Arabella Grayson
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Arabella Grayson combines her passion for writing
and the arts in the touring exhibition “Two Hundred
Years of Black Paper Dolls.” The author of
Precious Playthings: An Illustrated History of Black
Paper Dolls, The First Two Hundred Years
(forthcoming), her work has been featured in the
Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, Seattle
Times, New Jersey Star Ledger, Sacramento Bee,
Oakland Tribune, San Francisco Chronicle,
Antiques and Collecting, and on NPR News and
Notes, theroot.com, TomJoyner.com,
HistoryNewsNetwork.com, ArianaHuffington.com,
and Verizon Cable News.
A freelance writer and public relations consultant,
Ms. Grayson is a contributing writer in Go, Tell
Michelle: African American Women Write to the
New First Lady (SUNY Press: 2009). She has
worked on a number of book projects as
ghostwriter, book doctor, and researcher.
and the arts in the touring exhibition “Two Hundred
Years of Black Paper Dolls.” The author of
Precious Playthings: An Illustrated History of Black
Paper Dolls, The First Two Hundred Years
(forthcoming), her work has been featured in the
Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, Seattle
Times, New Jersey Star Ledger, Sacramento Bee,
Oakland Tribune, San Francisco Chronicle,
Antiques and Collecting, and on NPR News and
Notes, theroot.com, TomJoyner.com,
HistoryNewsNetwork.com, ArianaHuffington.com,
and Verizon Cable News.
A freelance writer and public relations consultant,
Ms. Grayson is a contributing writer in Go, Tell
Michelle: African American Women Write to the
New First Lady (SUNY Press: 2009). She has
worked on a number of book projects as
ghostwriter, book doctor, and researcher.
Do As I Say, Not As I Do, an Essay by Arabella Grayson
My father’s parenting mantra “Do as I say, not as I do,” often confused and
astonished his five beleaguered charges. Which of his perplexing behaviors was he
referring to? Depositing dirty clothes on the bathroom floor? Not clearly his plate from
the dinner table? Yelling to be heard when no one was talking? Cussing? Slamming
doors in anger? Habitually arriving late? Possibly. Who really knew? His ways
seemingly contradicted the rules Mama consistently tried to enforce.
In our feeble efforts to fully understand the double standard ruling and ruining our
juvenile lives, we occasionally asked Daddy, when one of us got up the nerve or
coaxed our youngest sister Debora to, why we were forbidden to parrot the very
behaviors that caused his ire when repeated by one of us. Our “whys” elicited a
furrowed brow and a four word response,“because I’m your father,” which I can now
say, since I’m grown and there’s no chance that my father will ever read this essay,
was not a satisfactory response. Neither was talking back, so while his retort ended
his participation in any further discussions, curiosity among the rank-and-file led to
mutinous late-night, under-the-cover whispered deliberations. Strategies were
weighed and plans hatched. Numerically the odds were in our favor: five to two; or six
to one, since Mama was an easy ally if we could keep her (pre)occupied and
laughing.
Generally, after one of our late night sessions, we’d test the waters: Dirty underwear
left on the bathroom floor in hopes that Daddy would see it before Mama picked it
up. Lots of loud homework questions and debate during favored prime time viewing
– Wild Kingdom, The Honeymooners, Hee Haw, Get Smart, I Spy, Bonanza. Waiting
till the last minute to start a major school project in hopes that our poor example
might cause Daddy to set a better example for us. He was never amused.
While my four siblings and I poked out our lips and muttered under our breaths, and
cleaned up after ourselves and Daddy, we each knew unequivocally that the “Do as I
say, not as I do” rule always referred to abstaining from nicotine. Daddy was
addicted. A chain smoker, he took his first puff at age 12, when smoking cigarettes
was deemed cool, and the dire health consequences associated with the noxious
habit hadn’t yet resulted in national headlines, warning labels, multi million dollar
class action suits, and smoke-free zones.
Our home was a smoking haven; an asthmatic’s nightmare. Cigarettes, cigars,
cigarellos, pipes and their accompanying accessories – humidors, cigar cutters, pipe
stands to hold his growing collection; glass, earthenware, stone, ceramic, polymer
ashtrays in sundry colors and recognizable and indistinguishable shapes, either
mass-produced or shaped by nimble fingers for Father’s Day or Christmas gifts,
where strategically placed on every surface in every room in an attempt to capture
errant ashes. Burn holes marked his territory and movements. It was a chain smoker’
s retreat. Once, I actually counted, within an hour, 18 abandoned cigarette butts
burning throughout the house, a few precariously perched from counter tops and
one left smoldering on a dinner plate.
When asked why he smoked, Daddy said because he couldn’t stop, or more often,
his reply was, “because everybody has to die of something so it might as well be from
smoking.” A lame answer, even then. Additionally, he’d always admonish us not to
take up his stinky and costly vice.
But one day my teenage curiosity got the best of me. I was thirteen, 14 at the most.
Mama, Daddy, Debora and I were out grocery shopping, when the adults decided to
drive to JC Penney at the adjacent mall. Uninterested in tagging along and figuring
they’d be in the store no longer than 15 or 20 minutes, I opted to stay in the van,
even though they took the keys.
When they are out of sight, I jump into the driver’s seat and pretend I’m cruising down
the highway. I check the rear and side mirrors, adjust the seat, and lower the sun
visor, when I spot a small package of cigarillos, the type I imagine really hip people
might smoke at cocktail parties, tucked into the elastic strap. Furtively, I look around,
pull one of the slim, brown, stylish cigarettes (at least that’s what I initially thought it
was) out of the pack, sniff it, and twirl it between my thumb and forefinger to get the
feel of it. Checking again to see that my parent’s aren’t in sight, I carefully put it
between my lips and feign smoking: With my head tilted upward, I take a slow and
deep drag, hold it for a second or two and then slowly exhale through contorted lips
and flared nostrils as I envision imaginary smoke rings curling toward the ceiling. A
flick of the wrist, and a puff of faux ashes land on the console between the seats,
along with the real ones. I take a few more fake puffs, adding a prop – a book of
matches, pretending to strike one as I perfect my technique in the visor’s mirror. This
play acting lasts for about ten minutes, when I decide to put the cigarello back in the
pack before I get caught.
Another ten minutes pass. I’m still alone in the van. I’m thinking now that I’ve got the
hang of this smoking thing, I can roll down the window, stick my head out and take a
real puff before they make their way back to the vehicle. What’s the worst that can
happen? If I’m caught, I’m grounded. I weigh the odds, climb back into the front seat,
roll down the window, slip one of the cigarillos from the pack, stick my head out the
window, light the thin cigar and inhale a mouthful of rancid, burnt-bag tasting smoke.
My throat constricts, my nose is burning and I can’t seem to stop coughing. Definitely,
not cool. I must be doing something wrong. I give it another try and again I’m
coughing and gasping for air, and starting to feel woozy. I’m beginning to think,
smoking does not suit me.
In seconds, I snuff out the evidence on the parking lot pavement, and am back in the
van looking for a stick of Wrigley’s to mask my smoker’s breath and curb the foul
taste in my mouth.
I do my best to look bored when the shoppers finally return and immediately launch
into inane conversation in hopes that no one is the wiser. Fortunately the ride home
is quick and uneventful. If my parents knew, they never let on.
The positive outcome of my misguided adventure was it squelched my curiosity and
left me uninterested in smoking. I learned firsthand a real “Do as I say, not as I do”
lifesaving lesson, one my father should have heeded. Unfortunately, on March
3,1995, at the age of 62, he passed away from lung cancer. He’d been smoking for
nearly 50 years.
My father’s parenting mantra “Do as I say, not as I do,” often confused and
astonished his five beleaguered charges. Which of his perplexing behaviors was he
referring to? Depositing dirty clothes on the bathroom floor? Not clearly his plate from
the dinner table? Yelling to be heard when no one was talking? Cussing? Slamming
doors in anger? Habitually arriving late? Possibly. Who really knew? His ways
seemingly contradicted the rules Mama consistently tried to enforce.
In our feeble efforts to fully understand the double standard ruling and ruining our
juvenile lives, we occasionally asked Daddy, when one of us got up the nerve or
coaxed our youngest sister Debora to, why we were forbidden to parrot the very
behaviors that caused his ire when repeated by one of us. Our “whys” elicited a
furrowed brow and a four word response,“because I’m your father,” which I can now
say, since I’m grown and there’s no chance that my father will ever read this essay,
was not a satisfactory response. Neither was talking back, so while his retort ended
his participation in any further discussions, curiosity among the rank-and-file led to
mutinous late-night, under-the-cover whispered deliberations. Strategies were
weighed and plans hatched. Numerically the odds were in our favor: five to two; or six
to one, since Mama was an easy ally if we could keep her (pre)occupied and
laughing.
Generally, after one of our late night sessions, we’d test the waters: Dirty underwear
left on the bathroom floor in hopes that Daddy would see it before Mama picked it
up. Lots of loud homework questions and debate during favored prime time viewing
– Wild Kingdom, The Honeymooners, Hee Haw, Get Smart, I Spy, Bonanza. Waiting
till the last minute to start a major school project in hopes that our poor example
might cause Daddy to set a better example for us. He was never amused.
While my four siblings and I poked out our lips and muttered under our breaths, and
cleaned up after ourselves and Daddy, we each knew unequivocally that the “Do as I
say, not as I do” rule always referred to abstaining from nicotine. Daddy was
addicted. A chain smoker, he took his first puff at age 12, when smoking cigarettes
was deemed cool, and the dire health consequences associated with the noxious
habit hadn’t yet resulted in national headlines, warning labels, multi million dollar
class action suits, and smoke-free zones.
Our home was a smoking haven; an asthmatic’s nightmare. Cigarettes, cigars,
cigarellos, pipes and their accompanying accessories – humidors, cigar cutters, pipe
stands to hold his growing collection; glass, earthenware, stone, ceramic, polymer
ashtrays in sundry colors and recognizable and indistinguishable shapes, either
mass-produced or shaped by nimble fingers for Father’s Day or Christmas gifts,
where strategically placed on every surface in every room in an attempt to capture
errant ashes. Burn holes marked his territory and movements. It was a chain smoker’
s retreat. Once, I actually counted, within an hour, 18 abandoned cigarette butts
burning throughout the house, a few precariously perched from counter tops and
one left smoldering on a dinner plate.
When asked why he smoked, Daddy said because he couldn’t stop, or more often,
his reply was, “because everybody has to die of something so it might as well be from
smoking.” A lame answer, even then. Additionally, he’d always admonish us not to
take up his stinky and costly vice.
But one day my teenage curiosity got the best of me. I was thirteen, 14 at the most.
Mama, Daddy, Debora and I were out grocery shopping, when the adults decided to
drive to JC Penney at the adjacent mall. Uninterested in tagging along and figuring
they’d be in the store no longer than 15 or 20 minutes, I opted to stay in the van,
even though they took the keys.
When they are out of sight, I jump into the driver’s seat and pretend I’m cruising down
the highway. I check the rear and side mirrors, adjust the seat, and lower the sun
visor, when I spot a small package of cigarillos, the type I imagine really hip people
might smoke at cocktail parties, tucked into the elastic strap. Furtively, I look around,
pull one of the slim, brown, stylish cigarettes (at least that’s what I initially thought it
was) out of the pack, sniff it, and twirl it between my thumb and forefinger to get the
feel of it. Checking again to see that my parent’s aren’t in sight, I carefully put it
between my lips and feign smoking: With my head tilted upward, I take a slow and
deep drag, hold it for a second or two and then slowly exhale through contorted lips
and flared nostrils as I envision imaginary smoke rings curling toward the ceiling. A
flick of the wrist, and a puff of faux ashes land on the console between the seats,
along with the real ones. I take a few more fake puffs, adding a prop – a book of
matches, pretending to strike one as I perfect my technique in the visor’s mirror. This
play acting lasts for about ten minutes, when I decide to put the cigarello back in the
pack before I get caught.
Another ten minutes pass. I’m still alone in the van. I’m thinking now that I’ve got the
hang of this smoking thing, I can roll down the window, stick my head out and take a
real puff before they make their way back to the vehicle. What’s the worst that can
happen? If I’m caught, I’m grounded. I weigh the odds, climb back into the front seat,
roll down the window, slip one of the cigarillos from the pack, stick my head out the
window, light the thin cigar and inhale a mouthful of rancid, burnt-bag tasting smoke.
My throat constricts, my nose is burning and I can’t seem to stop coughing. Definitely,
not cool. I must be doing something wrong. I give it another try and again I’m
coughing and gasping for air, and starting to feel woozy. I’m beginning to think,
smoking does not suit me.
In seconds, I snuff out the evidence on the parking lot pavement, and am back in the
van looking for a stick of Wrigley’s to mask my smoker’s breath and curb the foul
taste in my mouth.
I do my best to look bored when the shoppers finally return and immediately launch
into inane conversation in hopes that no one is the wiser. Fortunately the ride home
is quick and uneventful. If my parents knew, they never let on.
The positive outcome of my misguided adventure was it squelched my curiosity and
left me uninterested in smoking. I learned firsthand a real “Do as I say, not as I do”
lifesaving lesson, one my father should have heeded. Unfortunately, on March
3,1995, at the age of 62, he passed away from lung cancer. He’d been smoking for
nearly 50 years.