Desne A. Crossley: A Wallflower and Her Mother

A wallflower—invisible, or so I thought. Clueless about west coast Whiteness, for sure. For my anxious mother, this meant I needed her singular brand of watchful encouragement to grow into a whole person, a whole woman—and to be taught some street smarts for life in suburban Palo Alto with its unfamiliar patterns and pitfalls.

My mother and I were together in the small guest bedroom of our house one Sunday afternoon. I faced her, lonely and bluesy, sitting cross-legged on the bed topped with a vintage hobnail cotton spread. The room was cozy and old-fashioned. It was our quiet space in which I confided much of my adolescent awkwardness, and, in turn, Mom would blow my mind with her non-judgmental, razor-sharp wisdom. She was beyond categorization, funny, unpredictable, and could swear like a truck driver. I didn’t believe her when she insisted that she had experienced everything I was experiencing now, during her own youth, a million years ago. (She would have been my age in the late 1930s.)

“What? You think I was born this old?” she cracked.

My eyes widened as I realized I did think she was born adult.

All my mother’s parenting quirks would work toward my good at a time when I was vulnerable in new ways and had no idea how clueless an urban adolescent could be. This afternoon, I shared observations and peppered her with questions about my white junior high school, the kids there—and boys. In our new home away from everything the family had known, I felt isolated and unhappy, and cried a lot. The part of the conversation that stands out these decades later is her assured proclamation: “Des, one day you’ll have to beat them off with a hammer!”

Smiling with gratitude and almost in tears, all I could think was, Mothers will say anything at all to make you feel better.

I couldn’t believe that she could imagine me being attractive to boys, now that we no longer lived in Chicago, in the comfort of an all-Black neighborhood. In Palo Alto, I could feel like a ghost, somehow unreal to the people here. People might stare, but they didn’t see me. The popular girls at school were blue-eyed blonds with long hair parted down the middle. They didn’t have to be what I would call pretty, but had a practiced way of flipping a loose lock behind an ear with a toss of the head. The just so momentary sweep and revelation of a curved white neck was supposed to be something special. My own hair was dark brown and fine, pressed straight with a hot comb, shiny and relatively stiff with pomade, and worn braided with ribbons or curled. No matter the unlikelihood, I could imitate the white girl flip to perfection and make classmates throw their heads back and hoot. It even cracked Mom up.

The fashions of the time split between babydoll sweetness and mildly provocative hard chick, which may only have seemed hard in white suburbs of the mid-to-late 1960s. My mother prided herself on dressing me in “classics that would never go out of style”—pleated skirts, solid-color blouses, turtleneck sweaters, matching knee socks. She outfitted me in a girdle from the age of eight, as safety against any would-be molesters. “Nothing should move when you walk, Des.” She also typically bought my clothes too big, so that I could grow into them. (One tweed wool pleated skirt was so roomy in the waist that I never grew into it.) Mom’s preferences had been fine in Chicago, with my female classmates attired similarly, but were a social death knell in Palo Alto. Mom didn’t care what anybody beyond our household thought of such things and had no idea that I longed for at least one item of school clothing that would go out of style within two seasons.

I was a square, a Black-girl-egghead from the urban Midwest. The few Black kids at school told me they were originally from places like Texas and Arkansas. I must have seemed like a Martian; they were certainly foreigners to me. Until then, I had no concept of “regional culture.” Suburban kids seemed surprised I knew the latest R&B hits—as though all I did was read all day. I might have been a cute kid worthy of acceptance and friendship in Chicago, but was a lost soul in Palo Alto.

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During high school, day-long events called be-ins would become the rage. In May 1971, I was a month away from turning seventeen. (The hardcover romance novels I had borrowed from the junior high library when I was twelve and thirteen made age seventeen sound magical.) A be-in, from early afternoon until maybe eight at night, was happening at Stanford University Amphitheatre and my friend, Sarah Canady, and I were going. She and I lived near one another and were both lonely, sensitive teens. Sarah was big-boned, athletic, stocky, and pined for a male classmate who didn’t know she existed. She had the latest 45s, and we would sing along with the records and draw pictures in her room.

Be-ins featured emerging local music groups and big-name artists like Lydia Pence and Cold Blood, Tower of Power, Santana, and Miles Davis. Huge crowds of young people were drawn to Stanford. I was excited about a happening on a college campus, with us out in the sun all day, a part of something big. Sarah toted a big jug of juice for us; I don’t remember our having packed snacks for the several hour event on a grassy slope flanked by trees. This seemed a place ripe for the almost impossible—the chance to make friends.

Sarah and I had a wonderful afternoon, although we didn’t win any new acquaintances. We left before six o’ clock, while the concert was still going strong. We had ridden our bikes to Stanford and departed in time to get home for dinner.

It was still light, and I was back at home in my room, decorated with a few little plants and posters of trees. The door was ajar, and Mom knocked as she poked her head in. “How was it?” she asked, sounding casual.

“Oh, Mom, we had so much fun!” I could feel myself gushing.

My mother stepped closer, looked me up and down, then stared into my eyes. Finally, she said, “Des, you look high!” A pause, then, “Did you take anything from anybody…?”

My mother understood that festivities could include what we kids called electric punch (punch laced with LSD). Hosts of the few parties I attended would have announced drug-enhanced offerings with great fanfare—meaning, no guest should be tricked into getting high. Getting high was considered cool in the San Francisco Bay Area, and kids were experimenting. There was lots of curiosity and romanticized talk of out-of-body experiences, spirituality, ESP, love, peace, war, and flower-power. Everybody wanted to sound “deep.” Ever the wallflower, I avoided electric punch and Alice B. Toklas brownies and always would arrive home ready for a meal and a tall glass of milk.

“Nope,” I replied returning my mother’s gaze.

“Did anybody give you anything to drink that could have been spiked with something?”

“No, Mom.”

“Tell me what you had to eat and drink at the thing at Stanford.” She was turning on her heel in the center of my room, a finger tapping on her lip and chin thoughtfully, the other hand on her hip.

“Well… Sarah brought a big thing of juice. Mostly everybody had been seated on the ground at first. Then everybody got more and more excited. Kevin Lightfoot put me on his shoulders so I could see the stage better through all those people standing and dancing. He gave me two cans of beer during a two-hour-or-so period. I didn’t have anything else to drink or eat the whole time, Mom.”

My mother’s brain was still churning, and she shook her head, “No, Kevin Lightfoot wouldn’t hurt you… That’s not it….”

My schoolmate, Kevin “Flash” Lightfoot, was kind and protective, a big, tall guy in overalls. Brotherly. I was too naïve to sense he may have had a crush on me.

Mom said, “Dinner will be ready in a bit. C’mon downstairs after you wash your hands.” She walked out of my room. Our house was fully carpeted, so her steps made no sound.

A few minutes passed. I was still sitting on my bed when she returned, looking excited and alert. “I know what’s wrong with you!” she exclaimed dramatically.

“OK, Mom. So, what’s wrong with me?” I smiled and waited.

“You’re ‘in heat’! My baby’s in heat! Oh, my Jesus!” She clapped her hands to her cheeks, her eyes wide.

“I’m what?” What was she talking about?

“Go look in the mirror right now and tell me what you see.” The main bathroom was between the guest room and my room, off the L-shaped hallway of the second floor. Mom signaled for me to check my expression. I had no idea what she expected me to see.

I walked into the bathroom tentatively with my head tucked a little, then faced the wide mirror. I couldn’t believe it. I looked like a wild animal, even to me! At last, my Afro was full enough. Round, soft, and fluffy. My eyes were large and glassy. Sensuous. Simmering with longing. I had no idea that romantic desire in a square like me had a look. No wonder a girl in Glee Club class recently said I had “bedroom eyes.” I hadn’t understood what she meant. Had she been referring to an expression like the one I had now?

“Did you see it, Des?” Mom asked when I reentered my room.

“Yes, Mom. I see what you see.”

“Did anybody else see it today at Stanford? I mean, did any men notice you looking like that? Think back.” Mom waited, her arms crossed over her chest.

I thought. A teenaged white boy I had been standing next to, with Sarah Canady standing on the other side of me, kissed me on the lips and put his tongue in my mouth briefly. His arms remained at his sides; mine were at my sides too. He turned back to the musicians on stage without a word between us, and that was that. In general terms I was grateful to be kissed before becoming a total social dud, but really didn’t feel anything. The guy was simply carried away by the mood of the moment and probably would have kissed any girl within reach. No big deal. There was Kevin Lightfoot who hoisted me onto his shoulders, which was nice. Toward late afternoon, a fight broke out near the stage by a bank of trees off to the right.

Drunken hippies with long hair and some motorcycle-dudes traded wild punches. Some kids were surprised to see guys with hippie-hair and colorful clothing fighting. Weren’t they supposed to be about peace? People clustered around them, I guess to have tales to tell at school after the weekend. One of the motorcycle guys and another guy observing near the skirmish noticed me hanging back several feet. Each had mumbled something complimentary my way. Neither required a reply.

“Yes. I think somebody could have noticed,” I admitted quietly.

“Oh, my…,” Mom shook her head again. “You go back into the bathroom right now and don’t come out until you’ve gotten that look off your face! And furthermore, any time you see that look on yourself, you just stay home! ’Hear me?”

It was only then that I could imagine one day “having to beat them off with a hammer.” My mother, again, saved me—her wallflower daughter—from adolescent ignorance. I could have become some weirdo’s “good victim” because I felt invisible. At the time, I mistakenly believed I could even lie naked on the school football field and that my classmates would simply step over me. Assumptions like that can be devastating. I didn’t know, then, to protect myself. That spring evening in May 1971 was a turning point. One day I would grow up strong, womanly, no longer awkward and forgettable. Mom knew all.

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Copyright 2025 Desne A. Crossley