Waistlines, Wisdom, and the Funk of Fellowship

Waistlines, Wisdom, and the Funk of Fellowship

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Now let me tell you somethin' my Grandmother Celestine once told me when I was just a little thing, sittin' cross-legged on the floor of her porch on Sere Street in the 7th Ward of New Orleans. She was rockin' slow in that old squeaky chair of hers, a sweet tea in one hand and a church fan in the other. The sun was low, the air thick like a roux on the stove, and she looked out over the yard with that gleam in her eye you know, the one that meant a tale was comin'.

"Baby," she said, "you don’t know nothin' 'bout community 'til you seen folks come together with nothin' but music, mustard greens, and love. Let me tell you 'bout the time we threw a waistline party back in the summer of '76. Ooh child, it was hotter than the devil's armpit, but our spirits was cool."

She rocked a little, smiled wide. "It was a rent crisis. Jenkins family they was strugglin'. But we ain't let our own fall. No sir. Odessa, bless her bold behind, said we was gon' raise that money with style. So she cooked up the idea of a waistline party."

She laughed low and gave a side glance. "Yes lawd, a waistline party. The smaller your waist, the cheaper you got in. Which meant all the ladies was starvin' theyselves for two days and wearin' tight girdles like salvation depended on it. We was in that yard countin' inches like we was weighin' produce."

"Miss Odessa come out wearin' this lemon yellow jumpsuit so tight it looked like her body was holdin' its breath. 'Y'all ready?' she yelled, and child, the whole block came runnin'. Even Mr. T.C. from down the block, who hadn’t been out his house since the Saints' first losing season, came out to two-step with his bad hip and bottle of Crown."

Big Moe and the Groove Prophets rolled up with their instruments tied down in a pickup truck. Trumpets blowin', drums tappin', the kind of rhythm that made your shoulders shimmy involuntarily. It wasn't just a party it was a declaration: we still here.

Celestine leaned in, her eyes dancing. "Child, the dancing? Mmm. We had Peaches, who moved like she had fire ants in her shoes. Sapphire was twirlin' like she was auditionin' for the Soul Train line. And then there was my friend Leon, lawd help him, he tried to do the splits and ended up rollin' under the picnic table. Folks laughed so hard, somebody dropped the potato salad."

"And poor Sister Lula, bless her, her wig did a full 360 when the bass dropped. It landed in the gumbo pot. Deacon Rufus fished it out and said, 'This here got more flavor than it started with!'"

"Now don’t get it twisted," she said, tapping her fan against her knee. "It wasn’t just fun. That night was church in disguise. Deacon Rufus you remember me tellin' you about him? Well, he wasn’t dancin', but he was leanin' against the gumbo pot sayin', 'I don’t get how y’all love the Creator you ain't never seen, but can’t stand the sister who made the baked beans.'"

She nodded slowly. "That ain’t no joke, baby. That’s scripture in a tracksuit. Folks started reflectin'. Sapphire hugged Bernice and they hadn't spoken since '72 when they both showed up wearin' the same dress to the Usher Board Gala. It was like the spirit of forgiveness floated in with the trumpet line."

"And lemme tell you about my friend Peewee. That man always had a story. He said back in the swamps, there was a turtle named Slow Moe. A storm came, and all the animals was arguin'. Moe said, 'Shut y'all noise! Either we stick together or end up gator snacks.' So they worked side by side, and survived together. And Peewee with his shirt halfway buttoned and gold tooth gleamin' said, 'That, my babies, is how community walk through a storm.'"

Celestine looked off for a second, then back toward me with a soft smile. "See, we ain't just raised rent money that night. We raised each other. And child, that's what you need to remember. When you feel like life is a thick forest and you can't see nothin' but vines and shadows reach for somebody. Walk together. Sing a little. Dance a lot."

She took a slow sip of her tea, then chuckled low. "And let me not forget, baby, we had the second line roll through that night too. Band had just taken a break when down the block come Cousin June-Bug leadin' a brass band with a tambourine in one hand and a turkey neck in the other. Folks just fell in line behind 'em like it was Super Sunday. Feathers, sequins, people dancin' like the rent already got paid and the Saints won the Super Bowl in the same breath."

She shook her head, laughing. "Old Miss Hattie twirled her parasol like she was twenty years younger. Somebody threw her a handkerchief and she waved it like it was a holy banner. People was shoutin' and dancin' in the street like joy was on sale for two-for-one."

Then came Cousin T-Bone, hollerin' about the CIA usin' pigeons to spy on black folks. He was wearin' a tinfoil hat and passin' out church fans with the words “Watch the skies!” printed in glitter. He danced anyway tin foil and all. Nobody judged him. He was family. That was the point.

Celestine smiled again, a far-off look in her eyes. "Somebody stepped on my foot, I lost my shoe, but didn’t care 'cause the music got me floatin'. That band hit a note so sweet, folks forgot they had problems. That, child, was the medicine. And it didn’t come in no bottle it came in rhythm, in togetherness."

"So," she said, settlin' deeper in her chair, "never forget that story. The Creator put us here to love, not just from a distance, not just in theory, but up close mess and all. And child, when it gets tough out there, remember the Jenkins family, the waistline party, the pigeons, and a whole block dancin' their troubles away together."

She reached over, gently tapped my knee, and smiled. "And when that beat drops, you know what to do."

"Dance."