Little Miss Anyssa Johnson was barely eight years old when we met. I was a few years older than she but let there be no question: that girl was wildly worldly, quickly eclipsing and surpassing our age difference. Nearly fifty years have gone by since the last time I saw her, but the impression she made on me has never faded. I have quoted her so many times that some of her words have become the stuff of legend and lore in my life.
The Johnson family moved in next door on a muggy Connecticut summer day. Mrs. Johnson was busy directing the movers and Mr. Johnson. The driveway was a sea of boxes and wrapped up furniture. Meeting new neighbors was always exciting; I remember being anxious to know how many kids were going to be moving in, and if any of them were going to be my age. The way Mrs. Johnson was ruling the roost deterred me from rushing over to see who the new people were. Mrs. Johnson was the excuse. The fact of the matter is that if I had gone over to meet them on moving day, I would have been expected to volunteer to carry boxes. I would not have minded, but it was late summer, and the heat dulled my enthusiasm as well as my desire to do hard labor in the sun.
Behind the street where I lived was a steep hill, at the bottom of which ran a small creek. It wended its way about a quarter mile before it turned sharply and deeply into an overgrown forest. My mother did not like us to play in the woods, but the creek was visible from her kitchen window, and therefore considered within limits. The best spot to play was right at the bottom of the hill, straddling the line that separated our yard from the next yard over. Right there the water tumbled over rocks making a gentle sound. The frog and tadpole catching was unmatched. There was a concrete form with a drainage pipe that let water from the neighborhood into the creek. This was the preferred place to be on hot days. Shady trees, cool water, and endless supply of frogs to catch. It would be “heaven” to just about any ten-year-old. Our yard was the gathering place for the kids on our street. We had a front yard big enough to play football in summer and that hill in back for sledding. Plus, we had access to the creek, and sometimes the forbidden woods. A group of us had gathered to spend the hot day by the water on the day the Johnsons moved in.
We talked about the new neighbors as we slathered ourselves with suntan lotion. I said that if the Johnson’s had a boy around my age, we would not have to worry about being partially in their yard. The people that lived there before had two daughters, and they did not want them playing in the creek at all. More than a few times we were evicted from our little paradise when Mrs. Griffin caught us down there, especially if we happened to have either Holly or Gretchen with us. It became such an issue for Mrs. Griffin she told us that we could no longer play in any part of her yard. From the time they moved away we had kept up hope that the new neighbors would not be so mean. Even my sister knew that this permission was going to be far easier to get if the new family had at least one boy. I remember being aware of the moving van being there, and that we had still not seen or met the Johnsons.
My sister and I were exchanging back applications of Sea and Ski Dark Tanning Lotion when suddenly a firecracker named Anyssa exploded into our lives. Apparently, her parents did not expect her to take part in the moving duties. My first thought was that this girl was lucky. My folks would have assigned unpacking and organization chores to all of us, servitude we would not escape until it was complete. That flashing consideration vanished quickly. When that skinny little kid bounded down the hill to join our little crew, she came in like a tornado. I should have realized that same day that I had just met the person I would know as the undisputed Queen of Sass for the next half century. I had never met anyone who talked like Anyssa Johnson. She did not bother with introductions. I don’t think she cared at all who any of us were. She made it her mission to be certain we all knew just who she was.
In the course of a few moments, I learned more than I ever thought I would need to know about the Johnson family. Anyssa had an accent I had never heard before, combined with a rapid fire style of speech. She filled us in on all we would ever have asked in a polite forum, in addition to a number of tidbits I would never have expected to hear from anyone with manners. We had barely made the acquaintance of this wild child when she began with a litany of personal information.
Anyssa. Anyssa Johnson. Just moved here from Baltimore. (She said the city name with such a thick accent I had to have it repeated three times. It sounded like “Balmer” when she said it.) Her last name was Johnson, and so was the man her mama was with, but it wasn’t the same Johnson. (I had to ask for clarification on that one.) She wasn’t old enough to be a cheerleader, but she was on a drill team in Balmer. Her mama didn’t want to be called Mrs. Johnson, everyone called her Miss Barbara. She could ride a bike without training wheels, but she just didn’t like to. She was in the third grade, and she wanted to sit in the desk in the front row. She didn’t have any brothers or sisters, because her mama didn’t have enough love to give anyone but her.
These were things she told us before she even knew our names.
I learned a lot more that day, mostly things she did not say. Things she did and the way she spoke made me realize that we had come from two very different worlds. One of the first things I noticed was her dirty mouth. Not only did she know every swear word in the book, she also knew what they meant and how to use them. She had a quick wit, and an answer back for everything. Everything she said was snappy, snarky, and sarcastic. She seemed to get a lot of pleasure out of making herself seem above everything. She derived even more out of being able to put someone else down, or at least “in they place,” as she said it. Years later, I would recognize this as the benchmark of a “shit talker.” She was an accomplished little button pusher, and she knew it.
Anyssa wore tight little braids with big, multicolored plastic beads. Her mannerisms and delivery were part of the package. She worked her neck from side to side, making the beads clack and sway, while she clicked her lips, pursing them into a disdainful expression. This was always matched with a snap of her fingers, and a melodramatic turn on her heel to walk away with hands on lips, closing out her phrase with a convicted sounding “MMM HMM.” As if this performance were not enough, she would throw in a haughty prance, swinging her skinny little butt from side to side. This was a well-rehearsed display, a fully realized performance of endless redress and accompanying smack-talk.
After making her first impression, Anyssa did something that shocked my innocent, sheltered little soul. She had come up to our group while we were putting on suntan oil. She helped herself to the bottle and began putting it on her arms and legs. She handed the bottle to me with an expectant look, which I interpreted to mean she wanted me to put it on her back. As I applied the lotion, she looked at me over her shoulder saying “Kin I jes’ tells you, this be working real good. But y’all best better be using it ever’ DAY if you think you ever gonna get like ME-EE-EEE-EEE!” She followed her long, accentuated and taunting “Me” with an exaggerated display of her chocolate brown arms, glistening with the freshly applied oil.
I was a little young to understand or recognize the racial overtones to her comment. I just could not believe that this kid was so witty and on point that she could concoct a little anecdote like that in an instant. I thought it was clever, hilarious, and worth remembering. I related the whole incident to my mother at the dinner table that evening and was met with instant reprimand. I was instructed to never repeat this or try to adapt it for my own use later. I was told that it is impolite to ever discuss the color of someone’s skin. I was even told it would be a sin to ever speak in this manner. When I explained to my mother that this topic had not originated with me, and that since Anyssa spoke of her skin color without being upset, it had to be okay. I was given a lecture on the high sensitivity and volatility of racial matters in everyday conversation. I had a hard time understanding that for Anyssa to make mention of her skin color was acceptable, but that if I did, it was racist, sinful, and wrong.
With a first impression that would never be forgotten already made, it was obvious that this girl was going to be an endless font of colorful speech, exaggerated gestures, and unfiltered output. I was not wrong in recognizing this. The entire time she lived next door she kept me surprised, fascinated, and endlessly entertained. From the first day I knew her, she had inserted herself into our little group, and unknowingly made me a student of her untamed ways. I watched and listened to everything she said and did. She was like no one I had ever met.
This was the mid-seventies. I was still very young and had absolutely no experience with that style of speech and those colorful mannerisms. I was raised to be a well-spoken, gentle soul. I knew the words that would get me a mouth full of soap, and prior to meeting Anyssa, I would never have dared to utter any of them. Sarcasm and sass were not in my repertoire yet. I suppose I can credit Anyssa for being the spark of my well exercised sense of sharp tongued wit. It was definitely her influence that introduced me to what is known now as “urban style,” and Ebonics. I had never been allowed to use words improperly. Speech that broke all the rules was as foreign to me as the forgotten languages of ancient history. I found it completely fascinating. I was titillated by the naughtiness of it. The fact that my mother disapproved made it forbidden, and therefore something I wanted to do.
The genre “Hip Hop” was still several years away from being formed. I had never heard anything that might now be considered “rap.” Freestyle rhyming was not yet a “thing.” Anyssa was the first person I had ever heard lay down a verse of rhyme in that fashion. Her freestyle came out involuntarily. Anyssa had a knack for making things up on the spot. It might have been a jump rope chant, or maybe just a wild and colorful response or retort to something said to her. She threw down so many little rhymes I could hardly keep track of them. One day, I witnessed the phenomenon in full detail. To this day I think that little girl may have been one of the best freestyle rappers I have ever heard... at the age of eight!
Anyssa wanted to teach us to jump rope the way they did in Baltimore. Double Dutch. Naturally, she disliked my sister’s old and silly jump rope chants. She said “They ain’t got no stank!” I was unsure what that could possibly mean, when she shared a little bit of her crazy magic. We were out in the driveway, spinning ropes, and watching her dance and jump between them. An adult who had been outside with us was smoking cigarettes. Anyssa glanced over at the pack on the picnic table, and she began.
Winstons taste good
Like an ooh, ah wanna piece o’ pie
Pie too sweet... Wanna piece o’ meat
Meat too tough... Wanna ride a bus
Bus too full.... Wanna ride a bull
Bull too black.... Want my money back
Money too green... Wanna jellybean
Bean too shiny.... I'm gonna bite your hiney!
I was amazed, because I knew she had just let that entire verse flow after having seen the red and white pack of Winston cigarettes. She had to add a little flair to the simplicity of the rhyme, so when she said the last line, she ran out from the ropes and chased me with her teeth gnashing, as if she was actually intent on taking a bite of my backside.
Before Anyssa came into my world, I had never heard anyone use “Your Mother” as an insult. I was totally confused, because I had not yet heard the use of the F Bomb verb that usually goes with the hurl of that childish taunt. I had always believed that my mother was an angel from heaven, and the object of saying “Your Mother” in a derogatory sense was lost on me. I had my tutor on hand to educate me. As I said, she not only knew all the words, she knew the fine points of their proper and most effective use.
My mother was not happy with my new obsession. I had begun to adopt a few mannerisms and speech patterns that I learned from Anyssa. She decided to take it straight to the source and went next door to have a talk with Miss Barbara. She began her chat with telling her that her children have been taught to respect adults, by addressing them with a formal Mr., Mrs., or Miss. First names were not allowed. She would appreciate it if we stayed with that formality and dropped the entirely too casual Miss Barbara. In addition, she asked that Anyssa stop calling her Miss Rita, and adopt the formal address she preferred. She went on to demand that Anyssa keep her smart mouth and sassy ways at home and not continue to bring that behavior to our house. I was there. I heard the whole thing. I was embarrassed by it, but that faded fast when Miss Barbara replied.
I knew at that moment that Anyssa was the apple that had not fallen far from the tree. Miss Barbara gave it back to my poor mom with both barrels. First off, she was not going to take a new name and try to get used to it. I never called her Mrs. Johnson again. She put my mother into her place, with choice words like “pretentious” and “out of date,” finishing with a crystal clear directive to my mother, warning her against ever making the mistake of telling her how to raise her child. I was impressed with Miss Barbara for her conviction and the ability to stand up to my mother. I was also secretly pleased to see my mom taken down a few notches. I had already begun to feel the weight of the yoke my mother’s overly protective and outdated rules. Simultaneously, I felt terrible for my mom, because I don’t think she expected Miss Barbara to stand up for herself so firmly. I hated that she made my mom cry, but I think it may have done her some good in teaching her to lighten up and live more tolerantly.
The next day, I was not as enthusiastic about walking to school with Anyssa. I was a little confused and stung, stuck between being upset that someone made my mom cry, and feeling like she deserved to be put into her place. Anyssa was not one to take a flimsy answer, so when she wanted to know what was wrong that morning, I looked at her and said (just like she taught me) “you gwine aks me what's wrong, so imma tellya. Its YO’ MAMA” I gave myself a little pat on the back for my deft use of the new little epithet I had learned. Too soon, I am afraid. Anyssa dropped a little rhyme verse that stopped me dead. Another impromptu little rap, she hit me with words that have made me laugh every time I repeat them. I memorized it at once and have said it a thousand times since. While it still makes me laugh, it also still leaves me wondering what it could possibly mean. Nearly fifty years I have been sharing it for a laugh, telling it in a story, and now making it immortal by publishing it.
Anyssa replied to my “...YO MAMA!” with this verse:
Yo’ Ma
Yo’ Pa
N’ yo Greasy Granny with the hole in her panty
Does the loop de loop like a prostitute
Cuz she white.
She white.
And she smell like a bottle of ginger ale.
My head spun on that one. I didn’t understand being told my grandmother was white. I knew I was not allowed to say anything about Anyssa’s skin color, but that she could say what she pleased. I was not sure if Anyssa had the right to do that, but I was not insulted, nor should my grandmother have been (on the racist comment, anyway. I don’t know about the prostitute part.) Greasy Granny? A bottle of ginger ale? This will never be understood. I will always laugh at it, perhaps because I don’t know at all what it means.
Anyssa Johnson. I would love to see her again one day. I want to tell her that she has never been forgotten. I would even tell her that I count her among my great influences in this world. She taught me things I could never have learned without her. I gained a better understanding of when and how to be sarcastic. I learned to make it funny, or to make it venomous; and I learned how to decide which to choose to make a point. I began to understand something about race and racial disparity through her. These were lessons she had no idea she was teaching. I would praise her for her success as a teacher.
There was a wisdom to her worldliness. There was an eloquence to her unorthodox style. I have never met anyone who has cultivated that degree of personality in their entire life. She did it before she was ten years old.
Murphy Love
April 1. 2023
**Adapted and expanded from a Facebook post
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