Strippers and fights at the playground
Not the usual playground conversation.
It doesn’t matter where you go in the world, playground conversations between parents are all the damn same: Strained and mindless.
We’re there for one thing: to sap the energy out of our kids so they stop gnawing at our heels for a moment or two when we get home. So these interactions rarely venture far beyond superficiality.
How old’s your kid?
Where are you from?
What do you do for work?
Etc. etc.
I think most parents would rather sit there in silence and zone out; the parents of older kids mostly do. They know better and their kids are old enough to not dismember themselves on the janky slides and crumpled jungle
But when you’re with a fearless toddler who approaches a 9ft high platform with the same fervor as a bowl of mac ‘n’ cheese, you don’t have the luxury of recusing yourself.
And so we parents all oblige, reluctantly, in the robotic back and forth. When the kids pair off into playmates, the parents or guardians are paired off, too. Like a plutonic blind date.
Sometimes, though, on the rarest of occasions, you’re blessed with a glitch in the matrix that breaks up the monotony and has you feverishly scribbling down notes on your phone afterward.
Such was my playground encounter a few weeks back.
“I’m the fun aunt. No kids or nothin’. I just chase these two around when I visit,” she said, without so much as a hello, while gesturing to the two kids in her care. “I left St Croix and been traveling all over since I left—Minnesota, Florida, Chicago. Man, all over,” she said.
She started talking to me at the swings as we both took up our positions as pushers. Maala was wary; she’s not fond of strangers these days.
Her voice was loud and at first intrusive. I heard her from across the way as she trudged into the park with a few kids in tow. Initially, I thought she was bellowing at someone, trying to start a fight or cause a scene but soon learned she was just excited to be here and didn’t care who was around. Gotta respect that.
“Man, these kids are smart, aren’t they?!” She belted out.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“They know a thing or two. Much smarter than when I was a kid, that’s for sure, HA!”
Maala followed her swinging mate over to the jungle gym, and so did I and my new playground mate. Two mismatched adults, from different generations, paired together for the afternoon.
She shared some stories of growing up on St Croix. How it used to be when every Wednesday night the kids from surrounding areas would all come into Christiansted proper for story night. The local elders shared the history of the island and the Caribbean.
“It made you appreciate all this more,” she said. “Look at all this. It’s so beautiful but no-one appreciates it like they used to.”
Born and raised on St Croix, she told me she left 6 years ago after her husband died. They owned a store out in Frederiksted, on the west side. She’s been on the move ever since.
“And there ain’t no signs of stoppin’, man,” she said, laughing loudly.
She cares for the elderly and that takes her all around the mainland U.S. Living mostly in Minnesota, in the woods where it’s cold and dark and probably cozy and warm, too, if you find the right place.
“They call me Dark and Lovely, cause there ain’t no other black women up there in the woods where I live,” she said. “And my crew’s all white—Germans, Italians. Big f*ckers all of them, HAHA!”
“Dark and Lovely?” I had to confirm.
“Yep! I’m no stripper, though, HAHA!”
She’s been to Indonesia, which she thinks is too relaxing, and it’s also where she ran into a lot of Aussies.
“You Aussies are fucking nuts, man! Always fightin’ and hollerin’. Why you always wanna fight when you drink?”
She didn’t leave enough time for me to answer before she launched into a story about when she was in Indonesia and her boyfriend, the tall German, and his crew—also tall and also German—got into a bar fight.
“Man, they were throwing those locals around like they was in a video game!”
I’m starting to think I need to come back to this playground more often.
“The locals was all trying to do their karate and shit and my boyfriend had one under his arm this way, pushed off another that way,” she was flailing her arms about as she relived the story.
“They just threw these little fuckers around like they was loaves of bread! Tables and chairs were flying everywhere! And then the next day they tried to get us to pay for the fucking bill! Can you believe that?!”
I did believe that but I didn’t want to take the wind out of her sails. I wanted to hear more, and my new playground mate was clearly eager to share more, but the kids were done playing and so our afternoon of stories faded along with Maala’s energy.
Such are the ebbs and flows of days at the playground. Sometimes they’re too long, sometimes a little too short.
As we got ready to leave, she shared some Hallmark advice about seizing the moment, enjoying the island, cherishing the good times. It was good energy.
At the end of an outstretched fist bump, I learned her name was Melancia.
“It’s better if you go by that name when you tell your wife about me,” she said, smirking out of the sides of her mouth. “Something tells me she won’t like hearing you was hanging with a woman named Dark and Lovely down at the park. HAHA!”
You’re goddamn right, Melancia.
Helluva clickbait. And not even a photo? Reported.