Fix Your Face
I was never good at telling lies.
My mouth would say, “I have no idea what happened to the last cupcake,” as I daydreamed the last bite on replay. But my face would remember the love in the silky caress of whipped cream on my tongue.
The slight after-sheen of ecstasy glistening in my eyes with a hint of a smile to the flavor filled lover… gone, but never forgotten.
I still don’t know how to play poker because I could never make it past the bluffing stage. When guys would cat call, my brain would wonder, “Are they really seeing ME or hope for a one-night stand?” My mouth would politely say, “No thank you. I’m not interested.” But based on how aggressively they would respond, my face apparently would say, “Do I look like your desperate mother, repeating past mistakes that got you here in the first place?!”
My face has always been a love and hate relationship for me.
For as long as I can remember I would get into trouble for “talking” back to my mother with my facial expressions. I knew most of her questions were rhetorical,
“Do I look like one of your stupid little friends?
What kinda fool do you take me for?
Do you think I was born last night?”
I knew not to give a verbal response.
Even though my mind would begin to race and I was wondering:
“Which of my friends does she think is stupid? Doesn’t Jesus protect fools and children? Of course, I know you weren’t born last night. My math isn’t that bad.”
But my mouth would smirk in a way that, to her, could only mean an affirmation to her questions. So, I was constantly accused of “saying” things with my face that my rapid-fire thoughts knew better than to think of.
My father, in his own way, would try to help by consistently pointing out when my face was wandering away from me.
“Gade fig’ou,” he’d say,
with his rich timbered voice in a Haitian accent. Literally, it means “look at your face,” but it’s commonly used to say “fix your face.” Fixing my face meant to look more pleasant and to smile. And so, when I was frustrated or mad, I’d smile. When I was thinking of all the things I had to accomplish that day, I’d smile. When there were things I wish I could say, but couldn’t, I’d smile. Like Pavlov's dog, gade fig’ou equaled smile, and smile I did.
I was always the tallest child while growing up, right into high school, when some of the boys caught up. Currently, I weigh in at 240lbs, 5’10. I am used to being made to feel like an ungainly giant amongst delicate humans. My facial features have been described as strong. Full lips that will never be considered pouty. My big broad nose passed down honestly from my Dad. And high cheekbones that skim the clouds.
European standards of femininity; I am not. Instead, intimidating and masculine have been used to describe me more often than not. So, I make it a point to constantly soften my face by making sure I am as un-intimidating as possible by smiling.
A big black woman without a smile is an Angry Black Woman.
She is aggressive. She is difficult. In corporate America at work, I knew the stereotypes that would always be seen long before I introduced myself. So, I smiled, offered pleasantries, remained jovial and always available to assist. I loved my job. Was excited about the work that I did. The people at work became my second family, and I loved being around them. Demoralizingly and despite my best efforts, during my first performance eval, I was told that I seemed unapproachable and unfriendly. I suppose while sitting at my desk working, I forgot to keep my face fixed.
The requirement to disarm white fragility transcends the workplace.
Even while grocery shopping, strangers interrupt me to advise that I have a beautiful smile and should use it more often. I seem so cold without that smile.
In comes the year 2020, and Covid 19, and masks.
In. Comes. Freedom.
I no longer have to fix my face because no one can see my smile. Oh Goddess! What a relief. To no longer have to police my face for the comfort of everyone else. With my mask on, I no longer worry about intimidating people or seeming angry just because I am distracted and a million miles away in my head.
With my mask on, after the waves of relief subside, I reflect.
I am ashamed at how easy it became to switch on that smile.
How reflexive it was to hide myself.
How easily I allowed them to cage me.
Even worse! I caged myself.
I am disgusted at how often I was quick to show teeth as if to say, “Don’t shoot. I am one of those good negroes.” Stretch my lips wide as I cried inside. Must fix it. Must fix mouth to say, “I’m not a problem. Forget about me.” Grin big and wide, “Look at my dimple. Isn’t it dainty? I am a woman. Protect me, too.”
I cringe at how it took a fucking pandemic for me to take a piece of my body back.
For me to realize it was missing in the first place.
I hope that when Covid is long behind us, and our mask wearing days are no longer required for health and safety, that I won’t forget the freedom’s that they offered. That I will not go back to constantly reminding myself to gade fig’ou. That I will not be a weapon against myself. Policing my body for the comfort and happiness of others. A shame to myself. Instead of fix my face, I hope my new mantra will continue to be, “Fout yo. Renmen tét ou!”
Fuck Them. Love Yourself.
Danielle Bradley
is a writer, a mom of 2, a wife to Robert, and a gift to the world around her. She loves a good burger, a shot of tequila, and honest conversation.