The Exceptional Nature of Black Womanhood

Prompt No. 22: Black Grandmothers, Black Mothers, Black Enunciation, Black Art

Lester Young named a song after my grandmother, an obvious point of pride.

I entered an elegant world every time I climbed the stone steps to my grandmother’s townhouse. There were nails to paint red, newspapers to read, and calls to make at the telephone table. Jazz to listen to and long, thin cigarettes to watch ash in to cut crystal. Sometimes there were stories to tell, like how my father painted that large modernist piece that looked like a corridor or what the beauty pageant circuit was like for colored girls. There were family photographs to pour over with shock (Who is this white man?!) and laughter (That’s your great-great grandfather!). There were new uniforms to tailor and lush wool sweaters to drape over the shoulders once the sun went down. Those bright afternoons filled with ritual taught me what it meant to be sophisticated. Classy, even.