some don’t care if we do until the shame sticks to their teeth, but they all plunge their hands into something;
on school holidays when our mothers leave and there is only a housekeeper or a single aunt who doesn’t know how to raise children, we reach for the same bags;
the marshmallows are blush pink and white; we pour them into small mugs and set them in the microwave; we watch the mugs spin, microwave whirring; the marshmallows soften into each other, and it doesn’t matter anymore if they are miniature or regular-sized; we stir them together with a spoon after the microwave dings, and they stick to everything: the spoon, the mug, the roofs of our mouths, and we know that our mothers have yet to discover this; if they had, they would eat marshmallows with smiles on their faces.
but still, there are days we dwell on our insufficient sacrificial skills;
ravyn requests another slice of cake at her friend’s tenth birthday party; the first one was thin, thinner than everyone else’s, and she forgot to eat it slowly, forgot to enjoy it; she eats the second slice with intention, her plastic fork beheading the letter y, crumbs of moist vanilla cake clinging to the fork, frosting bright like paint; she lets the frosting meet her tongue first so that by the time she swallows, it’s the not-nearly-as-sweet cake she’ll remember, and she won’t be so hungry for more;
when she’s done, ravyn slides a finger across the plate to gather the remaining frosting and licks it; she wipes her wet finger against her overalls just as a boy from her class says, yune never eat cake before ay?, and points to her clean plate and her sticky, damp finger; the children that hear him laugh;
it’s then that ravyn begins to cry;
tears dive dive dive until her eyes are a waterfall and she’s hiccupping for air in the bathroom;
she washes the tears and cake off her face before performing jumping jacks in the mirror: five! ten! twenty! forty!; the voice from her mother’s videos spins in her ear—quitters never prosper; a moment on the lips is a lifetime on the hips; her cheeks bounce up and down in the mirror, her stomach in sync; for the first time, she is repulsed by the sight of herself; sweat drops from her forehead, the bubblegum scent of hair grease emanating from her scalp;
when she’s out of breath and nauseated, the cake resurfaces—still lilac and white—in the toilet;
a lifetime
on the hips.
we are older now; we look at photos of our mothers as teenagers and see ourselves smiling back; we are becoming so beautiful that our uncles threaten to scar our faces so that boys don’t find us attractive; they demonstrate on themselves, taking imaginary knives and swiping diagonally from forehead to chin; ya too pretty, they say;
although our mothers continue to pick and prod at their reflections, we still want to look like them; those of us that are spitting images, like melody, are lucky—no one will question our beauty; in the makeup aisles of lowe’s, we can all see our potential; we know makeup is capable of making us look more like our mothers and less like our fathers;
our mothers offer to teach us how to apply eyeliner/a subtle red lip/foundation/concealer; we are embarrassed by our ignorance and their knowledge, embarrassed that we don’t know how to be beautiful on our own;
less is more, they say, peering at all the products we’ve gathered;
we banish the advice from our mindsand help each other instead; melody, who’s been borrowing her older sister’s makeup since she was eight, demonstrates for us; we watch the steadiness of her hand as she lifts it to her eyelid, the black pencil sharp, new;
i never is do too much cause my sister say i’d look like one jungaliss, she says, and we nod our heads in understanding and agreement;
when she’s done, melody puts the pencil down and we huddle around her, leaning closer to get a look at the line that’s thin and straight across her lid; once we’ve studied her work, we take turns in the mirror, each holding new eye pencils in hands we try hard to steady before continuing;
our mothers inspect our faces when we invent beauty on the weekends; they offer to help again and again, but we say no;
melody already teach me, we say;
we watch them scavenge for words, their hands cupped behind their necks, eyes committed to our reflections;
well, i could teach you a different method; brows raise with hope as their hands drop to their sides;
why? what wrong wit it?; we grab damp cloths and swipe at our eyes with impatience;
why you took it off?;
cause yuse makin it seem like somethin was wrong;
i didn’t say anything was wrong, i just wanted to show you somethin you could teach your friends; melody don’t have to be the only one who know about makeup;
mummy, ine tryna be in competition with melody just cause yune like her;
we watch their eyes widen and wonder if this will be one of those heat-rising moments where they call on jesus for strength and patience, but their hands find doorknobs instead of fists, soft sighs sliding from their throats before they say: keep practicin, you’ll get it;
we roll our eyes before closing one, eyeliners steady in our hands.
our mothers know when we are dreaming of evaporating, of disappearing;
their own mothers point at their behinds on sundays when everyone gathers in one household—pots teeming with peas n’ rice, ovens stuffed with baked chicken and macaroni, bowls full of salad and coleslaw;
ya getting lil big, needa be careful ’for you start lookin like dem fat jungaliss strollin arawak cay wit nothin but fishnet an’ a string a fabric, they say;
their sisters chime in: you stress ay?; i could see it in ya face; we could try one new diet together cause ine like how all this—they point to the stomachs bulging beneath spaghetti strap tops—just come outta nowhere;
our aunts don’t know that our mothers are often without this meat or that carb; they don’t know that our mothers barely eat during the day because they rarely leave their desks or abandon their housework in pursuit of something as consequential as sustenance; i jus didn’t have no time, our mothers say some days—removing their heels and stockings in front of closed doors—before listing items barred from the household for the next few weeks (pasta/chocolate-covered digestives/pork bacon);
and so, when we tell them we forgot to eat lunch one thursday or decline a slice of macaroni one sunday and announce that we’re vegetarian the next tuesday, they are not surprised; they smile at us—mouths upturned, eyes wandering down at our food, no teeth—and look at their own plates;
i’ll do it with you / why you didn’t say so when i gone to the store yesterday? you coulda come with me / my wise girl, they say;
we are used to the way people acknowledge our bodies as if they’re theirs to scrutinize; we are used to people commenting on how tall we’ve gotten (or how short we’ll remain), how our voices have changed—deepened and abandoned the high pitches our mothers were once charmed and irritated by, and how beautiful we’re becoming and whose beauty they believe it is.
the boys we like believe our beauty is theirs; they remind us why our uncles want to lacerate our faces; they compliment the length of our legs, hands firm on our thighs with soft, silly grins across their faces glaring with sweat; silently, we thank our mothers for pushing us into sports—our legs wouldn’t be so lean without them; they compliment our behinds, pinch and slap them between classes when they think no one is looking or when they hope everyone is looking; they invite us to marina village/the movies/the beach to pinch and slap our asses beyond school gates;
at the inefficiently blockaded entrance of the dark and quiet resort beach, kyla sits on stacked beach chairs with shannon, a boy with a long neck that stretches toward the royal towers; kyla imagines shannon’s neck is the leap of faith and that her body is miniscule enough to slide down it, his sweat like chlorinated water propelling her;
shannon places a hand on kyla’s waist as he leans in slow; she’s aware of his hand and the way his fingers wrap and pinch; she leans in anyway because this isn’t the time to be self-conscious—wasn’t he just telling her how beautiful she looked a few minutes ago?;
he squeezes again as their lips meet, as if he’s trying to say something; kyla pulls away after a few seconds of their tongues interweaving, the corners of their mouths wet with the other’s spit;
that is hurt yanno, she says;
shannon’s eyes wander around her mouth, da kiss?;
she places her hand atop shannon’s squeezing one, no, ya hand; you keep grabbin me;
his lips curl into a smile, his neck stretched further by his laugh, adam’s apple bouncing between branch and soil: yuse mine to feel, bey; i like a woman wit some meat on her bones;
if you think i fat den just say dat;
ine never say dat, beautiful; issa difference between fat and thick—i wasn’t coming to expensive-ass marina for no fat gal, but if you really wan get big up, i could offer my assistance, shannon says, oblivious to the way kyla’s mind is running now, considering all the ways she could rid herself of this meat;
shannon leans in to kiss her, and she lets him;
his tongue is heavy on hers.
we’re the ages our mothers were when they walked down aisles in white gowns—withering petals and the arms of their fathers guiding their way, organs groaning as the trains of their dresses lag behind;
we’re the ages they were when our bodies were corded to theirs: the size of a pigeon pea, and then a lime, and then a mango;
we talk with our mothers now that we’ve become more curious about their lives outside of ourselves; we ask them about their first loves, their dream jobs as children, the scars on their left calves—fell out of the guava tree/neighbor pushed me to the ground cause she thought i stole her yo-yo; we watch their faces contort—brows rise and fall as they try to recall the middle names of old boyfriends (walter/george/christopher); their lips poke as they mock their innocent desires to become musicians, ice cream scoopers, and jewelry makers; we wish we could watch our mothers as children falling from trees—did fruit fall with them?;
did they scream?
we return home from college and adjust to their new lives;
our mothers invite us to their expensive gyms; they invite us on walks with their friends, smart watches counting our steps as we try and fail to bounce into conversations about incompetent politicians; when we’re out of breath before them, when our bodies pause, our mothers tell us we aren’t consistent enough; they tell us not to be like them, not to wait so long to build and maintain habits;
youth isn’t something to cling to;
they exercise twice a day: once before dawn and again before dinner; we try it sometimes, try to imagine ourselves in our mothers’ new bodies—stomachs slimmer than they’ve been in a decade, posture sharp and controlled from years of discipline that came when we left;
we imagine them driving home, skin shining from their effort, passenger seat empty, singing about wanting to dance with somebody.
after a decade of disordered eating masked as vegetarianism or veganism, we bite into meat as if eating it for the first time, unable to hold onto the once indispensable reasons we used to avoid it: to shed pounds, to maintain skinniness;
*the reason;
at restaurants, we hand our mothers forkfuls of our food;
i surprise you could eat all dat, all dat food would have me sprintin up and down cable beach, a wedding train laugh—transparent and thin—lags after their words;
une gotta play like it don’t taste good, we say;
some of us take it to heart, imagine ourselves walking to dimly lit bathrooms with black tiles and sticking a finger down our throats;
we are always children in some way, always easily hurt by our mothers.
our bodies are expanding;
in our childhood rooms, we find old diaries with government names of our school crushes scribbled across pages like to-do lists in our adult journals; we stare at the middle names that we once thought would be drilled into our memories forever: alex/dwayne/isaac;
we stuff the diaries into our bags; when our daughters are older, we won’t struggle to recall; we’ll offer our diaries as textbooks—this was your mother at your age; this was your mother in love, tears forever stained on lined pages, ink smudged;
this was your mother.
our babies are small, their breath fresh with milk, eyes intrigued by the world around them; our mothers lean over, watching us; we are often doing it the wrong way: holding, burping, swaddling, soothing; they offer to help and let us rest for a while; we hand our children over, bodies too exhausted to refuse;
we don’t leave the rooms; we want to see how efficiently they move, how easily they wipe and discard of diapers even when the babies squirm, how they hold the back of their soft heads with a sureness we don’t yet have;
they spend months observing the babies’ growth, comparing our babies’ development to what they remember of our own;
you was on ya feet at ten months, but who knows when dis one ga be walkin; yanno this new generation movin fast; tingum from church say her grandson was walkin at nine and a half months;
who is tingum from church?;
tingum, the lady with the big ol hats, they motion around their heads, trying to capture the circumference of the hats with one hand, and then: this one ga be walkin by nine months or eight and a half, they say, smiling at the small faces of their grandchildren;
when did you walk?;
girl, if i know, they throw their heads back with laughter.
our children are finding their feet, climbing out of strollers to find their grandmothers who’ve been walking ahead;
toni doesn’t yell after her daughter; she shouts for her mother, tells her to turn around: renee runnin to you;
her mother turns—a smile spread across her face, lines struggling to settle into her damp forehead—and pauses, bends forward as she stretches her arms out;
renee runs faster now, as if she’s worried her grandmother will walk on without her;
toni pushes the stroller slowly, watching as renee’s small hands cling to the muscle beneath her mother’s arms, and thinks that the winged fat would’ve been just as beautiful.
***
Rumpus Original art by Liam Golden
