Mimie and Me

Jessica French Smith

Sometimes we forget.

Sunday morning light on the yellow bedspread. Coffee smells and bubbling noises. She roles over next to me, lying on her side, facing me, habitual hand motion, pushing away the dreadlocks that constantly fall on her forehead. She giggles and squirms a little bit. Looks into my blue eyes, half open to keep out the sun.

“Baby, what’s so funny?” I clear my throat, morning ritual.

She laughs again, “We’re girls.”

I look down at our intertwined legs. Your eyes can only decipher whose is whose based on the contrast. The curve of our hips are mirror images.

“Haha, I guess we are. And you know what, I love it!” I give her a quick kiss on the lips.

It’s funny how we forget.

Coffee smells motivate me to untangle our legs and go search for some sugar. I put on some Bach for breakfast. As I’m pouring some liquid energy to the strings of Orchestral Suite No.3, her raspy voice interrupts my reverie.

“Skip the shower, we’re going to the beach anyway.”

I know how she hates when I take long showers. And I mean looong showers.

“No fair, you don’t have to wash your hair everyday,” I complain as I stir in the sugar.

“And who said you’ve got to shave your legs too? And spend an hour picking out a skirt and putting on makeup.”

That’s the clincher. The makeup. I know it’s frivolous. I concede.

“Let me at least finish my coffee.”

I look up. She’s already dressed, tying the laces on a new pair of Pumas. God damn, girl is fast. Board shorts and a beater and she’s ready to go. Two pieces of a Pink Guess bathing suit, one long white blouse, a denim skirt and two dangly earrings later – and I’m ready.

Blasting Wyclef in her bright yellow Scion, speeding down Sepulveda on our way to Venice Beach. We’ve been together for almost a year now, and I’m finally starting to understand the Kreyol he is rapping.

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The first time I ever heard Haitian Kreyol was in her family kitchen. This is no ordinary kitchen. When I walk in the walls are glowing- warm orange, sponge-painted on red. The room is saturated with the sweet smell of bannan duce, the mix of spices, and the ring of laughter. Its one of those kitchens that’s never empty. Marie Jean, her mother, is bustling around, cooking up a feast for the 15 or so family members. Somehow, everyone knows when to stop by.

There is a mix of Kreyol and English being thrown across the room. Chantale shouts to her daughter, “Sasha! Boumewn yon plato.”

She responds, “A big plate or a little plate?”

Marie Jean grabs a bottle of cranberry juice on her retreat toward the table. “Glas?”

I look at Mimie for a translation, “Ice, it’s the same as the French.”

“Oh, no ice, thank you, I mean, Merci.”

Her mom sucks her teeth, shakes her head and looks at Chantale, “Oo, mon blanc.”

I look at Mimie again, I furrow my brow, silently asking if I did something wrong.

“Come on, you speak French – mon blanc – what does it sound like?”

I quickly try to convert the Kreyol to French to English. Mon to monde to world. Blanc to blonche to blonde, for some reason. I offer up a timid “Blonde world??”

Everyone laughs.

“Mon blanc – White people! Come on baby.”

Wow, talk about lost in translation.

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We’re looking for parking at the beach, bass still thumping. We end up having to walk forever. I don’t mind, it means I get to hold her hand longer.

It’s my first time on Venice Beach. Feeling both fascinated and assaulted by the street vendors, the smells, skate board punks and boom boxes. I can feel the sun on my skin, her palm in mine, the comfort of walking in rhythm. Always on the same foot, same confident stride.

The sidewalk is full of pan handlers from all over, Ohio, Tennessee, Alabama- pushing their cds, trying to “make it big” in LA. Mostly rappers trying to sell hip-hop, cds in little bags, big headphones.

A group of guys starts haggling us, specifically Mimie, trying to get her to buy their demo. The tallest one, a skinny dude, tries to put his headphones on her. Like anyone else on the street, they’re trying to rope us in. Understandable, but Mimie’s not interested.

“Yo, no thanks, I’m not feelin it.”

Slips her hand around my waist and pulls me in the other direction.

“What?! Come on now. I bet you don’t want it cuz you’re with your white woman. Too good for hip hop now you gotta white girl?”

His friend chimes in, “Think you’re too good for us?”

She squeezes my waist tighter, white linen bunches in her grip, pulling my hip into hers.

“Yeah, keep walking.”

“You and your white girl, you keep walking!”

We walk in silence. A minute passes. I look up at her expressionless face, “Baby, that was fucked up. Aren’t you angry?”

“Whatever, just don’t think about it. It’s not like it’s the first time.”

It’s funny how we forget sometimes.

It’s funny how we have to remember.

After lunch at a cute crepe shop, walking in rhythm again. A Hispanic woman on the street, track jacket, baseball hat, shouts at Mimie-

“You go girl! We need more ladies like you!”

And I don’t get it at first. Her enthusiasm makes me want to smile. And then I remember and the uneasiness sets in. Was it some sort of triumph for her to be dating me? Does that make me some sort of white trophy? Wonder how this one feels for her. I squeeze her hand.

“Was she talking to us?”

I almost forgot again. What does that mean?

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Hot spray hits my back. I finally get to take that looong shower I’ve been craving all day.

We slide past each other, alternately wetting down, lathering up and rinsing off. It’s so natural that we have our own shower language.

Fingers grazing my waist = Baby, I can’t reach the face wash, grab it for me?

Raising both eyebrows = Woman, how long you gonna take to rinse off, its cold out here.

Raising one eyebrow and cocking her hip = Don’t front like you really need 12 minutes to get all the conditioner out. You know you’re taking too long.

I’ve got my eyes closed, head tilted back, fingertips massaging the shampoo out of my hair. I feel her capable hands start to soap up my body. I know I’m really taking too long when she starts in on my armpits. I start to mumble an apology. “Sorry, bab--”, sputtering as water gets in my mouth.

“It’s okay.”

Her hands trace my figure, she squats, quickly runs both hands up and down each leg. She reaches my stomach as she stands up. Her hands slow down and cup my breasts. I open my eyes. She laughs like this morning.

“Its like, damn, you’re really a girl… those are breasts… and oh wait… they’re white.”

“I know. It’s weird. I forget about those terms sometimes.”

“Let’s go to bed, boo boo.” She reaches around me and turns the shower knob.

We dry off. She puts Clinique on her face, a moushwa on her head to keep her locks back. I rub Bath and Bodyworks coconut-lime cream on my newly shaved legs.

We climb under the yellow comforter. She goes first; she always sleeps on the inside. I crawl in after her, her bent knees fit into the backs of mine, she slips her arm around my waist and pulls me closer, snuggling her nose in by my neck. I reach up and turn off the light.

Cuddled together, one body in the darkness.

You can’t see those things with the lights off.

In the darkness we’re not white or black, girls or boys.

It’s just Mimie and me.