Between the Roots and Tree ~ ANNIKA WHITE

BETWEEN THE ROOTS AND TREE

a novel in progress

ANNIKA WHITE

Adira

It is Addie to my friends at school, Didi to my Dad’s family, and just Adira to my Ma’s. To strangers, it’s a jumble of syllables–a handful of miscellaneous things found in a junk drawer. Not important enough to remember. Not valuable enough for them to take the time out of their days to practice wearing a new tongue–even just for a moment. It is an offense to my Ma when people mispronounce my name. She reflexively corrects them–sharply. Ah-deer-ah. After we take our seats in the waiting room chairs, I ask her why she had to correct the lady at the desk at the dentist office. Because that’s not your name, she says. I don’t tell her that I do not correct people when she’s not around. To the internet my name means noble, powerful, and wise. To me, my name is just whatever someone decides to call me. I don’t know why it is any more noble or powerful or wise than any other name. How can a name stand on its own without the support of whatever it is attached to? My name is not me. My name is a flag–bent and twisted by the wind. I am Addie, Didi, Adira, and all of the mispronunciations.

Look Like Me

My favorite American Girl Doll to play with is my “look like me.” I put lotion on her brown skin and paint her finger nails hot pink, just like mine. She has brown eyes like mine and dark, dark hair, but her’s is long and straight and mine is short and curly. Ma peers into my room through my slightly cracked door. Over my shoulder, she sees me put lotion on my doll’s arms–sees me rub it in all the way so there’s no white. She sees the towel on my floor, polka dotted with bottles of nail polish. With my doll laying against me, I think about how I sit on the edge of Ma’s bed every morning before school while she kneels behind me. She lotions my face–rubs it all in. She brushes and braids my hair and sends me back to my room to get dressed in the still-warm-from-the-iron outfit that’s waiting for me. Ma sees my doll sitting on the edge of my bed. She sees me splash water into her hair, the way she does to mine so it doesn’t hurt as much when she brushes it. She sees my blossoming curls that barely reach my shoulders while I adoringly brush my “look like me”’s hair that reaches her mid back. “Why don’t you take care of your hair like that hmm?” I don’t respond right away: I don’t want to lose my spot. 77, 78, 79… Ma says 100 brushes a day makes your hair grow. “Can you straighten my hair on Sunday please? I want it ready for school.” I keep brushing. 81, 82, 83… “Ok.” Ma finally pushes my door open and sits behind me on my bed. It sinks a little with her weight and my back falls into chest. 95, 96, 97… Ma licks her fingers and uses them to slick my baby hairs back. I usually hate when she does this but now I don’t care. 98, 99, 100. Soon, I’ll look just like my “look like me.”