Whether what I’ve said about my mom is objectively true or not, it’s the way she feels about herself, and so, in a very “I think, therefore I am” way, it becomes true because it’s her truth. That kind of confidence is rare. I’ve been trying to feel that special brand of confidence all my life, but I still fall short of it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m great! But Mom’s confidence is incredible and hypnotic, like a magic show. Can you imagine being her daughter? It’s annoying. Like a magic show.
When Ahmed and I came along, my mom worked in the New York City Public Schools as a paraprofessional, teaching in a class of differently abled children. Her students had Down syndrome, cerebral palsy, and other disabilities. Whenever her class went on a trip to the zoo or the circus or even to see a WWF match at Madison Square Garden, she’d take us along, too. When I started going to school, it was to the same one where my mom taught. At least once a day I’d ask for the bathroom pass, and I’d go visit her in her classroom, grab a snack, say what up to my homies, and then go back to my own classroom.
Alice has worked as a professional singer since childhood, and even while she was teaching, she had her own show: a gospel brunch every Sunday at the famed Cotton Club in Harlem. She was always singing. She would sing the national anthem at school assemblies and perform in choirs at different churches, but her Cotton Club show was an actual job. She had an amazing voice that she certainly didn’t intend to waste.
Entertaining came naturally. On the bus or train, my mom would play I Spy with my brother and me or tell us the story “Sleeping Ugly,” a tale she made up about a girl so ugly she fell asleep waiting for a prince to marry her. A lot of times, my mom would spin a fairy tale out of whatever she’d watched on TV after my brother and I had gone to bed. Other passengers would listen in on our stories and laugh along with us. I hated them, because I hate strangers. My mom, on the other hand, smiled right back at them. There was always enough happiness to go around with my mom.
That’s why her marriage to my dad made no sense to me as a child.
My dad has always seemed to me the most boring man in the world. He doesn’t laugh, and he smiles less than he laughs. He is a cabdriver. I’ve always thought of that as being as much a description of his personality as his occupation. I remember him being at work all the time. Sometimes he’d drive us to school in the morning, but most times he didn’t. He seemed to hate the sound of his children’s laughter. Sometimes while he was out, my brother and I would be in my parents’ bed with my mom. She’d tickle us and give us rides on her back while she tried to knock us off. We’d be giggling away, and then we’d hear the front door slam, and my mom would say, “Uh-oh. Mr. Man is here.”
That door slam meant the fun was officially over. Suddenly, my dad would appear in the doorway of the bedroom with his nose turned up. “Giggle, giggle, giggle! All you do is giggle! All the time laughing, God dammy! So loud! I can hear you from the elevator!” Then he’d go to the kitchen to have dinner. By himself. My mom would roll her eyes and quietly imitate him, and I’d laugh again. Loudly. And that’s not a typo, by the way. “God dammy” is the way my dad pronounces the phrase goddamn it. He’s African, so he has an accent. African is another word I use to describe his personality. African, cabdriver, boring.
My dad wanted us to live in constant fear of him because he saw fear as a sign of respect. But since I didn’t really fear him, I constantly got in trouble for being disrespectful. In part, this was because of my laugh. My laugh has always sounded more like a shrill scream followed by a loud snort than a proper laugh. If people could choose what their laughs sound like, I’d probably go with something that didn’t sound like it lived under a bridge and gave fairy-tale characters the business on their way to Grandmother’s house. My dad hated my laugh and always thought I could change it—that I just wasn’t trying hard enough. He would threaten to glue my lips shut so he wouldn’t have to hear it. Other times he’d threaten to glue my mouth and my butt shut so when I laughed or farted I would explode. That’s really what he said! I know it sounds horrifying, but it’s the funniest thing he’s ever said. (He was best at being unintentionally funny.) I’d pretend to be afraid of him, but as soon as I was alone, I’d laugh my glued-up ass off.
When I was around six years old, my father and I had a big argument. It started when he mentioned his plan to live with me in his old age. He said that I’d have to take care of him, and cook and clean for him like a good Muslim woman, and on and on—
Oh, yeah! I was born Muslim. But the year before this conversation, when I was five, I made the conscious decision to stop being one. I’ll be honest: I wanted to eat bacon like my mom and had already had warnings about that cooking and cleaning bullshit, so the choice was easy.
Now it was time to tell my dad there was no way I was letting him live with me and my future husband and kids. I didn’t even like living with him then. To summarize my side of the fight, I said something to the effect of “Hell NO!”
Dad and Ahmed This is one of my favorite photos of Ahmed as a baby. I wasn’t born yet so he’s actually pretty happy. I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to that kid. My dad looks like he’s trying really hard not to smile. Dork.
Courtesy of Gabourey Sidibe
“When you were a baby,” he answered, “you’d sleep right here on my chest! On this chest! You loved it so much!” He was trying to guilt his way into my future home.
“That was years ago!” I yelled back. “My husband and I will be too busy for you to live with us! I can’t afford it!”
In the end, my dad resolved to have more children who would love him more than I did and who would be grateful to have him live with them. I wished him luck then, and I wish him luck now. More than twenty-five years later I still don’t want to live with my dad.
The point is, my mom and dad were like night and day. When my dad was at work, the house was filled with laughter; and when my mom was gone, the house was dark and either too cold or too hot. Uncomfortable. I always thought that Bill Withers’s song “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone” was about my mother. So how could these two very different people have come together to find enough love to get married and have kids?