Auntie Cee was a real boss, a Human Resources specialist with swag back when Black women were ghosts in corporate board rooms. No blood relation, but as much family as anyone who shared my bloodline. Mom, an insurance agent, met her when they both worked at a Fortune 500 company in the ‘60s and halfway through the ‘70s. Their commonalities and differences molded a journey of lifelong friendship, not without cracks. Besties who stuck together like magnets to metal.
Auntie, from a close-knit brood of twelve brothers and sisters, decidedly single with no interest in traditional family life, had never married. Shouldered with the responsibility of helping raise her younger siblings, she wanted no part. Mom, a three-time divorcee with one brother, was on the perpetual hunt for her next victim, er husband. Both stood out in the homogeneous business world of white men as two of five Black women in the entire company. Greeted daily with dismissive sneers and racist comments from the hierarchy and white secretarial pool—it’s no wonder Auntie and Mom griped every evening on the phone throughout the week.
They were poster children of the previous generation, told if they wanted to get ahead, they would need to put their best foot forward when they left home. Black fashionistas dressed to the nines in stylish suits, high heels, and tasteful jewelry were the bane of their colleague’s existence. The Sunday ritual of creating their own brand of homemade joy was their small way of countering cutting winds and sharp edges of the era.
Those were the days of a sweet imprint on a child’s heart, an indelible memory of how two women found happiness within. My observations taught me lessons of resilience I didn’t know I would carry throughout my life.
“Children learn more from what you are than what you teach.” ~ W. E. B. DuBois
Three things Auntie Cee never left home without: a full face of makeup, framed by a blond or frosted wig in the latest style, and a sharp tongue. A statuesque beauty, 5 feet 3 inches tall with a quarter-sized brown birthmark she detested on her right temple, on an otherwise flawless honey-brown complexion.
Around 11:30 Sunday morning, Auntie rang the doorbell and stood waiting with her professional black wig case and a bottle of wine in tow; a no-no in Mom’s rule book. She didn’t care who it was. No one darkened her door before noon on weekends or anytime without calling first.
Mom snatched the curtain back next to the door, stared at Auntie through the window, tapped her make believe watch, then cracked the door.
“Girl, if you don’t open this damn door, I’m throwing your wig into the trash.”
She shoved her way through. Mom chuckled. Auntie always called her bluff.
She walked straight to the kitchen, put her Sauvignon Blanc in the refrigerator to chill. Then they spread a white tablecloth and set the dining room table for Beauty School 101; white foam wig heads, hair dye, steel T wig pins, styling combs, rollers, and setting lotion.
Neither had a cosmetology license. Hair was and still is serious business for Black women, especially within their workplace climate decades ago, conditioned to believe their natural hair wasn’t beautiful, considered unkempt and unprofessional. Some things never change. Things that make you go hmmn. We’re the only ethnic group in the land of the free who required a law, the Crown Act, to ban hair discrimination on our behalf. Yet, Black women have always spent the most money on hair and beauty products per capita.
But I digress.
Mom set the hard case hairdryer on the opposite end of the table. It had seen better days. Auntie opened her wig wizardry travel case and pulled out the mousy brown mop of loose curly hair she bought for Mom to add blonde streaks.
“Could you have picked an uglier wig?”
“Look, heifer, you said you wanted medium brown. Mavis will look better after we give her highlights.”
Their banter was pure entertainment.
The colorists put on aprons and gloves, went to work on Mom’s wig, pulling sections of hair through a cap of tiny holes. When done with their masterpiece, they placed Mavis under the dryer like a woman with high hopes. Yes, their wigs had names, seemed to give them different personas when worn; sassy, classy, and standing on business.
Mom put Aretha Franklin’s album on the record player, Auntie got the wine ,and when “Do Right Woman, Do Right Man” came on, they closed their eyes and swooned over the man in their imaginations. They were getting tipsy.
Mom grabbed the phone on the kitchen wall. “Let’s order some food from Mr. Angelo’s.”
Mom got up and went to the bedroom. Auntie went to the bathroom. I was sitting on the floor cross-legged eating a bowl of Cap ‘n Crunch, watching cartoons in the living room when the smell of burnt hair wafted up my nostrils and ruined the taste in my mouth. Fiery sparks sputtered from under the dryer’s hood.
I jumped up, tipped the bowl over, leaving a puddle of soggy cereal and milk behind me on the rust-colored shag carpet. “Mommy, Mommy, Mavis is on fire!”
I’d never seen two women bolt from different directions so fast. They bumped into each other in the hallway, reminding me of an “I Love Lucy” episode.
“Oh Lord, hurry, get some water!”
Mom snatched a spray bottle from her faux salon table, filled it with water, and tossed it like a mini football. Auntie caught it mid-air on her way to the table, unplugged the dryer, then doused a charred Mavis. With downcast eyes and pouty mouth, Mom held up her wig that now resembled a soaking wet dead cat.
“Damn, Mavis is dead.”
They both plopped down into a dining room chair, cackling with belly aching laughter until they were in tears. Auntie’s cheeks smeared with black mascara tracks.
“Well girl at least the house didn’t burn down. I guess you’ll be wearing that ole hag Agatha on Monday.”
“Shut up.” Mom rolled her eyes, refilled their wine glasses, and clinked in unison.
“Toast to the fools.”
***
Auntie Cee would pick me up on some weekends when I was a kid and let me play dress up in her closet. There were several occasions when she stopped Mom from whipping my behind; told her she was too hard on me, to let me breathe.
I love her for always standing in my corner throughout my life. When I was looking for a job after college, she helped me with my search, offered good counsel, introduced me to several of her contacts. I’m ashamed to say I hadn’t spoken with Auntie in years, since my kids were younger when we traveled to LA for the holidays. We reconnected over an unpleasant circumstance, but I’m glad we did.
She called every week when Mom was sick during the pandemic. Alzheimer’s kept Mom from keeping up with Auntie’s incessant chatter, so she stopped answering the phone when she called, said she got on her nerves before complete cognitive decline kept her from communicating altogether.
Auntie is eighty-two years old now, still feisty. I call her at least once a week. She lives alone after taking care of her mother, one of her brothers, and a sister who has passed. Most siblings are gone. I don’t mind her talking my head off. I’m thankful to have Mom’s last living friend I know of to reminisce with and walk down memory lane.
We were having a wonderful conversation a couple of weeks ago when she mentioned her sister.
“Dorothy is getting on my nerves coming over to my house and going through my things. I caught her in my kitchen cooking sausage the other day.”
Her closest sister, Dorothy, has been dead almost two years. My heart sank. Twice she’s mentioned the same scenario on different occasions. I didn’t know what to say. She was lucid in everything else she said, so I ignored it. I couldn’t bear to think she may be at the onset of dementia, traveling the same road in Mom’s worn down shoes.
The next time we talked, I asked if any of her nieces and nephews ever visit, and whether she had any friends she gets together with regularly. She said everyone was too busy and family gatherings weren’t what they used to be; everyone was doing their own thing.
I’m concerned, but not sure how I can help. She’s a proud woman who would resent what she might perceive as meddling, and I can’t risk falling out of her good graces. We live 400 miles apart. For now, the one thing I can do is keep in touch. I know isolation is the elderly’s worst enemy.
I called her last week. “Auntie, I want to know your opinion. Do you think America is ready for a Black woman president?”
“Yes. If they ain’t ready, they better get ready. Nobody’s gonna put up with Trump’s bullshit if he wins — excuse my French. All we can do is vote, ease on down the road and keep praying.”
We both laughed.
For now, I’m happy she’s still herself. I don’t know what the future holds for her, myself, or anyone so I’m going to carry nothin’ that might be a load.
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