(*Or, rather specifically, my African mother)
Discussing anything having to do with shaving or other such topics with your adolescent, hirsute daughter, leading her to make the type of mistakes and gaffes that defy description.
The idea that Idris Elba possesses any kind of good looks and responding to statements of that vein with comments such as, “there are about 12 men walking around the market in Accra right now who look better than him.” (Respectful side eye ensues.)
Magazine covers that proclaim someone to be the Most Beautiful… or the The Sexiest…because she will never, ever agree with that mumbo jumbo.
Complaints about being hungry, because “there’s rice in the kitchen.” Because whether breakfast, lunch, or dinner, rice will fix everything.
The knowledge that her daughter will watch movies she’s seen many times before or listen to the same songs over and over again. And over again.
The possibility that her daughter may marry a man with a large head.
Leaving the house to see a movie without a 100% guarantee that the ending will be happy. And since you can’t know that, she’s not going.
Speaking of leaving the house, doing anything that requires dressing up and leaving the house unless it’s worth it. So this means trips to the theater to see a show. And that’s it.
You, when you forget yourself and somehow believe that being in your mid 30s gives you the laughable right to express every silly thought that enters your head. Please have several seats, you.
The idea that the African dresses she sews for her daughter are too tight. (“Quiet. And stick your butt out.”)
Any kind of behavior that’s the opposite of ladylike, gentleman-like, or human being-like.
Parenting without large doses of cleverness, dignity, strength, tough love, cuddly love (within reason; let’s not get crazy), faith, and a dedication to her children and family.
If you don’t have an African mother, please feel free to borrow mine. But I’ll need her back, ok?