Sonya Curry - Fierce Love

To my Abba Father,

For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things.

To Him be glory forever. Amen.

Romans 11:36

Every good thing that ever happens

Happens from the inside out.

Jessie Buckley

I SIT at our long kitchen table, my hands folded, breathing in the rare, luxurious quiet. I close my eyes and inhale the silence. I bask in it. I savor this silence. I am not used to it. We dont usually experience much quiet around here. With three kids coming and going, swooping in and out of rooms, basketballs bouncing, friends trailing, doors closing, footsteps thundering up and down stairs, laughter, shouting, singing pummeling the air, the mere idea of silencethe remote possibility of itrarely nudges its way into my consciousness. At least not during the day. At night, when Dells on the road and the children have fallen asleep, well, thats a different story. Then silence descends. I will seek it out, walk into it, and enfold myself inside it, losing myself in the quiet and the dark of the house.

This day, on this late Friday afternoon in 2009, I think about Sunday. I consider whether I can plot an escape between church services for some me time and sneak out to the movies. I decide Ill make a game-time decision. I lean my elbows on the table, lower my head, close my eyes, and take in this silence, trying to hold on to the quiet for as long as I can. I try to clear my head of clutter, force my mind to go blank. I cant manage it. Im too antsy. Thoughts of what to make for dinner seep in. I see a Caesar salad, frozen lasagna, Texas toast. I bat those thoughts away, or try to. I whisper a line of Scripture, thanking God for this moment, for this rest, for this quiet

Mom?

Sydel, fourteen, my youngest, sprints into the room and lands on the chair opposite me. We Currys move quickly and with purpose. We dont usually run in the houseIm always asking the kids to slow downbut we enter rooms at a good clip. We arrive, even if we have no particular purpose in mind, even if were simply entering the room.

I slowly open my eyes and take in my daughters face. She leans into me, her eyes ablaze. She has something she needs to say. I see her formulating her thoughts. Searching for the right words. Doing a rewrite in her mind. I can feel her anticipation. Yes, she has something on her mind. An ask.

She hesitates before she speaks. I know I am about to be hit with something that Im not going to like. I can feel it.

Get ready, Sonya.

Sydel has been busy lately, scrambling to find her place at her new school, Charlotte Christian. She has thrown herself into a very active ninth-grade social life. Ninth grade is the toughest year to negotiate, a transitional year, a time that falls between still being a kid and becoming a teenager. Passing puberty, racing toward Go. Sometimes we call ninth grade the end of middle schoolthe last year of junior highand sometimes we call it freshman year of high school, nothing junior about it. Which is how Sydel sees ninth grade. No more junior high, no more kids stuff. She has not entered high school casually, on tiptoes. She has burst into high school. Translation: fitting in, parties, boys.

She knows, though, that we have a family rule about all that. Same rule I instituted for her brothers, Stephen and Seth. Very explicit. Very clear. Uncompromising. No debate. A rule that cant be broken and one I enforce.

No dating until you turn sixteen.

In Sydels case, no boyfriend.

Absolutely no boyfriend.

So I wanted to talk to you, Sydel says.

Oh yes, shes got an agenda.

About? I say.

I brace myself for whatever shes got.

Okay, girl, Im ready, bring it.

Tomorrow night, she says.

What about tomorrow night?

I think Ive mentioned this to you before.

She halts, curls her lips slightly, shifts in her chair.

She has not mentioned this before, whatever this is, though I can guess.

The party, she says, as casually as she can, as if shes discussed the party dozens of times. Then she powers past the details like they dont matter, irrelevant bits of meaningless informationtime, place, the girl whos hosting.

Actually, Sydel says, gesturing elaborately. Were going to a movie first, then back to her house for, you know, the, uh, party. She punctuates the word party with a dismissive wave. Really just a few of us hanging out.

I feel myself nodding.

Who are these friends? I ask, stalling. The ones attending this party?

I know the answer. Sydel has recently been invited into a new social circle. This group has embraced her, the cool, status-y newcomer. The group consists of a few older kids, including one or two Ive heard about through parents. These kids, Im told, are a bit moremature.

I also know that hovering around this group is a particular boy. A crush. Sydel doesnt talk about him much. But she talks about him enough. Its not how much she talks about him that matters. Its the way she does it. I have an intuition about these things. Boys. Matters of the heart. Crushes. I, too, raced past ninth grade. I see myself back then, a freshman in high school, no junior high about it.

Sydel, I say, youre fourteen.

Going on fifteen.

In a month.

Twenty-eight days.

But whos counting.

Sydel adjusts her position on the chair, tucks a leg beneath her.

Please, Mom. I want to go. You know these kids. Theyre my friends

She lists them.

So only girls? I say. You didnt mention any boys. No boys will be at the party?

Well, I mean, maybe, there could

I hold up my palm. A stop sign.

Sydel, I say quietly. I dont want to be the bad cop here, but you know the rule. No dating until you turn sixteen

This is not a date. Its a party. A get-together.

Sydel, I say, sharper.

Mom.

Another adjustment in her chair and in her tone.

Everybodys going, she says.

I hate that argument. The everybody is doing it defense. She knows I hate it. But its her last gaspher Hail Mary pass. She has no other option. She has to go for it.

Please, she says.

I wrap it all up for her. My summation.

Sydelllll, I say, drawing out her name to make a point, then allowing it to land heavily, all without raising my voice. I dont feel comfortable about this. You are fourteen years old. You are not sixteen. And I know about the boy situation. I want to remind you. We have a rule. You know very well what it is. Im going to have to say no. Im sorry.

Thats it. The end.

Except its not the end.

Sydel keeps going. She keeps fighting, flailing. She raises her voice. She blows by logic now and goes straight for emotion.

I dont understand. Why cant I go? Its a movie and then because itll be so early, a few of us are getting together at a persons house whom you know. A few kids. Thats all it is.

Im sorry, I say again, closing the conversation. Youre not going to go.

She purses her lips as if shes swallowed something sour and then she says, flatly, You are the worst mother in the world.

I feel my throat constrict.

Time stops.

You are the worst mother in the world.

I cannot believe these words have spewed from my daughters mouth.

Not from Sydel.

Then I feel myself doing itthe Oh, no, you didnt neck and eye roll. The look my mother, Candy Adams, gave me whenever I crossed the line. The look every Black mother on earth shoots at her child whenever they cross the line. The neck and eye roll just comes out of me. A reflex. An instinct. I cant help myself. Here it comes. Im giving my daughter the Candy look.