August 29, 2024 • 7 mins
On this episode of Our American Stories, author and regular contributor of Our American Stories Winter Prosapio shares a story from motherhood and why a difficult task—combing out her daughter's beautiful, curly hair—is a gift.
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Speaker 1 (00:04):
This is Lee Habib and this is our American Stories,
and we tell stories about just about everything here on
this show, including your story. Send them to our American
Stories dot com. That's our American Stories dot com. There's
some of our favorites. And if you like what you're
listening to, sign up for our podcast subscribe, and that's
(00:25):
right there on the website as well, at Ouramerican Stories
dot com. Today we have Winter Persapio, an author from Texas,
bringing us a story from a moment of motherhood. She
writes essays about motherhood and is currently a umor columnist
for her local daily. Here is her story, entitled Curls.
Speaker 2 (00:52):
It takes a full twenty minutes to come through her Curls.
I sedate the riot of hair with handfuls of slick conditioner,
and said, just outside the tub on her yellow footstool,
combing through the long black strands that spring back into
ringlets after every poll. I never imagined I'd have patience
for this before I had children. When I think back
(01:14):
to my life before my daughters arrived, I can't remember
doing anything quite so methodical as moothering. Nothing has ever
been as demanding of skills. I didn't possess. I've never
faced so many moments when I was at the end
of my rope where I was driven to shouting at
another human being, at my own child, only to apologize
later much too late, much too little. The comb catches
(01:39):
in the thick ness of twists and turns, and I
pull her hair slightly. She rarely protests when this happens.
Genetics must tie the curly hair gene with the tough
scalp one. This genetic combination did not include the gene
that extends graciousness with curious strangers. However, her naturally curly
hair draws compliments. Everywhere she goes. Strangers come up to
(02:02):
her with hands extended, trying to touch the spirals framing
her tiny face and black eyes. Only a few get
away with it. Most times she warns them off with
a staunch no touch, her arms criss crossing her head
in a protective shield. Still strangers reach for the curls
in restaurants, on sidewalks, in doctor's offices. I'm lucky I
(02:25):
can touch them. Every day we sit in the quiet bathroom.
She's focused on her floating toys. I on untangling, smoothing.
I've become such a different person. Since I had children,
I've become quieter, more careful, more aware of small moments.
I'm acutely aware of the chasm between my friends who
(02:48):
don't have children and my friends who do. I've leaped
the canyon, never sinsing the moment my feet were in
the air, only a few closest friends jumping with us
as honorary as and uncles. Now I understand why I
never saw people once they had their children, why they
stopped calling, how they disappeared into thin air. I recognized
(03:11):
the way the strange wild space grew between us with
every step their children took toward solids, toward school, toward adolescence,
toward leaving, toward never really being gone. Across the vest chasm,
I see my childless friends moving on quickly as I
sit here, Still sit here, time turning in on itself
(03:33):
so I can see both ends of it, beginnings and endings,
all wrapping around my fingers. I risk a higher starting
point on her head, thinking I've worked out most of
the knots, but it's no good. I'm back to the
thick tangle, prying the teeth of the comb with it.
She turns looking for something. The cloth has slipped back
(03:54):
in the tub. I hand it to her wordlessly. She
takes it without a glance, and returns to her cups
that need filling. My father, a veteran of many wives,
always said he would never marry a woman who hadn't
had children. They are too selfish, she said. And I wondered,
as a single woman in those days, how selfish I was.
(04:17):
When he married a woman with three young daughters, my stepsisters,
I wondered if he would be able to share her
with them. I leaned back for a moment, feeling the
dull burn in my back and cleaning the calm out.
The fine black hair, slick with the conditioner, but still
twisting coats my fingers as I brush them off onto
(04:39):
a paper towel stretched out, A single curl is long
enough to reach her waist, yet it will bounce back
to her shoulder when it's dry. I've never had her
hair cut, nervous that the metal will somehow break the
bonds of this miracle flowing from her crown. Before they
(05:01):
were born, I never really noticed children before Now, when
I meet them as I'm out on my own in
an office, when someone brings her son in the store.
When four year olds bounds into my path, I stop purposely.
I kneel before them, look into their eyes and say hello.
(05:22):
They smile, usually recognizing some universal quality I've gained, or
maybe I just look silly crouching like a frog. All
the tangles are out, and I take great pleasure in
running the comb through her hair again and again, separating
strands into perfect spirals. She looks up at me. Ah done, no, never, yes, baby,
(05:52):
all done.
Speaker 1 (05:59):
And job on that piece by faith as always, she
did great work here and a special thanks also to
Winter Persapio. And she's an author from Texas, and my goodness,
just what sweet, sweet and precious and detailed storytelling. And
that is the thing about motherhood and fatherhood. It is
real details you start to pay attention to. And patience, well,
(06:23):
that's the skill none of us really have, and the
skill that gets tested most. I think, talking to all
the folks I've talked to in my life about parenthood,
patience is something you just got to develop. I was
acutely aware of the chasm between friends who had children
and friends who didn't. And it's true, it's just so different.
(06:46):
How you have to reorient your life around these people
of yours, these little ones of yours. Nothing has ever
been as demanding of skills I didn't possess. People always
ask me, I'm just not am I ready yet? And
I always tell young people You're never ready. You're just
never ready. I didn't have a child till I was
almost forty, and I wasn't ready until I was the
(07:10):
story of Winter Persapio's daughter mother bond and well, fathers
and sons, and fathers and daughters know these bonds too.
Here on our American Stories, this is Lee Habib, host
(07:31):
of Our American Stories, the show where America is the
star and the American people, and we do it all
from the heart of the South Oxford, Mississippi. But we
truly can't do this show without you. Our shows will
always be free to listen to, but they're not free
to make. If you love what you hear, consider making
a tax deductible donation to our American Stories. Go to
(07:52):
our American Stories dot com. Give a little, give a lot.
That's our American Stories dot com.
This is Lee Habib and this is our American Stories,
and we tell stories about just about everything here on
this show, including your story. Send them to our American
Stories dot com. That's our American Stories dot com. There's
some of our favorites. And if you like what you're
listening to, sign up for our podcast subscribe, and that's
(00:25):
right there on the website as well, at Ouramerican Stories
dot com. Today we have Winter Persapio, an author from Texas,
bringing us a story from a moment of motherhood. She
writes essays about motherhood and is currently a umor columnist
for her local daily. Here is her story, entitled Curls.
Speaker 2 (00:52):
It takes a full twenty minutes to come through her Curls.
I sedate the riot of hair with handfuls of slick conditioner,
and said, just outside the tub on her yellow footstool,
combing through the long black strands that spring back into
ringlets after every poll. I never imagined I'd have patience
for this before I had children. When I think back
(01:14):
to my life before my daughters arrived, I can't remember
doing anything quite so methodical as moothering. Nothing has ever
been as demanding of skills. I didn't possess. I've never
faced so many moments when I was at the end
of my rope where I was driven to shouting at
another human being, at my own child, only to apologize
later much too late, much too little. The comb catches
(01:39):
in the thick ness of twists and turns, and I
pull her hair slightly. She rarely protests when this happens.
Genetics must tie the curly hair gene with the tough
scalp one. This genetic combination did not include the gene
that extends graciousness with curious strangers. However, her naturally curly
hair draws compliments. Everywhere she goes. Strangers come up to
(02:02):
her with hands extended, trying to touch the spirals framing
her tiny face and black eyes. Only a few get
away with it. Most times she warns them off with
a staunch no touch, her arms criss crossing her head
in a protective shield. Still strangers reach for the curls
in restaurants, on sidewalks, in doctor's offices. I'm lucky I
(02:25):
can touch them. Every day we sit in the quiet bathroom.
She's focused on her floating toys. I on untangling, smoothing.
I've become such a different person. Since I had children,
I've become quieter, more careful, more aware of small moments.
I'm acutely aware of the chasm between my friends who
(02:48):
don't have children and my friends who do. I've leaped
the canyon, never sinsing the moment my feet were in
the air, only a few closest friends jumping with us
as honorary as and uncles. Now I understand why I
never saw people once they had their children, why they
stopped calling, how they disappeared into thin air. I recognized
(03:11):
the way the strange wild space grew between us with
every step their children took toward solids, toward school, toward adolescence,
toward leaving, toward never really being gone. Across the vest chasm,
I see my childless friends moving on quickly as I
sit here, Still sit here, time turning in on itself
(03:33):
so I can see both ends of it, beginnings and endings,
all wrapping around my fingers. I risk a higher starting
point on her head, thinking I've worked out most of
the knots, but it's no good. I'm back to the
thick tangle, prying the teeth of the comb with it.
She turns looking for something. The cloth has slipped back
(03:54):
in the tub. I hand it to her wordlessly. She
takes it without a glance, and returns to her cups
that need filling. My father, a veteran of many wives,
always said he would never marry a woman who hadn't
had children. They are too selfish, she said. And I wondered,
as a single woman in those days, how selfish I was.
(04:17):
When he married a woman with three young daughters, my stepsisters,
I wondered if he would be able to share her
with them. I leaned back for a moment, feeling the
dull burn in my back and cleaning the calm out.
The fine black hair, slick with the conditioner, but still
twisting coats my fingers as I brush them off onto
(04:39):
a paper towel stretched out, A single curl is long
enough to reach her waist, yet it will bounce back
to her shoulder when it's dry. I've never had her
hair cut, nervous that the metal will somehow break the
bonds of this miracle flowing from her crown. Before they
(05:01):
were born, I never really noticed children before Now, when
I meet them as I'm out on my own in
an office, when someone brings her son in the store.
When four year olds bounds into my path, I stop purposely.
I kneel before them, look into their eyes and say hello.
(05:22):
They smile, usually recognizing some universal quality I've gained, or
maybe I just look silly crouching like a frog. All
the tangles are out, and I take great pleasure in
running the comb through her hair again and again, separating
strands into perfect spirals. She looks up at me. Ah done, no, never, yes, baby,
(05:52):
all done.
Speaker 1 (05:59):
And job on that piece by faith as always, she
did great work here and a special thanks also to
Winter Persapio. And she's an author from Texas, and my goodness,
just what sweet, sweet and precious and detailed storytelling. And
that is the thing about motherhood and fatherhood. It is
real details you start to pay attention to. And patience, well,
(06:23):
that's the skill none of us really have, and the
skill that gets tested most. I think, talking to all
the folks I've talked to in my life about parenthood,
patience is something you just got to develop. I was
acutely aware of the chasm between friends who had children
and friends who didn't. And it's true, it's just so different.
(06:46):
How you have to reorient your life around these people
of yours, these little ones of yours. Nothing has ever
been as demanding of skills I didn't possess. People always
ask me, I'm just not am I ready yet? And
I always tell young people You're never ready. You're just
never ready. I didn't have a child till I was
almost forty, and I wasn't ready until I was the
(07:10):
story of Winter Persapio's daughter mother bond and well, fathers
and sons, and fathers and daughters know these bonds too.
Here on our American Stories, this is Lee Habib, host
(07:31):
of Our American Stories, the show where America is the
star and the American people, and we do it all
from the heart of the South Oxford, Mississippi. But we
truly can't do this show without you. Our shows will
always be free to listen to, but they're not free
to make. If you love what you hear, consider making
a tax deductible donation to our American Stories. Go to
(07:52):
our American Stories dot com. Give a little, give a lot.
That's our American Stories dot com.
Host
Lee Habeeb
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