Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul by Jack Canfield Read Free Book Online Page B

were times when “Don’t you use that tone of voice with me” meant something—as in something bad was about to happen to one who was heedless. So I made sure to keep my voice several decibels below hers. But our disagreements had never, ever been silent. Hers was a silence I could not bear.
    In those days of burning draft cards and burning bras, compromise was a dirty word. But compromise I tried. My beloved and I were married by a justice of the peace. Did this satisfy Mama? Oh, but no. Not even the official marriage license that I brandished would convince her. “Humph” was the closest thing to a word that escaped her lips. Mama was going to have a wedding—or I was going to have no mama. And I was definitely not going to sleep with that man under her roof.
    Why couldn’t she understand about luv? She and Daddy had been married for over twenty years. Didn’t she even remember what it was like to be young and in love? Apparently not. The deafening silence continued.
    In the face of her legendary capacity for persistence, I relented. A date was set—three weeks away. Arrangements were made. Invitations were sent. Flowers were ordered.
    Then we went shopping for “the dress.” Now a wedding with three weeks’ prep time does not exactly scream for a cathedral-length train. That was as much as we could agree on. Mama wanted traditional white, floor length, of course, scaled down somewhat from her original vision. I wanted something African to signify and acknowledge my connection to the Motherland—a place I had never been and still haven’t, thirty years later.
    After hours of trudging through stores, trying on wedding dresses—always starting with the sales rack—we had not found even one dress that could bridge the gap between us. Tired and exasperated, I said, “Why don’t you just make the dress?” The scowl that had adorned her face all day—and that matched the one on my own face—didn’t turn into a smile, exactly, but it did soften considerably. Off we went to the fabric stores, she fingering the bright white satins and tulle, me searching for something African.
    Then I saw it: translucent white voile with thin metallic stripes of gold and silver painted on it, horizontal stripes.
    (In those days, I was skinny as a rail and could wear horizontal stripes.) It was the most beautiful fabric I’d ever seen. For a hot minute, Mama held out for real white, but she saw that I loved that fabric. I can still see her brown hands caressing the cloth, fingering it, draping it over a bolt of white lining. In the end, it was white enough to satisfy her, and even though I wasn’t sure about silver, I was pretty sure I’d heard that there were gold mines in Africa.
    We had found our compromise.
    Then I saw the price printed on the end of the bolt, and my heart sank. The fabric was “beyond-our-means” expensive. Mama could squeeze a dollar so hard that ol’ George would holler for help. But for once, Mama didn’t bat an eye at the cost. I stood by, trying to look stoic and unexcited, as the clerk measured off yards and yards of the fabric. Even before the clerk had rung up our purchase,
    Mama had figured the total to the penny—including tax. Like many women of her generation, she claims to not be any good at math, but this is a woman who can multiply a fraction times a decimal in her head (9 5/8 yards at $7.95 per yard) with stunning accuracy.
    After loading the bags of fabric and notions into the trunk of her car, we headed home. Night and day the sounds of scissors cutting and snipping and the determined whirring of Mama’s sewing machine filled our house. Two nights later, Mama had created a dress so beautiful that it took my breath away. When I sheepishly asked her if I should try it on, she answered, “If you think you need to.” Then, with a satisfied and confident look on her face, she turned