I sucked in a breath. “How do you figure?”
“Awww…” She rubs my shoulder. “Come on, dear. You and Angela carried on with that belief as though you had experience with failed marriages. Our paths may not have been drama-free, but as your parents, we’ve held together pretty solidly, by the grace of God. We never exposed you girls to our problems, not that they were so great to shield, but you get what I’m saying. You’ve had no reason as a kid to shun marriage, believing it would stifle you in any way. You’re almost thirty years old and you’re still holding to a fruitless cause.”
“What’s fruitless about it? I mean, I know the Bible speaks about no sex until you’re married, but society has changed the significance of marriage. It was primarily for financial reasons for a woman weaning from her parents’ care, and sexual purposes for men, pledging to care for said woman while he uses her only for sexual gratification, child-bearing and rearing. I can take care of myself—granted, Stenton can do more, but I’m not doing too bad independently.”
The software has completed and now I’m setting up her account with a user name and password.
She turns to me. “You’re right, those reasons do not apply anymore. The commitment piece has evolved. With all the garbage polluting our families and destroying our communities, marriage is the cornerstone of protection to safeguard our legacy.”
“Stenton and I are committed to each other. We love each other—perhaps too much. I don’t fear him cheating. We’re content. We just need to live together and that will finalize our partnership.”
She gets quiet for a moment, and I’m tapping away at the keyboard.
“I like what JR said about your last name,” she mutters. I hear the pout in her tone. “Don’t you want to join in name with your partner and child?”
I click on the Internet and get to Google to test it out.
“Momma, it was a cute observation that I’m sure someone coached him on,” I lightly and dismissively chide. “That boy may look like Stenton, but he is from my womb. I don’t care what the name on his birth certificate states.”
Things get quiet. I type my usual items into the search box. Information loads: articles, videos, and still images. One article headline catches my eye and I click on it. It’s an interview with a rising WNBA player, Shonda Kempt, from Philadelphia. I only recognize her name because she’s local talent and her skills have been shouted from the rooftop on the radio for months now. She’s a twenty year old, who declared her eligibility this spring and will be starting this fall season with the Connecticut Suns.
What strikes me is when she’s asked about being embraced by her NBA colleagues and who she admires. Of course she mentions Stenton Rogers and goes into how “hot” he is and then mentions his athletic skills. She tells a story about meeting him earlier this year at a function in Philly and how she turned beet red the moment he touched her to shake her hand.
What in the world?
“What’s wrong, baby? Your cheeks are flushed,” my mother observes.