In America we live for the weekend. For those of us fortunate enough to afford the
weekend off, the quick break grants us temporary freedom from monotonous labor in the land of
the free. My family use to celebrate the weekends in such a way that our souls danced on
Saturdays and thanked us for it on Sunday mornings. It was important for loved ones to unite and
make time to celebrate life no matter the trauma we were forced to carry everyday as
economically disadvantaged Blacks in the south. Although we did the same things every time we
met, we never grew tired of the ritual. That familiar sound of crackling noises the hot grease sang
aloud; a signal that the catfish was ready to be fried. The constant laughter bouncing off of the
cigarette smoke clouds filling every corner of the living room. Every Saturday and Sunday was a
ceremony of dancing, eating fried catfish with barbecue beans and crying tears of joy in church
the next morning while God reminded us that we were still alive. Aunt Mariah’s love and Uncle
Jessie’s famous fried fish and barbeque beans kept the spirit of our family alive.
Aunt Mariah and Uncle Jessie weren’t a perfect couple and their story wasn’t fit for
daytime television but their unwavering love and commitment to each other kept the family
united as one. With two children and more bills than they could afford, life was undoubtedly a
struggle. But for some reason everyone in the neighborhood would all migrate to their home for
a helping of southern fried catfish and a taste of smoky barbecued beans every weekend. The
kids in the family were always thrilled to visit every weekend because we knew that meant we’d
be feasting on frozen cherry flavored cool cups1 and hot cheetos. My cousins and I would
1 Really sweet frozen treat made with kool aid and too much sugar
congregate in the back room to play with each other, fight and then cry like hungry puppies until
it was time for all of us to eat.
“Come on y’all!”, Uncle Jessie shouted in his unapologetically rough Arkansas accent,
“Come get this food!.” At the thunderous roar of Uncle Jessie’s voice, all of the children would
dash through the smoke filled living room like turbulent ridden planes accidentally crashing into
the towering grown ups who were busy doing grown up things. The rambunctious sounds of
dominoes slamming on the table and adults laughing wildly at inappropriate jokes filled our nosy
ears until Aunt Mariah would yell out “Stop all that running in this damn house and get out of
grown folks mouths2!” Uncle Jessie was a strong, tall man but even when he yelled he kept a half
smile. Aunt Mariah on the other hand yelled out commands with the authority of a mighty sword
halting us dead in our tracks. So we would avert our attention from where the grown ups were
doing grown up things and proceed with caution en route to get some of that salty, crunchy, hot
fried fish and smoky, sweet, barbecue beans. I can still remember how the paper plates would
look all lined up and stacked with food for each one of us kids to grab.
The fish laid tantalizingly on the plates a glorious golden color with dark brown speckles
of salty seasonings freckled on top of each filet. Quite frankly, all you needed was some
Louisiana hot sauce and Wonder Bread on the side for a fulfilling meal, but the hot, brown sugar,
glazed beans with spicy ground beef stirred in them made the unlikely combination of fish and
beans a special meal we all looked forward to sharing after the long week.
That’s why when Aunt Mariah was diagnosed with lupus the entire family congregated at
her home like it was the famous neighborhood diner that was soon to be closed forever.
2 In the South, when a Black adult tells a child to “get out of their mouth” it means to leave the area while adults
are speaking with one another.
Sometimes all of us kids spent the night at Aunt Mariah and Uncle Jessie’s home during the
weekdays even though school was still in session. We thought our parents were just being nice
and letting us have random sleepovers whenever we wanted but the truth was that Aunt Mariah’s
lupus was progressing and her kidneys started to shut down. And what was once a weekend
ritual soon turned into several daily visits. Did the grown ups know how much Aunt Mariah
meant to all of us little ones? Were they keeping us closer to her for their own secret grown up
reasons that we wouldn’t have understood? There had to be something more than frozen cool
cups, hot cheetos, fried fish and beans that kept us children so full off of Aunt Mariah’s love.
When the weekend gatherings turned into frequent hospital visitations, there was a
noticeable shift in the atmosphere. The grown ups drank beer less often and starting chugging
coffee a whole lot more. The cackling laughter and jokes turned into long whispered
conversations. My naivety couldn’t pinpoint why everything seemed to be changing. Uncle
Jessie hadn’t cooked fried fish and barbeque beans in a month of Sundays. And whenever we did
go visit him while Aunt Mariah was in the hospital he was always reserved and hushed. Uncle
Jessie would sit in the living room just scratching his head a lot with his eyes set low and
bloodshot red. The family figured after Aunt Mariah’s kidney transplant that everything would
return to normal and the weekend ceremonies would commence again like usual. We desperately
needed to reunite over food and laughter outside of the chilly, white hospital walls, but Aunt
Mariah flatlined two days into her recovery. She was 33 years young.
After Aunt Mariah died, life continued and time progressed as it always does. The grown
ups kept working Monday through Friday and most of the kids continued school; some of them,
including me, went off to college. I hadn’t seen Uncle Jessie in almost a decade when my mama
received a surprise call from him inviting us over for dinner. After Aunt Mariah died, he lost
custody of my cousins and went off the radar and I hadn’t seen them in years either. But my
mother never changed her phone number, and when Uncle Jessie called it almost felt like old
times again.
When Uncle Jessie opened his apartment door, he stood tall with a half smile and was
noticeably smaller in weight. And boy was I excited when he showed us the huge aluminum foil
pan filled with sweet barbecue beans and spicy ground beef for us to take home. My little sister
and I fixed us a plate and sat in front of the living room television while my mama and Uncle
Jessie stayed in the kitchen and talked for hours. I eavesdropped on them making plans to reunite
the family just like old times and my heart grew warm at the thought of spending time with my
cousins again.
Eventually we said our goodbyes and left with our huge batch of barbecue beans, but I
guess we were too caught up in the moment to realize that we had left the beans on top of the car.
After a couple of minutes of driving down the road we noticed what looked like heaping amounts
of poop sliding down the car’s windshield. The barbecue beans had splattered everywhere and
flew away. We never went back to get more beans from Uncle Jessie. That was the last day I
ever saw or spoke to him. It was truly the end of an era.
Victoria Richards, born in Queens, New York and raised in Houston, Texas is a poet, freelance writer and second year MFA Creative Writing student at The New School. She has a passion for encouraging children to appreciate and create literature for the sake of self-discovery. Lastly, Victoria is a connoisseur of all things Black Girl Magic.
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