Divas
by JASMINUM MCMULLEN
in Spring 2020
Heather Polk, Comfortable in my Skin, 2020
Grade 4
LaShanta stood near the doorway of room 200 in a new dress feeling awkward and nervous. She’d have to make friends and wondered if anyone would like her even though she was masquerading as a pretty little chocolate drop. The night before, she broke the most sacred rule of grown folks business by overhearing her mother tell a friend that Wordsworth Elementary was in a good school district. Later, her mother insisted that she wear the pleated dress, which meant she’d have to wear tights, dress shoes, and stay up long enough for her hair to be sectioned and fitted with plastic rollers. And she hated rollers. The pink and green pieces clamped down on her hair in neat rows stood between her and sleep. But once the hair was rolled, the silk scarf tied, she tossed and turned until the pressure of the rollers against her scalp felt numbed enough for her to slip into a night’s rest.
While she slept, her mother prepared lunch, cut LaShanta’s sandwich in triangles, wrote a special note on an index card in black sharpie, sprayed Niagara generously on each pleat of her dress, and pressed a hot iron into the fabric for the perfect crease. The dress hung by its shoulders on a wooden hanger in front of LaShanta’s bedroom door like a ghost.
And she woke up semi-refreshed, but mostly groggy as she always did when the rollers came around, to a hot breakfast: cheese eggs sprinkled with Lawry’s seasoning salt, bacon, toast, and grape jelly. Her mother loved grape jelly and bought it religiously even though LaShanta secretly preferred the strawberry jam her grandma kept on hand. What she loved most about breakfast was the time spent with her mother, who worked hard for things like pleated dresses with designer names.
With the dishes cleared, she washed up for school, dressed, and returned to her mother’s room for emancipation. She sat sideways in the kitchen chair by the long mirror so she couldn't see the magic of hair doing until the final reveal. Tight voluminous curls released one by one and fingered lightly came with reassurance: the curls would fall. LaShanta examined herself in the mirror. Not the ponytail she wanted. Her mother's hands found her shoulders, and a kiss wet her cheek. “Smile now. You look beautiful. You know I’m not going to send you to school lookin’ any kind of way.” LaShanta looked and smiled. Although the whole ordeal of making oneself presentable for the first day at public school felt exhausting, she knew love. And sometimes, love required a series of actions that left her clean, starched and approved.
But the approval melted the moment the passenger door closed on her mom’s red Honda Accord. She stood alone on the sidewalk and clutched her lunch bag. She wouldn’t have to walk with her class to play off-campus in Oak Rivers, a suburban hamlet, lined with large homes on generous lots with long landscaped front yards. There were parks everywhere and Wordsworth Elementary, a tan-colored, three-level, stone building south of Lake Street had its own monkey bars.
In the shadow of the door frame, she peered into room 200 and noticed a few acquaintances she met over summer were in her class. Her mom sent her to day camp so she’d have something to do, not run up the light bill, and make friends.
LaShanta watched the students settle into their desks. She quickly realized that the good school district meant white. And since most of the students that passed her from the drop off point to the entrance of Wordsworth Elementary arrived on foot instead of being dropped off, good also meant safe.
They appeared bored. Everyone wore play clothes. Some of them in wrinkled pants and faded t-shirts that read Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Aerosmith, wore dirty shoes too. One boy’s blonde cowlicked hair stood in the path of sunlight filtering through the window. She remembered Run-D.M.C. and Aerosmith did a song together and tried not to pull at the sides of her dress.
At first, she felt shocked that their parents would let them wear play clothes, en masse. School wasn't a play environment. She came to school to learn not to play. She understood immediately what her mother meant when she said any kind of way. It ran rampant in the fourth-grade classroom. At home, any kind of way was obliterated by mother rule. A mother caught sending her child out into the world any kind of way was frowned upon by the coalition of Black motherhood. Any kind of way meant lack of care; repeat offenders were charged with lack of love, and accused of neglect. Any kind of way meant laziness. And laziness was not allowed. Therefore, any kind of way was the impetus of disorder, a sin of biblical proportions. It hindered opportunity and success. You couldn’t go out looking any kind of way and have pride in yourself or be taken seriously. Because the world operated any kind of way, any kind of way threatened the efforts of proper child rearing. LaShanta questioned the fairness, felt it quite unfair that her new classmates looked comfortable in their play clothes. Meanwhile, her tights itched.
Ms. Weiss, a tall woman with salt n pepper hair and a kind face, smiled through red-rimmed glasses, coaxed LaShanta out of the doorway for introductions. She obliged, stepped out of the shadow of the door and into the classroom. She followed her new teacher to the front of the room. The students’ desks arranged in u-shape, opposite the big wooden one Ms. Weiss sat her purse on, made LaShanta think of Pac-Man and the sea of eyes that found her felt like she might be next on the menu. In response, she gave a shy smile and looked down at the shine on her patent leather shoes then back up again. Every eye, blue, green, or otherwise rested on her. She took in the white walls decorated in scholastic posters, cartoon characters promoted reading near waist-high bookshelves. The room smelled of chalk dust, old books, and Mr.Sketch scented markers.
Ms. Weiss asked the class for their attention. The room fell silent, and LaShanta began her introduction. She told the class that she was nine going on ten in February that she came from The City, went to Resurrection school, and her favorite singer was Janet Jackson. LaShanta waited for polite applause, but the sound of papers rustling broke the silence. She left the front of the room and found a seat between two girls.
LaShanta:
Girl: Whitney Houston is better than Janet Jackson.
The words caught LaShanta’s attention. If it were true the girl wouldn’t have to whisper, she thought. She turned her head. Faced forward and chewing loudly, the scent of grape Bubblicious gum led her to the mouth that spat such blasphemy. The offender had two ponytails, a black dot on her chin, and bushy eyebrows. LaShanta rolled her eyes in response.
They were fast enemies.
The rivalry continued throughout the first year at Wordsworth Elementary. In that time, LaShanta learned the gum popping girl, Angela, who habitually glossed her lips with cherry cola Lip Smackers, was a fan of quite possibly, by her estimation, the worst entertainer to ever touch a microphone; she also collected and traded Lisa Frank erasers with Melanie, the yellow-haired girl who didn’t talk much in class unless the topic involved horses or Lisa Frank. LaShanta loved Lisa Frank too. She loved the vibrant, fantastical images of unicorns on her folders and the purple and white panda bears with eyes too wide for their heads. She took to trading up for new-to-her erasers which helped save her allowance money for music and blank tapes she used to dub songs off the radio. She always kept a blank Maxell in her tape deck for a new Janet Jackson song. Every student in Ms. Weiss class collected and traded something, Polly Pockets, Creepy Crawlers, Hot Wheels, and various action figures. But Angela’s trade habits became an obstacle to her goals; she often traded with Melanie for items that LaShanta wanted.
In the pre-bargaining stage, LaShanta looked on as Melanie opened her desk to Angela and showed off the quality of her wares. She saw unicorn heads, cat paws, flamingos, panda bears, stars, and peace signs, in a variety of fluorescent colors and rad patterns along the grooves meant for storing pencils. Angela had three minis, two stars, and a pair of red lips to exchange for a larger eraser, a rainbow on top of a purple cloud. During the deliberation, LaShanta learned that Angela loved the color purple and she was fond of rainbows. She watched Angela offer up an unsharpened Lisa Frank pencil with a clean eraser end to increase the offering. Melanie let her desk lid slam shut. No deal.
In the middle of silent reading, a note made its way to LaShanta’s desk. She unfolded the sheet of notebook paper and read the message written in purple gel pen: Whitney Houston’s gonna have a baby with Bobby Brown, and Janet Jackson is hiding a baby she’s ashamed of! LaShanta suspected Angela. She destroyed the note, tearing it into tiny pieces, the remains gathered in a small pile at the corner of her desk. Angela looked up from her copy of Dawn’s Big Date and smirked. In response, LaShanta raised her hand for the hall pass.
Melanie opened her desk again after recess. While the rest of the students filed into the classroom, LaShanta sat down beside her to trade. She presented to Melanie a handful of mini erasers: little telephones, palm trees, ice cream cones, sunglasses, and paw prints. In her other hand, a full-sized one shaped like a unicorn with rainbow wings hollowed out at the bottom to comfortably sit on the end of an unsharpened Lisa Frank pencil. Melanie’s eyes widened at the sight of the unicorn. At lunch, LaShanta learned that Melanie’s parents purchased a horse for her after two years of riding lessons even though she still called them “neigh-neighs.” Melanie, excited and open to trade, pointed to a purple and white panda, a white cat in a halo, and the rainbow on the purple cloud. LaShanta shook her head and looked at the rainbow on the purple cloud. Melanie closed the desktop. The transaction completed. LaShanta scanned the room and found Angela standing by Ms. Weiss’s desk, waiting for a Madlib booklet. She waved.
LaShanta: Janet Jackson!
She locked eyes with Angela and held the eraser over her head in triumph then straightened her sitting posture.
Ms. Weiss announced the best group got to pick first at kickball next recess and LaShanta wanted to be captain. Melanie sharpened her new pencil and ceremoniously attached the unicorn while Ms. Weiss instructed the class to break into groups of three and work with someone they hadn’t before. LaShanta, a grammar ace, and Madlib enthusiast felt excited to work with Melanie again after their successful transaction, but all the groups formed too quickly, she had to work with Angela also. The three started off well enough, Melanie held the booklet and called out for nouns, verbs, and adjectives. LaShanta pitched in some of her best answers; she knew each team had to select one of the three completed exercises to read to the class, and her team had to win. They began the third exercise.
Melanie: Noun.
Angela: Singer.
Melanie: Verb.
LaShanta: Dance.
She turned in her seat and looked at the side of Angela’s face. The black dot on her chin, still there, not a dirt smudge. LaShanta didn’t believe ugly girls had beauty marks.
Melanie: Adjective.
Angela: Plastic.
She elongated the word, and LaShanta sensed the attitude in her tone. She glared at Angela long enough to get her to notice then rolled her eyes. Their progress quickly derailed.
LaShanta: It’s called a rhinoplasty. She only had one at sixteen because she went to school in The Valley.
As if The Valley was a place that everyone knew was in California and, what’s more, that nose jobs were popular there.
Angela: (laughed) Oh. Is that why her singing voice is so small?
LaShanta: Rhythm Nation had seven hit singles in the top 5 on Billboard 100. No other artist has done that so—
Angela: So that’s alright—
LaShanta: Yes, Alright is one of her hits.
Melanie: Guys, I need another noun.
Angela: Oh, whatever. The Bodyguard soundtrack is better.
LaShanta: That movie was wack! Whitney Houston playing Whitney Houston. Call me when she learns to act.
Angela: Yeah, well, people still buying it and the movie. She moved her seat closer to LaShanta.
LaShanta: Janet Jackson writes her music. Who wrote the biggest singles off Bodyguard? Other people. Janet, the real artist. She can sing and dance.
Angela: (whispered) I don't know how she can dance, missing one rib.
LaShanta: (whispered) Nobody can live without their rib, that’s a rumor.
Angela: (whispered) Nuh uhhn. Adam gave his rib to Eve, and he lived.
She slapped her palm on the desk to drive home her point.
Melanie: Alright. Rib.
Angela: Besides, Whitney doesn't need to do all that dancing. People go to her to hear her sing. My mama said she’s the Black Barbra Streisand.
LaShanta: And? People go see Janet sing, but she also entertains.
She felt a growing hatred for Angela; in fact, she felt repulsed. LaShanta wanted to finish her once and for all. She thought about pushing Angela out of her chair, but she might get in trouble at school, and LaShanta never got in trouble at school.
Angela: Whitney Elizabeth Houston, nickname Nippy, born August 9th, 1963 in Newark, New Jersey; daughter of Cissy Houston and cousin to Dionne Warwick, both of them famous.
LaShanta didn’t expect Angela to spew out facts like a machine. Her next response would have to count. No one loved their own mama more than she loved Janet Jackson. She turned to Angela and got into her face.
LaShanta: Janet Damita Jo Jackson, nickname Dunk cuz she got a big ole donkey booty, daughter of Joseph and Katherine Jackson, from Gary, Indiana, the whole family famous. That’s eleven people to three!
She fought the urge to yank Angela’s stupid ponytails. She stood up.
LaShanta: And Janet Jackson dated Bobby Brown before Whitney!
She felt eyes on her, but she didn’t let Angela out of her sight. She wouldn’t break the stare. She wouldn’t roll her eyes. She’d hold her stance, twist her mouth, and breathe heavy. She remembered her task: start a new school, make new friends, and get good grades. LaShanta knew two of three were guaranteed, but she and Angela would not be friends ever.
Melanie, as if no-fray had occurred, looked up from the booklet she held and asked for a pronoun.
Jasminum McMullen is an MFA candidate in fiction at Vermont College of Fine Arts. A self-proclaimed Jackson family nerd and Sharpie pen enthusiast, her writing has appeared in Stella Veritatis and Journal of Ordinary Thought. She is writing her thesis and lives in the Chicagoland area.