Free Culture Clash by L. Divine Page A

a student with my voodoo ways. I’m sure the zero-tolerance rule applies to me using my gifts to do harm, too.
    “You know Ms. Simms’s husband is causing her all sorts of stress. Did you see those bald patches popping up all over her scalp? She’s going to need some of your quick-grow balm with honey, Lynn Mae. A lot of it,” Netta says, picking through the various containers of Mama’s creations on the counter across from the cabinets where the clients’ boxes and other storage items are housed. It takes up an entire wall and is organized to perfection. Netta’s a true professional about her shit.
    “And some of the aloe vera cream we made last week. That’ll help those scratches on her head heal faster. She needs to stop letting that man and his gambling stress her out. He’s been that way since I went to that church, and ain’t changed in the thirty years since,” Mama says, passing her a small jar full of her suggestion. Netta takes it from her and places it into the plastic box.
    “Well, you know that woman as well as I do. She thinks as long as he shows up at church on Sunday morning that there’s a chance her husband can be saved,” Netta says, sealing the box and moving on to the next. They have about ten more to go before they’re done with that project and on to the next. There’s always something to do around here.
    “That’s the problem right there,” Mama says, shaking her hand up in the air. “These folks think it’s up to someone else to save a grown-ass person. The only way someone can truly be saved is to do the work themselves. That’s where the healing begins.” Netta nods her head vigorously in agreement while scanning the remaining inventory.
    “And if you try to do it the other way around, you end up losing your hair and coming to us to help save you,” Netta says, making us all laugh. These are the most healing times we have together; just talking and cleaning. I could use a little therapeutic conversation of my own, but I’ll ease my dream and daily events into the conversation at the right time. Right now I’m enjoying the two elders in the room vibing with one another.
    “That’s why she wants you to come speak at the church tomorrow. She and all of them other women up there want the chance to pick your brain about saving their marriages,” Netta says, causing Mama to roll her eyes.
    “Mama, you’re going to church in the morning?” I ask, completely shocked at the thought of Mama sitting quietly through one of Daddy’s sermons. I thought I’d never see that happen in my lifetime.
    “Hell no,” Mama says, equally shocked at me for even having the thought in my head. “Every year for Black History Month, colored folk month, African American month, or whatever the hell else they call the shortest month of the year, these fools at your granddaddy’s church ask me to come and do a talk about traditional African culture, like they don’t remember that we have a shared history of being the survivors of captivity in this country.” Mama sucks her teeth out of disgust at the thought of stepping foot in Daddy’s church.
    “I hear you, Lynn Mae,” Netta says in agreement, without looking up from her work. Netta always has Mama’s back, no matter what the issue is.
    “Some people are so ashamed of their African heritage that they’d rather pay someone to come and talk about our collective history than do the digging themselves. Some black people are simply uncomfortable with the idea of being African,” Mama says with a stressed look across her brow. She really needs to relax. A vacation would do Mama some good.
    “Tell me about it,” I say, easing into my confession for the day. “This white boy at school who thinks he owns the place is mad at me because I initiated the first African Student Union on campus. He actually had the nerve to step to me today and warn me about what would happen if I didn’t back down from making the club official.” Mama and