lining the walls. Small circular tables were spread in the center of the large main room. Girls were everywhere. There must have been hundreds: dark skinned, light skinned, white, Hispanic, black, Indian, Asian, girls with dreadlocks, cornrows, straight hair, curly hair, short girls, tall girls. I felt like we were at some kind of women’sexpo or multicultural convention. I stood with my mouth wide open, looking at each one of them.
“What does she think this is? A circus?” a small Indian girl with a bob cut asked.
No one answered her but the two girls with her laughed and stared back at me. I closed my mouth and caught up to Tilly, who had crossed the room.
The girls chatted in small groups. Some were sitting, some were lying on pillows, and in one corner of the room others stood against the walls. They all seemed to be waiting for something to happen. A large TV played an episode of Jerry Springer and three girls yelled at the TV as if they were a part of the show.
“Get her, girl,” one of the girls shouted, as one TV guest punched the other in the face. “That’s what she gets for messing with your man.”
I pulled Tilly to the side.
“Do you know all these girls?” I whispered.
Only a few of the girls looked like my friends from home. One girl even resembled Heather, which made me sad, and reminded me of my promise to call her as often as I could.
“Come on, I want you to meet someone,” Tilly said.
We walked through the sea of girls, who parted only a little as we came through. I could feel their eyes on me like little lasers. Most of the conversations quieted and even stopped as we passed by.
“Hey, Tilly,” one of the girls called out.
“Hey, Martine,” Tilly replied to a beautiful Hispanic girlwith long black hair. The girl approached, inspecting me up and down like the security guard. She smacked her gum and hugged Tilly, keeping her eyes on me.
“How you been doing, girl?” Tilly asked her.
“Same old shit and you know I’m trying to be anywhere but here,” Martine said. A few of the girls around Martine laughed and so did Tilly. She actually cursed and my grandmother didn’t swing at her. I was amazed. I had no idea how Tilly was so familiar with these girls, but one of them just got away with murder.
We kept walking until we reached a long gray hallway lined with doors. On each door was an inspirational poster, like “Life has a way of knocking at your door; be sure you’re ready to open it.” Tilly knocked on the second door on the right and turned the knob.
“Inez, you in there?” Tilly called.
“Tilly, is that you?” a woman answered.
“You know it’s me, Red,” Tilly said. “I have someone I want you to meet.”
“She’s a character, you’ll love her,” Tilly whispered to me. “Her name is Inez, but we all call her Red.”
A woman Tilly’s age opened the door and pulled us inside with both hands. She reminded me of a cartoon character, the fire engine red hair with one blond strip was killing me. She wore a warm smile and had chubby cheeks.
“Dios mío, if this isn’t Miriam’s daughter, I don’t know who is,” the woman said. She was a pretty woman. She wore a black suit that matched her glasses and black heels. Even with the heels she only came right below my shoulders.
Tilly and the woman hugged. Then the woman hugged me tightly. For a small person, she was pretty strong. I looked at Tilly and waited for the air to start flowing back into my lungs.
“Tash, Red knows your mother from when she was a little girl,” Tilly said. “We all used to come by to help at Amber’s Place. It’s like a second home to our family.”
The idea of my mom growing up in Harlem was hard enough to picture. The idea of her volunteering in a place like this was unimaginable.
“Red, this is NaTasha, she’s staying with me for a few weeks,” Tilly said. “She’s going to help us out here. If you need her, just holler. NaTasha, this is Red, she’s saved a
“What does she think this is? A circus?” a small Indian girl with a bob cut asked.
No one answered her but the two girls with her laughed and stared back at me. I closed my mouth and caught up to Tilly, who had crossed the room.
The girls chatted in small groups. Some were sitting, some were lying on pillows, and in one corner of the room others stood against the walls. They all seemed to be waiting for something to happen. A large TV played an episode of Jerry Springer and three girls yelled at the TV as if they were a part of the show.
“Get her, girl,” one of the girls shouted, as one TV guest punched the other in the face. “That’s what she gets for messing with your man.”
I pulled Tilly to the side.
“Do you know all these girls?” I whispered.
Only a few of the girls looked like my friends from home. One girl even resembled Heather, which made me sad, and reminded me of my promise to call her as often as I could.
“Come on, I want you to meet someone,” Tilly said.
We walked through the sea of girls, who parted only a little as we came through. I could feel their eyes on me like little lasers. Most of the conversations quieted and even stopped as we passed by.
“Hey, Tilly,” one of the girls called out.
“Hey, Martine,” Tilly replied to a beautiful Hispanic girlwith long black hair. The girl approached, inspecting me up and down like the security guard. She smacked her gum and hugged Tilly, keeping her eyes on me.
“How you been doing, girl?” Tilly asked her.
“Same old shit and you know I’m trying to be anywhere but here,” Martine said. A few of the girls around Martine laughed and so did Tilly. She actually cursed and my grandmother didn’t swing at her. I was amazed. I had no idea how Tilly was so familiar with these girls, but one of them just got away with murder.
We kept walking until we reached a long gray hallway lined with doors. On each door was an inspirational poster, like “Life has a way of knocking at your door; be sure you’re ready to open it.” Tilly knocked on the second door on the right and turned the knob.
“Inez, you in there?” Tilly called.
“Tilly, is that you?” a woman answered.
“You know it’s me, Red,” Tilly said. “I have someone I want you to meet.”
“She’s a character, you’ll love her,” Tilly whispered to me. “Her name is Inez, but we all call her Red.”
A woman Tilly’s age opened the door and pulled us inside with both hands. She reminded me of a cartoon character, the fire engine red hair with one blond strip was killing me. She wore a warm smile and had chubby cheeks.
“Dios mío, if this isn’t Miriam’s daughter, I don’t know who is,” the woman said. She was a pretty woman. She wore a black suit that matched her glasses and black heels. Even with the heels she only came right below my shoulders.
Tilly and the woman hugged. Then the woman hugged me tightly. For a small person, she was pretty strong. I looked at Tilly and waited for the air to start flowing back into my lungs.
“Tash, Red knows your mother from when she was a little girl,” Tilly said. “We all used to come by to help at Amber’s Place. It’s like a second home to our family.”
The idea of my mom growing up in Harlem was hard enough to picture. The idea of her volunteering in a place like this was unimaginable.
“Red, this is NaTasha, she’s staying with me for a few weeks,” Tilly said. “She’s going to help us out here. If you need her, just holler. NaTasha, this is Red, she’s saved a
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