Beverly, “ The Clean Up Woman,” top-heavy with a tucked backside, who fed me pork chops, whipped potatoes and creamed corn from the can. I was punch drunk on bonus hugs and extended talks that took place in my mother’s lap-and then there was Betty Wright Live.Īs she chanted Wright’s lyrics, I wondered if my mother reminisced over teenage love with my dad-as “ Tonight Is the Night” crackled beneath the record player’s needle-and if my father’s shortcomings were any worse than her husband’s fists and transgressions. The aftermath welcomed some unorthodox love that included cereal for lunch and pancakes for dinner. Recovery and repair was left to mommy and me: erect items that were knocked over sweep up shards of glass restore curtains and wall hangings to their normal value bring mommy a cold rag to stop the bleeding. A slammed door and a sobbing mother meant the violence had ceased and the perpetrator fled.
Relief came in the form of welfare checks from the po-po. I was haunted, more often than I’d like to admit, by coarse words and thick bodies thrown up against thin walls. Her own romance, though, required truculence that was mostly expressed through self defense, blood stains and stitches. She stood up for them, gave shoot-from-the-hip advice and influenced them to be more assertive and to advocate for themselves. She was a central, domineering figure in her friend group. In public, among her many acquaintances, but particularly in the relationship with her man, my mother was aggressive. Those moments showed a mini-me that my mother had reserved the softer parts of herself for me, for herself and for Wright’s music. Six songs, cloaked in Wright’s throaty vocals, owned the apartment, but there was always space for the main three my mama belted emphatically-and the reefer aroma.
On other days, it was a tray for sorting: twigs off to one side, turtle-shaped seeds to the other and buds of weed and bamboo papers gathered at the center. On most days, it was propped up on a janky shelf like the prized piece of Black art it is. The iconic, sienna-colored album cover-of Wright donning her once-signature afro, ginormous earrings, pink dress, a hand on the hip and the other gripping a mic-was a household staple. Reflecting on Wright’s eponymous work, Betty Wright Live, made it ever clear. A young me knew this to some degree, but an older me knows why all too well. Wright’s music meant something to me because it meant something very specific to my mama. Yet, I did not have the courage to share why she and her music was so meaningful to me. Wright about how huge a fan my mom was, and how I, too, was a fan by default. I became giddy in her presence almost immediately. Wynk also makes it easy to create your own playlists that you can listen to anytime on Wynk Music.I was introduced to Betty Wright in 2012 at an Art Basel event in Miami. Also, listen to Jazz Nostalgia album songs online here.
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