Last night, I went to see "Harriet." I didn't go alone. I bought a row in a theater and filled it with mostly Black women and a few Black men; descendants of Harriet. I sat amongst a throng of other Black women in a sold- out theater, all waiting to see the legend we've heard griots SPEAK of all our lives; waiting to see a reflection of the best of who we desire to be. Brazen. Courageous. Audacious. Harriet.
I used to love Saturday mornings as a kid. My sister, brother, and I would compete to see who would wake up first. Then, the three of us would race to and leap into my parents’ bed while screaming, and tickle them until they would begin swatting us away like flies at a picnic. If they didn’t respond fast enough, one of us would grab their heads as another would forcibly peel their eyelids back until the oculus was bulging from its socket and we’d blow our morning breath on the ivory ball.
They’d try to smother us with pillows and put us back to sleep and we’d always pummel through the mountain of fluff louder and more rambunctious. They’d plead for our silence to no avail. My dad would eventually wake up and make his famous thin pancakes with the crispy edges and mom would let us watch TV for the first time all week, (before The Cosby Show won our Thursdays). Saturday morning cartoons were the backdrop for syrup dripping and family snuggling on the couch.
In college, I didn’t see Saturday mornings. I slept until there were fifteen minutes left before “The Caf'” stopped serving breakfast, and then I’d almost trip over myself to get there and catch the last of the waffles before going back to snuggle into slumber. As a young adult, the Saturday morning sleep-in was practiced with proficiency. It wasn’t until I married that I saw Saturday before noon and that was only to “snuggle” and go right back to sleep.
Now, Saturday mornings have a completely new meaning. We’re the parents! The prince begins his screeching wake up call before seven, followed by the kibibi’s rhythmic knock for permission to enter. Our bed is now bombarded with little feet and tickles and giggles and demands to rise to make oatmeal. The logic of a three-year-old literally says, “I’m awake, and Little Gege is awake, so you have to wake up…now.” I’m sure this is the reprisal for my own child-like reasoning with my parents.
These seasons of Saturdays have been a marker for each phase of my life; each one enjoyable and something I excitedly anticipated each week. They all passed too briefly it seems now. So, until my little alarm clocks grow too old to think we’re cool, I’m going to relish in this new Saturday snuggle and watch “Doc McStuffins” while eating oatmeal with a wide smile and great appreciation for this new day. Good morning!