Real Housewives of Hell

I met him against my will one morning at Dunbar Middle. This was back when A/C units still rattled and stuck their butts out of windows. The smell of rotting wood and preteen sweat did a dance inside my nostrils every day. This yellow-stained building was the same one your granny, your mother, and all your uncles and aunts went to school in. 

Wait, I’m lying; the old folk all went to Dunbar when it was in that building that the Young Men’s Leadership Academy is in now. 

You know Dunbar used to be the only school for all Black kids in the city, right? Yes chile, Fort Worth stuck all our people in a 500-person occupancy building. Twelfth graders walking the same hall as first graders; it was shameful, I tell you. We was all on top of each other and the history textbooks was always two, three presidents behind. The food we ate was all steroids and filler and grease.

What was I talkin bout? Oh, your daddy. 

He was the meanest fucker in the school. The original mean gay stereotype must’ve been based on him: clever, venomous, pet of popular girls. He strutted atop Dunbar Middle’s dirty tile floors with his all-Black cast of Mean Girls every day like it was The Met, and if you walked past them without the latest fashions on (which back then was Kanye West shudder shades and belts with fake rhinestones in ’em), or if you made it too obvious that fear enveloped you, they told the exact jokes that would hurt you the most. As soon as I heard your daddy’s chuckling (usually after his own punchlines), or as soon as I saw eight pairs of boots with the fur approaching, I turned around and found somewhere else to be. It was near impossible to avoid him, though, since he was always the first person at school and the last one to leave.

I know you wanna know if he was really gay, but am I telling the story or you?

Wachu mean you ain’t seen Mean Girls?! We gotta fix that.

The day me and your daddy spoke for the first time, he came to school with a new rhinestone belt with his name engraved on it, so he was being especially mean. “Honey, those wookies are so 2000 and LATE. Give the swap meet back their clearance rack,” he daggered at some girl. He called everybody honey but made it sound like henny; it annoyed the shit outta me. I put my headphones in and tried to pass him and his friends.

“Oh no,” one of his friends KeKe said. I looked up, and she made sure to look me in the eyes. “Here comes The Klumps!” Your daddy’s friends jolted over themselves in laughter, hardly able to breathe. 

Since I’d been going to school with KeKe, a Japanese Cherry Blossom-smelling airhead, for ten years, I was used to her cruelty. I’ve always been fat and therefore (in her eyes) basically a boy. Even when I tried to femme it up (back then all your granny could afford for me was one-inch kitten heels and a ribbon for my low ponytails; don’t laugh), I was the fat girl she could always poke fun at. 

Your daddy hesitated to react. I saw him look at me, saw his eyes ask me to say something back that justified my humanity in the eyes of KeKe. I registered his plea, his need to meet his cruel match, but then Keke’s hate-filled eyes met his. He laughed in compliance. 

“She show up to school lookin’ like she wanna die everyday,” he said in his high-ass voice. His crew really ate that one up—exactlys and you so funnys sprinkling over him like glitter. 

I walked to my seat, then turned on my iPod shuffle and put in my Skullcandy earbuds hoping the Paramore would un-hurt my feelings. His insult twisted the already-deep knife that living put in my back. 

“I need to get out of here,” I mumbled to myself, not knowing what that meant but knowing that I couldn’t accept this feeling, this position I’d been forced into, for much longer.

Gone and get your clothes together; we gotta go soon.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, me and your daddy.

In tenth grade, Dunbar High was a painful bore cause I was still being taught shit I learned years ago. I told you I went to a charter called Fort Worth Save Black Children Christian School till middle school, right? Your granny woulda had me do all my schooling there if it wasn’t swatted for tax evasion and operating without a license from anybody but the Lord. That’s a whole mess that we must talk about some other time. Anyway, I rolled through Dunbar High like a tumbleweed—lethargically blowing into and out of my classes. 

You right, I could’ve gotten skipped up, but what admin would’ve believed me if I said the last three years I’ve learned nothing cause the public school system is inferior? It was funner to make a game out of wasting my time. 

I spent most class periods writing songs in three-for-a-dollar spiral notebooks. Once upon a time, there was a boy with a tattoo of eyes on his neck. All my early raps were about kids I grew up around: Booger. Pookie. Geraldine (Yes, someone survived the normalized horror of childbirth then named their baby Geraldine; and worse: she was a stud). I aint have no friends and I wasn’t being challenged academically, so school was merely a place to gain new lyrics. I listened more than I spoke, so I heard all about who was hunchin on who and who got evicted from where. We had ugly lives that I showered with beautiful verbs and nouns. Gorgeous, clumsy things, my sentences back then. 

Every now and then, I saw your daddy peeking over at my notebooks when he thought I wasn’t looking.

One day while walking to class after lunch, I caught a whiff of that wretched Japanese Cherry Blossom. That cheap perfume was a calling card, a threat; still, I turned to confirm my suspicions. Sure enough, yards away from my next class sat your daddy and all his girls. They were cackling with confidence only attained through stealing someone else’s joy.

“Why would that sweat bucket diss you when we can smell his B.O. from the locker room?” your daddy said to Keke who, I heard in Algebra, just got broken up with. The Mean Girls all sported silver hoop earrings and knockoff Chanel bags. I put my hoodie on and turned the other way, avoiding even getting close to them, but of course, I could still hear their whole convo.

“You’re so right, babe,” Keke said. 

“He don’t deserve you, honey. He deserves a shower and some Axe!” he quipped. The group laughed then said their goodbyes as they headed to different classes. 

“Flower!” he yelled, then ran to catch up to me. I looked around, wondering who he could be talking to. 

“Girl,” he furthered, “Who else could I be talking to?” He reeked of Twilight Woods: another sinister Bath & Body Works concoction. Whew, I’m so glad they discontinued that mess. 

“Ion know,” I said, looking down at the ground while walking. “We ain’t never talked before.” 

He smacked his full brown lips. “Why you bringin up old stuff?” he said, then chuckled at his own joke. 

Your daddy was the kinda boy who always had something to say, but at this moment, I could see him straining to find more words. 

“What classes you taking?” he finally asked.

“Pre-AP Algebra with Mr. Anderson–”

“Ew; heard he’s a prick,” he replied. I could have agreed, since he asked me to take off my hoodie and  put up that damn notebook last period, but instead I continued my list: 

“ – and Spanish with Ms. D next period.” 

“Oh! I just got switched to that.” Dunbar always did shit that didn’t make sense—like switching someone to a new class four weeks into the school year. “Guess we headed the same way,” he said. 

“OK,” I said, still a bit spooked. 

A door swung in front of us, and he moved me out of the way. His hands were gummy and soft. 

“Yunno, we’ve never talked for real cause you always writing or tuning out the world with that iPod,” he said, gesturing to my earbuds. 

I wanted to believe this was true, but what about middle school, when he said what he did? What about all the opportunities up until then that he had to talk to me? 

“What you listening to?” he said while putting one of my earbuds in his ear. 

“Jay-Z.”

“Word? That’s my second favorite rapper—behind Eminem of course.”

“You like the white man more than Jigga?” 

“I mean, he can rap!” 

“Damn, racism is alive & well.” I said. He burst into that signature laugh. Your daddy had the kind of laugh you can tell came from the belly. It was genuine, heavy with something like freedom. What even is freedom in this city where we had to be mean or invisible to be queer? 

Seeing his happiness up close made me cackle too. 

We laughed and shoved each other as we made it to our seats in Spanish. At that moment, I thought we’d never stop laughing.

Naw girl, that’s just allergies making me tear up. Whew, you done messed around and made me hungry. Let’s eat and I’ll finish the story later.

So your daddy and I became best friends in, hell, 24 hours? He ditched his friends and we were thick as thieves. Anywhere you saw him, you saw me. Before there was texting and DMing, there was passing notes; we passed notes during every class we had together. After school, we stayed out till his mama guilt tripped him into coming home—“you got three brothers to look after” she’d say—and even then, I stayed over his place for as long as I could stand it. I’d call him as soon as I left, and we’d stay yapping till we literally fell asleep. I remember waking up and my phone would be so hot, it would feel like I had a heating pad on my face. 

And you know that “kissing people on the cheek when we greet” thing that you think is weird? That’s some shit your daddy picked up from the circulation of white lady shows he was obsessed with while we were coming up: Sex and the City and Real Housewives of Whatever. We even called our little two-person friend group the Real Housewives of Hell and airbrushed this on cheap T-shirts we got at the mall.

Yes, that’s what the “weird font” on my shirt is called. Now can I finish the story?

Anytime someone wanted to beat me up or taunt me for my weight, there your daddy was, talking about their clothes or their DL boyfriend or some other scathing thing. He told me I was a five star chick (that’s the equivalent to “bad bitch” or whatever; call me old again and see what happen to you). I started wearing real heels, lipstick, and outfits that didn’t hide my body. All of a sudden, studs and fat-chasing boys started flooding my FaceBook inbox. I very much preferred the studs. I kissed a lot of frogs before your mother snatched me with her tongue like a fly. 

Don’t be like that, girl. Aint you been sayin “I’m grown” all summer? And you bouta go to college; they gone cuss and carry on much worser than me.

Okay; fast forward to two years later and Texas had officially become optional. I got an acceptance letter to NYU. I got a few other acceptance letters but they were all from Texas schools; my little purple congrats from NYU envelope mattered much more to me. 

Seventeen years of my life were spent in a town that’s somewhere between country and city. Some boys rode horses to our high school prom, but they’d get offended if you called them “country.” I also don’t think it makes sense. Those same boys and their girlfriends had the nerve to pick on me, and I was tired of it. I thought everywhere in Texas was like my high school, so a college anywhere but here sounded like a utopia. 

And you know I love your granny something serious, but I wanted—needed, really—to get away from the judging eyes of a mother who couldn’t see me. According to her, the things god had in store for me were a husband, two kids, and a seat on the usher board at the church that I’d been going to since I was five. That lil ass house on East Berry next to the Fiesta that’s enveloped in all them trees? That used to be a church! I’m so glad I didn’t listen to your granny. Then I wouldn’t have gone off to college, then met your mother, then me and your daddy wouldn’t have you.

Alright now stop hugging me so I can finish the story. 

Your daddy and I applied to all the same schools. For every school we both got into, we threw ourselves a party (AKA we danced in the lunch hall while blowing party horns. It annoyed the hell out of everyone but us). When I told him I got into NYU the Friday before we graduated, he just said “yay.” No twerking, no paper tube unrolling and making noise.

“Excuse me? Where is my parade?” I said.

“I said yay, damn,” he replied, cagey and defensive.

“Did you not get in or something?”

“Honey, as if.” Your daddy and I applied to 18 schools and he got into all of them, with honors. This included Harvard, who sent my 3.0 havin ass a thanks but no thanks email with a quickness.

“So what’s tea?” 

Yes girl, we were using the lil lingo you use with your friends back then. Queenglish has been around much longer than you think.

“I didn’t apply to NYU.” 

I darted him with what, in hindsight, was probably a million questions in succession—are you serious when were you gonna tell me this why would you ruin our friendship etcetera. People started looking over at us. I turned red in the face; well, if I was lightskinned enough, I would’ve turned red in the face.

His answers changed every millisecond—I don’t know I didn’t wanna go to NYU. I thought you weren’t gonna apply. I was gonna but I missed the deadline and such. He said all this while refusing to look me in the eyes.

“Why did you do this?” I said. 

“Mama,” he replied. I wanted to swallow my tongue.

His mother was raising four boys alone. Your daddy was the oldest. They lived up in Village Creek before it was condemned, and I remember the size of them roaches running all over his house like siblings. I remember that roof that dipped so low in the middle that we could touch it. I don’t want to, but I do.

I knew, then, why he wanted to stay close, but I was still pissed. Sure his mother needed him, but so did I. Who was going to make me feel pretty? Who was gonna affirm my life?

I wanted to say why would you abandon me but instead said, “What?”

He said nothing.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He said nothing. I sighed, now unable to look at him too. 

“I guess you can visit me from Harvard.” 

“I’m going to TCC.” That’s the community college in Fort Worth. 

“WHAT?!” 

“Chill,” he said. People stopped eating their lunch just to glare and whisper about us.

“Why are you punishing yourself for some shit she decided to do?”

“Chill—”

“She decided to have bastard kids with your nothing ass daddy and stay in this shitty ass city. Why you gotta ruin your life for her?”

And then my face hit the floor. 

His old friends were looking on the whole time. One of em socked me square in the jaw and another got on top of me. Both of them whaled on me with increasingly harsh blows; pow—snot and blood flung on the dirty tile. Pow—my teeth hit my lip, causing a spill of ruby in my mouth. They cheered each other on. Fuck this fat bitch, one of em yelled. It felt like the whole school huddled around us, their phones out and shining bright. 

I got in a few licks, but then one of em pinned my arms and it was really over. Your daddy just sat there, watching it all with tears drip, drip, dripping onto his no-longer-new rhinestone belt. 

To be clear, that’s the first and final time someone’s beat my ass. Ya mama done learned a thing or two (and gotten a weapon or ten) since then. 

Hall monitors came and broke it up before they broke my face completely. The four of us got dragged to the front office: suspended for a week. I could’ve implicated your daddy, told the principal that Kofi, The Boy Who Caused Trouble For Years But Never Got In Trouble For It was to blame, but what would’ve been the point of that? Would have mended everything we broke that day?

He rejoined the group of Mean Girls. Besides a Facebook like here and there, we both didn’t know what to say to each other, so we decided to say nothing.

Alright now I gotta run to the store to get some flowers for your daddy. I’m thinking skullcaps, lantanas, and weeping yuccas. No, not them cheap ones that they put in a bundle at the front of Fiesta. While I’m there, imma get him some new rhinestones too; they were looking kind of raggedy last time we saw him. 

I’ll tell you the rest when I get back.

The last time I seen your daddy was exactly nine months before you were born, seven years after we’d graduated. 

A Friday. I remember it was a Friday.

I’d posted on Facebook a week earlier that your mother and I were looking for a sperm donor. He DMed and said he’d be down to do it, so we met up at Harris Methodist while I was in Fort Worth visiting your granny.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I said. I took a good scan of him and my heart hit the tips of my toes. “You look good.” 

“I look like a retired twink,” he replied. At this, we both laughed. 

He was ashy but not from a lack of lotion. Back then, the virus ran the streets just like we used to. First it was Booger, then, Pookie, then, I guess, your daddy; all of them acquired this look after we graduated. He still put in effort to look normal—distressed jeans, a crop top, platform doc martens. He was sickly, but cute. 

“What you and Tracy been up to?” he said.

“Fucking, sulking, the usual. What about you and mama?” I said, looking down at the ground.

“She passed last winter.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said. “I didn’t see a post about it on Facebook.”

“I aint post it. Some tragedies make more sense to carry alone.” Then he looked down at the ground too.

I paused, wondering what he meant. I also wondered if he was taking medication—HIV isn’t a death sentence after all—but it didn’t feel like my place to ask.

“So, do I just jizz in a cup?” he said.

We both chuckled. “Yep, that’s basically it.” 

“Cool, gimme a minute with this hand and this phone and I’ll be back.” He went into the bathroom and I could hear him crying. 

Shoot, gone and get me some tissue.

It’s not fair that some people don’t get to live their lives for themselves. If you carry other people’s shit alongside yours, eventually something’s gonna fall. I’m tellin you this now cause you’re about to be all grown up, in a world that I can’t shield you from. 

Your daddy came out of the bathroom with a container full all the way to the brim. 

“Damn boy,” I said. “I don’t need this much.” 

“Well just in case my sperm says ‘why am I in a vagina’ and shrivel up, here’s enough to try multiple times, honey.” We busted out laughing at this. 

For a minute, for the millisecond it took for him to call me honey, it felt like I had my friend back. For some reason, it had only hit me just then that I’d been a selfish friend. I took so much from him—his love, his confidence, and now his literal DNA. Friendship should not be so taketaketake. I wished, in that moment, I wished that he’d treat me like an enemy. 

I wanted him to call me ugly. Tell me I’m fat and Black and no one’s gonna love me. That my sexuality is my death sentence. Tell me that I think too much of myself as human; there’s nothing human about who I am. Tell me that the lines of this life are already drawn for me, that yellow is not my color cause I look too much like the sun. I wanted him to say he was right all those years ago—that I looked like I wanted to die every day. Instead, he signed away all his parental rights. 

After my insemination, we walked out of Harris together. I then wished we could start all the way over.

“Now you call me. My number ain’t changed,” I said. 

Instead of answering, he just flashed me a big ole fake smile.

“Love you, stupid. Take care of yourself.”

“Love you too.” We kissed—this time on the lips instead of the cheek. 

It was a quick peck, nothing intimate. Still, it made me feel something warm in my belly, something I’d never felt before—not even with your mother. To this day, I believe that was his kind of christening. His way of passing you down to me. 

Afia! Are you ready yet? The cemetery closes at six. Then we gotta get to the airport; them Harvard people said you gotta be all moved in by Monday. And I know you like to sleep on the plane but you have to, have to watch Mean Girls with me. Then we’ll get a few hours of sleep and drive on down to Cambridge. The hardest part is getting out of the city, but then the drive is so blue and green, it’ll bring tears to your eyes.

You know I’m old, so I like to run down the list. 

Love you, too. Say bye to your granny and grab those flowers on the way out.