Who Put This Song On? Page 9

  “But why did the baby yell at me?”

  “Maybe he’s never seen a black person before.”

  That was the first time I felt like an animal.

  * * *

  —

  Across from Malcolm in the dining room, Sunday night’s usual quiet completely disturbed, I am fucking seething. “What was the joke?”

  Probing Malcolm to relive a traumatic incident is not the right move, but I’m relentlessly nosy, and for some reason, I’m morbidly interested in outright racist statements. Maybe because it feels strangely like validation, proof of what I suspect many people are thinking, but don’t say in front of me. Hearing people, even people in movies, say blatantly racist things always meets me with a kind of awe. I can’t wrap my head around how much hate it would take, how many pent-up vile feelings, to be racist.

  “I don’t want to say.”

  “Okay.”

  “Son, why didn’t you call me to pick you up?”

  “I thought the walk would help me clear my head. It’s a nice night out.”

  I love sensitive Malcolm. It’s rare, but it reminds me of when he was a baby, when he needed me, when he was gentle and goofy.

  “But what happened? Why did the cop bring you home?”

  “I said I lived in the neighborhood and was walking home, but he didn’t believe me.”

  My dad and I shake our heads in a huff. But we both know instinctively there’s nothing to say or do, except listen to Malcolm and try to comfort him. (Try to comfort ourselves?)

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Don’t follow rules you don’t understand.

  I reach for Malcolm’s hand and hold it in mine. Dad stands up and walks to the bar, uncorks a bottle of Kentucky bourbon.

  “You did everything right, son.”

  MAKE A LIST OF ALL YOUR SINS

  In third grade, I lied. I faked a stomachache, a horribly executed ruse to get out of my suffocating classroom, the stress of my classmates fumbling through multiplication tables cutting through the air like a scent. I wanted to be rescued into the sunlit day, cared for, shown mercy.

  Later, some snitch reported me strutting to the lunch tables from the vending machine with a lollipop in my mouth, and in one abrupt and belly-sinking moment I was called to the teacher’s lounge. I was still berating myself when I walked in to the sound of someone’s Cup Noodles microwaving. Miss Gloria snatched the sucker right out of my mouth.

  “I thought you had a stomachache,” she accused. I licked my blue lips. The other teachers looked on, noiselessly swallowing their sandwiches. I kept thinking, Why? Why did this lady make me feel so small?

  I knew then that I was not good. The thing was, I had felt sick. I always do.

  * * *

  I guess this isn’t a sin, but I don’t know what it was—I felt like I was possessed. I was ten, and it was right after we moved into our gated community, near Marissa and all the other portrait-ready white families. It was almost a dare to fit in, to look as wholesome and generic as the other families on the block, rendering our African Americanness merely incidental. It was hard work.

  At Christmas, my mom was anxious about decorations. Which tinsel should wrap around the banister, which doorways should be adorned with synthetic wreaths. Dad spent hours out front on a ladder fussing with the lights, took a two-hour trip to Home Depot, and came home to start all over. I sat in the living room with Mom as she went through boxes of our old decorations, frustrated with how they weren’t living up to our bigger and glossier home. I was in a good mood that day, I remember, humming along to A Charlie Brown Christmas and making myself useful by untangling a string of little white lights.

  I have no idea what inspired me—years of overthinking the moral consequences of every small deed, suddenly gone—to wield an ornament hook and set out defacing a brand-new dining chair. In our first-ever dining room. Pristine wood, still wafting new-furniture smell. And there I was, tattooing it discretely. A sleeve of tattoos: a tiny crescent moon, my initials, a shooting star, a daisy, a heart. When my mother saw what I did, I realized it too. We both screamed, and I began to wail with regret, looking down at my hands in horror.

  “You didn’t know what you were doing,” my mom said when she found me sobbing in a roly-poly ball on my bed, slapping myself on the cheek. She rubbed my back with closed eyes and whispered shhhh, the way she used to when I had insomnia as a kid. “You’re not in trouble. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

  The messed-up thing is, I really didn’t. Being bad, doing wrong, it’s just my impulse. That’s how the depression feels, too. I’m not in control of myself.

  * * *

  —

  It takes me forever to fall asleep, even after I finally hear Malcolm snoring safely in his room. I lie awake with my duvet pulled up to my chin and my eyes darting around in the dark.

  Insomnia, like depression, is a unique blend of loneliness and fear. After years of being awake when everyone else is asleep, the loneliness is as at-home to me as the birthmark on my thigh, the way I hear my voice.

  * * *

  —

  At school the next morning, I see the taco-truck-looking Bloodmobile and roll my eyes. Every year the school sends home a flyer about the American Red Cross blood drive, and every year I manage to forget, mustering last-minute courage to watch part of myself drain into a bag between classes. Today, feeling resolute and wanting an excuse to be late to class, I decide to get the whole gory scene out of the way. As always, I try not to look as the nurse pierces my skin, but of course I look. For a moment, as she presses the needle into my forearm, I feel a shower of calm and consider getting a tattoo, a small one that my mom couldn’t find. Then I remember summer, how I wanted so badly to escape, but even then, couldn’t commit to coaxing my own blood out of my body. I guess that’s the reason I’m still here, I think. Cowardice. But maybe there are other reasons I don’t know about.

  “IS AMERICA REALLY READY FOR AN AFRICAN AMERICAN PRESIDENT?”

  The question screams at me from the whiteboard when I rush in, sweaty, to AP Government. I toss the Notebook onto Meg’s desk and slide into the last empty chair, right up front, of course. Mr. K gives me a look; I give him a thumbs-up.

  Since it’s an election year, Mr. K explains, we’ll have in-class debates every quarter, so we can discover our own political opinions and prepare to be voters. What I hear is So we can confirm the beliefs and opinions we’ve always been taught and prepare to vote Republican or else. Today the topic of conversation is Barack Obama, the youthful, handsome black guy who has recently secured the presidential nomination for the Democratic Party (or as Mr. K refers to the party, “Morgan’s people”). I am not in the mood or condition to perform as the “African American perspective.” I can’t be the entire black student body; I’m not even sure what my individual stance is. I’m light-headed and I just want class to end so I can get a burrito for lunch.

  I hate the way all our teachers say African American instead of black. I want to tell them that it’s fine to say black, that it’s not like the n-word, but clearly, they have their own ideas about how to label and categorize us. Sometimes, in our white oasis, it’s hard to tell what year it is, exactly how far America has come or not come.

  The class is split into two groups, tasked with arguing FOR or AGAINST. Conveniently, I “end up” on the FOR half of the room. Mr. K knows that if I had to argue AGAINST, I’d probably launch into my own mini Democratic National Convention. This is a dude with a collection of Ronald Reagan beanie babies. He basically relies on me to teach half of the class, unable to bring himself to objectively explain liberal viewpoints. I mean, we’re only a few weeks into school, and already I have a routine of holding informal office hours after class, filling in my classmates with what little information I can Google on Ruth Bader Ginsburg or the r
ight to choose. It’s pretty much a complete mockery of a “Government” class, and we are all hopelessly doomed to fail the AP test.

  The two groups scatter to different parts of the room to compile talking points. Most of the know-it-alls and bigmouths (myself excluded) are part of the AGAINST team. I bristle thinking about what they might blabber under the guise of “devil’s advocate.” I picture Tony spitting the n-word into Malcolm’s face with a nauseating grin.

  Our group is me, Meg, Kelly, a kid in an oversized Korn T-shirt who never speaks, and two bland “hot girls” from the soccer team. The other side is Tim (to whom I have not actually spoken since we hooked up last year in the orange groves); chapel’s American Idols, Jenn and Adam; a trio of Dungeons and Dragons “well, technically” guys who play hacky sack between classes; and Stacy Johnson, the other black girl (who’s “mixed”). It’s a legendary match of all-star idiots.

  Kelly unclips a clean sheet of three-holed paper from her binder and assigns herself as stenographer.

  “Okay, this is easy,” says a soccer girl, scooting her desk closer to our circle. “I know exactly what to say. We just say everyone was created in God’s image.”

  Oh God. I wince and tilt my head, but the others slowly begin to nod. Don’t follow rules you don’t understand.

  “Okay…,” Meg starts, “like no one should be judged by the color of their skin? That kind of thing?”

  “Let’s use the Constitution. ‘All men have been created equal in the eyes of America,’ ” Kelly offers.

  “That’s the Declaration of Independence,” silent guy says flatly, “almost.”

  “Ooh, I know! Let’s say Martin Luther King! Like, duh, am I right?” Soccer girl #2.

  “Well, what do you think, Morgan?” Kelly’s lips are the only ones moving, but I hear the question as a chorus, everyone’s head creaking to my direction.

  “I think he’s cool,” I say, and close my lips decisively. When the circle of faces doesn’t change, I add, “Not because he’s black. I mean, it’s cool that he’s black. But I just like him. He’s smart.” Also, just saying “Martin Luther King Jr.” doesn’t wash all racism away.

  “Rousing argument,” says The Hermit, and my face gets hot. There is a lot of stuff that no one knows.

  “Okay, whatever, I don’t know what to say. But I don’t think we can just be like ‘Martin Luther King.’ That’s dumb. That’s not an argument either.”

  I side-eye the soccer girls so hard my eyes are basically closed.

  How can I take on the responsibility to represent an entire population of people that, frankly, I don’t know so well myself? Having a black president seems simultaneously totally reasonable and insane. Either way, remarkable. When my parents were growing up, black people were still getting sprayed with firehoses.

  “He is very smart,” Meg affirms, filling in the silence. “At least he uses proper grammar, and that’s more than we can say for Bush.”

  Kelly nods and jots bullet points. “So, we’ll say the color of his skin doesn’t matter because he’s smart and qualified.”

  The first soccer girl is obnoxiously chipper, eager to apply her optimistic, “godly” attitude to the cause. Mostly, it’s distracting.

  “And you know what!” she offers, completely unprompted and uselessly, “The question is like ‘Is America ready,’ so if we have an African American person as president, that’s like, America is totally over racism.”

  “Oh, come on, racism is not ‘over,’ ” I snap.

  “Is it? In a way?” Meg turns to me; I squint back. “I just mean, we’re friends and I love you the same as anyone else.”

  “Two minutes!” Mr. K shouts. “Finalize your arguments!” The room buzzes urgently.

  Saved by the asshole. “Never mind,” I huff.

  The Hermit says, “Let’s just say that change is good, okay?”

  “Right,” says Kelly, writing furiously. “Progress!”

  The second soccer girl, who’s been texting most of the time, says, “I think we have a solid argument.”

  “I mean, I don’t really think we have a stance…,” I mutter, “but whatever.”

  “Time’s up!” Mr. K chips. I can hear the grin in his voice.

  Um, am I crazy (rhetorical question), or did no one say anything? No one’s being convincing or passionate, not even me. And I had one job. In the history of my high school career there has never been a more me-shaped situation (usually they look at me like some extra puzzle piece), but it’s like I just forgot my lines.

  We scoot our desks to face the other team—actually the worst sound ever, since chalkboards are obsolete—and Meg turns her notebook to me. It says, “U ok?”

  I wave it away.

  * * *

  —

  The “Well, actually” and “To play devil’s advocate” guys are so firm in their argument and conviction that I wonder if they really do think white people are better than black people. As if it’s simple biology. First, they start with a bunch of articles and documents, all basically pointing to the suspicion of black people, and their threat to the “tradition” that makes America, America. The tradition is white people are in charge. Their stance is sameness. Their answer to the debate question is basically “maybe,” because that’s the only argument for their side that doesn’t sound outright racist. But instead of going deep into the inferiority of black people, they hone in on the inferiority of Barack Obama, which, basically, has the same effect.

  Unsurprisingly, Stacy presents their opening statement. It’s very clear she’s not the team leader (this bitch is like, allergic to opinions), but as the only sort-of “African American” member of their team, it’s an understandable strategy. Since she only brings up her race if pressed (by a white person), everyone knows I’m the better Afro-American Spokesperson in the class, but today, she will do. She can play a mild, palpable blackness.

  Stacy folds her hands on her desk and leans forward before launching into the team’s stance. She tucks a piece of stiff, hot-combed hair behind her ear, and twitches her face when it doesn’t lay down whitely. She clears her throat, and I cringe preparing for her squeaky pitch.

  “Perhaps,” she over-annunciates, “America is ready for an African American president, but, that doesn’t mean we need one. Like, African Americans in America are still making progress. Maybe we shouldn’t rush things.”

  If centuries of literal enslavement—plus a hundred more years of figurative enslavement, and then decades of discrimination—is the definition of “rushing” progress, well, damn.

  Nodding smugly, Stacy then gestures at Tim, who for no freaking reason at all, stands up from his desk. He folds his hands behind his back and begins to pace like an ADA on Law & Order. Stacy was merely the hype-woman—Tim is the real show.

  He bellows, “And especially not with someone inexperienced. Sure, Mr. Obama is charming, but how much do we really know about him?”

  I roll my eyes and remember a movie I saw on Disney Channel about a teen who leaves her body at will. Alas, there I remain, and Tim—(I have seen his penis! Clear and weird! I put it in my mouth! He made that groaning sound!)—asks Adam to introduce “Exhibit A,” some odd, Comic-Sans-on-black-background blog post comparing Obama’s proposed policies to Marxism. Not that we have ever studied Marxism. Much like sex, we’re instructed only to fear it.

  Tim emerges from behind his desk and moseys the tile between our rows.

  “Now, I direct your attention to a particular passage in the Book of Revelation,” he says. “Which warns that the Antichrist will be of Middle Eastern descent, and a very persuasive orator. Think about it.”

  A soccer girl gasps and whimpers a little. Even people on my team are getting got, and my blood is boiling.

  “Oh my god, I’d never thought of that! And remember that sermon during chapel about h
ow Hurricane Katrina was a sign of the times?!”

  “He was born in Hawaii,” I spit, and Mr. K reflexively shushes me.

  And here we are: same shit, exciting new package. I feel like a novelty. I feel like an animal, some unidentifiable species under glass in the science lab. I try to remind myself what Meg said: I’m just like everyone else.

  No—I know better.

  “That may be, opponent.” Tim looks directly into my eyes, and I squint back in derision. With where my mouth has been, the least he can do is call me by name. Asshole.

  “But it is undeniable that Obama and Osama are homonyms. And anyway, why should we trust him? Just because he’s black? I mean, I’m not a racist”—and here he turns his back to us, eliciting murmurs of support from his team—“but this is affirmative action all over again. It’s the welfare debate. It’s O. J. Simpson. I beg of you, esteemed opponents, is this real progress?”

  This is the most I’ve ever seen Tim speak, and it is horrendous, vile. I’m disgusted. With myself. With everyone.

  Next, my team presents our wack-ass rebuttal, and all I can offer is a few nods in black confirmation of Kelly’s enthusiastic talking points. Really, I’m studying Tim—the arch of his thin reddish eyebrows, his self-satisfied upper lip, his nasal voice, every dumb, rude thing coming out of his mouth. He repulses me. What was so exciting about hooking up with someone that I don’t even like? Was I just testing out how far I’ll go to quench my boredom? I wish I could take it back. Cover it up with a new feeling.

  * * *

  —

  As soon as class is over (report: no one learned a freaking thing), I rush dizzily to my locker, out-of-sorts, starving and irritable. Why is everything the worst?