I Am All the Love I've Given and Received
When I was younger, my grandmother had a eucalyptus tree in her front yard. She and my grandpa would walk me up the hill until we were standing next to it and my grandpa would pick me up, instructing me to pick off a leaf. Then, he’d set my feet on the ground and show me how to rub them in my hands to make me smell good.
Once, when traveling with my family, I came across a eucalyptus tree. I was holding my 3 year old niece Jessenia’s hand when I squeezed it and excitedly rushed her over to the tree. “You wanna see something cool?” I picked her up, my 12 year old arms trembling under her weight, and instructed her to pick some leaves. Then, I set her feet on the ground and showed her how to rub them in her hands so that she smells good.
I hated my hair when I was a child. It was so curly and hard to manage; I couldn’t even wash it on my own and I wore it in one long braid every day because my mother hated how much it tangled when I wore it loose. I would get in trouble for taking it out of its braid and I loved when my mom treated me to a salon visit, the stylist straightening my hair at the end. Now I could wear it out for a few days. I hated the way the curls would form a crown at my hairline after a long day of playing outside. My mom made me sit in a mirror one day after crying to her about how I wish my hair was pretty. She had me look at myself while she told me all the reasons she loved my hair.
I was brushing my little sister’s hair in the living room one night, a tradition every time I visit home. She finds it difficult to brush her 4c coils and likes when I can do it for her. We were watching TV when suddenly, I heard those familiar words leave her mouth: “I hate my hair.” “Tati, why do you say that?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, reassuring. I didn’t want her to think I was angry. She told me it's because it's so poofy, “like an afro”. I told her to come sit beside me. I opened Pinterest and showed her all the cool things she could do with her hair. I showed her photos of the Black Panther Party, their fists high and strong while showing off their afros. I told her there was power in her crown. I reminded her there is history in her curls.
I ate my steak well done until I was 18. I was always scared that I would taste the blood otherwise; that it would be thick and taste like pennies. My first boyfriend took me to a burger spot once, the first place I’d ever heard someone ask how we’d like a burger to be cooked. He ordered medium rare and told me I should try it. I said no, but said I would try some of his. Maybe if I liked it, we could switch since he wasn’t too picky. He agreed. I’ve been ordering my steaks and burgers medium rare ever since.
When I was 22, I took my second boyfriend to Outback. He’d never been before, and I found that shocking — I’d grown up going to Outback and needed to share this experience with him. When it came time to order, he ordered his steak well done. I’d forgotten he was like me; he was scared of the blood, even though he knew that it technically wasn’t blood. I suggested he try medium rare, that it was good and more tender. Easier to swallow. He declined that day, but I asked him recently how he eats his steak now and he said medium rare. I like to think I had a hand in that.
My sister Sharae used to sneak away with me during family trips to the store. She’d say “sneakin arooouuuund town” which I remember thinking was so fun and cool. We were on our own, which was exciting for me between the ages of 5 and 8. Sometimes, she’d buy me a piece of candy or some gum. Our own little secret from sneaking around town.
My niece Cashmere is Sharae’s daughter and even if you didn’t know, you’d be able to tell by the big personality. When I visit home these days, we do our own sneaking around town but instead of the candy section, we visit the toy aisle because this auntie likes to spoil. Once, I got her a new Barbie and a stuffed dog. We snuck to the checkout line and paid before the others were finished. I winked at her and she smiled.
My grandparents used to do this thing where they would bounce me on their knees and say “Ride that horsey down to down. Ride that horsey whoops! Don’t fall down!” When they said “whoops!”, they would open their legs and I would fall between them, giggling at the way my heart fluttered as I dropped.
I’ve gotten to an age where my friends are all starting to have kids. Every so often, I get the privilege of visiting some of them. I’ve become my elders, remarking at how big they’ve all grown; how they can crawl or walk or talk now. How they can sip from a cup or use a fork all by themselves. Whenever I remember, I bounce them on my knees and say “Ride that horsey down to down. Ride that horsey whoops! Don’t fall down!” Their giggles as they drop never fail to make my eyes well with tears.
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