Débutante

My mother has taken it upon herself to make my year in Liberia some sort of coming-out extravaganza (Southern belle style, rather than un-closeted). I’m not sure she realizes I’m:

1. Not 15
2. Voluntarily single, and
3. A Yank

but I’ll let her have her fun. And everywhere that Shirley went, I was sure to go. (Think Mary’s little lamb hiding deadpan delivery.)

From 9 to 9, I’m never rumpled. My dresses graze the floor. I smell the way Sookie does to Bill. I am charming and always, always beaming. I go to dinners at the Chinese Embassy and lower my gaze and say, “Hello, Mr. Vice President. The country sings your praises. What an honor to meet you.”

At 9:01pm, I put on American Apparel and blast something dirty.

I don’t know where the template is but I’m certain there is one. “Hello [Title] [Last Name]. This is my daughter. She has moved home from the States. Her father was the Austin Perry of Cape Mount. She’s a wonderful writer.” And the person invariably responds, “Of course she’s a Perry: look at her face. I knew her pa.” And I show 32 teeth and shake hands and say something I heard in a movie.   

I allow all of this because, in her intros, I learn answers to things I would never ask my mom, like:

Do you want to leave Liberia?

and

Do you miss my dad?

and

Do you like my writing?

I imagine the answer to the last one is “Yes” until she finds my blog. (Hi Mom!)