Page 7 of Serenity
I refused to engage in such divisive tactics. Raised by two wonderful black parents who’d shared decades of marriage, I refused to accept that what I sought no longer existed. Being surrounded by siblings who’d settled into love after scavenging the world to locate it further aggravated my hope.
I craved a man, man. A wood-chopping-with-his-shirt-off man. An Alexandria House Fine Nigga Friday, man. A man who could tell me what the fuck to do. Too much fire. Too much zest made me a problematic conquest for the weak but not a man fully embodying his masculinity.
My person was out there somewhere. Perhaps hidden behind four walls of a dwelling away from society. Perhaps he was involved with the wrong woman, or maybe he was searching for me as well. Maybe hope was slipping through his perspired fingers, oozing away like sap from a maple tree, evaporating as quickly as petrol with every passing day. Maybe exhaustion at the selection of low-value souls was riding him as much as it had ridden me with every passing date.
Trauma was not my narrative unless one concluded that dating was, indeed, traumatic. Most of the dates I’d encountered over the past two weeks had been amusing, if not entertaining. Still, I remained optimistic. My treasury of hope suffered a slight depletion, but heavily, it remained.
Butter-cut flour and buttermilk wafted up my nose, leaving behind a touch of excitement at what would soon be. With gloved hands, I mixed the ingredients.
“How was your evening with Sean?”
Following the weekend of my mushroom allergy incidate, my mother inquired about my time out with Sean. As her only daughter, she worried incessantly about my romantic life. My mother loved me and craved for me to share my life with someone worthy.
“It was great, mom.”
“So, do you feel like there was a connection?”
Eagerly, my mother probed for more details.
I sighed, hating to recall yet another failed prospect. “Sean is still grieving the loss of his wife. I don’t think there’s anything there,” I shrugged, casually denying the chemistry Sean and I shared.
I spared my mother the mortifying details in favor of focusing my energy on making biscuit dough. The sticky concoction of buttermilk, salt, butter, sugar, and flour would soon transform into warm, flaky goodness. She’d weaseled me into assisting her ahead of the family dinner planned for the evening. I couldn’t complain. Our time spent in the kitchen was how we bonded. It also heightened my skills behind the stove. Biscuits were always last to be made of the meal. The finish line was near.
“You know…” she started, and I braced myself against the marble quartz counter for the oncoming lecture. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re too rigid or too critical of the men you choose to date.”
“Ma…”
She held her hand up.
“Hear me out, Reni. A man doesn’t want to come home to a hostile environment. Let his home be his place of ease. His rest. As women, it’s our job to be his peace. His home.”
“I agree with everything you said except that last part, ma,” I said, placing lumps of biscuit dough into a cast iron pan. “A man who fails to find peace within himself will never locate it with me. A man who requires my presence for peace is a red flag.”
“You know what I mean, Serenity,” she rolled her eyes and dusted her hands on her apron.
“No, ma. Daddy raised me to enforce words as a superpower. Say what you mean. Mean what you say.”
“You might be too aggressive.”
“Too aggr—Ma, these men are too soft,” I rolled my eyes.
She couldn’t understand. She’d never understand. She’d been married for decades. She didn’t possess a clue of the atrazine they were putting in the water, feminizing our men.
“I’m far from aggressive. If a man can tell me what to do, then he’ll tell me what to do. Willingly and easily, I’ll submit in the presence of healthy masculinity. I do it all the time with my brothers.”
Aggressive was so far removed from anything I was like. Hell, if anything, I was too damn nice. If a person didn’t align with my values and needs, I refused to waste my time. If that made me aggressive, as she claimed, so fucking be it.
“Okay, Reni.”
Ending the tense discussion, we focused on finishing up the biscuits and clearing up our mess.
Aggressive? No, that wasn’t me. I was the softest, ooeiest, gooiest woman for the right type of man. Maybe I’d been spoiled by what that type was supposed to look like. My father with my mother. My brothers with their wives. Hell, what did she expect? If I settled for anything less, they’d be ripping said man to shreds. They’d surrounded me with greatness. It was all I knew. How could I not desire a man of similar stature? Corny lines, blatant disrespect, the desire to be chased… I’d take a hard pass on these new-age niggas. I wanted a man.
Hours later, Supreme, Sadie, Saint, Victoria, and Sincere all poured into the familial home tucked behind Paramour Canyon. Our feast proceeded, absent a hitch or anguish about my lack of a love life from all present at the table. In gratitude, I embraced the reprieve.
My brother, Sincere, was in a similar space romantically. Double standards were a tough-tittied bitch, though. Because he was a man, he didn’t undergo the same level of scrutiny. As the only woman among my siblings, pressure reigned for me to marry and have children. My mother was the main culprit pushing me toward a finish line in a race in which I held no desire to partake.
The rat race against an invisible biological clock had not besieged me. To the famed baby fever, I’d been immune. Despite considering it a blessing not to suffer such ailments, I never missed the side eyes or bewildered glares as if I were the contagion.