Oreo Cookies | Chapter 2 | Part 3

Susie: Black Inside and Out concluded

“Get your hands off of her like that, boy.” She took his shirt by the collar and yanked him back. He stumbled into his sister, stepping on her toe. She stood still, staring up at Gabbi, and pinched her face in, as if her eyes and mouth were being drawn toward the center at her nose. Then she dropped her jaw. A high-pitched scream escaped her mouth and she cried a tearless wail. The boy sprinted toward the park benches, leaving his sister behind.

Gabbi waved them both off with the flick of her wrist. She crouched in front of me, holding me by the shoulders. She checked my arms, the scrapes on my knees from being dragged out of the sandbox and across the park, the scratches on my face from the tree bark. She wiped the tears from my cheek with her thumb, pressed her fingers against my bruised nose. “Does that hurt, sweetheart?” I nodded and wrapped my arms around her neck, relieved that she had saved me from my ordeal, upset that I was left alone to face it in the first place.

She scooped me into her arms, wrapping my legs around her waist. “Where the hell is your mother, huh?” she whispered, kissing my earlobe.

“She left. She left. She left,” I sobbed, rubbing my sore nose into the crook of her neck.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

A woman with a baby strapped to her chest tapped Gabbi’s shoulder. She had the same lackluster orange hair as my tormentors, with flyaway strands defining gravity. Her hair stopped at her shoulders, the ends curled like the hook of a coat hanger. She held the boy’s hand at one side while the sister hid behind the other leg, poking her head around her thigh to look up at Gabbi.

“Is everything alright?” she asked.

“Well, I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me why you’re not watching your kids run around terrorizing my baby.” She patted my cheek as I rested my head on her shoulder.

“Maybe she didn’t realize they were just playing?” She cradled the two children against her legs as if protecting them from Gabbi, as if she were the aggressor and not them. “He told me he was just playing cops. You see, he wants to be a police officer just like his dad.”

“Does his dad teach him that all little black girls are criminals? Look at my baby’s face!” She turned my chin, traced her fingers down the scratches on my cheeks, pointed to the peeled skin on the tip of my nose.

“You know how boys are. They play a little rough.” She shrugged her shoulders, tapped the top of his head. He pulled at the hem of her shirt, jutting his lower lip.

“That’s why you teach them early to keep their hands to themselves, and to recognize when the other kids are no longer having fun so they won’t grow up to be rapists and murderers.”

“How dare you question my parenting when you left your child here by herself in the first place!”

Gabbi ignored her accusation and pointed her finger directly in the boy’s face, nearly touching his nose. “What that boy needs is a good whopping.”

The woman pushed both of her children behind her and squared her shoulders. Gabbi was much taller than she. Her leather boots added almost three inches. Despite being shorter, the woman poked out her chest, rose as if being inflated, leveling her eyes with Gabbi. She curled her lips as she spoke. I could feel her hot breath on my ear. It felt like pins prickling my skin, digging into my eardrums. “How hypocritical of you,” she said. “You question me as a mother because my children were just playing and your daughter got hurt, then you turn around and suggest beating them!”

“It’s called discipline.”

“It’s called child abuse! I should call child services on you.”

I began to sink out of Gabbi’s grasp. I kicked my legs, frantic that I was slipping back into the possession of the police officer in training. I could feel his eyes piercing a hole through his mother’s body as he followed my descent, and as I drew closer to the ground, the tension created by our proximity felt as if all the air around me had been sucked away, and I was sealed inside a vacuum tight container.

Gabbi dipped down to pull me back up, sitting me snuggly on top of her forearm. For a moment, I was saved, but I wanted to escape from that park, be back at our apartment where kids chased one another with sticks, caterpillars clinging to the ends of them, threw hay in their hair, played ding dong ditch on the elderly neighbors, and raced back and forth across the street before the next car came.

I would sit on the front stoop outside of our apartment drawing stick figures with chalk. I would watch men in clothes that swallowed them stand outside the corner store, smoking cigars, sprinkling the ashes on the curb. They would sprint in the opposite direction when they saw flashing blue lights approach, heard the wailing sirens. They would hold their pants up to their waists, ankles smaller than my wrists, feet slipping out of untied shoes as they ran. I couldn’t understand why they ran if they did nothing wrong. Gabbi smoked too. She pretended that she didn’t, but I would see her sneak out back with the pack Marlboros stuffed in her sleeve, the cylinder shape of the lighter visible in her back pocket. I would peek through the blinds of the window and see the clouds of smoke billow from her mouth, dissipate in the air. When she returned, she would place two Altoid mints on her tongue and squirt her neck and arms with lavender scented perfume before scooping me into her arms. I’d asked her why she didn’t run like the others when the police drove through the complex. Her response didn’t resonate with me until now.

“If you look a certain way, no matter what you do, you’re always seen as the back guy. Cops don’t trust you, and you don’t trust the cops.”

“How you ‘posed to look?”

“Not like them.”

I watched the family over Gabbi’s shoulder as she carried me back to her van. The brother and sister crouched to the ground, plucking blades of grass while the mother bounced the baby against her chest, staring ahead of her, her eyes drooping, her mouth twisted downward, as if she were bored. I studied their features to find a difference. Their clothes were different. I stood out from the other children in the park with my denim overalls, but I suspected the difference Gabbi was referring to was more than just a preference of cotton over denim. I looked at their hair, all stringy and flat while my dark brown hair was styled into four large twists—one in the back, two on the sides, and one in the front—held together by pink and green barrettes. But the men in my neighborhood wore their hair in various styles—cornrows, long dreadlocks, close shaves—and the cops who chased them were equally as diverse in their hairstyle choices, ranging from bald to having hair as long as women.

Gabbi buckled me into my car seat, mumbling how she would kill Mom when she found her. She pulled the door closed, and I pressed my face against the window, my breath fogging the glass. What did I have in common with the smokers who ran from the police and what did the police have in common with the little boy who tried to arrest me? As we slowly pulled off, I saw him suddenly slap his arm, probably swatting at a bug. I looked down at my own arm, the same color as Gabbi’s, my parents, the running men in my neighborhood. A dark brown, the color of the markers I used to color in the self-portraits I drew on the inside flaps of coloring books, and loose receipt paper Gabbi emptied from her purse onto the kitchen table. Gabbi always told me to draw on white paper. I could see the colors better. Maybe that’s why the striking red imprint left on his arm was so clear, even from the moving van. The surrounding skin was the same color as the blank pages I drew on.

Does his dad teach him that all little black girls are criminals? I remembered Gabbi asking the woman. But I wasn’t black. Not like the night sky. Not like the television screen when it was turned off. Not like the ski masks bank robbers wore over their faces in the cartoons, and when they took the masks off, the bank robbers looked like the little boy and the police officers, not like me.

I crossed my legs my car seat as Gabbi cruised down the street searching for my father’s car, listening for his rattling speakers. The worst Mom could’ve done was leave me in the park, but she wasn’t a bad person. She’d asked someone to watch me until she returned. And she said that Daddy missed her. A bad person wouldn’t care enough about her to miss her, to want to spend time with her. And Gabbi saved me from a bully. Bad people were the bullies not the heroes.

The only bad people I knew chased innocent men down their own streets for no reason. They turned a blind eye while children they were assigned to watch over were being harassed. They forced their unsuspecting peers to play their rough games and laughed at them when they cried. They spewed threats from their mouths when asked to correct their foul behavior. And none of them looked like me.

© Nortina Simmons

Oreo Cookies | Chapter 3 | Part 1

Last week I had the worst case of writer’s block imaginable! Late as it is, here is the conclusion to chapter two, and chapter three will still be posted this Friday now that I’ve purged myself of all the distractions.

Oreo Cookies | Chapter 2 | Part 2

Susie: Black Inside and Out continued…

I wanted to get a glimpse of my dad, finally see his eyes. I would run home, compare them to my own in Gabbi’s vanity mirror. Both dark brown, pupils slightly dilated, gray trimming around the irises. But the windows were tinted, and Mom only cracked the passenger door open to slide in, as if to conceal his identity. Or was it me she was trying to hide? She didn’t look back to wave goodbye, didn’t drag me to the car so that we could finally meet, or point a finger toward the girl sitting alone in the sand box, surrounded by screaming children and their watchful parents. “There’s your little girl. She loves your present,” I imagined her saying.

I slammed the fire truck into the sand, using it as a shovel to dig a hole. When the truck wasn’t enough, I used my fingers, sand collecting beneath my nails. I scooped handfuls out, tossed them in all directions, spilling some in the grass. I would bury my truck at the bottom of the sandbox, and with it, all thoughts of my dad.

I was scratching at the wood base when I felt a finger poke the side of my neck.

“You’re under arrest for speeding!”

He looked like a giant standing on the ledge of the sandbox. He pointed a pale finger in my face, the other hand on his hip. His hair was a light brownish-orange and the same length as the bangs that covered his eyebrows and brushed his eyelashes as he blinked. Behind him, a little girl jumped hysterically, laughing and pointing. Her teal dress looked as if she’d been rolling in dirt all day. Mud streaked down her stomach, grass clung to the hem. Her hair was the same color as his. Flat and lifeless, it wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl as she jumped, moving only when she whipped her head to the side.

I slid to the other side of the sandbox and began a new hole. I didn’t like how the boy stared at me, how he stood over me, pointed his finger at the empty space between my eyes as if I were an object her was claiming possession over, and how his sister danced behind him, cheering him on. I turned my back to them. They’d soon walk away once they realized I wasn’t interested in playing.

Around the playground, a little boy kicked his legs back and forth, swinging higher and higher while his mother stood behind and pushed each time he returned. Two older kids raced each other down the monkey bars, each grabbing the other’s hand at the center to slow the other down and make him fall. A little girl wearing a Sesame Street t-shirt sat on a low-hanging branch in a tree, cupped her hands over her eyes and counted to ten while the other children scurried to find hiding places, tripping over one another and raised roots. Any one of them could’ve been arrested for running, speeding.

Instead, his cold hand tapped my shoulder.

“Did you hear me? I said you’re arrested.”

“You’re going to jail! You’re going to jail!” His sister twisted her hips from side to side, sticking her tongue out as she sang.

“No I’m not,” I said.

“Your truck was speeding. You have to go to jail,” he said.

“Lock up! Lock up!”

“Leave me alone.” I curved my shoulder to shield my face, hunched over my fire truck pushed the sand up to the ladder that was slightly curved down. The boy’s shadow loomed over me, fists pressed against hips, posing as if he were a superhero arrived to rid the playground of crime. I looked up at the bench across from me where the woman Mom had asked to watch me still sat. She ducked behind Better Homes and Gardens, pretending to read a recipe for pork medallions. She crossed her bare right leg over the left; it bounced again and again, kicking the air as if a doctor were constantly hitting her knee with the reflex hammer. Behind her left calf, underneath the bench, lay one of the boys playing hide and seek. His eyes darted back and forth from me to the girl bending over the seesaw, looking behind trees in search of the other players. I wanted to switch places with him, be protected behind the woman’s thick legs, unknowingly sheltering one child while she ignored the one she was assigned to watch over. I looked toward the street, hoping to see Gabbi’s van pull to the curb, feel the vibration of my dad’s music prickle my skin. Would he return to become the hero, an embodiment of the fire truck he gave me, more than the absentee father his photograph portrayed who never revealed his eyes and left his only daughter to face her persecutors alone?

I pulled my fire truck from its grave, shaking off sand. Some flew into my eyes, and I pinched them shut, trying to squeeze the sand out of them.

His skin felt like ice against my wrist. I heard the crack of plastic as my fire truck fell from my hand, hit the side of the wood sandbox, and the crooked side mirror finally popped off. With one hand clamped onto my wrist, he curled his slender fingers around my upper arm and yanked me to my feet.

“Come on. You’re going to jail,” he said.

“Move it!” his sister chimed.

“No! Stop!” I tried to break away, tug him down back into the sand with me and wrestle myself out of his grasp, pry his fingers from my arm turning blue under his tight grip, but he was much bigger and stronger than me. He dragged me over the ledge out of the sandbox, scratching my nose against the splinters. I curled my body and turned to the side, planted me feet into the ground, and with all my strength, I pulled back as though we were playing tug of war and my arm was the rope. As I was gaining momentum, pulling him down to the ground with me, his sister knocked her knee in the center of my back. My shoulders curved back with the force and I fell forward.

My face by his feet, the boy let go of my arm, giving me the false security that he had grown tired of harassing me. I lay catching my breath, the blades of grass bending backward as I exhaled. I raised my head, and traced the dark outline of his body in the grass in front of me. It shrank down as his arms curled under my armpits and he picked me up again, his legs straddling my body. I screamed for Gabbi as he waddled me over to a tree on the outskirts of the playground, behind the benches that served as a perimeter. My cries fell on deaf ears. It was as if we were the only three there.

He slammed me into the tree, mushing my face against the bark. My nose bent downward as the bridge collided with the tree trunk; I couldn’t breathe. Against the weight of his palm pressing into my crown, I shifted my head to the side, skidding my cheeks, piercing skin. I took two gulps of air.

“Assume the position!” he said, and while he held me down, his sister’s hands patted from my ankles up my leg, to my hips and waist, and down the other leg. “Check for weapons.”

My eyes burned from the tears and the sand. My temples pounded. My vision blurred. My stomach floated on the tense air. I’d begun to give up hope when I heard a voice so close I could touch it.

“I’m gone for five minutes and all hell breaks loose!”

It was Gabbi.

© Nortina Simmons

Oreo Cookies | Chapter 2 | Part 3

Oreo Cookies | Chapter 2 | Part 1

Susie: Black Inside and Out

They say children don’t begin to retain their memories until they are around four years old, but I hadn’t yet turned three when I became aware of my skin in the sandbox of the neighborhood park, surrounded by two and three story homes and parents who pretended to ignore me behind maple leaves and flying children on swings.

I called my grandmother by her first name, Gabbi. In public, people mistook her for my mother, my actual mother for my older sister. Gabbi’s hair was cut short and dyed a copper red. She wore jeans and leather boots, even in the summer. She liked showing off her thick thighs and wide hips. “I still got it,” she would say as she sashayed past men younger than her in the mall while I squeezed her index finger, scurrying to keep up, and my mother lollygagged behind, pretended not to be associated.

The only indication of Gabbi’s age was the lines around the edge of her mouth. “Fussing at your crazy mom,” she explained. A permanent scowl on her lips that hadn’t left since the day Mom came home with an F in English, a nineteen-year-old dropout boyfriend, and a baby on the way.

I didn’t see much of Mom growing up. She and Gabbi didn’t get along, and after she had me, she moved in with Pawpaw, only visited me on the weekends.

Our Saturdays together usually involved me being left alone on the playground while she snuck off to meet my dad and, as Gabbi often muttered while holding me, “make another baby he ain’t gon take care of.” I’d only seen his face in pictures. He always wore a hat, shielding his eyes, his shirts hung off his shoulders as if on coat hangers, and his pants could fit three people. The only distinct feature of him I could remember was his mouth. The thin line of black hair across his upper lip looked as if a child had scribbled with a crayon. He bit down on his bottom lip, sneering at the camera, jutting out his chin and the strip of hair that extended down toward his neck.

He bought me a toy fire truck for Christmas. The paint was chipped, the flashing lights and blaring siren broken, the left rearview mirror bent. Gabbi suspected he swiped it from a bin full of toys meant to be donated to homeless children, or it was a hand-me-down from a younger sibling or cousin. I didn’t mind his thoughtless gift. It was all that I had of him. Fire fighters saved people’s lives. They extinguished fires, rescued children from burning buildings. I held onto the hope that there was something heroic underneath the frightening exterior captured in his photograph.

No one ever played in the park by Gabbi’s house. A creek ran through it, alongside the basketball court, swing set, and merry-go-round. It was overgrown with weeds and shrubs, the water as shallow as a rain puddle. The steady chorus of crickets and cicadas resonated from the tall grass, and one woman swore she saw a snake once.

Instead, Gabbi dropped us off at a park near her co-worker’s house. We drove through the gentrified portion of King Drive where Gabbi complained about how the “yuppies” were taking over and raising the property value. We merged onto the highway, drove six exists west to a quieter part of town.

The park was located in the widened median of Shiloh Hills, a cul-de-sac where the playground divided the street down to the end, houses on either side. They each stood tall, having at least a second floor, a shuttered window near the roof where an attic would’ve been. The porches spread across the face of the houses, plastic lawn chairs stacked underneath the spacious windows. At our apartment, we shared a front lawn with ten other tenants. Our designated yards no more than two patches of land separated by the concrete front stoop. However, these homes had lawns where you could cartwheel without kicking your neighbor in the gut, where you weren’t trespassing after taking two or three steps. The grass was a rich, deep green whereas we still covered the dirt with hay, waiting on the rain, waiting on a fresh blade to grow amongst the cigarette butts, broken glass from beer bottles.

Gabbi didn’t trust leaving Mom alone with me, but she knew that a growing child needed to know her mother, so she promised to be back in an hour and left for Target to browse the home section.

Holding my fire truck out in front of me as if it were an airplane, I raced down to the sandbox, sunk my knees into the cushion of the sand and pushed my truck back and forth, wailing at the top of my lungs, weee-oooh, weee-oooh, in route to put out another fire.

Mom stood by the sandbox fidgeting. She crossed one foot over the other, then back again, twisted her torso as if stretching, looked down at her watch, blowing air into her cheeks as if frustrated with the time she was given. It didn’t take me long to realize she hadn’t come to spend time with me, and when the ’69 Impala pulled to the curb, the heavy bass of the music causing the sand grains around me to rise and fall, I knew who she was anxious to see.

“Stay put. I’ll be right back,” she whispered into my ear.

I swung around to face her. “You gon ta see daddy?”

She pulled the strap of her purse over her shoulder, leaned back and stretched her neck in the direction the car was parked.

“He doesn’t always get to see me when she’s around, ya know. He misses your mama.”

“But not me?”

“That’s different.” She caressed the side of my head, and with the jerk of her arm, pulled my face to her mouth. “Don’t tell Gabbi,” she said before kissing my forehead. She smeared a smile across her face as she approached an older woman sitting on the bench that faced my sandbox. She pointed back at me, pressed her palms together as if pleading that her rendezvous would only take a few minutes, and before I could blink, she had disappeared inside the car, the engine revving loudly as it sped off, disappearing from sight.

© Nortina Simmons

Oreo Cookies | Chapter 2 | Part 2

Oreo Cookies | Chapter 1 | Part 3

Natasha – Black on the Outside concluded

Mama was waiting for me at the bus stop that afternoon. She waved her hands over her head, prompting the bus driver to ask her what was the matter when he pulled over and opened the double doors so I could get off. I lowered my head, dodged her open arms as if I didn’t know her. She was usually still at work after school let out. She didn’t come home until after five, and no one was allowed to bother her until she had taken off her pumps, changed into her housecoat and slippers, and watched the end of Family Feud. It was her post-work routine to shed eight hours of dealing with “stupid people who somehow get paid more than me.” If not done in that order without interruptions, she was rude and nasty for the rest of the night, which usually meant Daddy had to run through the drive-thru at McDonald’s or Bojangles’ or we’d go to bed hungry.

The bus drove off, screeched to a halt at the stop sign in our front yard, and then disappeared down the hill.

“You get fired?” I asked, pulling at the straps of my backpack.

“Is that how you greet your mother?” She held out her arms again and, no longer under the penetrative gazes of my giggling classmates, I wrapped my arms around her waist and stood on my toes to kiss her cheek.

“There is absolutely no food in the house. I think your father wakes up in the middle of the night to clean out the refrigerator.” She straightened up and wiped her hands on her gray pinstriped pants. “Want to ride to the store with me?”

“I have math homework.”

“The best way to learn math is shopping. You write down the price of all the food we load in the cart then tell me what the total should be.” I nodded and followed her to the car parked in our dirt driveway.

There was a Food Lion two blocks from our house that we never went to. It was in a strip between a barbershop and a clothing store that only sold oversized jeans and throwback jerseys. Mama called it the “hood store” because only poor black people shopped in it, and the food was always old. The meat section had more pig feet, chitterlings, and chicken than anything else. Most of the packaged meat had already been seasoned because it was approaching the “sell by” date. Daddy once bought some hamburger patties that had begun to turn brown, and when Mama brought it back the next day, the customer service girl was popping her chewing gum so loudly, Mama wanted to slap it right out of her mouth.

Instead, we shopped at the Lowe’s Foods twenty minutes across town, on the other side of the train tracks, where the only black people you saw were women in dresses and heels. Not one of them still wore the bonnet she slept in. The men didn’t step out of their cars in flip-flops and socks.

Here, you didn’t have to worry about someone approaching you to sell Nike tennis shoes, mix CDs, or bootleg movies out of his trunk. You didn’t have to worry about people knocking on your window begging for gas money when you just saw them get off the bus at the corner. You didn’t have to worry about drunk old men leaning against the brick wall outside of the automatic doors and making obscene hand gestures towards their crotches when you walked by. You didn’t have to worry about club promotional clutter on your windshield when you returned to your car.

At the Lowe’s Foods, no one harassed you in the parking lot about feeding their families or investing in their business. They lowered their heads when you walked by. The blonde women in tracksuits clutched the purses a little bit tighter, but forced themselves to smile while you stood next to them squeezing tomatoes and picking green bananas. The cashiers barely glanced at you. They swiped your food, accepted your coupons, and didn’t roll their eyes when you asked if a certain food item was on sale. They didn’t mumble to your back as you walked out of the store. They smiled as they handed you the receipt, enunciated variations of “have a nice day”—“good afternoon,” “come back soon,” “have a great rest of the evening.”

The food was much more expensive, but it was of a better quality. The fish never reeked from the trunk on the way home, and we never opened stale cereal. If she didn’t see the cut of beef she wanted, Mama would ring the bell for the butcher, and he would hand her a freshly packaged flank she would roast in the crockpot for Sunday dinner.

I scribbled down the prices as we walked through the produce section first. Mama dropped grapes, bananas, apples, green beans, and cabbage all into the basket. In the meat section, Mama shuffled through various cuts, examining the fat trim before tossing the meat back into the pile while I stared up at the Lunchables kits hanging over the packaged slices of ham and turkey. I pulled down a pepperoni pizza Lunchable. Inside was a stack of three miniature tortilla shells I assumed to be the pizza dough. Underneath the stack lay a packet of tomato sauce. In the two smaller sections were shredded mozzarella and cheddar cheeses, and nickel-sized, bright red pepperoni slices. I held the package up to her face. “Mama, can I have this?”

“What is it?” She snatched it from my hand, flipped it over to read the nutritional facts. “This isn’t real food.” She hung it back on the racket. “Don’t you buy school lunch?”

“But Breanna’s mom said that school lunch isn’t real food?”

“Well, tell Breanna that her mama needs to worry about feeding her own kid.” She pushed the cart further down the lane towards the dairy products then paused as if to change her mind. I stayed put, reaching my hand back to nab the pizza again. “Tell ya what.” She pointed to aisle five, ahead and to her left. “Go pick yourself out a snack to take to school with you. Chips, crackers, popcorn, cookies, whatever you like.” She held up her finger. “One thing only.”

I sprinted down the aisle, ignoring Mama’s cries for me to walk. There was so much to choose from. The Lay’s potato chips. Was I to select barbeque, my favorite, or sour cream and onion, which came in a close second. The Pringles stood tall next to the air-filled bags of chips. They might have been a better choice, but I could never retrieve a chip from the long cylinder without snapping it in half. I kept walking. I paused in front of the cookies. The ginger snaps my mom always ate with cheese cubs and hot tea. The Chips Ahoy! I could never finish without smearing melted chocolate all over my face and dropping crumbs down my shirt. The Chicken in a Biskit crackers that we strangely only ate at Christmastime. Then I saw it. The blue and white package. The blown-up picture of two chocolate cookies with a white cream filling sandwiched between them.

I’d never eaten an Oreo before. The commercials suggested you dip them in milk first. Some people broke them in half, licked off the filling and tossed the rest. Why not scrape off the cream, discard the white on the inside and only eat the chocolate? Why not fill them with chocolate syrup instead, or press the cookies together, sans filling, and dip them into chocolate milk? Why was the white always better?

An older woman with a curled back tapped me on the shoulder. She wore a pink hat with a flower the same color as her alabaster hair. “Are you thinking about buying those?” she asked with a shaky voice, her loose neck skin jiggling as she spoke.

“My mom said I could have just one.”

“Well that’s a good selection, dear,” she said. She took the Oreos off the shelf and placed them in my hands. “Sweet on the inside, just like you.” She winked, poking my chest.

And just like you, I thought as she walked away, holding her basket in the crook of her elbow, her own pack of Oreos lying on the bottom. Sweat and white. Just like the people in this store across the train tracks, miles away from the hood grocer, who let us shop in peace. Just like Breanna who didn’t call me names because I didn’t act or talk like a normal black kid. Just like the Jesus figurine, the Savior of the world before we fleshed him out with brown ink. Sweet and white.

I trotted back to Mama’s cart and placed the Oreos in the top basket on top of the eggs.

“How much?” she asked.


“You think we’re at a hundred dollars yet?”

I counted the list of numbers. We were up to twenty variations of one, two, and three dollars, and the subsequent change amounts. “I need a calculator,” I said.

Mama chuckled in her throat, cooing like a pigeon. “Let’s get some milk and get out of here.”

As we pushed the heavy shopping cart together, I imagined how the Oreos would taste after soaking in milk at the bottom of a cool glass.

© Nortina Simmons

Oreo Cookies | Chapter 2 | Part 1

Oreo Cookies | Chapter 1 | Part 2

Natasha – Black on the Outside continued…

I ate lunch alone. At the very back of the cafeteria closest to the door. I stared at my wrist, pinching the skin. It turned white under the pressure of my fingers, and I wondered if I were something like the Jesus figurines that populated our house. Underneath my brown exterior, was there a whiter, purer version of me? When God carved us in the dust, were we not already the color of clay? Did he birth us from the shores of the earth? Our bodies rising from white sandy beaches, colorless fingers and toes wiggling the grains from between the crevices, reaching back down to pull up ivory faces, bleach blond hair slicked back, long lashes sweeping the salt from our eyes.

What was wrong with me that I received color while others like my teacher, Mrs. Whitehurst, remained white? What blemish was He trying to cover? Was there a chip on my shoulder? Did the tide come in right as I was emerging from the sand, washing away pieces of flesh, creating craters in my arms and legs? White sand turns brown when touched by water, so did God fill in the blank spaces, dipping the fringe tail fin of a fish into a mortar mixture of sand, and clay, blessing me with a sandy, brown complexion?

I looked around at the other students in the cafeteria. We were all His little mistakes. Various shades of imperfections. Some like Susie inherited darker coats, their whiteness underneath drowned in the heavy black pigment. Ricky was less flawed. His smooth, buttery skin a thin layer of film covering shallow dips in his otherwise perfectly white interior.

Then there was Breanna. She was closer to our sandy origins than the rest of us. As if God had scooped the sand, glistening under the sun like glass, in His hands and sprinkled sediments of light brown, creamy white and rusty red onto the bridge of her nose and sunken cheekbones, dusted it across her sharp shoulders, down the back of her thin arms.

Susie and her friends had turned their taunts to Breanna and the train of toilet paper she trailed behind her from the bathroom. They called her Skinny Becky because “all white girls should be named Becky, and stop trying to be black with that fake black name.” Breanna hunched her shoulders over her lunch. She turned her head to the side, laid it in her palm and ate her sandwich and chips with her left hand to avoid their teasing glances and pointing fingers.

Our tables were next to each other. She sat on the side facing the back wall while I sat diagonal from her, looking back at the cafeteria line. She raised her eyes, and they became level with mine. We stared at each other, scoping out the potential danger in association. I followed the shape of her nose, how it sloped down and curved up into a point like a ski jump ramp. I squeezed the nostrils of my flat, wide nose to create the same shape. How could she even breathe through those tiny triangle slits? I let go, inhaled the damp, tomatoey air around me, filling my chest. She laughed when she saw my struggle to look like her then quickly covered her mouth and returned to her lunch. She wasn’t black like me, but our sandy under skin—hers more prevalent than mine—our exclusion from Susie and her dark skin club made us sisters, so I rose from my seat and joined her at her table.

“You here to pick on me too?” she asked as I sat down.

“No, I thought we could be friends.”


I shrugged my shoulders and took a bite of my pizza, lapping up the dangling strings of cheese from my chin. Susie’s high-pitched laugher could still be heard from across the room.

“I wish they’d stop already,” Breanna said.

“They’re laughing at the toilet tissue on your shoe.”

She looked under the table at the back of her foot, rolled her eyes. She yanked the toilet tissue off her heel, balled it in her fist, threw it toward the large trashcan at the center of the aisle between tables. She missed by at least a yard, the lightweight ball suspended in the air before landing at the janitor’s feet. He pressed his lips together in a thin line, bent over to pick up the wad of toilet paper, holding his lower back, his eyes glued on Breanna, the folds in his forehead deepening as he frowned at her all the way down and back up.

Breanna slammed her elbows onto the table. “I hate this school!”

“It’s not too bad.”

“Easy for you to say. You ain’t all alone.”

“You’re not either. Not anymore.” I peeled off a corner of my pizza that I didn’t bite into and offered it to her. She shook her head.

“My mom said school lunches are bad for you. She said the cheese on the pizza ain’t real.”

I drew back my hand, dropped the corner slice into my mouth and chewed, swirling the dough, tomato sauce, and cheese around my tongue. I pressed my tongue into my cheek, trying to spread the cheese apart. It was thick like a fresh stick of gum and didn’t pull easily. When my chewing and swishing turned the food into mash, I settled on swallowing it. Some of the cheese strings lingered at the back of my throat. I hacked them up into my napkin.


I didn’t say anything. I tossed the napkin on the tray, took my bag of apple slices and pushed the tray across the table.

“You can have some of my chips,” Breanna said, sliding to me a pink napkin thin as tissue paper piled with bright yellow crinkle potato chips.

“Is that chocolate milk?” I asked, pointing at the glass jar she held to her lips.

“Yep.” She took a sip then extended her tongue up to the curved arrow of her nose to lick away the mustache. “White milk supposed to give you strong bones and teeth, but it taste like that nasty cream they put in soup, so I mix some Hershey’s syrup in it to make it taste better.”

“I thought only black people drank chocolate milk.”

“Why you say that?”

All the brown and yellow and purple-black hands of children in the cafeteria were holding the triangle cartons with the signature brown splotches, slurping the milk brown liquid through a straw. As if there were a brown and white cow on the dairy farms that only squirted chocolate milk from its utters. We always latched onto things that reminded us of our own reflections. The brown drinks, the brown crayons we used to color in the faces of our stick-figure self-portraits. Chocolate milk was as much a part of us as our own skin yet this white girl was drinking it like it was just another sugary beverage.

“It don’t make you black or nothin’. Just tastes better.”

Mrs. Whitehurst waved her arm for us to start packing our things. Breanna guzzled down the last of her milk, nibbled on the corners of her sandwich before zipping it back into a plastic bag.

“That’s all you’re eating?” My stomach lowly rumbled in my ear, vibrating under my rib cage. Apples and chips would not hold me to dinner.

“It’s just ham and cheese. You want it?”

I snatched the bag from her outstretched hand and slid it into the back pocket of my jeans. I would eat it behind the book I would read that afternoon—it was between Bud, Not Buddy, and Roll of Thunder Hear My Cry, two novels I found on my parents bookshelf behind the dictionary and immediately stuffed into my backpack when I saw the kids, brown like me, on the cover.

We were about to get in line when Susie approached our table.

“Aw, the two white girls in the whole school ate lunch together.” Her smile wide as the Cheshire cat’s from Alice in Wonderland.

“I’m not white. I look just like you,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.

“Don’t matter. You still a Oreo.” She held her head so high and so far back as she stomped away, I hoped the dust from the ceiling fans floated into her flared nostrils and choked her.

“Don’t worry ‘bout her,” Breanna said, poking me in the side with her sharp elbow. “We friends now, and I know you ain’t white.” She smiled, put her arm around my shoulder as we walked to the line forming under the exit sign behind the tables.

“Maybe not on the outside,” I said under my breath.

© Nortina Simmons

Oreo Cookies | Chapter 1 | Part 3

Oreo Cookies | Chapter 1 | Part 1

Natasha – Black on the Outside

When I was seven, Mama told me I was too young to know what love meant. Permitting little knuckleheads like Ricky Reynolds to look under my dress during recess didn’t equal a relationship. Hanging from the monkey bars, his head between my dangling legs, nose sniffing through the cotton that separated my virginity from his prying eyes. We got married behind the swing set. Roxanne from the fifth grade performed the ceremony — her mom was a wedding planner. She ripped dandelions from the ground for my bouquet, told us we had to kiss for five seconds before it was official. She counted on her fingers while we pressed our lips together, dry and crusted from the late August heat. When she screamed five, Ricky jerked his head, biting my bottom lip, my first hickie. She snatched one of the kindergarteners from the sliding board ladder to be our baby, and I blew dandelion seeds into the wind. Whosever head they landed on first was next to be wed.

Unfortunately, our marriage didn’t last. I caught Ricky holding hands with Fast Lane Susie on the way to the buses that afternoon. They were a better match, though. They both lived in the Hamps while I had a mom and a dad and a house on Britter’s Street.

We only had one dictionary in our home, thicker than the King James Bible. Each section was tabbed, but instead of books from the Old and New Testaments, each tab was engraved with a letter— A, B, C, and on. The dictionary was too tall for the three-foot bookcase next to my parents’ bed, so they laid it flat, bending the shelf downward, curving the paperback spines of the Toni Morrison and Terry McMillan novels underneath. I dropped the dictionary in front of my feet, shaking the ground. It fell open to the M’s and I flipped backward, reading from bottom right to upper left — macaroni, mass, luciferin, lowboy — until I settled on love.

“Love,” I read, “a deep and tender feeling of affection for or attachment or devotion to a person or thing.” I curled the thin sheets of paper around my index finger, sat back on my heels. What did affection mean? Attachment as in Velcro? Didn’t devotion have something to do with Praise and Worship at church?

Mama always said love came from God. He traced our bodies into the soil, blew breath into our lungs, painted our skin with strong brushstrokes of ebony, mahogany, cinnamon. Love was creating someone in your own image, granting them the power to walk as kings and queens upon the earth. “We were building empires while Europe was still in darkness,” she’d said. “Don’t ever be ashamed of who you are. God is in you.”

God was in our house too. Images of the Savoir with brown skin, silky chestnut hair, the sun’s rays extending from his bowed head, adorned our walls, framed in glossed wood. He watched over us as we slept, blessed the food we ate at the kitchen table, clapped with the shouting parishioners mounted above the piano on the wall across from him. The figures in the painting danced whenever Mama played “This Little Light of Mine.” They waved their hymnals in the air, skipped around the pews, fainted down the aisles.

Each room had a Jesus figurine. It sat on dressers, coffee tables, cabinets, counter tops, clothed in white robes, arms outstretched, hair cascading down his back. Except for Cheyenne, whose mother was white, I had never met a black person with long, smooth hair. Our hair grew up toward the sky, spread out like fireworks. The stores didn’t sell a Jesus like that. He was too revolutionary, threatened the status quo. They needed something demure, a God who didn’t challenge the privilege of the majority, one who approved of the manmade pedestals on which they stood above the darker-skinned others. His glacial blue eyes, skin white as the wool cloth that tickled his ankles as he walked.

We colored the white Jesus’s in defiance. Brown permanent markers, henna paste, oak wood stains. We drew the lines on the blank canvas of his skin, filled him in with the flick of our wrists. We made him in our likeness, imitating the effort he put into molding our bodies from the clay of the earth.

I wanted to show all dark things love the way Jesus had when he made me. I stopped crushing on Ricky. His skin was too light. High yallah, Mama called him. He was the color of lemon cookies. Our wrists side by side looked like peanut butter and chocolate. Instead, I sought a friendship with Susie, hoping she was as sweet as her blackberry skin.

Johnson, Williams— we didn’t sit close to each other in class. I was toward the back, near the coat rack. Twenty-two students, seven desks per row, I was on a row by myself. Easily forgotten. I hid behind the other students’ heads, read chapter books I checked out from the library under my desk—Experanza Rising, The Birchbark House, Among the Hidden and the Shadow Children books. Susie sat in the middle row, next to the window where she stared out into the playground, beating on the desk in tune with the ticking clock, counting down to recess, uninterested in the lessons Mrs. Jenkins wrote on the blackboard.

At lunch, I stood three spots behind Susie in the line to the cafeteria. I listened to the rattling of beads in her braided hair as we walked. The pink, blue, and green cylinders clashed together at the ends of her hair, grazing over her shoulders. I mimicked her lunch choices. One square slice of cheese pizza, the cheese sliding off the undercooked dough. One bag of apple slices, the corners beginning to brown. A carton of chocolate milk from the cooler. Ranch packets from the condiments bowl.

Susie got free lunch, most of the kids from the projects did. They lived with their grandmas whose only income was social security, or their moms who worked late nights at McDonald’s and brought home chewy chicken nuggets and soft fries that would last them until the food stamps arrived.

I fished out two crumpled bills from my back pocket. The night before, I told Mama my lunch account was 57 cents in the red again. She’d promise to put twenty on it soon, but looking over the cafeteria lady’s shoulder, my two dollars had barely brought my account back to green.

“Have a good day, Natash.” She slid her glasses up the bridge of her nose, squinting at the monitor. I often wondered if she could read my name or if the last A had actually been cut off on the screen. I settled on the former. You didn’t graduate college to work in an elementary school cafeteria.

I found Susie sitting with two other girls at a table on the far right side of the cafeteria, against the wall.

“May I join you guys?”

“Why you talk like that?” The cheese stretched inside Susie’s mouth as she spoke.

“Like what?”

“You sound like a white girl.”

Her friends snickered behind their napkins.

“How do I sound like a white girl?” I clutched my tray against my stomach, digging my nails into the plastic, the whites in my knuckles shown through skin.

“You got a really soft voice, like you used to live in the mountains and breathe in all the air. And you use big words in class.”

“I like reading the dictionary.”

The girls burst into laughter, cackling like hyenas, their partially chewed food jiggling inside their cheeks. They slammed their fist, squirted ranch dressing in the air, and it landed in droplets, sprinkled on the table.

“You’re weird, Oreo. You can’t sit with us.” Susie said.

I didn’t move. I picked at my cheese, twirling the strings around my finger. It wasn’t even warm. “Why do you call me Oreo?” I asked, not looking up from my plate.

In unison, white teeth glaring, they answered. “Black on the outside, white on the inside.”

©Nortina Simmons

 Oreo Cookies | Chapter 1 | Part 2

Separate but Equal

The lawn was a rich green. As many as 500 graves were lined an inch apart, each adorned with a bronze vase full of flowers. “This is one of the few cemeteries in Charleston that isn’t underneath a church parking lot, or squashed between bed and breakfasts and museums,” the tour guide said.

“So where are the slaves whose lashed backs this city was built on?” a man asked. He wore a solid black t-shirt. On the front were the words, “Black Lives Matter.”

“Well… It’s been moved… to account for the expansion of this… graveyard, but…” The tour guide pointed toward the far edge of the cemetery where shrubs and weeds were overgrown, and dead tree limbs hung over faded, forgotten names etched into tombstones stacked nearly on top of each other. “As was customary in the South… graveyards were… segregated.”

“How could anyone call that resting in peace?” the man asked, but half of the group had already started back for the bus, not wanting Charleston’s racial history to ruin their vacation.

word count: 174


Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is a weekly challenge where you write a story in 100-150 words (give or take 25 words) using the provided photo prompt as inspiration.

Click on the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own!


Doll Test

After losing her head, she realized that the rest of her body was falling apart!

My adoptive mother watched in horror as I ripped her limbs from the sockets and tossed them into the fireplace, the plastic boiling and melting in flames.

She’ll send me back to the foster home; I’m sure of it. 

It’s not my fault. I’m not a violent kid, but when I asked for a doll for my birthday, I expected a mini me. A doll I could dress like me, style her hair like mine, flaunt around the playground as my twin.

Instead, she bought me a doll that looked like her own daughter, Hannah.

No matter how many times I combed it out and slathered it with grease, her hair always fell back into perfect blonde curls. I drew on her arms and legs with brown crayons and markers, but each night, the color wiped away in my bed sheets as she slept next to me. One day, I laid her in the rocking chair and she winked at me with those hideous blue eyes. I lost it.

I heard the words, “psychotic” and “cereal killer,” whispered into the phone.

I guess she’s mad I ate the last of the Honey Nut Cheerios too.


I went over the word limit, but I wanted to use today’s prompt as a writing exercise for a larger piece that I’m working on dealing with race and identity, how it affects young children, in this case, young girls, and of course, the infamous doll dest. If you’ve never heard of the doll test, there are plenty of videos online. Here is one.

This is in response to Mondays Finish the Story: a flash fiction challenge where we provide you with a new photo each week, and the first sentence of a story. Your challenge is to finish the story using 100-150 words, not including the sentence provided.

Click the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own.


Segregated Like the Trees

Jameca stood at the bank of the pond shivering in the chilly, predawn air. Her fiancé of six years wrapped his arms around her waist.

“We look like an Oreo,” John said, staring down at their reflection in the water.

“Even the trees are segregated,” Jameca said.

“That’s because one side is regular and the other is evergreens.”

“Just like us.” Jameca broke their embrace. “You’re regular, and I’m black, and no matter what I do, I’ll never be able to shake my color, like the evergreens can never shake their leaves and look like the regular trees.”

“Babe, they’re just trees.”

“And we’re just people! Why do you think your mother hates me, John? Because I’m the same complexion as the man who knocked her up and abandoned her when she was sixteen? Or, maybe it’s because, although you look just like her, she knows her future grandchild won’t.”

John stared back at her.

“I’m glad you finally decided to stop lying to me,” Jameca said, and she jumped into the freezing, cold water.

word count: 175


Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is a weekly challenge where you write a story in 100-150 words (give or take 25 words) using the provided photo prompt as inspiration.

Click on the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own!


No Holds Barred Poetry Writing Challenge: Day 7

African . . .

American . . .
Elsewhere . . .

These are the words my four-year-old son
pushes from his lips
as we drive by American Furniture Warehouse,
leaning over his car seat
pressing his face into the glass window
attempting to read the letters
displayed across the front of the building.

I want to applaud him,
congratulate him for getting at least one word right,
but I wonder why he chose the other two

African . . .
Elsewhere . . .

as if he’s throwing a part of his heritage away.

And I worry.
Did I not read enough tales of
Anansi, the cunning spider
before he fell asleep?
Did my forgetful husband let him watch
Saturday morning cartoons instead
of the Gullah Gullah Island reruns
I recorded and set aside for him?
Does he still play with his action figures—
Green Lantern from Justice League Unlimited?
Falcon from the Marvel Comics?

I did it, mommy. I read the sign!

I look at him through the rearview mirror,
smile weakly at my baby boy’s reflection.
Does he know who he is?
Can he see himself in
the myths and fables,
the educational programming,
the animated superheroes.
I want to pull over,
sweep him up in my warm, Black embrace.
There’s nothing elsewhere about being African American
I wish I could say with an undeceiving heart.

Instead I continue driving.
Good job, I tell him.
Good job.