Orange Mint and Honey by Carleen Brice

Author:Carleen Brice [Brice, Carleen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-49717-8
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2012-05-09T00:00:00+00:00

Glory

Whenever black folks see one another we must acknowledge one another. I didn’t know that until I was in high school and had a reputation for being stuck-up, siddity. I didn’t know that I was supposed to say hi or What’s up? or just nod my head at any other black person, friend or stranger. Because, like millions of other things, Nona never taught me that.

I learned it by walking into Stephanie’s house and passing her Aunt Baby Mae in the living room without saying hello. I didn’t know her and I wasn’t good at talking to people I didn’t know, so I scurried through the room and into the kitchen.

She followed me. “Girl, don’t you speak?”

I thought she was being sarcastic, like she meant didn’t I have a tongue, and if I did why didn’t I use it. But later, I noticed how Stephanie’s father and aunts were always after her and Cleo about “speaking” to people. If a neighbor was outside when we walked into the house, Mr. Berry would ask us if we “spoke” to him. I started paying attention, and noticed Stephanie and Cleo saying hello or nodding at folks they didn’t know. And I realized that “speaking” is a way of showing solidarity and respect, of making one another visible. Speaking is serious.

Which is why I still said hello to Oliver every day when I came into the store, even though it would set off a chain reaction of nonstop chatter. That, and because he was right when he told me off.

“History of Music Post-1975 is in session,” he said. “Time to get off this continent and go to the Motherland. This is King Sunny Ade, ‘Juju Music.’ African funk. On vinyl. One of the most tremendous albums of all time, and one of the coolest, sickest things you’ll ever hear.”

He started the record. Spacey-sounding electric guitars and drums and a chorus of men singing blared from the speakers. It was a big band, lots of drums and singers. The song was dense and busy, and relaxing at the same time.

“I like it,” I said.

Oliver was pleased. “There’s hope for you yet. Hear how the drums and the singers are talking to each other? The call and response?”

I nodded. I didn’t know what the people or the drums were saying and I didn’t care. I was feeling too happy.

“It’s what joy sounds like,” Oliver said.

We listened more. The music washed over me and filled me. It was hard not to dance, but I didn’t dare. Oliver was bobbing his head and playing air congas.

“You play any real instruments?”

“Bass. I was in a band in high school. Rap, hip-hop, and rock, sorta like Limp Bizkit meets The Roots meets Living Colour meets four suburban white boys and me.”

“What was the name of the band?”

“The Usual Suspects. We were pretty lame. We only lasted a few months.”

“What happened?”

“A girl. Yoko Ono in a cheerleader uniform. We didn’t stand a chance.”

I laughed. “Whose girl?”

He stroked the peach fuzz on his chin.

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