Of course, sour language was mixed in; it accentuated the emotion of whatever was being expressed. Like anger (“that bitch had the nerve to look at me like I was in the wrong”), surprise (“what the fuck?”), frustration (“that shit got on my last nerve”), and joy (“you hear how she sang that muthafuckin’ note?”). Sometimes, these words just made the joke sound better, or elevated the social commentary. Of course, we kids weren’t allowed to say those words, but no one thought twice about saying them in front of us. And I learned from example in which social settings it was okay to curse: in front of family and friends, it was cool, but if mixed company was involved, or if we were in a business setting, offensive language mostly got tucked away.
The one who made himself an exception to that rule? My dad. He was particularly fond of the word “nigga.” He called everybody that word. It was his thing—a term of endearment for those he loved and liked, an exclamation point for the ignorant people who tap-danced on his last good nerve, a pronoun that perfectly described pretty much anybody who crossed his path. I was “lil’ nigga.” His siblings, my mother, my teachers—all niggas. He even called an old white lady “nigga” to her face when she tried to cut him at the grocery store register. “Nigga, you see us standing here on this line, right?” Dad was the king of “no filter,” and everybody just rolled with it.
Well, most everybody. I was about age twelve when I learned some serious and much-needed social cues about how my father expressed himself in public settings and the appropriateness of it all. This was around the time that my father, on the mend from being out of work as a metal fabricator, ended up cleaning toilets at the football stadium—the only job he could find. He didn’t apologize for that or make excuses; he just took himself to work, collected his check, saved up for a new place so he could move out of his green van, and made the best of his situation, turning all the ugliness that came with his homelessness into something beautiful just for me. My best memories from Dad’s job at the stadium were when he’d get tickets and take me to the games. One game I particularly remember. It was the Cowboys versus the Redskins, the ultimate rivalry. I had on a snowsuit because it was the dead of winter, and I was carrying a sign my dad made for me that he encouraged me to wave to cheer on our beloved home team. I see now how inappropriate it was, a cowboy hat resting on cowboy boots, minus the body that was supposed to be wearing them, and emblazoned on the poster board were these words: THE REDSKINS ARE GOING TO KICK THE SHIT OUT OF THE COWBOYS! I thought our sign was so funny, and it was especially cool that my dad let me march all around the stadium holding it high above my head. I didn’t realize it was inappropriate until a fellow fan, some older lady with a prune face and a sour demeanor, turned eight shades of red and literally sucked in her breath loud enough for two stadium rows to hear it above the din of the cheering crowd. “Oh my goodness!” she gasped.
For a brief moment, I lowered that crazy sign, thinking, man, maybe it isn’t cool for a twelve-year-old to be carrying a sign with expletives on it. But one look at my dad and I stood firm in my truth: the shit was funny. I waved it like a flag for the rest of the game.
Sometimes, though, my father’s candor didn’t always feel good or right. My dad had a special knack for digging in the softest spots, and when he did, his tongue left marks. I still wince when I think about that one time when he chastised me in public for having dirty hair. By then, I had wrested full control over my hair styling; my mother put a relaxer in it fairly early on to help ease the detangling process (less pain for me, less work for her), but then handed the job over to me completely when I was about ten years old and fully capable of coaxing my hair into the popular hairstyles of the day. I was washing, blow drying, and pulling my mane into ponytails, yes, but also the little girl version of the Farrah Fawcett, the mushroom, the asymmetrical bobs à la Salt-n-Pepa (you name it, I did it). Eventually I got so nice with the curling irons that I graduated to styling my friends’ hair, too—a skill that I would later put to work while in college to make some serious cash doing the ’dos of my fellow classmates who couldn’t afford to hit up the professional salon but still wanted their hair styled.
Back when I was doing my own hair in elementary school, I discovered fairly quickly what every black girl knows to be true: the more time between the times I shampooed it, the better the curl would hold. Thick, kinky hair, even in its relaxed state, thrives on the oily buildup that comes when it’s not wet, and my hair was no exception, so I’d go two weeks sometimes without washing it. Most times, this wouldn’t be that big of a deal. But when it was hot and that Washington, DC, humidity got hold to my head, I did tend to sweat, which would make unwashed hair, full of styling gel, grease, and a bunch of other products, smell a little ripe. A stinky head was not what you wanted around my dad, he of no filters, he who didn’t give a damn about hurt feelings. We were on a hot, crowded city bus one day, headed for my school, when my father, who rode with me that day as a treat, humiliated me for having hair that, while curled to perfection, was ripe from having gone almost three weeks without seeing water and shampoo. I was snuggled in his armpit, enjoying the feel of his strong arm around my shoulder, when, his face scrunched, my father sniffed my scalp, put me in a chokehold, and let it whirl: “Why does your scalp smell like goat ass?”
Goat ass.
You have to understand the devastation of having your daddy call you out on a crowded public bus, in the middle of Washington, DC, on a school route through the projects. We were sitting in the back, and my father’s voice, loud as if he had a megaphone in hand, filled every empty space between the laughter and noisy chatter among all the Billy Badasses riding to school with us. He said it so loud, I was sure even folks in the two, three cars ahead of the bus heard him. A hush fell over every tongue, all those bubble heads turned, wide eyes searching for the person behind the insult and especially for the target of said slight. I shrunk down as low as I could in that seat, but I couldn’t escape the judgment and ridicule from my peers. Everybody was laughing so hard, I was mortified. I tell you this, though: I learned never to go a week without washing my hair.