My mother, a modern woman, called me a little yellow girl while she combed my hair. an act that she hasn't performed in many years. She dug her fingers through the nappy space above my scalp with grease on her hands. i closed my eyes and marveled at the wonderful feeling of her touch. I hoped that she wouldn't use the pick or the hard toothed comb. I laughed when she said "Let me hit this kitchen with some heat."
I always laugh and she always asks me: "what's so funny?" I never have a decent explanation as to why that statement is so funny.
After all the sculpting is finished and all the primping is through, she turns me around and looks down at my face. "You little yellow girl," she says for no particular reason. I tell her i'm not yellow. I'm just like her. In fact, we're nearly identical.
She scoffs and rebukes me. No, she says. you're not. You with your good hair.
When my smile falters, i thank her and try to hug away the awful debt i've stacked for being different from her. Although, i was under the impression i wasn't all that different to begin with.