The women who wash the windows

To the mothers who raised me while they washed my windows: what I have not yet said to you is: THANK YOU

In the mornings, the baths would be drawn and my sister and I would get in at the same time. In the mornings, the woman with brown and white and slightly yellowed hands would cut and then squeeze the oranges, pour it into the glass that was never big enough and was somehow her fault, and then her responsibility in the slightly later mornings, to fill it up again. From an empty cup. And out breath.

She’d make the sandwiches that would nourish me hours later while at school, cutting them into triangles carefully, because that was my one whining wish. There were demands from the morning everywhere, and she tended to all the kids, big and small in the home (except her own, who would cook and eat their own pap and take a taxi, far away). Goggles are missing now and swimming starts in 10 minutes, and we live 6 minutes away from the water and we are just seconds away from the bathwater I’ve just jumped out of, and with all this slow commotion going on, somehow my lateness too, is now her duty and responsibility. But the cup with the freshly squeezed orange juice she could never afford is empty now, and so is the bathtub, and she must eventually fill them up again. And so squeeze the oranges she would.

There were many of her, and she went mostly by Mozambican names, but some came from Swaziland but really Angola first, too. And though she was different every time, she was by protocol, the same woman to my parents every time; the woman who washed the windows.

And my family was a little mixed up, so I couldn’t understand why we treated the black women who spoke my parents' mother tongue, as though they were all the same woman that was far too different from us. Portugal and its colonies. Made them wear the same clothing, do our washing before their own, and to never take a day to clean their own homes in our home.

“To whom much is given, much is required.” Or something like that, Luke said that somewhere along the line and then good ol’ JFK, repeated it. And is it completely disrespectful and sacrilegious to refer to these iconic words in this way? And what if these writers were, say, black women, would you credit them with their full names, in true verse? There is too much war going on. And I am humbled and reminded that we may not always know the right way to act if we have been ignorant or too lucky, as Maya Angelou proceeds to write in the letter to her daughter, that: “Whether I liked it or not, I had to admit that I understood the sense of helplessness of my colleagues. Their responses confirmed that my belief that courage is the most important of all virtues. I thought, had I been white during the segregation era, I also might have taken the line of least resistance.”

And here now, a poem from me to you, if you resonate:

“You have a story that deserves to be told,

But you will have to be strong, be courageous, be bold.

Trust your knowing and let your life unfold,

For though your body is young, your soul is so old.

Share the story of who you come from;

How some were settlers, others were sold

Because now it is your chance to turn dust into gold.

And though the path has been rocky,

Know that you are never alone,

For there are others like you, too, who spread love where they go.

And though, yes, the journey will now require you to be braver, worry not now, nor never,

For the wheel now turns in your favour”

I have strayed away from the masses of the Bible, but growing up educated in a very private and very catholic school, some words and lessons have stuck and stood out; have carried me throughout my life. I have come to pray daily with my grandmother who lives in Sweden, and thank God for technology that allows us to see one another, and for her right-minded thinking that allows her to press the right buttons when the time is right. But gran has always had good timing; for me at least. She’s slightly late for everything, and she takes her own sweet time to do things. She is thorough in her cleaning, using a toothbrush for the little corners. Oh my granny is so sweet (actually, I call her grrrrreeeenny and roll my R’s real long, then sometimes, if I’m in a gleeful mood, I follow it up with Rrrritaaa!” and she always laughs and smiles. It wasn’t always this way though, not for me nor for her. There were times when I was really faithless and living in fear, but the psalms and verses are coming back to me, and though I don’t want to go back to the church, I’d love to go back to a better religion. Like the one in my childhood.

The evenings and afternoons were different. Calmer. By now we all knew the schedule. Dad may come home, likely too late, and when he arrives, the food must be prepared. But he doesn’t come home very often anymore, and now mom is left to be the bad guy, and so she transforms into the role and character well. For me, the afternoons were great. This time, the conspicuous time just before my father was taken away for being the real bad guy, was always soothing. I am sure that as a toddler and in those memories, I spent a lot of time with these women and their words. I remember watching my mothers and back then, calling them homehelps, or maids - if my friends were white, and they mostly were.

In the evenings, the woman who was sometimes a different woman, would rub Vix on my feet and my chest and hum to me. She would help me breathe more easily, even when she was suffocating.

Late and rainy afternoons were my favorite. My parents weren’t home and my siblings were likely distracted with their much more interesting and important lives. And here, there was space for my curiosity, and empathy to roam; a space where she was important. And not because she was the cat’s mother. “Do you miss your children?” and “Why are your knees always sore?”, “Will you please make me a sandwich? And, “Do you want to make two sandwiches and eat one with me? I don’t understand why you never eat with me,” though both knew I did, and she couldn’t. And I would always, never really knowing if it was rude or not, a triangle in the corner torn and not bitten, hoping she would indulge in my leftovers, with love. I knew my ingredients were better than hers. But who knows? Now that I am older and more aware, I am more forgiving and also more curious, because who knows if she would have enjoyed the illusion that dirty money was buying us. Maya Angelou writes in the Letter to her Daughter, and I resonate, that

“On evenings after dinner and afternoons after lunch, I asked them questions that had befuddled me. I needed to know how they had accepted the idea of segregation? Did they really believe that black people were inferior to whites? Did they think that black people were born with a contagious ailment which made it dangerous t sit next to us on busses while allowing us to cook their meals and even breastfeed their babies?

And I have come to learn that the women who wash the windows are also the women who run with the wolves and from its pages, that “When seeking guidance, don’t ever listen to the tiny-hearted. Be kind to them, heap them with blessing, cajole them, but do not follow their advice.”

Title: Our of the sun

Dearly departed, look what you started

Look at the seas which were merged, and conquered

see the Moors; lands divided and then parted

Racially ambiguous

Culturally confused

Look at all this diverse energy,

All these colours and cultures you fused

They have got me into trouble

Because I am my mother’s double

Now I’m left with a passing privilege,

So I guess today I’ll choose

I know my mom likes that she looks white

And so with her curly hair she fights

But with Swedish and Portuguese fathers,

Did she even know that she could choose?

To embrace her curly hair, and ditch the GHD

I don’t think she ever saw her beauty, her extravagance, clearly

So now here is her daughter,

A little lost, and clear yet so so confused,

Sifting through old news

Observing great great gran’s letters, old content perused:

“Lentas e lentas, suas maos avaras

Vao desfiando pedriarias raras

Terco que as ondas vao rezando as vezes”

Slow and slow,

Go unravel the stones

The waves are praying for you

Racially ambiguous,

Culturally confused

Look at all this toxic energy,

Look at mama’s new bruise

I wonder if she knows, though,

That she has the choice to choose

I wonder if she knows

How to give back the borrowed,

or how to soothe those blues

My dad’s dad has angolan roots, roots in Cape Verde too

He visited me the other day, and I swear guys - this is true

He first appeared as a flickering light, and then came as a gentle moth

I knew him when i heard him, whispering in my ear,

Saying, “Calma querida, have no fear”,

But my mom thinks I’m doing black magic

And cursing the family name,

What she doesn’t see is how the foundations before me,

Were etched in so much battered pain

And blinded with the courage of a fool,

I’ll have to be the one to speak out against the cruel

And though, I still don’t know where this is going,

I know that my bravery is showing

My roots spread far and wide

Too strong I am, how could I learn this and not walk with the fool’s hopeful pride?

And though I’m still trying to understand it all,

I’m going to allow myself to laugh and cry as I answer this call

So today I choose the sun, today I choose the fun.

Please don’t think this is selfish, family, a new cycle has begun

For the hour of the sun, I honour Our daughters and Our sons

The excerpt is from rom my great grandmother’s poem, “Hora de Sol”

Which translates to hour of the sun