A/N: This is my first time writing for this movie, and I was sorely tempted to do a piece with Tiana and Naveen because they're just so goshdarned cute, but what ended up coming to me was an introspective one-shot that gives a little bit of background about Tiana's personality. In the movie, they hint that Tiana really hates coming off as someone who doesn't know how to have fun and only cares about work, but they don't really show her letting that hidden side out very much, and I wanted to explore a little more about why she covers it up and what really motivates her. I hope you enjoy!
Tiana Wilkes tapped her foot impatiently for what must have been the tenth time that morning while listening to her abusive boss rattle orders and stack plates into her arms.
"…and two cups of café au lait to the gentleman outside. Got that, miz Tiana?" Buford had the strange capability to make even her name sound like a slur as it rolled nastily off his tongue. Tiana wondered sometimes why he kept her on if he hated her so much, but she never complained—she needed the job a whole lot more than she hated his attitude.
"I'm sure I won't have any trouble with that, Buford," she said sarcastically. That came out a lot more venomously than she had intended, but she hadn't gotten a wink ofsleep last night—not that she ever did, for that matter. Fortunately, he said nothing, merely sneered at her and went back to flipping pancakes.
Tiana bustled around the diner, setting down plates a little more absentmindedly than usual. She had been getting that way recently, and it wasn't, as her mother was constantly implying, solely because of the longer shifts she'd been taking on, but an itching anticipation that had grown within her ever since she'd saved enough money to talk seriously with the Fenner Brothers Realty Association about buying the sugar mill. Being wealthy white businessmen, they had been unwilling to give her the time of day at first, but when she'd plunked down that seven hundred dollars on their desk, they bit back their prejudice and discussed the terms with her.
"You know, Miss Tiana, I ain't never met a Negro with the sense to get this much money on his own. You must be quite a determined young woman."
It was a backhanded compliment, to be sure, but it a compliment nonetheless, especially coming from a white man, and Tiana took it for what it was. Finally, finally people were beginning to take her seriously. However, she knew that they would only listen to her as far as her money went. Lord knows loans were out of the question for her, colored and a woman at that, and the Fenner Brothers would laugh her out of town if she asked them to lower the down payment because of her reputation as a hard worker who always paid her bills. That meant that she needed to get the full thousand dollars before their patience ran out. The sugar mill wasn't exactly prime property, but she knew they wouldn't wait around forever.
Let's see…five dollars plus a dollar eighty in tips last night…plus six dollars after I finish here, not countin' tips. That makes $817.90…dang it! I'm still two hundred dollars away!
In other words, nearly six months more of working two jobs, after she deducted the money to help Mama pay the bills and keep food on the table. Her mother always insisted that her work as a seamstress was more than enough to take care of all their expenses, but Tiana refused to live there for free when she was making a steady income. She didn't resent giving the money to her mother one bit, but it was a little harder now that she was so close…
That's alright, I'll just…I'll just have to take on another shift, is all. I'll work the early crowd at Cal's, not just the late night shift. That way I can make the money sooner!
Her back began to ache at the prospect.
Tiana ignored the protests of her body. No one ever said that hard work was painless. No pain, no gain—hadn't Benjamin Franklin written that?
The muscles in her neck throbbed from the effort of nodding to herself while balancing a tray on her head.
Stepping out into the sunlight to serve the customers who were seated on the patio, Tiana's thoughts became wistful. It would be so nice to work just enough to help Mama with living expenses, to be able to sleep regularly, maybe even do things with her friends. But then she imagined the glittering mahogany staircases, the polished marble floor with a big mosaic right in the center, her own white silk dress with spangled straps—all just like the picture she'd had for so many years. She knew that it wasn't exactly practical, but even though being sensible was as essential to Tiana as breathing, she had always harbored that image in her mind, and had long since resolved that she'd achieve that, or nothing at all.
Several hours later, Tiana heaved a deep sigh of relief as she put down the last of her trays and got ready to leave for home, where she would rest for a few hours, help her mother with dinner, and then get ready to head out again for Cal's. Inside, she felt cold and ashamed. Georgia had stopped by with a couple more of Tiana's friends from high school, asking if she wanted to come with them to the fancy new jazz club that had opened up on the colored side of town. And of course, she had declined. Now, she had never been one for parties, but she hated always having to tell her friends she was busy whenever they invited her out for some fun. It wasn't so much that she missed going, but it made it seem like she didn't care about them. She knew that everyone saw her as frigid, a complete stick in the mud. Even her best friend Charlotte was exasperated by her constant reply of "I've got too much work." Deep down, though, she knew it wasn't true. She loved people, loved laughing with them and sharing in their company. She would do almost anything for most of her friends if they asked. But why did they always ask that she choose something silly and inconsequential over her life's goal? Why couldn't they see that this was just the way she had to be if she ever wanted her dreams to come true?
The wait for the streetcar seemed longer than usual, but as she stole a glance at her pocket-watch, which her father had given her not long before he died, she realized that the car was right on time, creaking to a stop at exactly 4:35. The streetcar was never quite so crowded at this time of day, thank goodness. It was an odd hour when most people were either at home or still at work. It always seemed that in the mornings and late at night, there was some smooth talking colored man trying to get her attention. Tiana had nothing against men, but some of them were so stupid—why would they think a girl wanted to be wooed in a cable car on her way to work? In the late afternoon, though, the car was nice and roomy, letting her actually sit down, stretch her legs out a little. She proceeded to do exactly that after she'd paid her fare. She opened the new French cookery book Mama had gotten her for her twentieth birthday to the pages she'd marked and perused each recipe with a discerning eye, thinking of how she'd change up the ingredients a little, give it some of her special New Orleans flair, but keep it elegant. She wanted each recipe in her restaurant to be something special and unique, something that you couldn't find for miles around. A meal worth writing home about.
Tiana leaned her head against the window and looked out at the street rushing by. Just now they were passing King's Lane, which made her sit up and take notice, just as it had ever since she was a child. King's Lane was the informal name for Dupont Street, the row of stately mansions close to the center of the city where all the old Louisiana money—sons and daughters of sugar barons and cotton kings—lived like royalty. It was quite likely the most opulent neighborhood south of the Mason-Dixon line, the Fifth Avenue of the southern states. Big Daddy LeBoeuf lived here, and Tiana had been introduced to it as a child while accompanying her mother. After all those years, she still found herself gazing longingly at the delicate wrought-iron fences plated in bronze that looked like spun gold in the low afternoon sun, the splendid marble columns, the picture-perfect fountains. It wasn't the wealth she marveled at, but the beauty.
Most people, even her closest friends and her family, would describe Tiana as incurably practical, without a single romantic or nonsensical bone in her body (except, of course, for the crazy idea she had in her head about getting a restaurant). She was canny and shrewd, and she could sniff out a lie almost as fast as she could smell whether a dish needed more hot sauce. Her tongue was sharp as a knife if you got on the wrong side of it. On top of all this, she worked from dawn to dusk; she never smoked, drank, danced, or visited the jazz clubs that had been all the rage for the past several years; she didn't bob her hair like practically every other girl in America; all of her dresses were plain and simple, even slightly out of fashion. In spite of all these correct observations, however, most people would be wrong if they thought that Tiana was devoid of fanciful imagination. Perhaps she wasn't dreaming of princes and pretty dresses like Lottie; perhaps she didn't live to have fun like Georgia; perhaps she wasn't longing for a husband like Mama wanted her to; but Tiana had always, always, always had an impossible love for beauty and sophistication.
It had started, she was sure, with her mother, with all the beautiful fabrics she'd bring home to snip and stitch into garments for her wealthy clients, White and colored. In fact, Tiana believed one of her earliest memories was of her mother surrounded in a cloud of laces and satiny silks. Her mother had tried her best to make their tiny little shotgun house as beautiful as possible, making cushions and quilts and slipcovers and rugs that covered cracks in the walls, stains on the chairs, dark spots on the tables. And her father—he used to make wood furniture when he had the time, pieces that would have sold for a pretty piece but that he kept in the house, always polished and gleaming. But his true domain had been the kitchen, where he had a taste as refined as any cultured European chef. He could turn even corn pone and mustard greens into a delicacy. From him, she'd learned that cooking wasn't something that you just did on a whim, it was a science; but more than that, it was an art. Each flavor was like a different color. You had to mix and layer the colors just so in order to get the hue you wanted, or else you'd get a muddy mess. And if you paid enough attention to the subtle gradations of the colors, you'd figure out how to put them together to make a masterpiece.
Daddy had always dreamed bigger than their shack in the poor, colored section of New Orleans. He'd always cultivated higher thoughts in Tiana, encouraged her to see the bright future he imagined for Negroes. This had included the restaurant, when he began to mention it to her. She never knew exactly how long he'd been thinking about it, and she never knew where he'd gotten the picture from—it looked like an illustration from a fancy, high-society magazine. She'd grown rapturous upon seeing it, all lit up like the Fourth of July. Her daddy's eyes would sparkle when he talked about Tiana's Place, as he had named it, describing the white table cloths and the glasses made of pure crystal—you could tell by the sound they made when you tapped them; a clear, ringing sound. But mainly he talked about how there, people of all walks of life would eat and drink and celebrate together. What he never said out loud, though Tiana began to understand it as she got older, was that he wanted to make a place where black and white could enjoy fine things without racial hatred coming between them—a sanctuary. And slowly but surely, this idea had crept into Tiana's consciousness. Beauty, whether in the surroundings or the food you served, had the power to unite people. It was one of the few things that everyone could recognize and appreciate, no matter how rich or poor you were. From then on, she'd been determined to cultivate it in her life, for herself, for her people, and most of all, for her father.
Sometimes Tiana laughed at herself. A poor colored girl trying to build herself a magic castle, like some kind of mixed up fairy tale. Who had ever heard of such a thing? But then she'd look up at the sky, feel the twinkling of the biggest, brightest star, and she'd smile. Maybe I'm crazy, but if I am, please God, don't you ever make me sane.
Finally the streetcar pulled up at the stop about a block away from home, and she walked the rest of her way, her heels making a sharp click-clack on the cobbled road. As soon as she got home, she threw herself into a chair, kicked her shoes off, and let herself breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Then she paused. Looked around, even though she knew Mama wasn't home yet. Silently she crept over to the phonograph, put a record on, and cranked the handle. Out of the horn floated the lyrical sound of a classical piano.
No, her home would never be Gigi's Jazz Club, and she might never learn how to do the Charleston. But that evening, Tiana thought as she floated around the living room, she was the best dancer in the house.