Cause I Got Chingy Jawns

The following is an excerpt from the short story,

 "And I Was Left to Simmer" 

by Rebecca J. Reyes

I hadn't seen him in 6 months.  The last I'd heard, he'd been in a terrible car crash after leaving a house party on West Marshall street where he'd been a little too liberal with his combination of boos and Xanax.  He crashed into a pole driving home and broke both legs. 

That year I'd started courses in the winter at a small community college. My hair was extra long and I'd wear it in braids down my back. I'd wear these Black Steve Madden faux fur boots with blue beads sewn into them and pom poms hanging off the boots.  I'd saved my waitressing money for those boots. On that day,  I sported the boots, my braids,  a  faux fur coat,  hoops, and a jean mini skirt with black tights. 

From across campus I heard 

"yooooeeeeeeeeeerrrr..... Pocahontis slow down!"

I had once told him that I had Apache blood and forever after he made comments about my Native American heritage. 

He was still on crutches, hobbling over To say hello. Despite being practically crippled he still looked good. A 6 foot 7 tall drink of water. Mother was black. Father was white. Mocha skin. Almond eyes. White hoody. And an eternal cigarette burning in his left hand.  His brother played soccer for Lincoln University. The coach said, he could too on one condition that he'd stop smoking.

I laughed  "Did you just call me Pocahontis? "

"Well, you look like you've been running through the forest with those boots.". We spoke briefly then went to class.

He called the restaurant where I waitressed that weekend  to ask if I'd have a drink with him when I got off my shift.

We sat at the Valley Tavern  and "Brown Eyed Girl" came on the jukebox. 

"Love this song." I said.

"This wasn't Van Morrison's best shit. It was Moondance. "

"I disagree." 

"Look at all this hair," He brushed my hair from my shoulder. This is this good Indian stuff.  I can't even fit one hand around it."

" By Indian do you mean Native American?"

"Sorry.  It's not just your hair and the boots though, you've got some pretty  *chingy joints." He pointed to my eyes. 

I smiled.

"You want to go to a Roots concert with me? They're playing in Philly next week."

"I'm moving back to New York." I said.

And I did, a week later.  But sometimes, when the mood is right, and I've got my bangles, my hoops, my braids, and my black faux fur Madden boots, I am Pocohontis once again! 

*For those of you who have never resided in Philly, the term "joint" is used as a noun for almost anything. Although it's pronounced "jawn." so my pretty chingy joints were my pretty chingy eyes.

*And chingy is an urban play on the term chinky which is actually a form of a derogatory term that whites used in the past for Asian people. 

So my chingy eyes meant slightly slanted, almond, or exotic. Do you remember the rapper chingy. Do you remember his eyes? You catch my drift.

Disclaimer: in no way do I find wearing certain types of clothing or styles of hair to be synonymous with  possessing the strength, courage, and achievements  of a cultural icon such as Pocahontis. I am merely referring to an inspired style.