She Loves to Iron

One of many memories of my mother, as her younger self, had me watching her prostrated before the ironing board with a spray bottle of a secret Argo and rosewater mix. She ironed everything. From intimate apparel to sheets, pillowcases, washcloths and towels, no scrap of cloth safe from the scorch of steel.

The image of my mother, brow glistening swaying over the ironing board, made me hate the idea of domesticity. "I will never marry a man who makes me iron his shorts" my sing-song lyric of disdain as I stomped through our apartment in gleaming red Buster Browns. Yet my mother seemed to enjoy ironing very much, she was calm, serene almost beatific as she went through the thankless process. At first I thought this the ultimate act of ecclesiastical servitude, and would swipe my slips and undershirts from her basket, as I did not want to be associated with the oppressor. My heart too young to comprehend a deeper truth.

On my sixth birthday, my grandmother demonstrated the family heirloom - a ten-pound cast iron monstrosity, and I was stunned to think this level of cruelty may be my birthright. Mustering up my little-girl temperament, I resisted all efforts to teach me technique; I purposely left cat faces in school shirts and handkerchiefs; wrinkles to this day, an ode to freedom of choice. My father thought me unruly and forbade me to touch his wares, as only mother's hand could be trusted to caress his prized Van Heusens. I was clueless to the proviso in the marital contract covering laundry, but so be it.

As I grew older I began to realize my mother's devotion to her craft as her solace, possibly her insolence and her freedom song. She a privileged girl from the village of Harlem grew up during the Depression. Her mother, the grande dame carried the guilt of uptown aristocracy having plenty, while most did not. Their wash, a secret glee, their own; and they savored the smell of freshly laundered cotton with dewy abandon.

Not pressed into domestic servitude, my mother continued her studies, traveled the world and lived the "carefree" life of a 1940's post-war colored girl, her penance, the everlasting pursuit of Negro perfection.

Her communion with the iron a sacrament; an expression of defiance, audacity, and rage all neatly tucked and folded in the armoire of forgotten dreams. Pink grosgrain bows and knife-edged pleats bearing silent testimony to her stature in the community, the ultimate act of class warfare in a world devoid of class.

I would like to believe my mother a superhero. Secretly battling a life of benign oppression and self-imposed theology, her fantasy rebellion fulfilled. At dawn, wife and mother, at dusk a free loving spirit, who during times of peril armed herself with implements of hot steel, and capes of old-school morality, vanquishing inequities real and imagined. Her infinite struggle with wrinkled white cotton a metaphor of what lay below 110th Street.

Protecting my heart, mind and soul she steamed strength, bravado and courage into the very fabric of my being. I take not her sacrifice for granted as I am she redux – her legacy of perfection my birthright and honor.

Life Incomplete

We were to be grandmas together my friend and I. Crotchety old ladies, reclining on worn Adirondack chairs. Gravely voiced wrinkled chicks downing whiskey sours and ogling cabana boys cackling. Winters in Florida, summers in Maine, no musty cruise ships for us; only brisk walks across sandy eastern shores, orthopedic footwear on backorder. We planned to outlive husbands and numerous lovers… and there would be no pushing of grandbabies in overpriced designer carriages either. Golden years to be spent frolicking and cavorting; stressing our titanium hips with hot fun in the sun and surf. Alas, it was not to be.

Dawn passed away on a cold February morning, in a sterile Maryland hospital. My hope she was warm and free of pain, when she transitioned.

We married too young, to men undeserving our purity. Ill-conceived “holy” unions depriving us of shared youthful experiences. The religious principles of our clan suffocated me, and created a chasm between us. I ran away. And she raised a family. We shed no tears ‘bout bad boys and lost romances over flat champagne and day old pizza. No impulsive trips to Europe - backpacks brimming with Top Ramen. No rides on the Orient Express pursued by mysterious gentlemen of ill repute. Female rights of passage denied by dogma, our friendship frozen in time – fossilized in amber see through.

As my marriage crumbled, I found renewed passion in my chosen profession. Working with recording artists, singer-songwriters and creative people of all stripes gave me needed refuge. I gradually found my center in the rhythm of a life chosen, not dictated. Traveling the world in ramshackle tour buses, jumbo jets, rickety puddle jumpers and extravagant limousines; I filled the space of friendship long ago with far away vistas and exotic chatter.

I never tried to replace her, secure in our everlasting bond; I knew we’d have our golden years to play catch up. Orbiting in the “extreme” universe of talent management and its’ accompanying drama, I forgot my dishonor. The ministry of my youth having stripped me from friends and family, by supposed divine decree, not even a memory.

We kept in touch thru channels, and information dropped here and there. I did not want to jeopardize her standing with family and faith, so I did not call. I did not write, and I watched her children grow from afar – as my own family expanded. Our boys didn’t play catch, and never bonded over baseball cards and Playstation. They barely recognized one another, they are not family.

This all too quickly changed, with a hushed call from the mid-Atlantic. Words escaped me, having been a sickly kid; it never occurred to me I would not be the first to go. She calm accepting of her fate, for she continued to be a believer. Me, I began twisting in the wind.

We talked endlessly breaking all rules and taboos. We were friends from way back, snaggle-toothed knobby-kneed fly girls, pigtails blowing, roller-skates buzzing, ten speeds on lock; no pious decree would erase that.

I found jamming fifteen years of unfinished life into a capsule difficult. Didn't wish to insult her by recounting the more salacious bits of my life; yet I needed her to know my soul had found peace. Filled her in on the exquisite drama of stardom and the smoke and mirrors of the entertainment machine. We shared torrid gossip and behind the scenes stories of her favorite singers and marveled at the loss of my shy demeanor. I assured her, the music industry, though wildly exciting; was never the enchantment of our storied East Harlem childhood. Don’t know if she cared, or just humored me; but she came to know there were no regrets and me not a tortured lapsed believer.

We caught up on our kids, and the minutiae of motherhood, then I reminded her of our geriatric plans. When she didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm I realized she'd probably made new friends and future old lady pacts as well; Hope she wouldn't cheat on me with my retirement fantasy but sadly I had chosen to abandon her faith in the here and now.

The waiting game began. Days turned into weeks into months and she seemed to improve. She began traveling again, employing alternative medicine and organic foodstuffs. I relaxed as the calls lessened; she now out enjoying life; healing body, mind and spirit. But her e-mails, while informative became more pressing and sentimental. Her calls now reflective, filled with a sense of urgency. During one of our last conversations, she informed me I would be making the grandma sojourn alone, as she could no longer hold on.

No tears shed, no whispered goodbye, love alive and well, unbroken. Characters from a fable frozen in time, our story a faint memory of sisterhood on the dusty streets of heartbreak and desire.

Cherished. Eternal. Beloved.

Dawn was laid to rest surrounded by devoted family and friends, far from the sunny shores of Florida but never far from the warmth of my heart.


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