Sheryl Lee Ralph’s Win Is a Tribute to Doubtful Immigrant Parents Everywhere
How I learned to appreciate the past and the culture around me
I was talking to my mom on the phone in the wake of this year’s parade. I don’t know how long it’s been since she attended, but I’d guess a couple decades. The Labor Day Parade is a young person’s affair: you dress up, and you dance until your legs are jelly. I only have vague memories of that time.
“Mommy, I need to stop and get out. I’m gonna throw up.”
“We soon reach,” she urged. “Just hold on nuh man. If you feel sick, open a window. You will be fine.”
“I can’t open it,” I said, as I struggled with stuck revolving knob. The livery cabs had manual knobs that took eternities to turn.
Cracked blue vinyl seats condensed slimy hugs around me in those summer car rides. The pine freshener dangling from the rear view mirror swung to my dizziness. I was always nauseated and burning in cars. September mornings on the Parkway reminded me too much of that. The parade could be fun but I hated the onset of school, the clanging echoes and thunderous speakers. Music was private, and my family had taught me to be quiet and good. That was Jamaican to me: proper, proud, and pious.
