After eight years of being an Airbnb host, it was
inevitable that one would show up who was a stone cold trip because humans can
be. I had a month-long guest cancel two days before check-in, then another guest
booked who came in urgently on a Saturday afternoon. She was a Gen X sister
originally from VA, a direct descendant of Jamestown Africans. That meant her
people had been in America since the 1600s.
It was raining that afternoon in
early January. I saw an exchange between the young couple who helped her with
her stuff. Each held a worn out, but kind expression. That was a clue as to what
I was about to experience, it was just going to come at me differently.
She had
a ladylike quality, which is rare in the modern age. I think ours is the last
generation to know what that is; how to carry oneself in the manner of our
mothers and grandmothers. Her ladylike soft-spokenness masked what lay
underneath. I gave her an intro to my place and let her get settled in.
Strike
1: The OCD
The next morning, I found that she had moved things around in the
kitchen and deep cleaned, which was unexpected. Being left-handed, I live in the
opposite orientation of 90% of the world's population. The next morning, I asked
her not to do any of that; that I had things set-up a certain way to accommodate
my mutant trait. She then gaslighted me as if I was being unreasonable. ' Just
talk to me!' she said. ' I didn’t know you were left-handed. There’s no need to
get hysterical.’ '
Hysterical? Dude…
It never occurred to her how inappropriate
her behavior was. Her response was an indicator of a lack of self-awareness. She
changed her strategy and within a few days put me to work like a handmaid: Could
I pick up a new shower liner? Could I get a proper broom? Could I wash the
shower curtain and floor mats? Could I pick up cotton cleaning rags that she
could use, then soak in bleach for 3 hours ( verbatim ).
Since I'm handy with
things, could I remove the bathroom fan and vacuum out the accumulated dust?
Could I plunge the toilet?
You don’t know how to plunge a toilet, sis? Were you
a princess or a helpless housewife in a past life?
OCD behavior is a continuous
loop; the relentless pursuit of perfection that one can never achieve. The brain
doesn’t have an end point; there is an immediacy to doing and the doing is
constant. She was meticulous in her preparation before being late to work, which
was routine. She was always late and she said, simply not used to being on
someone else's schedule, as though a job was a person inconsiderate of her time.
She never talked about her grown kids, her ex-husband, or how things fell apart
eight years ago. She
would do sing-a-longs to late 70s early 80s lite FM love songs on repeat:
Chicago, Air Supply, Journey, and Lionel Richie. Occasionally she would switch
it up to vintage Patti or Barry White. It was like listening to a middle school
soundtrack, a time of abject awkwardness and angst. With humor, I drew the line
at REO Speedwagon. ‘
Their songs are so beautiful! ‘ she said. I didn't know how
to respond to that. I don't think I've known anyone who liked REO Speedwagon
even in middle school. Certainly no black girl at that time - zero. Led
Zeppelin, sure.
When Miss Lady did her hair, it was a blowout of natural gray.
She reminded me of a myth about a creole goddess who lived in the bayou of
Louisiana. Lady Bayou would save those who fell in the bog, tangled in moss, a
foot caught in the rocks. She sang old spirituals to the dead as they passed
through. There had been sightings of her from the 19th century through the Great
Depression. Miss Lady never wore her natural hair, but carefully braided it.
This made her look childish, exposing the lighter skin of her scalp like a
zombie patient.
‘I’m not black, African-American, or negro. ‘ she said. ‘ I
don't believe in labels. My people are those who resonate with me. ‘
Maybe she
was trying to hide her natural hair because she didn’t want to be black?
One
thing she said that was touching, sparked a memory. She told me whenever I leave
the house, to say to myself, 'This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it
shine.' I hadn't thought of that since childhood. It was an old gospel song
written sometime in the 1920s that became a popular children's song in America
into the mid-20th century. We used to sing it in kindergarten while seated in a
friendship circle. Well, there was that, a precious thing long forgotten under
the detritus, emotional and psychological, that came in with her.
She extended
for one week, then another. I was reluctant, but she needed help and I make it a
point to be supportive of the women, particularly black women, as America goes down
in flames. I live by a code of compassion and kindness. When I mentioned that I
felt she needed help, she gave me a vexed expression.
As if to say, ' How dare
you! Don’t you know who I am? I am big! It’s the pictures that got small!'
She
was like a black Norma Desmond whose internal and external worlds were in
conflict. I’m adaptable to the humans of earth, but she was tough; moving as
though she was in on a secret no one else knew. I wondered if everyone she had
loved was gone?
Strike 2: The Manipulator
Rather than be humble and ask to stay
long term, she lamented about how long she'd been going from place to place, how
her finances were a mess, how shitty the people were in Hayward, but she wasn't
going to talk about that. I was lucky to have her, she said.
I thought, why
would anyone stay in Hayward? Hayward is the booty crack of the East Bay.
Hayward would blend easily into the suburban hood of Contra Costa or Idaho.
Folks in Hayward have flat screens customized to reality TV and video games.
Generally Hayward isn’t a reading or nature culture even though it’s
geographically closer to Yosemite other than Modesto ( another CA town
rootin-and-a-tootin with meth and ketamine energy ).
Miss Lady was also
strangely provocative, moving around in her bath towel. Women trip me out with
the bath towel antics. If she doesn't stay in the bathroom or go directly to her
room in the bath towel, that is usually an invitation. ‘I'm crossing my chest so
you don’t see my nipples through my shirt.’ ( which hadn’t occurred to me until
she mentioned it ).
Come on....are we exploring in our 20s here? Wait. Is this a
Fatal Attraction set-up? What the fuck is going on?
‘ Do you like your body?’
she asked.
Meeting someone for the first time, that’s quite an original and
blatant ice breaker. In the next life, I'm coming in like Uncle Fester. I always
thought he was cool.
Miss Lady still had a beautiful figure into her 50s. It
seemed a source of pride to her, the center of her beauty, even if her face had
changed since her youth. She shared photos of herself in a vacation bikini,
posing like a beauty pageant contestant. I’ve always been struck at how the
black body holds itself through time.
‘ What’s your favorite age and how did you
look? ‘ She asked.
I had to think about that. ‘ Oh…my 30s probably. I was a babe
then, but I went through heartbreak that messed me up. I was too sensitive to
distract myself from it. Why would I hook up with anyone if I was only thinking
about the person who left? ‘
‘ Do you have pictures?’ she asked, seemingly more
interested in my physical state at that time rather than the emotional.
She
explained her pseudo-spiritual philosophy, which included nothing needs fixing
and nothing is broken. She would share insights: about me ( a stranger ), black
music history ( she knew of all the old R&B and soul artists who were on the
downlow ), and humanity. Of her profound insights, she would say not to tell
anyone what she shared. I took internal notes: ‘ Oh shit’.
People struggling
with mental illness tend to be secret keepers. If they do share, they will say
‘
Don’t tell anyone what I told you.’ as if their thoughts are protecting
themselves. The other more dramatic, threatening statement is ‘ Don’t betray
me.’
I was cool, but eventually I gave her a deadline. I was being strategic
because as a Californian, I know the CA score. Don’t get married here unless you
want to be legally responsible for another person. Take 10 - 15% off the top in
income tax because capitalism is complicated and unfair. Another CA law: a guest
becomes a legal tenant after 30 days, even with nothing in writing and if they
don’t pay rent. After 30 days, they have squatter's rights. CA is serious about
individual rights and possession that goes back to the 19th century. After one
hits the 30 day mark, you have to go through eviction proceedings to get a
person out. In my county, an eviction moratorium was still in place since the
pandemic.
I wasn’t going through any of that mess. Nope. No.
During an
occasional chat, I would watch her wash, inspect, and prepare vegetables which
she roasted in a cast iron skillet. That was one process, which was relaxing to
me; the old school way my grandmother used to cook. She would talk about phone
tapping and subliminal messages in movies. Product placement and branding, sure.
Where exactly are the subliminal messages in Finding Nemo? That was universal to
me.
We also discussed our hair. We had a shared, distinctive trait. You have to
grasp basic earth chemistry to know how natural hair will react to water, heat,
nut oils, plant oils, conditioner
( we usually go through that first ), shampoo,
cream, gel, mousse, combs, soft bristle brushes, sleep bonnets, braids, the blow
out, and twists. Natural to me is revolutionary. I am anti-perm, hot tools, and
weaves, which I did throughout the 80s and 90s. I experienced scalp burns and
hair so damaged from dyes, developer, and bleach, I had to do the chop and start
over.
‘ What do you do with your aloe vera plant?’ she asked. ‘ I put it in my
hair.’ I said. ‘It’s like nature’s leave-in conditioner. It’s also good for the
scalp and growth.’
' What are the candles and flowers I see around this area? '
she asked, referring to the street side vigils in the neighborhood.
' That
usually means someone died in or near that spot.' I said.
' Mmm...programmed. '
she said. I wondered if she had lost the ability to cope with racism and
violence in America?
Well, it can get lonely out here. We sometimes isolate or
detach ourselves, which is like an internal escape when you don’t have the
resources to escape physically. I had become more cautious myself since 2015,
when a storm of evil descended on the country; amplifying what has always
existed. Proud Boys and MAGA are the KKK of the 21st century, strapped with
military style weapons and face paint instead of hoods and torches. The Rebirth
of a Nation.
I'd seen similar fractures in other black women. All it takes is
the stress of living in this country, a man or children who do them wrong or
take something from them. The endless labor, heartbreak, and exploitation of
black girls and women. Fighting for others and rarely for ourselves. We try to
convince ourselves that with money or the Good Lord on our side that everything
will be alright. Throughout our history in this country; the toil, trouble, and
suffering can make us teeter off our right mind.
It's a hard trick to shelter
ourselves from America while existing within it at the same time. I've escaped
through travel, internally into art, books, music, and the wild. Since I was a
kid, I have always found a kind of peace in nature.
Miss Lady and I could have
been related to one another; similar but on different frequencies. It was hard
to set a deadline with her, to admit that I wasn't at ease and that her presence
was disruptive. I was afraid of getting stuck in her world if she stayed on,
even if we had a connection to a shared culture.
‘ Is that Moms Mabley?’ she
asked.
‘ No.’ I said. ‘ It’s Kat Williams. He’s like Moms Mabley - a master
storyteller and very sharp.’
‘ He is!’ she said. ‘ That’s all stand up is really
- storytelling. ‘
‘ You could do that. You’re so funny! There’s a great workshop
at the Comedy Store.’
‘ Oh no. I like writing, not performing. I'm too
introverted for that. Being up front is not my jam. Behind the scenes for those
at the front is cool.’
She moved on to another Airbnb in the neighborhood.
Within a month she reached out to stay with me again. At the time this helped
with the rent, which is why I do Airbnb at all. I’m at a stage of life where
having a roommate is a young person’s game. I’m going into the ‘ set in my ways’
phase as we say. I set a few guidelines: Chill with the cleaning! Don’t pack the
fridge! Only book through Airbnb if you want to extend your stay ( again an
exit, all bets are off, back-up plan ).
Unfortunately, things blew up in our
second round.
On her second stay she swapped out the OCD cleaning in favor of
ignoring my boundaries and gaslight antics. She made critical and inappropriate
comments related to phone conversations she overheard and anecdotes I shared.
From the guest room late one night, I heard her hushed, contentious tone
talking to someone ( maybe to herself ). I imagined a finger pointing into an
abyss as if nothingness had done her wrong.
I never asked if she was okay or
what was going on. I knew she would respond with a delusive statement, such as:
‘ I’m a clairvoyant. We’re programmed to believe racism exists. America is
awesome.’
Miss Lady would still move things around, but this round she would
ask, or anxiously tell me why she moved a thing. The behavior modification
didn’t come to her easily and was a struggle. She’d ask to move a thing, then
say ( to herself ) ' Don't move my stuff!' with a laugh, as though she heard me
in her head, translated that into distorted amusement.
She would talk to herself
about ways to make herself happy ( I didn’t think that was working out very well
). '
So, I'm thinking about traveling.' I said. ‘ but i'm reluctant to leave you
here.'
She made a Joker-like face and chuckled. ' Why are you asking me that? ‘
' Well, you keep moving things around, not respecting my boundaries.'
' That's
you!' she said, going into her gaslight antics. 'You would do that. What do you
do when you're home? ‘
She was hopeless. There was no way I was going anywhere
with her in my place. Not only was she gaslighting, she was incapable of
acknowledging she did anything wrong, incapable of apology. She kept zeroing in
on bits and pieces of what she knew of my story. Every joke or experience I
shared, all pointed to childhood trauma and my parents. When I put the kibosh on
that and said I had been in therapy for years, she was taken aback. The idea of
therapy seemed to intimidate her. I also explained the nature of the human
condition - that a part of that is suffering; to reconcile and embrace our
suffering. We are transformed through the process. As in death, no one on earth
can escape it.
I don’t think she appreciated the wisdom I was dropping. She
couldn’t cope with her own suffering, she was averse to it.
Strike 3: The Clash
She came
home from work one evening while I was watching The 1619 Project, Nikole Hannah
Jones’ series based on her book about slavery and systemic racism in America,
which had been banned by the DOEs of Texas and Florida.
' That is such bullshit!
' Miss Lady muttered.
Liberation to Miss Lady was being naked on a beach in St.
Tropez with a dude. Shopping for nice things in Paris, oblivious to the
suffering of her own people. After several weeks of her shit…..that was the last
straw.
' You know what. ‘ I said. ‘ You can keep your mumbling commentary to
yourself. I've told you several times to respect my boundaries. If you don't
like being black, black art, or the truth about America, we can wrap it up with
you staying here. ‘
' Whaat?! I just came home! I had a wonderful day with
wonderful people! I don't mumble. I'm educated and sophisticated - not like you.
You're insecure! You're trash! You're not a nerd. You're not educated. You're
just programmed to that media! '
' Listen.' I said, calmly. ' I’m helping you out and I
won't be spoken to like that. You’re not even from here. I grew up here and this
is my place. You have one more week.'
Eject button activated.
' Oh, I'm leaving
tomorrow! '
‘ Cool. I've been putting up with your compulsive behavior and
disregard of my boundaries long enough. We’re done. ‘
I can be masculine with
the done. I can also be feminine with the undone and animals.
After that, she
took her manipulation game to her friend, Brotherman, the person she said
'disgusted' her. The dude clearly adored her and had come to her rescue in the
past, likely under similar circumstances. I got the impression Miss Lady had
been through this before - pushing boundaries and burning bridges to see how far
she could get. It was always someone else, never herself. That is, by
definition, a narcissistic personality disorder.
I was more fed up than mad, but
I was gracious and gave her several days to get herself together. Getting into a
5150 involves considerable time and unnecessary drama. She was lost and just
didn’t get it. Something happened to her, but whatever that was she obliterated
it to undo the experience. Her solution was to convince herself of another
reality without connection to anyone. Nothing is broken ( I am not broken ).
Nothing needs fixing ( I don’t need fixing ). If she spoke the truth, she’d have
to confront herself, and I don’t think she was brave enough to do that.
Every
time I hit the brakes, she deflected or seemed frustrated I wasn't taking the
bait. She was also lonely and in need of company. It became a routine, declining
her invitations to share dinner or a drink. I would cook and clean around her
schedule to avoid her clocking my every move.
After the clash, Brotherman came and picked
her up. A few hours later she returned, gentle energy and remorseful. Knowing
her great unraveling better than I did, Brotherman must have given her the
straight scoop: ‘ You said that to a sister in her own house? Woman, have you
lost your damn mind? ‘
‘ Lisa… want to apologize.’ she said.
I shook my head. ‘
No. I don’t want to hear it,’ I said. ‘ If I give you a pass, that’s giving you
permission to treat me like shit. You don’t want me to get niggerish on you. I’m
showing you grace to get your shit and get the fuck out. The clock is ticking,
sis.'
' You're a troublemaker.' she said.
' Listen, you'll have a more profound
impact talking to the wall than to me.'
Narcissists tend to lay their bet on the
timid and insecure, neither of which I am. Never underestimate a black chick
punk from the 80s whose heroes were rockers, writers, drag queens, and artists -
not housewives or fucking prom queens. The whole sweet lady from the south was a
bit of con to me. What lay beneath that was quite a harmful person. She wasn’t
just trying to move in, she was trying to move in on me and dominate. I don’t
respond well to that from anyone. Upon reflection, the experience hit me. In
trying to be kind and help a sister out, I made a mistake by letting her book
with me again. At the time, I was thinking it would ease the rent. I also wanted
to help, to give her another chance. She tried to play me because she had limited options
and I put up with her the first time.
I shared the experience with a friend. He
was aware of the situation since her last stay. ‘ You did the same thing ( in
Miami ) trying to help Samah during her meltdown.’ he said. ' You’re kind and
you want to help. You wanted to help fix your dad when you went back home. You
can’t sacrifice yourself helping others who are so broken. ‘
After she was gone,
being underemployed and bored between interviews, I did some internet sleuthing.
I found two frivolous small claims cases where Miss Lady was a plaintiff. In
both cases, neither she or the defendant showed up and each case was dismissed.
Then I found another public record from a case with an attorney, an older white
dude, who was skimming money off a client’s trust fund. He gave almost $200k to
Miss Lady to launder some of the cash. She once mentioned a man she was involved
with sometime around the mid 2ks. She likely parlayed the beautiful femme fatale and got paid. That’s who I was dealing with. A kind of unhinged
mistress, high level heaux gone wrong. A person who indirectly engaged in the
shady, somewhere between fraud and theft, in order to live a comfortable life.
Man, this was better than a Walter Mosley novel!
She once told me she wasn’t a
thief or a trickster. No, she wasn’t. She was just a low-key co-conspirator to a
white man in a suit. Maybe there was a correlation between her time with that
person to when things fell apart. I never went farther than that discovery. It’s my nature - to understand how or why a person became so fucked up? Human
beings are all context. I need to find meaning or reason to people and things,
no matter how obscure. Why is there light? Why is there darkness? What happened
to you? I do that with myself - connecting the dots to my own flaws, behavior,
and pathologies. I go into my sense of morality and ethics. The traumatic.
Do no harm to anyone, even if I’ve been hurt or betrayed myself. Miss Lady’s
karma was all messed up which is why her life unraveled. How tragic, I thought.
We could all be alright in this country, I think, if we are good and aware. If
we keep ourselves together and are critical of America, one can navigate it with
keen objectivity. I know what this is. I know what that is. Proceed with
caution. Don’t let them see you sweat. Cry and throw shit in private. Run.
She
couldn’t hear us, in the past or the present. Her finger pointing into the abyss
of a history that had done us all, with tragic complexity and consequence,
wrong.
Sister You've been on my mind
Sister, we're two of a kind
So sister I'm
keepin' my eyes on you
I betcha think I don't know nothin'
But singin' the blues
Oh sister, have I got news for you
I'm somethin'
I hope you think
That you're
somethin' too
