Nothing From Nobody

          Fridays were our days. When she was still tending bar at the tavern she and Grandpa owned, my grandmother would take me home with her after closing. My daddy worked in the tavern, too, and I lived and slept with my parents in the apartment above. But not on weekends. That was when we'd sit in Grandma's orange kitchen shucking corn, shelling peas, and telling stories. I looked forward to midnight on Fridays when the jukebox stopped and I'd wait on the steps with an old, gray bowling bag packed for a sleepover. Together, Grandma and I would hop into her burgundy Buick Regal to go to her home, little more than five minutes away.
          One night a stranger interrupted this memorable routine before we even got to the house. This stranger had a siren and a badge.
          When most people see me, especially now that I’m older, they say I look just like my grandmother. I think so, too. Some people have a hard time recognizing it though, probably because they expect us to have the same skin color and hair texture. Instead, I have the complexion and hair of my white mother. My grandmother thinks that’s why the police officer pulled her over, because maybe he thought she'd kidnapped this five-year-old white child.
          This is where she begins her version of the story, which she says reflects the Tara I grew up to be: “So, they pulled me over, and the one officer starts talking to me, and he shines the flashlight on my face, and he’s asking me questions—and then he starts asking about Tara."
          What my grandmother doesn't say when she's telling this story is what she must have been feeling as that flashlight blinded her. Was it humiliation at being questioned so suspiciously for simply being Black? Maybe she felt fear, because who knows what crimes white cops committed against Black women in the 1970s, on dark, quiet streets so late at night? Whatever she was feeling, I sensed it.
          "About this time," Grandma continues, "Tara, who never was one for sitting still, jumps up in the seat and goes"—Grandma makes a sideways-looking face that imitates me about to snap—"'What'chu doin' puttin' that light in my granma's face? You betta get that light out my granma's face! What'chu think you doin'?!'
          “So, I guess he figured I didn’t steal you from nobody,” she said, the last time I heard her tell the story. She stifles her laughter when she gets to this part, just like she says she did then, when the undoubtedly bewildered and embarrassed officer wished her a good night and walked back to his squad car.
          I don't remember this incident, but I'll take Grandma's word that it happened. After all, she is right that it reflects the Tara I grew up to be: I won't take nothing from nobody.

This story was first published in the book THAT TAKES OVARIES!: BOLD FEMALES AND THEIR BRAZEN ACTS (Random House/Three Rivers Press). That Takes Ovaries is a book, a play for the stage, an open mike movement and an organizing tool for women and girls' empowerment. Find out how to lead your own That Takes Ovaries open mike by visiting www.ThatTakesOvaries.org or e-mailing Rivka at Rivka@ThatTakesOvaries.org.

Tara Betts

About the Author

Tara Betts

Nothing From Nobody Tara Betts Fridays were our days. When she was still tending bar at the tavern she and Grandpa owned, my grandmother would take me home with her after closing. My daddy worked in the tavern, too, and I lived and slept with my parents in the apartment above. But not on weekends. That was when we'd sit in Grandma's orange kitchen shucking corn, shelling peas, and telling stories. I looked forward to midnight on Fridays when the jukebox stopped and I'd wait on the steps with an old, gray bowling bag packed for a sleepover. Together, Grandma and I would hop into her burgundy Buick Regal to go to her home, little more than five minutes away. One night a stranger interrupted this memorable routine before we even got to the house. This stranger had a siren and a badge. When most people see me, especially now that I’m older, they say I look just like my grandmother. I think so, too. Some people have a hard time recognizing it though, probably because they expect us to have the same skin color and hair texture. Instead, I have the complexion and hair of my white mother. My grandmother thinks that’s why the police officer pulled her over, because maybe he thought she'd kidnapped this five-year-old white child. This is where she begins her version of the story, which she says reflects the Tara I grew up to be: “So, they pulled me over, and the one officer starts talking to me, and he shines the flashlight on my face, and he’s asking me questions—and then he starts asking about Tara." What my grandmother doesn't say when she's telling this story is what she must have been feeling as that flashlight blinded her. Was it humiliation at being questioned so suspiciously for simply being Black? Maybe she felt fear, because who knows what crimes white cops committed against Black women in the 1970s, on dark, quiet streets so late at night? Whatever she was feeling, I sensed it. "About this time," Grandma continues, "Tara, who never was one for sitting still, jumps up in the seat and goes"—Grandma makes a sideways-looking face that imitates me about to snap—"'What'chu doin' puttin' that light in my granma's face? You betta get that light out my granma's face! What'chu think you doin'?!' “So, I guess he figured I didn’t steal you from nobody,” she said, the last time I heard her tell the story. She stifles her laughter when she gets to this part, just like she says she did then, when the undoubtedly bewildered and embarrassed officer wished her a good night and walked back to his squad car. I don't remember this incident, but I'll take Grandma's word that it happened. After all, she is right that it reflects the Tara I grew up to be: I won't take nothing from nobody. This story was first published in the book THAT TAKES OVARIES!: BOLD FEMALES AND THEIR BRAZEN ACTS (Random House/Three Rivers Press). That Takes Ovaries is a book, a play for the stage, an open mike movement and an organizing tool for women and girls' empowerment. Find out how to lead your own That Takes Ovaries open mike by visiting www.ThatTakesOvaries.org or e-mailing Rivka at Rivka@ThatTakesOvaries.org.
About the Author Tara Betts Tara Betts is the author of Arc & Hue. She is a Cave Canem fellow. Tara teaches creative writing at Rutgers University, and her work has appeared in Essence, Bum Rush the Page, and both Spoken Word Revolution anthologies.