“Is that what you’re wearing?”

I sound like every mother ever. 

We’re rushing to leave for the train station.  It’s our last visit down to the city to hang out with Saoirse and Anthony and Vivian for a few days.  Then we get to bring Saoirse home for the remainder of the winter. I’ve got the car warming up and I’ve been calling up the stairs for Ula to hurry.

Ula wouldn’t be rushed.  

She’s been putting together her look.

Standing before  me now is a cacophony of rainbows:  Rainbow sweater, rainbow knee socks, rainbow earrings.  And a steely gaze in response to my question.

“Yes.  This is what I’m wearing.”

She defies me to order her back upstairs to change.  Ula knows how to play the game.  If I make her change, we’ll miss our train. 

I draw a deep breath.  She’s not supposed to dress like that, a voice in my head is screaming. 

That voice is what’s making me stare at my daughter with disapprobation.  It wants to cluck like a hen and start pecking at her.

I close my eyes for just a second and try to listen to the screaming voice.  I ask it to give me the rational for it’s position.

It’s January in New York City, Voice hisses.  She won’t be warm enough.

It’s going to be 50 degrees, I think back.  

Those are LGBTQ colors.  She doesn’t identify as LGBTQ.  She’s sending a mixed message, Voice gets louder.

She likes rainbows! I counter.  And what’s your hangup with how she’s supposed to “identify?” 

She’s breaking the rules, Voice harps.

What rules? I ask.

Voice huffs and tuts, but has no reply.  The three of us – Ula, me, and Voice in my head, leave for the train. 

We get down to the city in time for Saoirse to make us a cappuccino before she finishes her last shift of the season.   Then it’s time to walk our bags over to Anthony and Vivian’s apartment before heading out to pick up groceries for dinner. 

“First, pizza!”  Saoirse commands.

“But it’s almost dinnertime,” I sensibly point out.  

“You have to taste this pizza,” Saoirse explains.  And she heads up the street.

Voice heard that.  

You’ll ruin your dinner!  Pizza isn’t nutritious!  You’ll get fat!  You’ll suffer inflammation!  

We get to Saoirse’s favorite pizzeria, and people are standing on line waiting for a slice.  No one goes indoors.  They stand on the sidewalk eating and chatting, an impromptu street cocktail party with no cocktails.

This. Will. Not. Do.  Says Voice.  All those carbs, AND you’re eating while STANDING?

I look at the anticipation on Saoirse’s face.  “You’re gonna LOVE this,” she says.  “Trust me.”

Before Voice can speak again, I fill her with pizza.  

We get back to the apartment as dark is falling, and Vivian and I set about getting supper ready.  One of our favorite perpetual subjects comes up.

Braids.

“You’re braids are looking good today,” she tells me.  “How long have you had them in?”  We both wear our hair in two long French braids down our back.  We both like to leave them in for as long as possible.  The similarities stop there. 

“They’re fresh this morning,” I say.  “I got up 30 minutes early to get them done.  How ‘bout yours?”

“TWO WEEKS!”  She exclaims.  I’m filled with envy.  I long for her tidy black braids, always neat, always ready for the day.  I get frustrated trying to find time each week to wash and re-braid my hair.  I long for a set of braids that will hold for weeks at a time.

“Let’s get yours done,” Vivian suddenly suggests.  

“Like yours?”

“I’ll text Marie for an appointment right now.  Let’s see how it holds in your hair.”  She pauses and waits for my reply.  She doesn’t know about Voice.

Voice is on a total tear. 

That’s cultural appropriation! She screams.  

“It’s two French braids,” Vivian says out loud, as though she can hear Voice.  “Every culture has braids.  We’re just gonna get them done right.”

You’re a 48-year-old farm woman! Says voice.  This is what teenagers and hipsters do! What will your mother think?  What will your husband think?  What will your friends think?  What will your neighbors think?

SHUT.  UP.  I’ve had it with Voice.

Where did she come from?  My whole life, I’ve believed I’m the author of my own destiny, charting my course, living my dreams….and yet this BITCH has been present all along, cutting into my fun, holding me back, making me frightened of every non-conventional decision I might make.  When do I grow up enough to stop listening to her?

Voice made promises to me.  If I dressed a certain way, I’d stay safe.  If I always fed my family and neighbors a certain way, they’d never get sick.  If I wore my hair a certain way, I wouldn’t offend anyone.  

But I’m not safe.  I joke that I’m spending more time in Harlem these days because at least any violence there wouldn’t be personal.  At home, when a shooter takes aim and puts bullets in my farm store, it’s personal.  And no matter how pure our diets, we still face cancer.  And now matter how well I try to feed my customers, they still suffer illnesses and die.  And if there’s a chance I could be more comfortable in my hair, what does it matter if someone is offended?

“Let’s do it!” I exclaim.  

The next evening, Vivian and I take an Uber uptown to 125^th street.  We climb the stairs to a salon on the second floor, Best African Braiding.  The room is full of Senegalese women braiding customers’ hair,  calling back and forth to each other in a French dialect that I cannot understand. Voice has me thinking I’ve offended Marie by coming here.  Voice as me thinking I look silly, a middle-aged white farm woman with her straggly hair in this foreign place.  

If Marie agrees with Voice, she doesn’t say so.  With a few flicks of her wrist, she has my hair loose and combed.  In under an hour, she has it all secured in two tidy braids that trail down my back. And Vivian’s and my great hair experiment has begun.  

Who knows if the experiment will be successful?  Will the itching be more than I can bear?  Will the braid hold?  Will it provide the freedom I crave?

These are questions I can’t answer yet.  

But what I do know is that, as each day passes, I grow more intolerant of Voice. 

We get back home, and I head downtown for jazz band rehearsal.  I arrive early to get in some practice, and Kristina is pulling sheet music for the night.  She hands me a new piece, Coconut Champagne.  “This is a bari feature,” she tells me.  “Are you ready for it?”   

I start to remind her that I don’t do solos.  I only just joined the band last fall.   I’m the bass at the bottom — felt, but not heard.  But I reach out to take the music.

Voice tries.  You’re not experienced.  You’re not good enough.  You’ll never be good enough.

I hesitate.

“It’s either the spring concert or the fall concert,” Kristina keeps moving through the music.  “You’re gonna have to do it.”  And she leaves me there with the chart in my hand.

And I recognize something.  Voice isn’t just holding me back.  She’s making me less of a contributor to everyone else’s lives.   I owe it to the group to try.  I owe it to the students who play in this band to give it my all and risk failing, showing them how even us old farts can accept risks and failures and still enjoy life.  

Band practice starts.  I put Coconut Champagne up on the stand, bring my horn to my mouth, and play my heart out. 🎷