Yesterday, I Cried_ Celebrating the Lessons of Living and Loving - Iyanla Vanzant [21]
There were special days when Grandma would take Rhonda to work with her. On those days, Grandma taught Rhonda everything she knew about cooking, cleaning, and ironing. And although no one ever told her so, Rhonda knew she had learned very well. She knew it because if she ever made a mistake in the “Madam’s” house, or with the “Madam’s” clothes, the wrath of Grandma’s hands or mouth would come crashing down on her.
When your primary caretaker is distant and aloof, it can be very confusing. You don’t know whether to try and please her, or be desperately afraid of what will happen if you don’t please her. When your primary caretaker is violent, you know that if you do the wrong thing, or say the wrong thing at the wrong time, in the wrong way, you could get slapped, pinched, screamed at, or punched. When your primary caretaker is violent, and you are confused, you live in fear. Many children learn to live in fear as a result of doing the wrong thing. It is a fear that they keep to themselves. They dare not tell anyone, because that would be the wrong thing to do—to say you are afraid, or to admit you have done a wrong thing. Few children learn to do the right thing on their own. Most children learn about doing the wrong thing, in confusing and violent ways. Rhonda was one of those children.
Grandma was not good at explaining to Rhonda how to do things the right way, the way that would please her. But she was very good at letting Rhonda know what would happen if she ever told what Grandma did to her when she was not pleased. Big lesson here: grin and bear your grief. Suffer in silence. Grandma said that silent suffering was good for the soul. Grandma would say, “You are not supposed to complain about the hand you are dealt by the Lord.” Grandma loved the Lord, and she loved church. She was a church lady. A big-time church lady.
Every Sunday morning, Grandma would wake Rhonda up, scrub her clean, and dress her for church. After she was dressed, her hair combed, and her face smeared with Vaseline, Rhonda would sit on the edge of the bed and watch Grandma get ready for church. Rhonda loved watching Grandma get ready for church. It was a ritual. A womanhood ritual. By watching, Rhonda learned a great deal about the anatomy of a woman’s body—and about the one thing strong enough to oppose Grandma.
After bathing and putting Vaseline on her body, Grandma had to put on her girdle. The girdle was a huge, stiff, white thing. It had shiny panels on either side of the lace panel that ran up the front. It also had legs. At the bottom of each leg were thick elastic bands with little hanging hooks for attaching stockings. Grandma didn’t wear the pretty, sheer stockings Rhonda had seen on other ladies. Hers were heavy and coarse. Watching Grandma trying to get into the girdle was the most interesting thing about the ritual. It posed the greatest opposition to Grandma as she wiggled, twisted, pushed, and pulled her body into it. It was quite a sight. Grandma’s breasts would swing from side to side, making a slapping sound against her skin. She would sweat, grunt, and struggle, but the girdle would hold firmly, refusing to cooperate. If she was rushing and hadn’t dried herself completely, Grandma would have to jump up and down, pushing and pulling pieces of her flesh into the stubborn elastic compartment. There were days when it appeared as if the girdle would win. Rhonda always rooted for the girdle. But in the end, with the love of the Lord motivating her, Grandma always subdued her spandex opponent.
With the girdle defeated, she’d then put on her stiff, white uniform, hook her thick, white stockings to the girdle legs, put on her white shoes, and spray a little drugstore cologne on her neck. If Rhonda had been particularly still and quiet, Grandma would spray a little cologne