Because We Are

by Walter, Mildred Pitts;

  The menu was of little interest. She knew she would order crab legs, her favorite, but she didn’t feel hungry. Why had her father chosen a fancy restaurant at the marina for their talk? Any hamburger place with just the two of them would have been fine.

  Emma glanced at Jody. The candlelight flickered and caught the fire in Jody’s ring as she flipped the shells off the fresh pink shrimp. Her imported, bottle-green dress was perfect with her light hair and gray eyes. Jody caught Emma’s eye and smiled. Emma quickly looked away.

  “Em, I take it you need help with your resume and applications to colleges,” her father said.

  “Oh, no. That’s done.”

  He was obviously surprised. “Have you already settled on a school?”

  “Not really, but I’ve narrowed them down to three: Meharry, Howard, and Stanford.

  “Meharry? Howard? Never heard of those schools,” Jody said.

  “They’re Black medical schools: Howard is in D.C., Meharry is in Tennessee. I can understand Howard and Meharry; but with all that Black togetherness lately, why Stanford?” her father wanted to know.

  “Maybe I’m ready to test some of the things I’m learning about myself.” Emma grinned. “A friend suggested the idea, and I like it.” She then told of her plans to write a paper for the graduation speakers’ competition.

  “So you think you have something profound to say about the future?” her father asked.

  “I do. So much it’s hard to know just where to start. There’s the idea of peace and liberation, pollution, whether we’ll go on living. There’s a lot to say, but who will listen?”

  “I’m open,” Jody said.

  “I’ll listen if you have a meaningful plan of action,” her father said.

  “I’m working on it in my own way.” Emma was pleased with the response.

  Her father smiled and said, “You seem to have things well in hand; what else is there to talk about?”

  This is it, she thought. Now she would have to give the real reason why she had asked to talk to him. She looked out at the sparkling waters and wished she had not asked at all. If only her mother had shown courage and talked to Kooner. She sighed, “Daddy, I …” She sighed again. “I’m having trouble with this teacher.”

  “Not again. You just got to that school. Are you in for another transfer?”

  Emma lowered her head. “Please.” Then she quickly glanced at Jody. How much did Jody know about her problems? Why does she have to be here? Finally, she said, “No. It’s just that I need somebody to talk to him. He’s mean; he’s really no teacher. He doesn’t care—”

  “Wait,” her father interrupted, “all you’re saying is he doesn’t like you. Does it matter whether he likes you? He doesn’t have to like you. He just has to teach you.”

  “Aw, you don’t understand.…”

  “Help me understand.”

  The waiter interrupted to take their orders, giving Emma time to think of what she would say. When the waiter left, she went straight to the point. “Mr. Kooner makes us scramble for books like animals over scraps.”

  “What do you mean, scramble?” her father demanded.

  Emma explained exactly what Kooner did and how the reactions of the students compounded her humiliation.

  “Now I see the problem,” her father said. Silver gleamed in the light and the glass sparkled as her father sipped the amber wine.

  Can he imagine, even, those scenes with Kooner? Emma wondered. She pushed the food aimlessly around on her plate. Crab legs that usually made her mouth water and her fingers eager to get at them did not arouse her appetite. Finally she asked, “So, you’ll talk to him?”

  “Why do I need to talk to him? The problem is you need a book.” He laid a fifty-dollar bill near Emma’s plate. “This should get what you need.”

  “That’s not the problem,” she shouted.

  “Hey, remember where you are,” her father cautioned.

  She burned with shame, but she was still angry when she lowered her voice. “Mr. Kooner is the problem and somebody needs to do something about him.”

  “He’s not your problem. You’re a good enough student to work without a teacher, Emma. You get your book and do your work, pass your exams, and get the hell out of there.”

  She had been failed again. She believed her father would understand her humiliation and, at least, talk to Mr. Kooner. Why were her parents so unwilling to let Kooner know he was responsible for finding the books that the schools provided for them? The old feeling of rejection she knew so well when she was with her father welled up inside her. She could never depend upon him to help when she needed him most. Money!

  She picked up the fifty-dollar bill and handed it back. “This won’t do. Can’t you see? I can’t walk into class with a book.”

  “I don’t understand why you are so upset,” her father said.

  “Maybe Emma should be upset,” Jody said.

  “I think you should stay out of this.” Her father gave Jody a glowering look. “I don’t intend to get drawn into a situation where the students themselves don’t seem to care.”

  “They can’t do any more than I can,” Emma cried.

  “You either buy yourself a book, or live with that teacher.” Her father pushed the money toward her.

  She thrust the money back. “I’ll not buy a book, that’s for sure. And I don’t think scrambling is something I can live with.”

  The only sound was the tinkling of silver on china as Jody and Emma’s father finished their meal. Emma sat stonily looking at her plate. Why couldn’t she do what everybody else thought was the right thing: Get her own book or go along with the other students? Everybody else could not be wrong.

  The money still lay near her father’s plate. All she had to do was reach for it. Maybe the heavy tension would be relieved and she could enjoy her dinner. But she could not bring herself to pick it up and clear the air. She sat trying to control the feeling of outrage.

  Later that evening she tried to work on the graduation speech, make more notes, improve the first few pages. No use. Her mind would not focus on work.

  Finally she lay in bed trying to forget the scene in the restaurant. Why had she asked anything of her father? She should have known he would find his solution and ignore whatever she said. But could he be right? Was she being stubborn? Could anybody put Kooner down when the students enjoyed the scramble?

  She tossed and turned, unable to sleep. She could see the class poised—some on the edge of their seats—waiting for the signal. Was it because they loved to read? She turned over angrily and said aloud, “Couldn’t be.” What made them do it? Suddenly she felt that the answer might be that nobody had told them they shouldn’t. Maybe they believed it was the thing to do because it was fun.

  Should she tell them how she felt? Would they listen? She thought of Liz and the day the teacher had attacked Don. Certainly Liz would not listen. James was convinced there was nothing students could do; Don—out of the question. Maybe Carrie. She wished she could forget Kooner and fall asleep.

  Sleep would not come. She thought about her father again. If only he would do something. She could see him, self-assured, walking into Kooner’s class, polite but firm, demanding a stop to the scramble. Wouldn’t Kooner be surprised? All the students would want to know, who is that man? What would they think when they learned that he was her father, declaring scrambling had no place in their school?

  Don’t be silly, she told herself. Come to your senses, act your age, and forget him. Put him out of your life. The fullness now all the way into her throat forced tears into her eyes when she realized she was still kidding herself. She’d never forget her father. She loved him too much and had to go on loving him. She fought the tears and willed herself not to succumb to self-pity. He is as he is, she told herself. She must learn to love him as he is and not expect him to help her solve her problems. She felt better as she slowly counted backward from two hundred.

  Eighteen

 
; A loud knock on the door startled her out of deep sleep. She would have to hurry. That there was no time to make her lunch for school frustrated her and she wished she could stay home.

  “Get your things together and let’s get out of here,” her mother demanded. “You’re making me late.”

  “I have my things.”

  “Where’s the book I got you from the library?”

  “I’m not taking it.”

  “Aren’t you going to class?” Her mother was impatient.

  “I’m just not taking the book, Mama.” Emma tried to control her anger.

  “Emma, what’s the matter with you? You don’t seem satisfied unless you’re getting into trouble. Get that book now, so we can go.”

  “Mama, I’m not taking it.”

  “You are taking it.”

  Emma knew she had backed herself into a corner. How would she ever get out? She could take the book and leave it in her locker, but that would not solve the problem with her mother. She had to let her mother know exactly how she felt, but now she was frightened. Maybe she had gone too far. “I always do what you want done. Why can’t you see that I have to do something that I think is right sometime?”

  “I don’t have time to argue with you, girl.”

  “Then don’t. Just listen. I’ll soon be old enough to vote—deciding who will be the President of these United States. Why can’t I decide whether I want to take a book to school or not?”

  “It’s not just taking a book to school and you know it. But I don’t have time for this. Don’t take the book, and if you get into trouble, don’t come to me. If you think you’re old enough to make your choices, please be old enough to live with them, responsibly.”

  They rode in silence. Although Emma was relieved that she had put her mother on notice, she was still worried and uncertain. She had no idea what she was going to do. She knew she didn’t want to leave her mother feeling anxious and tense. She wanted to say that she would not do anything foolish; but how could she say that? She was not sure of anything.

  As the car pulled alongside the curb she felt a moment of fear and wished she had brought the book. No turning back now. “Mama, I’m glad you left it up to me. It’s time I live with what I decide to do.” She leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek. “Hope with me that I don’t do anything foolish, something not worth living with.”

  The second bell had sounded before she slipped into first period unnoticed as the teacher readmitted students absent the day before. Now she had time to be angry at herself for sleeping late. She did not want to break her resolve never to enter the cafeteria again. She had enough money for lunch off campus if only she had a pass.

  Suddenly she had an idea: Allan could get lunch for her. Would he be at school today, and would she find him in time? Maybe she should ditch Kooner’s class and talk to Allan. She had to find a way to deal with that man. If only she had taken American lit at Marlborough. Then he’d be teaching some other required course. Forget Kooner.

  The second period ended and she hadn’t seen Allan. She just might have to break her resolve; on top of no breakfast, missing lunch would be too much. Already she was hungry. There were twenty minutes before third period. She decided to get an apple from the vending machine.

  It was as if everyone else had the same idea, including Allan. “You’re never around when I need you, man,” she said, joining him in line.

  “Say good morning before you start blowing off,” he said and grinned.

  “Good morning, Allan,” she said sweetly. “Do me a favor.”

  “That’s better. What now?”

  “Get me a sandwich and an orange juice off campus at lunchtime.”

  “I’m cutting out at sixth. Can’t wait around ’til seventh.”

  “Maybe I’ll ditch Kooner and eat lunch on his time.”

  “And mine.”

  “I’ll buy you lunch, too. We can talk, OK?”

  By the time they got apples the bell rang. “Why don’t I give you the money now—”

  “No way. Meet me at your locker the end of fifth. We’ll go from there.”

  The rest of Emma’s morning was filled with worry and indecision. How could she convince her mother to write a note to get her back into Kooner’s class if she ditched today? There would be a thousand questions. Maybe she should eat in the cafeteria, just this once.

  Her mind wandered back and forth, refusing to focus on her classwork. She should probably go on to his class and forget—scramble like the rest of them. That thought recalled the scene in the restaurant. The anger she had felt at her father returned. Suddenly she knew no matter what, she would never scramble. She would ditch class and have lunch with Allan to try to find an answer to her dilemma.

  Allan was waiting near the classroom door after fifth period.

  “Gotta see Wheeler before I leave campus,” he said, pulling her along after him.

  “What about lunch?”

  “Just take a minute. Come on.”

  They rushed in only to find Mr. Wheeler hurriedly gathering papers. “Wait for me, Allan. I have to take these reports down to the counselors’ office. Be right back.”

  Emma looked around the room. Every inch of chalkboard was covered. Wall space was crowded with posters and pictures, including those of some Black writers. She glanced at the chalkboard again and read aloud, “An African Proverb: Because we are, I am.”

  “You read it wrong.” Allan said. “Emphasize the we, not the I: Because we are, I am.”

  “What difference does it make?” Emma demanded.

  “A lot. The I is always included in we. We, never in I. So the we becomes all inclusive. Example: We’re all in the same boat.”

  She looked at Allan. Why does he always have to be so heavy? She recalled the day he had classified the students, and the time he had explained why he had chosen Manning. Her mind flashed to Kooner and the scramble. “And sinking fast,” she said angrily.

  “Don’t write us off.”

  “I’m not writing people like us off. I’m thinking about those idiots and Kooner.” Suddenly she had a glimpse of what Allan meant. In Kooner’s room every class Allan had identified was represented: James, the boojei; Carrie, the climber; Liz, the survivor; and lots of toms. This glimmer made her understand the anger and humiliation she had known in that room. She laughed uneasily. “Man, Kooner sure lumps us all together.”

  “Now you’re getting the point. When we all get the point, the Kooners of the world will be as useless as a robot without a programmer. We program the Kooners.”

  Emma felt a rush of excitement. What if she told the class what Allan had just said? Maybe they would see the scramble for what it was.

  “What’s keeping Wheeler?” Allan asked. “We gotta git outta here if we’re gonna eat today.”

  “Allan,” Emma cried, “help me. I want to get all of us in Kooner’s class together.”

  “Send them a notice.”

  “Allan, this has to be a secret.”

  “Write it in code.”

  “Great idea! Let’s do it.” Suddenly she remembered she should be in Kooner’s class. She became frightened. What if she were caught in Wheeler’s room alone with Allan. She would be in serious trouble. “We gotta get out of here, Allan. I’m ditching.”

  “OK, OK, I’ll leave Wheeler a note and see him later.”

  It was easy to get lost on the crowded yard. Emma was anxious to get the notices started. The whole process had to be completed in minimum time, with minimum risk. They had only three hours to come up with a plan to get the students to a meeting and arrange it so that even they would not guess what the meeting was about. “Allan, should we start out with something like … er … ‘It’s a matter of dignity and destiny’?”

  “Then they sho’ won’t show.” Allan laughed. “How do they look at scrambling?”

  “It’s fun and games.”

  “So, you gotta meet them where they at, woman. The last thing you want to do is make the
m look stupid. Now, let’s think who, what, where, and when.”

  “We want just sixth period from Room 202, to talk, under the bonsai tree, tomorrow.”

  They quickly came up with five lines:

  Just you in sixth, Room 202,

  Come talk under the bonsai tree.

  Talk of fun and games

  Tomorrow at eighth.

  Don’t be late.

  “Allan, that doesn’t sound right. Something is missing. We gotta say at least one word about the scramble. I can’t just come from nowhere with it.”

  “Keep thinking.”

  “I am. I’m thinking the whole thing is too big a gamble.”

  “Hey, you got it,” Allan shouted. “Let’s put it together.”

  They finished the note and suddenly realized they needed thirty-five copies. “We’ll have to find a copying machine,” Emma said.

  “That means money.”

  “We’ll give up lunch,” Emma said.

  Seventh period was almost over when Allan returned with thirty-five clean copies. Emma read aloud:

  Just you in sixth, Room 202,

  Come talk under the bonsai tree.

  Talk of fun and games,

  Talk of gambling with scrambling,

  Tomorrow at eighth.

  Please, don’t be late.

  Excitedly they divided the chore. Emma gave notices to the girls, Allan gave them out to the boys.

  In the hallway as classrooms emptied, the task was difficult. However, on the grounds, where only a few people were still eating lunch, Emma found the going easier. Liz was with Brenda and their little group in their territory. Emma handed Liz a notice.

  Brenda quickly snatched the paper. “What’s this mess?”

  “Stop, Bren. Gimme that,” Liz screamed.

  “Lemme see what it is.” Brenda held on.

  “It’s none of your business, Brenda. Give it back to Liz,” Emma said firmly.

  “Ha! Listen whose tryin’ t’ tell me what t’ do. I’ll tear the shit up.”

  Emma, controlling her rage, spoke softly, “Tear it up and I promise, you’ll never tear up anything else.”