Dona E. Bowens

There are two types of people in my family: Those who go to church, and those who go to church hungover. I came up, most egregiously, on the stone cold sober side of the family. The only positive part about growing up sober is that my Mom had an on-again, off-again relationship with church. More Sundays than not, we ended up worshipping at the altar of the brunch buffet.

As for the family members who used communion wine as a kind of Sunday morning, hair-of-the-dog tonic, we mostly saw them at funerals. Between funerals, the sobers looked over our broad, snooty noses and bemoaned, with a sigh, the behavior of “The Borders.” Borders being the family name we carried forth from slavery. Believe it or not, it’s of German origin and, true to our German roots, you got your “we must have order” Germans doing battle with the Oktoberfest Germans. (That’s a whole other story of how we came to have German blood. Long story short—slavery was a motherfucker and America is in deep denial about just how motherfuckery it was. Click here for my family’s tale of fuckery.)

You understand me by now—two sides of the family with different ideas of what makes a funky good time. So, March 11 was my birthday. It wasn’t a special birthday like a zero or a five birthday. (Take 40 or 75 for example.) No, just another trip around the sun. I had no special plans because in recent years, between milestone birthdays, I prefer to do absolutely nothing.

Every other day of the year you have to be here, meet somebody there, have an appointment over there. Fuck all that. On my birthday I’m having none of the planning and obligations and I’m happier that way. “What did I do for my birthday, you ask? Absolutely fucking nothing.” Imagine the shit eating grin on my face as I deliver that line.

I had full intentions of doing absolutely fucking nothing again this year until I got a text from Cousin Herman. Cousin Herman of the “hungover from Oktoberfest and sitting in the front pew” side of the family. See, God has a sense of humor and ingenious ways of keeping a family together. Cousin Herman and I share a birthday. Though there’s 15 years between us, there is photographic proof that, in a bygone era of Polaroid photos and bell bottom jeans, Cousin Herman and I brought the factions of the family together in celebration of our shared birthday. In those photos Herman is an Afro-sporting teen looking like he could be an extra on the TV show “Good Times,” while I was a toddler in cornrows with cake coming out of my nose.

Now that I think about it, what teen wants to celebrate their birthday with a toddler? But Cousin Herman did—bless him. And now he was texting me to revive the tradition, talking about, “Saturday. 3 p.m. Tacos and cocktails to celebrate our birthday, Cuz.” Understand, I’ve been away for awhile from all of the family. Living my life and having adventures across the country and eventually across an ocean. But my wandering is over (for the moment) and I’ve come back to my ancestral lands of Akron, Ohio, making it possible to once again have cake coming out of my nose in front of family. I decided, fuck doing absolutely nothing on this odd birthday year. I’m in. I’m home, fam! Achtung!

Where to begin with this party? It was the elixir my soul was craving because relocating back to ‘merica has put me into therapy for the first time in my topsy-turvy life. It ain’t easy being back and people always ask me what led me to leave Barcelona, after so many years, to settle in Akron, Ohio. Not NYC. Akron. Not L.A. Akron. Not ATL. Akron.

Usually, I say that my parents are getting older and it’s time to be closer to home. Which is true. Or I say how it was getting hard to make money in Barcelona, which is also true. What I don’t say, because in the 6 short months that I’ve been back, I’m already taking it for granted, I came back for Black people. I came back to America for Negroes.

Barcelona don’t got Negroes. There’s some facsimile of the Negro all over the world and certainly Barcelona was home to a few of them. However! Nobody makes a Negro like America makes a Negro. Despite America’s best efforts to kill us all since 1619, still we rise and keep giving America (and the world) magic, swagger and culture.

In Cousin Herman’s basement, it was all about magic, swagger and culture. The music was all deep cut R&B, the drinks were the heaviest of pours (there was even some white lightening in a mason jar making the rounds), the atmosphere was smoky with not a turned up nostril in protest—unless you failed to puff, puff, pass, damn it. You know the food had all the proper seasoning and when a set of new legs began to descend the stairs, the moment the face came into view and was recognized, a shout of HEY! went up from the masses.

Then the hand dancing would resume only to be interrupted by Cousin Andre’s break dancing followed by whatever dancing I was called on to do before my back told me to sit my ass down. Fam thought my limping back to my seat was part of the show and cheered me heartily. It was the birthday of birthdays and the only regret I have is that the ghetto tradition of pinning money on the celebrants got lost somewhere. I remember my Mom saying once, with slight contempt in her voice that, “Only Black people pin on money for birthdays.” And thank God for it, Mama! Pin some money on me!

The bartender finally cut me off (for the first time in my life)! He knew that I came up on the sober side of the family and probably thought I had to get to church in the morning. Pfft! I sweat like a whore in church and always have. But I took my flagging in stride and decided that this is the way I’d celebrate all birthdays. The zeroes, the fives and each birthday in between, spent getting fucked up with the family and not regretting any of it.

So, until next year…god willing.