Still I Rise

***

Diaz

***

The long straps of my suspenders ignore the cloth barrier of my shirt and dig into my shoulders. My fingers are tucked tightly into the nearly non-existent pockets of my jeans. Bright lights positioned strategically throughout the room reflect off my eyes. The photography director, a dark-skinned young man from Cameroon, Joseph Ndi, tells me to lean back as far as possible and keep my core tight. A couple of years ago, most of my shoots were directed by people with skin far lighter than mine, but recently, Canada has changed, creating opportunities and funding for Black people in the arts that didn’t exist before.

Joseph tosses me a fedora, and I catch it absentmindedly and hold it close to my afro, though no magic would ever make it fit over my hair.

“Beautiful.” Joseph blows me a kiss. He waves to two young girls waiting at the side of the room. “Let’s break for a touchup.”

While Joseph reviews the photos, soft brushes gently pat my skin, hiding any blemishes.

The heat from the powerful lights aimed at me causes perspiration to spread across my skin. I hate the lights, cameras, and vanities that come with working in the fashion industry. I would rather be at home, playing games or reading.

But this is what my mother wants, and until I can magically grow a pair of balls and stand up to her, I have no choice but to play my role.

After the shoot, I cleaned my face in the bathroom, removed the suffocating makeup, and put on a pair of golden contacts to cover my naturally grey eyes before heading outside with my backpack. In front of the white stone building where my photoshoot had been held, food stalls cluster along the side of the road, producing overlapping and offensive odours that make my nose wrinkle.

I jog down the concrete steps, wave goodbye to Jason Ndi, who boards a taxi, and head to a nearby park for my secret rendezvous with my father. My mother tracks my every move, so rather than hide my actions from her, I text her to inform her that I’m heading to a nearby park.

‘Are you meeting someone?’ she asks.

‘No. Just some having some downtime alone.’

‘Don’t attract too much attention to yourself. I can allow fifteen minutes, then I expect you to head home.’

My eyes narrow. Fifteen minutes?

I’m sixteen years old, yet I must ask for my mother’s permission for everything, like I’m her prisoner. The worst part is that I have difficulties talking to others and voicing my opinion, so my mother gets to walk all over me like she does now. I wish I could scream. I wish I could yell. I type a bunch of swear words and promptly erase them.

Why can’t I speak? Words are just words, so why is it so hard for me to say them? To tell her how I really feel.

Every time I open my mouth, the gazes of those looking at me grow so stifling that I can hardly breathe or speak without looking away. It angers my mother because people whisper that I have some sort of learning disability. Though it might have helped, rather than introduce me to a speech therapist when I was younger, my mother and siblings beat me to encourage me to talk. This abuse had served as one of the boiling points of my parents’ marriage, along with my father’s disdain for the fashion industry, and had resulted in me being more tight-lipped.

Walking past pine trees, I spot a wooden bench near a shady area and claim it as mine. I take a black thermos with iced lemonade from my bag and enjoy the sweet drink while I wait. If my siblings or my mother find out about today, I’m as good as dead. I pray my meeting with my father goes well. A small part of me knows that my father is my only way to break free of my mother’s control. Today will either go terribly wrong or terribly right.

Well-trained dogs chase Frisbees across the green fields. Couples graze like cows, strolling hand-in-hand, smiling, flirting. I frown and think of my parents’ nasty divorce. How can anyone fall in love while knowing how bad things can get when love disintegrates?

Close to discerning adults, young children orchestrate games and chat among themselves. People pass me with slightly parted lips. Some not-too-covertly take photos as if they have never seen a Black person with golden contacts and platinum blonde hair relaxing on a bench.

When I say Black, I don’t mean Brown like Rihanna or a few shades darker like Whitney. I’m the type of Black that when I was little, children would joke about not being able to see me with the lights off. I go to my Instagram page, which has over three hundred thousand followers, which isn’t much, but more than the majority. At the top is ‘Aisha’—the name my mother gave me after taking me from my father.

A preview of a message flashes across the top of the screen: ‘Dad: Are you near the entrance?’

My chest tightens as my heart races. I haven’t seen my father in over six years. What if, after my mother’s intervention, when I meet him again, I fail to recognize him? What if he sees me and decides I’m too much like my mother, and he wants nothing to do with me? No! Today has to be perfect. After years of living in fear of my mother’s retribution, I finally worked up the courage to find my dad.

Love me or hate me, we’ll finally meet today, and he will play his role in my life. Or, God, so help me, I’ll invite him to play Dashstrike with me and kill him over and over online.

“Diaz.” A low voice calls my attention to the left. The approaching stranger looks like an older, taller, more masculine version of me. His skin is just as dark, and his eyes equally grey.

“Dad?”

The man laughs, and the crow’s feet by his eyes become more pronounced. He opens his arms, and I walk into them. His strong arms squeeze me as his chin deflates my afro. I ignore the urge to push him away before he ruins my hairstyle. Six years. I lean my head against the grey shirt covering his solid chest. I haven’t seen him for more than half a decade. I inhale the freshly laundered smell of his cotton clothes.

“You looked for me,” he said.

I nod.

When they divorced, my mother manipulated the proceedings to make my father lose all right to parenting his children by forging evidence of him being an abusive drug addict. My older sister and brother took her side. As a result, my father lost his children and his job. I had been too young to have any say in the matter. All I remembered was that I loved him.

After we left my father’s house, my mother threatened to abandon me entirely if I ever tried to reunite with him. At first, I was terrified of losing her, but after years of following her wishes, I no longer cared. My father finally releases me and steps back to hold my shoulders, checking to see how much I have changed.

“You are so beautiful now. You grew up without your papa, huh?” he says, his grey eyes watering. A few streaks of grey litter his black hair, and he seems much older than I remember. “So, what would you like to do, my daughter? It’s our first time meeting after so long.”

If my mother knew my father and I had met, she might kill me out of anger. Though no one is taking photos of us now, too many people are hanging around. I check my watch. Of the fifteen minutes my mother allotted me for downtime, I have nine minutes left. “Nine minutes,” I tell my father, avoiding his gaze and unable to hide the regret in my voice. “O-originally, I-I had fifteen minutes to spend with you, but we met a little late, and the hug lasted about two minutes, so now we have nine minutes left.”

Father’s expression darkens, and his fingers curl into tight fists. “Your mother gave you fifteen minutes to meet me? That’s all she thinks I deserve?”

My face warms as I admit, “She doesn’t know we’re meeting today.”

I continue to avoid my father’s eyes as he reads my face, trying to learn everything about me in the little time we have. He draws a hand down his face, sighs, and sits on the bench. “I haven’t seen you since you were nine or ten. So, tell me how things are with you. Is everything going alright? Are you doing well? Are you happy? Is your mother still a bitch? Don’t answer the last one; I can already tell that witch hasn’t changed.”

I sit next to my father and hold his hand. A cool breeze caresses my skin and drags crisp leaves across the paved path. “I don’t want to model anymore,” I tell my father. “And I want to be Diaz again.”

Diaz was a happy girl, loved by her dad and free to do whatever she wanted. Aisha is trapped by her mother and can barely talk whenever someone asks her a question.

My father squeezes my hand. “I’ll support you however you want me to.”