Old Friend From Far Away "Lie"

I used to lie about my flexibility.
I joined a dance group in high school and as I stretched into graceful splits, the other girls would stare. "Watch pan da wan she, she da wa real danca" or "look at her, she's really good." Their jealous gazes turned into satisfied nods as I said,

"I di tek ballet an ah practice evyday," or "I take lessons."

I wanted to be a ballerina. I wanted to take ballet lessons. I wanted to have that perfection, that control. I told my mother and she said, 'I mi wan be one tuh, but mi pa neva mek me', or my father wouldn't let me."

And so, he didn't let her and she didn't let me.

I used to lie about having dreadlocks too. "I love your hair!" People crowed while touching the long black strands dangling around my face. "Thank you." I'd respond elaborating on why I had my hair that way. "Yeah, I used to comb my hair all the time and becoming really obesessed with it. So, I decided to have dreadlocks because it's more natural and helps me stay away from vanity."

I didn't want dreadlocks. My mother had dreadlocks, and so did I.

I used to lie about coming to America.
As I showed pictures of Belize, my friends would stare in awe at the turquoise waters. The pictures captured my forced smile and caramel-brown skin. "Why did you leave that to come to this?" they asked while pointing to lumps of frozen snow.

"Well, yknow, my mom thought it would be easier if I graduated from high school here (in America) and then go straight to college. Plus it's way too expensive to as an international student. So I came to finish up my junior and senior year in Cleveland, and got a whole bunch of scholarships to go to college. So, she was right."

I told this story and so many others that I believed them too. And they almost blotted out the reality.

We (Amira and I) "had to leave di man house becausin' whateva he seh, goes." or "you all have to leave." My mother sent us to live with a stranger, who thus far had been a name, Jameel. Who thus far had never called. Who thus far had been on the crack pipe. Who thus far had been the man who hit her, beat her, hurt her, and so she left him. But we had to meet him, live with him. I was 16 and Amira was 12. "I had to deal wid da man and now unu wa now how I feel" or "I had to deal with that man and now you all will see what I had to go through." She would say.


To this day, I never took ballet lessons but I still want to.

I've been saying for years that I would cut my dreadlocks, and I haven't...I am not sure if I can.

I don't know why we left Belize. We had to come back to America because...her husband wanted us out? Because we were too poor? Because Belize didn't have anything to offer Americans? Because my mother wasn't praying anymore? I don't know.

My journals are filled with tedious details of what happened, but I don't read them. I blacked out on that part of my life and that's the truth.