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Farrah Fielder
Southern Lit.
Dr. Chappel
November 25, 1997
Safe
So the results came in today. I must say I was surprised, although1
now that I think about it, I see that it has been comm' for a long
time. You see, it all started out as a joke When I was born, the doctors
supposedly almost gave me to the wrong family. Ever since then, the family
joke has been that I belong to someone else. Considering that I am a blue-eyed,
fair- skinned blonde and my parents are olive-skinned with brown hair and
eyes, my parentage could be looked at as questionable. But you know how
those recessive genes are. Anything can happen. Sometimes I have wondered
if my children could possibly turn out to be black (you know that Great
Aunt Stella was with a mulatto) or maybe like Uncle Watus who just now,
at 65, learned to zip his drawers himself. You would always knew how busy
Great Aunt Stella was on Sunday mornings when you saw Uncle Watus come
in.
Now that I think about it, I believe I can safely say that most of my family
is pretty odd. Like the time at Sunday dinner when I was minding my own
business, eating my corn-on-the-cob, and Pepaw picked up my arm and bit
me around the wrist. I had teeth marks for the rest of the day. I mean,
what would compel an old man to bite his granddaughter's arm or any other
part of her body for that matter? I know that I have never felt like biting
anyone except for that time when Cousin Andy kept sticking his little pink
tongue in my face. That time is definitely an exception. I'm sure of it.
And my grandmother. I'll tell you what! I have never understood that woman.
She used to holler (and still does when she hasn't seen me in a while),
Pedrooooo, where is my little grandbaby?" This used to really confuse
me seem' how everyone else called me Sarah, and I was pretty sure that
I was not a Mexican boy. Another thing about her that I still can't grasp
is why she wants to wear all of that make-up and jewelry. I have never
seen her without that Jack-the-Ripper red lipstick. Sometimes it would
scare me so bad that I would pray she wasn't a vampire. You know that some
families do have secrets, and they will go to all lengths to keep them.
But there's no way she could be a vampire because of all of that clanky
jewelry And how she can get 15 rings on ten fingers is beyond me. I can't
handle more than a watch, and I only put up with that because I need to
know what time to go to class.
Obviously, my mom received ample genes for jewelry and make up. She is
one of those who had gotten at least three make-overs from Avon, Mary Kay,
Beauty Control, and Estee Lauder in the past two years. When she takes
me to the mall, she can't pass up the cosmetics counter because she says
she needs "a little something new" for her "tired ole complexion."
Somehow, I don't think people want to see lime green and fuschia on anyone's
face. When I told her this one time, I sure got told. "Sarah,"
she said, "if you would do a little more like me and your grandma,
you might be able to get you a man." If arousing the attention of
the gas boy or the sacker at the grocery counts as getting a man,
I am not sure that's what I want. Anyway, you know how boys are. To them,
make-up and jewelry equals sex. Surely Mom has realized this, but she still
pushes the issue.
My dad is a whole different story. He considers himself to be a naturalist
of some sort. He doesn't like all of that added color stuff in your hair
and on your face. Maybe that's why he left Mom. But he sure doesn't mind
colored skin, because what did he do but up-and-leave me and Mom and ship
in his Internet African girlfriend to his new white house on the hill.
"Lips the size of bananas," my grandmother said when she saw
her. I shouldn't repeat the rest, because I am trying real hard to get
away from being racist and stuff. But I don't really understand my dad
either. I mean at least my mother's hair is soft. And he bought a motorcycle
to go with his new wife. I just get sick every time I see them zippin'
up to the Sonic, her hair all slicked back on her head. And Dad's hair.
Humph. That's another thing. When he left Mom last Christmas, he didn't
have all of that hair he does now. He claims that Rogaine has worked wonders
for him, but we all know that he used that money he swiped from my savings
for a hair implant. Mom says it doesn't matter how much hair he has because
his equipment is broken.
And there is nothing like a family get-together. The last one we had was
at the church. We had this real big singin' with the Prophecy Singers.
They are Pentecostal, but that's okay because they sure can sing. Anyway,
Mom got up there and started bangin' on that piano and Uncle Watus and
Pepaw started beatin'
their feet on the pew, while my grandma and aunts and Uncle Marion stood
up at the front and started wailing about flyin' away. Luckily, the Prophecy
Singers took over from there, and Cousin Andy ended up gettin' saved. The
reunion before that was a dandy too. We met up at the Catfish House where
we go every Friday night. It was a special meetin' because it was Uncle
Frank's 70th birthday. Cousin Bonnie Jean and her boyfriend Joe came down
for the festivities. Joe brought his guitar and 'coon dog and they did
the cutest little act. How he ever taught that hound to bark in tune to
"Ole Susanna" is beyond me. Anyway, Uncle Frank ended up peem'
on himself because he had drank, I mean drunk, too much tea. That's the
part I remember best and wish hadn't happened. As soon as he did it, he
got up and tottered, wet spot and all, right up the buffet and asked the
waitress if she could "help with his britches." Needless to say
I was mortified because Mike, the boy I liked from Auto Zone, was trying
to get some crab off of the buffet line. He never mentioned anything to
me about it, but he didn't talk to me afterward either.
But because of the test, all of this doesn't matter, because I am not who
I thought I was. I'm not worryin' about findin' my real family because
who knows, they could be worse than the people I have been living with
the past umpteen years. So I am gatherin' my goods and headin' up to Memphis
as soon as I graduate this May. Maybe I can get a job as a waitress, or
if I am real lucky, I can work at the dog track in West Memphis, but I
think you gotta be 21 to do that. Anyhow, now I don't have to worry about
turnin' out like my family because they aren't my real family. No joke.
There's no mixin' of the blood, so I'm safe. Definitely.
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