“My Dysfunctional, Bourgeois, and Grudging Angels”

In a perfect world that makes for a perfect afterlife, they’re all together, laughing. Mama was bourgeois, and had no reason to be. She was merely light-skinned, with good hair. She got it from her mother, my maternal grandmother. Her husband, my grandfather; his bathroom always had Murray’s pomade; Shower To Shower, after-shower powder; they had different scents. Dial soap, and his trusty curling iron. Malcolm X bashed conks, but every brother wished to be half Baldwin, or Baraka, or Hughes; and partially militant; just enough to get the girl that still wore slips, as if her mama didn’t know; her daddy didn’t though.

And my pop’s mama; well, she didn’t like my mama. My mama didn’t like the outhouse. My aunties had double-wides that had real toilets; and wood-burning stoves, and running water. My mother would’ve never survived, had she stayed. Uncle can mediate, maybe. Or Auntie. Or older uncle; or, baby cousin. Black life is so short.

Except for the elders. The real elders. The ones who walked the furthest, and worked the hardest; when dysfunction didn’t kill people void of feelings. When you pinch-pennies to steal more; pick tobacco; eat animal scraps, and have reservations about life, as what’s left of your people, have been ushered to one, well…

In a perfect world. There’s no such thing. My grandmothers tried. My grandfathers died trying. Mama’s still somewhere, up there, humming and brushing her hair.

Energy never dies.