Who Put This Song On? Read online

  I look down at my phone and see two texts from David.

  hi, how are you doing?

  are you mad at me?

  I’m not dealing with this right now, no thank you. I’ll make him wait for my response.

  —Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee

  —freedom rides

  —Ella Baker

  —Freedom Summer of 1964

  —freedom schools

  —Montgomery Bus Boycott

  —Claudette Colvin: 15-year-old girl arrested in Montgomery for refusing her seat (little Rosa Parks!)

  —Rosa Parks!!

  Good old Rosa Parks!

  The one time I played Actual Rosa Parks, it wasn’t a speaking role. It was one scene, on the bus, and all I did was sit there, look old, and then get arrested. I knew that couldn’t be the whole story.

  Rosa Parks was an activist, as a matter of fact. A radical centerpiece of the Civil Rights Movement. Her protest on December 5, 1955, was one of so many events that fueled it and the Black Power Movement that followed. Under Montgomery Bus Boycott I write Emmitt Till. I underline Till’s name, put an asterisk next to open casket. His mother insisted on it. She wanted everyone to see his body beaten, shot, and mutilated, bloated from three days in the Mississippi Delta.

  He was fourteen. It was the first and last time he felt like an animal.

  Not to sound lame, but I think about calling my mom. I’m like a missionary filled with the spirit of Black Power; I want to gush about the good news. (Mom’s probable reaction: asking where I am, telling me about each piece of today’s mail, saying “huh?” and then pretending she hears me, giving a vague unsatisfying response. I do not call my mom.)

  More David: I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I was being shitty the other night. I knew you were upset but I didn’t know how to handle it. Ignore.

  What’s wrong with being mad?

  In our history books, “African Americans” are always portrayed as almost saintly or Christlike. They all get hella bonus points for like, surviving racism. And even if they don’t survive it—still, extra credit for suffering. That’s in the Bible I think. Survivors. Joyful endurers of indescribable torture. Humble and benevolent acceptors of a lesser fate. Maybe Job was black.

  (Servants. That’s what the Curse of Ham was about, really.)

  (There’s a very clear moral takeaway for every Black History Month lesson, and it’s obviously Biblical: Suffer in silence. Be strong, but casually. Be strong, quietly and peacefully. But which way is the right way, peaceful protest or armed and vocal resistance? How do we know what really works?)

  Studying civil rights has sadly always felt stale and flat—dates and legislations without details or living, breathing people. Without the fire, the fight. I’m just relieved I’m not the only one who thinks mad is a perfectly natural response.

  Notes for my manifesto: If you don’t have a map, make a map.

  It didn’t end with Rosa Parks, it started with her. Rosa Parks is so punk!

  At 6:14 PM I have a text from my mom saying that dinner’s almost ready, and three more from David.

  I meant everything I said, that I really, really like you!

  I’m just really glad we’re friends because we’re awesome.

  And I don’t want to lose that.

  I set out making a list of books to check out. When I spot the coffee-breath Susan obviously staring at me, just like the guy in the Mormon store, I give her a look right back, raising my eyebrows as she pretends to shuffle some papers on her desk.

  Driving home at twilight, I’m sparking with energy, but my mind is syrupy with exhaustion. I’m feeling winded and disoriented, like I just did a Jillian Michaels workout. (Why does she always have to be so mean?)

  HAVING A FIT

  Dinner is meatloaf and peas. Malcolm’s favorite, and a dish I hate. A dish Mom either makes when I’m out, or completely forgets that I hate it, thrilled to be able to please the golden child, her baby, the simple and charming one, tall, handsome, lean, and popular. Dinner is not off to a good start.

  When we were little kids, Malcolm always got away with snide remarks or back talk by making my parents laugh, which offended my core sense of justice. It blew the whole Job thing out of the water—if I didn’t have to suffer to be rewarded, then what were the rules?

  My mom dotes on him, pinches his cheeks, gets the giggles at every goofy thing he says. Ugh! Pushing the stupid peas around on my plate, my skin tingles as I get worked up thinking about it. Why doesn’t anyone say I’m just as funny? It’s just black humor!

  It’s the part in the dinner where Malcolm is raving about the food. He always gets to it before me and Dad, and we have to follow behind in agreement, finding new strings of words to compliment Mom. (It’s not an afterthought, it’s an always-thought—the woman has obviously never made a bad dish in her life.)

  “Ooh-wee!” Malcolm hams it up. “I’m telling you, Mom, you should open a restaurant.” All this for meatloaf and peas. For every A on his report card, he gets $20; since I always get straight As, I receive no monetary compensation.

  “So, Mom,” I blurt, “what were you and Dad doing when the Black Panthers and all those people were around? Like in the sixties and seventies.”

  “We were here,” she says, like obviously.

  “Dad, how old were you?” Nervous and antsy, I push all the words together like an auctioneer.

  “Oh, I’m not sure, maybe…” I try to count, too, and get confused.

  “Were you like in your early twenties? Like before you were married.”

  “I guess so. About that.”

  “Did you have an afro?” Malcolm holds his hands high over his head, cackling, which sends Mom into a full body giggle. So over-the-top. “Can you even grow one?”

  “Yeah, I can grow one! Not like that, though.” Dad runs his bear paw over his thin shiny hair.

  “But, I mean,” I press on trying to find my words, “what were you guys doing?”

  “Morgan,” my mom exhales with a loud huff. The conversation is turning against me. “What do you mean, what were we doing?”

  They’re not hearing me; the scene is directed all wrong. My mom’s making it Just Another Annoying Episode with Morgan, bugging out her eyes. “We just told you. What more do you want to know? Eat your supper.”

  I clench my jaw looking down at my plate, and really try not to turn up my lip as I finish eating. Things are hella tense. I can feel my dad’s eyes pressing on my every move.

  “I was just being curious,” I say quietly, trying to get a last word in. “Forgive me for trying to learn something.” Man, I really messed this all up.

  I know it’s coming: Dad’s temper, all his pent-up opinions about me, rising to the surface of the dinner table.

  “Morgan, you better fix your face. Let’s enjoy this dinner.” He speaks through his teeth.

  “What?” I whine, “I’m not doing anything!”

  “You have an attitude.”

  (My dad always spits when he’s mad. Malcolm and I used to do impressions of him, our teeth clenched dramatically, erupting in laughter behind my bedroom door.)

  “I don’t.” I slump in my chair, and my chest burns, gearing up for a weepy explosion. A fit. I feel like a complete toddler. I breathe in and out, deep yoga breaths. Doesn’t help. I need pity! I think. I am pitiful and sorry for myself. I clench my fists and my throat, willing my body to lock it up.

  One more attempt to explain myself: “I was just reading about some of the history of the Black Power movement and the Civil Rights Era and I realized I don’t know that much about your life. Like the details. You guys never tell me anything.”

  My mom smacks her lips, getting riled up. “Oh come on, stop that, Morgan. We do tell you things. Now enough.”

 
“Fine,” I whimper. A tear rolls, like a boulder through the front door.

  Dad hits the table with his fist. “Why do you have to make things so difficult?”

  “Honey,” Mom interrupts, embarrassed now.

  “Okay. I know.” He exhales.

  “This is hard for all of us.” She turns to him with a low voice. I’m practically not in the room.

  I cross my arms and whisper, deflated, “You guys know I can’t help it. I’m trying! I’m trying to be normal!”

  “Come on, Morgan,” Dad sighs. “Don’t have a conniption.”

  I look down at my plate, hold my hands underneath the table, and just sit, Rosa Parks style. I can think of nothing else to do but just stop moving and stop opening my mouth. Wait to get old and tired.

  Quietly, in spite of myself and my fate, I produce a world-class temper-tantrum hissy-fit whimper.

  Dad is a volcano, seconds before erupting. He screams. Malcolm cowers. I ruin every minute.

  “Nothing’s ever good enough for Morgan. Do you know how hard I work—”

  “Yes!” The tears come, wildly.

  “Stop crying.”

  “I’m sorry!” I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my Henley, go back to pretending to eat the soggy meat. “I really am.”

  Why do I have to make everything so difficult?

  My mom huffs as she gets up, harshly collecting dishes. “So much for a nice dinner.” She snatches my plate. Silverware clangs loudly.

  Rushing upstairs to my room, I’m hoping for a retreat from myself, the thing that won’t let go of me. It’s got its hands around my throat. I scream into a pillow so angrily that I think I feel my vocal chords vibrating. I clench my teeth and fists, release the madness in the quietest, least disruptive way. The air around me feels like needles on my skin.

  I dive into my little dark closet, take root among broken hangers and shoes I should get rid of and shoes my mom would prefer I wore. I punch the pillow. Again. Again. I make a new fist and punch the closet door like I’m Elliot Stabler (with or without a warrant).

  Pulling back my throbbing fist, breathless, I’m stunned. It actually leaves a dent.

  * * *

  —

  I’m so tired. I get in bed and curl to my side. I’m tired of crying. I lay there as my breathing slows, I sink and get covered in the hazy waters of my own anguish.

  About an hour into my quiet sulking, my dad comes knocking.

  “Listen,” he starts, hovering in the door jamb. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

  “It’s okay.” I sit up. “Me too.”

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah. I’m really sorry,” I start to crack.

  “Come here.” He waves me over. “Come give me a hug.”

  I rise from my bed, slumping like a folded envelope. The hug is awkward: he squeezes me, and I put one arm limply around him. Both of us are vessels of pure tension.

  “You know I love you, right?” he says with hot breath, still pressing my cheek into his Laker’s T-shirt.

  “Yeah. Love you too.”

  I try to pull away. No luck. He’s strong, I think, and the realization makes me love him more and fear him more. He squeezes harder and I squeeze back, sniffling.

  “We’re gonna get through this.” He talks into my hair. He’s crying. “You’re my little girl. You’re my little girl.”

  “I know.” I pat his shoulder and he releases me. “I love you too, Dad.”

  “Good night.” He’s careful to close my door gingerly. Not only does it not slam, it makes no sound at all.

  That’s it, then the Very Special Episode is over. Just a speck of dust in the massive universe of my bad attitudes and outbursts and ruined dinners or vacations. God, I am such an exhausting person.

  * * *

  Begrudgingly, I pull my phone from my sweatshirt pocket to face the Very Special Episode with David. He’s sent another, I’m here if you ever need to talk. I roll my eyes and scoff—I do have an attitude.

  I pull on my PJ shorts, put The Exorcism of Morgan Parker on my old CD player, and take a couple library books into bed with me.

  Hearing those first few chords of the White Stripes makes me smile.

  Hi you

  Thank you. I’m sorry I was being bitchy. I was hurt and feeling emo and embarrassed and I don’t want to lose you either.

  Can we please talk about how fucking badass the Black Panther outfits are.

  Oh my god I love you.

  I know right

  I love you too

  BLACK BLACK DOG

  I have no clue why a therapist’s office would decorate for Halloween. Aren’t we all freaked out enough about our own problems?

  Here I am again, the short black girl in the Dinosaur Jr. T-shirt and plaid blazer, in the waiting room of Susan’s office and the waiting room for the rest of my life, agonizing over whether or not I should partake in a bowl of candy corn. The soundtrack is the Pixies song from the end of Fight Club, “Where Is My Mind?” because of course it is.

  Even if I wanted to, and I don’t, I could not describe Susan Brady LCSW’s harvest-themed outfit. Let’s just say there are cornucopias involved. I’m not certain my eyes don’t bug out when she opens the door.

  Today, her office smells like a bad batch of pumpkin spice muffins. She offers the tissues and I decline. It’s our usual little silent film short.

  “So, I’m off the Wellbutrin,” I sort of blurt, hoping to rush through the session businesslike. “Dr. Li put me on Prozac last week.”

  “Oh. How do you feel about that decision?”

  “Fine.”

  Susan puts on her peppy radio voice. “It’s often tricky to find the right medication and treatment. It can be quite a transition. I’m here so we can work through the process together. But once you find the right dose, along with therapy, you’ll be able to maintain. You won’t have so many dips, and they’ll be more manageable.”

  “I know.” I wiggle a flip-flop.

  (She goes on, says something about mountains and plateaus. Behind my eyes, I envision them as a landscape—red, orange, burning.)

  “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but you’re being very brave. Depression is tough. You know, Winston Churchill battled clinical depression? He called it the black dog, like a little black dog following him around.”

  “Hm. That’s pretty much it. Except my dog is like barking in my face all the time. Or the dog is eating me.” I want to say, I guess mine is a Black Black Dog! but I swallow the joke for myself.

  Her reliably weird and empty pasted smile. “So, tell me about the Wellbutrin.”

  “It was working, actually. I had a lot more energy, I felt like I could do things, I didn’t feel so bad about myself all the time. But it made my temper go crazy. I felt like the Hulk, like I wasn’t in control of my anger.”

  “Are you still feeling that level of aggression?”

  “No, not exactly aggression. Not like the Hulk, definitely. That was scary. It’s more like annoyed.”

  “Mmm.”

  I breathe and nod slowly, concluding my report. Clumsily grab at a couple of candy corn in my fingers.

  “And, do you still have thoughts about dying?”

  “No!” I swallow; the sugar is like pebbles in my mouth. “I mean, not like that. I don’t think I want to hurt myself.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Do you still think about dying?”

  “I’m not thinking about killing myself. Seriously, I’m not. So. You don’t have to worry.” I notice I’ve been wringing my hands in my lap.

  “But, there is something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

  (There’s a difference between wanting to die and not wanting to be alive, but no one talks about that difference or what to do about it. Like, y
ou can be a seventeen-year-old girl who is physically, cosmically, and innately certain that greatness and potential and the fucking sun exist in the world just for you, hanging there like a ripe avocado for you, specifically, to pick. But at the same time, you can be “clinically depressed,” a “sinner,” stuck in a skin and a landscape that feels like it’s on fire. And you don’t know any way out of the fire, so you just let it win, and try to remember how warm it is, and how when it covers you, you are at least, finally, not alone. Even if you’re not sure you believe in God, you hope it’s real. So you pray to nothing, you do everything right, just in case. Or, you say Fuck it.)

  (I wish I could do one or the other.)

  I sigh—it’s more of a growl, really. I do not want to be doing this, and the somersaults in my stomach move all the way up to my neck.

  “Okay fine,” I say, unfolding my arms and flopping them like pool noodles at my sides. “It’s not that I want to die, really, but sometimes, sometimes, I think it might be better if I didn’t exist. If I just disappeared and all my family and everyone got memory-erased like in Men in Black. If I never existed, their lives would be better. I guess it just sucks that I’m here and now we all have to deal with that. It sucks for everyone.”

  “You see yourself as a burden to others.”

  I nod, trying not to acknowledge tears assembling behind my eyes. “And to me, too. I’m a burden to me.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I mean…bad! Guilty. I know it would be messed up to kill myself, and my family and friends would be sad, but it feels like the only alternative is being a pain in the ass. I almost think being erased from the whole world, not ever existing, would be a gift.”

  Susan just nods sympathetically, doesn’t respond.

  “Like, that’s a gift I could give.”

  The way her eyes soften I can tell she’s thinking Cry, cry, just do it, soften and cry!