Pink
Pink The I Love New York and silver heart you see on my T-shirt is not what I like most about it. It’s the pink. I don’t know how to read and I may not be pretty, but I can tell what looks good on me. With my black skin, bright pink is it. Every day, going home from work, I walk by Jezila’s stand at the corner of Panaméricaine and Grégoire streets. Every day I think “God I want that shirt!” But one day I have three dollars in my pocket. Some woman is bargaining for my T-shirt. I snatch it from her, push all the money I own in Jezila’s hand, say I’ll bring the remaining five later, walk away fast. My husband has not found work for five years. The minute he sees me, he grabs for the pink. I grab back, run inside, lock myself in, hide the shirt so he can never find it. He looked everywhere. The children, he, and I live in just one room. You’d think it’d be hard to hide anything? Not for me. Next morning I walk out of the house wearing it. He stops me. Holds me by the tits. He is pissed. “Where was it?!” “I’m not telling! Not telling! Not telling!” In the evening, my daughter hid in the room to find out where I was stashing the shirt. “I know where you put it! I am going to tell my Daddy! I saw you sewing it inside his pillow! I am going to tell unless I can wear it too!” “Not if you don’t want me to tear the eyes out of that ugly face of yours!” I meant it. You’ve got to know what’s yours in life. Set some limits. If you leave your stuff out in the open, it’s family that will rob you first. ...
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