* * *
On Dr. Petersen’s syllabus, there was a week in late October labeled “TBA,” with no readings assigned. But there were flyers pasted throughout our building, with his picture, as well as the information that he would be delivering a public lecture, “Race Relations During the Cotton Boll Weevil Plague in Mississippi.” The morning of the lecture, he sent an email to my class, saying that we’d be required to attend the lecture. It would take place in the common room located on the second floor of our building.
When I arrived thirty minutes early, the common room was crowded already with faculty and graduate students. I had planned to sit in the back, but then I heard my name: Dr. Whitcomb was waving and pointing at the seat beside him in the front row. Though I’d seen him frequently, I’d never conducted a lengthy conversation with him. Yet here I was, the only Black grad student in my program, sitting next to the only Black professor. I felt the stares from around the room and reached into my book bag. Maybe if I took notes, I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable.
It was a dry lecture, during which Dr. Petersen discussed how Black people in Mississippi had been lynched during the years of the boll weevil plague from 1889 to 1929. That this violence was a result of white anxiety, which always spiked during times of economic duress. As Dr. Petersen dispassionately rattled off the many different kinds of lynching—the hangings, the dismemberings, the castrations, and the burnings of still-living African Americans—I quietly panted. I wasn’t sure how long I could sit there, when Dr. Whitcomb pulled out a little notebook from his jacket pocket, along with a fancy black-and-gold pen. He nudged me, nodding toward the notebook, where he’d written I know, this is very, very sad, sistren!
I looked at Dr. Whitcomb, nodding, and he patted my shoulder. Then he wrote down something else: It’s almost over! I’ve heard this lecture several times before! Smile!
Afterward, Dr. Whitcomb and I stood in the receiving line together. I shook Dr. Petersen’s hand, telling him, as the granddaughter of Georgia tenant farmers, I’d found the lecture quite rousing and elucidating. Dr. Whitcomb looked on, smiling, as I offered another superlative about the lecture, before saying I looked forward to class next week.
I walked to the second-floor ladies’ room, where I sat on the toilet, rocking.
Could I actually keep this going? If I was lucky, I’d do well in the master’s program, which would last eighteen more months after this semester. Then five to six years for the doctorate, depending on what I chose to write about for my dissertation. But if the scene in the common room was any signal, I’d be spending the better part of a decade with only one Black person in my department to keep me company.
The door to the ladies’ room slammed open.
“Jesus H. Christ, that was boring.”
“Oh my God, there was not enough coffee in the world to keep me awake during that.”
It was Rebecca and, from the sound of her voice, Emma Halsey, another grad student from Dr. Petersen’s class. Carefully, I leaned back.
“And did you see the way she was pretending how exciting it was?” Rebecca asked.
“I know! Sitting there cuddled up to Whitcomb! Taking notes, even. What a kiss-ass.”
“That’s what Ailey has to do, I guess. Everybody in the program knows the only reason she’s here is affirmative action.”
“It must be so nice to be Black.”
“Yeah, nice and easy!”
“That’s so mean, Rebecca.”
“Stop feeling sorry for her! You sound like Scooter. He’s always taking on these charity cases. Bless his heart.”
They laughed, and the door slammed again: they’d left.
Umoja, Youngblood
At Shug’s, Scooter had taken over the table with his belongings, and I pushed his papers back to his side. I was cranky: he’d just told me how he’d fallen for Rebecca in his junior year of college.
They’d met in Cancún over spring break. She was a sophomore, only from the University of Alabama. Scooter had known she was the one when he saw her walking on the beach. Her bikini had been the tiniest thing, barely decent. He’d asked for her address, and after that week, when they’d returned to their respective universities, he’d written her nearly every day.
I hadn’t worn a bikini since I was eight years old.
Now he was back to his tired refrain of asking me to dinner.
“Ailey, you’re something else, you know that?” Scooter asked. “It’s not nice to turn down invitations. What are you, some kind of racist?”
“I’m a racist because I don’t want to eat shrimp at your house?”
“No, Ailey, you’re racist because Rebecca says you’re barely friendly. And she doesn’t know why, because she’s so nice to you.”
“Really? That’s what she said about me?” The corners of my mouth twitched, but I knew if I told the truth about his wife, he’d only take her side. That was how marriage worked: a couple was a united front. I’d learned that from my parents. “If your wife wants me to come to dinner, why doesn’t she ask me herself? I see her every week in Petersen’s class.”
Scooter sucked his teeth. “That’s your defense for bad manners?”
“I will have you know my home training is immaculate.” I glanced around the room, blinking my eyes. It was the uppity move I’d cribbed from Rebecca, but when I looked back at Scooter, he glared at me, his lips in a grim line.
“We both know why you don’t like my wife, Ailey. You think I don’t notice these looks around campus when Black women see us together? And here I thought you were different. I can’t believe you call yourself a feminist.”
He stood up.
I pulled some papers from the middle of my stack and began to read.
He sat back in the chair, but I made him wait an entire minute before I looked up. I sang the “Happy Birthday” song in my head five times.
“You’re still here, youngblood? Oh, no, please leave! Go ’head and make your dramatic exit. Have your moment. But before you do, tell me, are you gone accuse me of hating your wife because she’s white, when I told you about my white aunt?” My voice was loud, and I’d moved into my mother’s southern drawl. At the counter, Miss Velma was leaning on her elbows and laughing at us. “Are you really accusing me of that, Scooter? Tell me right now, so you can find somebody else to drink coffee with three days out the week.”
I took in air and let my jaws fill up. When Scooter leaned his long frame into his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles, I let out the air in tiny puffs.
“No, I’m not saying that, Ailey.”
“You sure? Because it sounded like that to me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“I accept your apology. And stop being so sensitive.”
“I’m not the sensitive one here. Don’t put that on me.”
He wanted to bluster. We both knew I had won, but I switched to a near whisper to save his pride. “Listen, Scooter. Let me explain something.”
“Like what?”
“Like there are two African Americans in the entire history department: Dr. Whitcomb and me. That’s it. And Dr. Whitcomb? He’s convinced himself that he can save the Black race, one history class at a time, even though ninety-nine-point-nine percent of his students are white.”
“And what about you, Ailey?”
“Me? I’m the sister who’s pretending not to care whether my white schoolmates think I could be at this university for a reason other than affirmative action. But I have to prove them wrong, and that means earning a perfect grade point average. So while I’m sorry that you think I’m being rude on purpose refusing your kind offer of a seafood dinner with you and Rebecca, I’m not. I’m studying, okay? And I really don’t have time for anything else.”
“Come on, Ailey! Rebecca’s really nice!”
“Sure she is, Scooter. Uh-huh.”
“And that’s why I want you two to connect, Ailey. I know she doesn’t always get, you know, the race stuff
, but she’s trying. And maybe you can help her with that. Teach her.”
I sighed and moved in my chair.
“Ailey, look. I know Rebecca’s hard to read, but has it occurred to you that she just might be intimidated? You’re so smart, it’s kind of scary.”
“We have coffee, Scooter. How do you know anything about my brain?”
“Anybody who talks to you for five minutes knows you’re brilliant. Plus, you’re so damned beautiful. And you know how you girls get jealous of each other.”
I snorted. “Don’t you mean ‘women’?”
“Sorry! I don’t mean to be politically incorrect! Anyway, I think Rebecca’s just jealous. And no, that’s not cool, but a gorgeous creature can get away with anything, right? Or in this case, two gorgeous creatures.” He put his hand on my arm, rubbing lightly.
I scraped back my chair: the next round of coffee was on me. When I returned, Scooter asked for my phone number again. I was a woman alone, he told me. I needed someone in town to check on me. It wasn’t safe, and finally, I gave him my number. I warned, it was only for emergencies.
That Saturday, he called. He was in the middle of leaving a long, rambling message on the answering machine when I picked up.
“This better be an emergency,” I said.
“It is, kind of. Can I come over? I really need a friend—”
“—Scooter—”
“—please, Ailey. Please.”
He always seemed so collected, but now his voice was wavering. A half hour later, when I answered the door, he was wearing a sweat suit and tennis shoes. He carried a six-pack of imported beer. I tried to joke, saying I hadn’t known he owned casual clothes, but he didn’t smile. He asked, could we watch the game? but I told him I didn’t have cable. My little thirteen-inch television only received the public station. Not that I had time to watch, anyway. I was too busy studying. I told him to wait, while I put the beer in the freezer.
When I came back from the kitchen, he had his head in his hands.
“Scooter, what’s wrong with you?” I hesitated. “Is Rebecca all right?”
“She’s fine. Whatever.”
I sat down beside him, waiting. I had a book review due in three days, but I didn’t want to seem impatient. If you cared for somebody, you were supposed to be there for him. And I guess I cared about Scooter, after a fashion. When he didn’t talk, I asked, was he hungry? All the chicken I’d bought at the grocery store was in the freezer. But I had some leftover pizza in the fridge. He asked, could I get him one of the beers? I tried not to be annoyed, but I sighed. Sure, and went back to the kitchen. After he drank that beer, he asked for another one. When I told him this wasn’t a bar and I wasn’t his waitress, he caught me off guard: he started crying. That’s when the story came out.
Like me—like nearly every African American graduate student on campus—Scooter was the only person of color in his department. He’d been recruited by the business school, and was on fellowship, and when he arrived, he’d made every effort to fit in. He wore suits and ties to his classes, like his peers. He studied hard. He’d made As on his individual projects for the first modules of his three classes. And he’d joined a study group. One of the guys in the group was even a past member of the fraternity he’d joined at Brown University, where he’d attended undergrad.
“I thought you said you were the only brother in the B-school here.”
“I am.”
“So this dude, he joined a Black fraternity?”
“No, Ailey. It wasn’t. It was integrated. And why does that matter?”
Scooter looked around, as if he’d brought anything but beer over. Maybe he should go, but I stroked his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean to judge.”
When he leaned back against the couch, he told me that the members of his study group had told him that they’d decided to disband. That’s why he’d started studying on his own, out at Shug’s. But yesterday morning, he’d found out that his study group had been meeting three days a week without him, instead of breaking up, like they’d told him. Then they’d the nerve to ask for his individual study notes. And Scooter had handed the notes over. He’d wanted to take the high road.
I was prepared to tell him, what did he expect? That’s how these white folks rolled at this university. But then Scooter started crying anew. I looked at him, sobbing like a kid, and opened my arms. When he laid his head on my shoulder, I told him, it was all right. It was over now. And when he fell asleep against me, I didn’t have the heart to wake him. I gently pulled my arms away and found a blanket for him. And in the morning, I acted as if nothing had happened.
* * *
At the end of that semester, I held my breath when I saw the envelope from the registrar’s office. But when I opened it, I’d received an “A” in all three of my classes. When I called up Uncle Root, he didn’t seem surprised. I’d been brilliant since I’d been born, he calmly said. Even as a baby, my facial expressions had indicated intellectual profundity.
My next call was to Dr. Oludara, who showed far more excitement. Then I called my mother, who said she guessed this meant I wasn’t going to medical school. But then she said her baby girl was still going to be a doctor—now she’d have two kinds of doctors in the family. So folks in Chicasetta could put that in their pipes and smoke it.
For winter break, I drove up to the City, but only stayed two days. The house still made me sad, without Lydia there. But I didn’t want to bring up her name and remind Mama of her. I left the day after Christmas; that evening Scooter called: could he come over again? At my front door, he carried a huge box, his muscles straining through his cashmere sweater.
“Merry Christmas, Ailey!”
“Scooter, I regret to inform you that you’ve missed half of the holidays. We are in the Kwanzaa portion of our celebrations now. Today is ‘Umoja,’ youngblood.”
I gave the Black Power salute.
“Ailey, don’t you see me holding this big-ass box? Let me in before I have a heart attack.”
I tried to say what was required when receiving an inappropriate, wildly expensive gift from a married man. I told him a television was too extravagant, and damn, I didn’t get him anything in return, even as I picked up the little TV off the cherry dresser I’d bought at the thrift shop and set it on the floor.
Scooter didn’t even give me a chance to ask why he was in town, instead of at his parents’ house in D.C. with Rebecca. He began talking about his marital problems, saying he’d spent the holiday alone. Rebecca’s family had invited her to come home, only without him. He couldn’t believe that she would accept the invitation, but she’d wept and told him that she needed it. Scooter had been too embarrassed to go back home. He didn’t want to hear his mother’s mouth.
I patted his shoulder. “It’s all right, youngblood. You two will make up.”
“You think so?”
I told him, if he was patient, I’d fix him some coffee. There was sweet potato pie, too, but my mother had baked it two days before. I was hoping a sugary dessert would keep him from crying, but when I returned from the kitchen, he didn’t seem upset. There was a playfulness to him, as there’d been the evening of the graduate reception. And I found myself relaxing as I had then, but this time, I didn’t disrupt the ease. I smiled when he told me, my mother sure could burn. This pie was fantastic.
He asked me about my life before I’d moved to North Carolina. Why wasn’t I married yet, a great catch like myself, and I laughed. I told him about the boy I’d desperately loved in high school, David James. Then the rebound Negro I’d settled for, Chris. Then Abdul and Pat. And after I’d moved to Chicasetta before grad school, I’d had several flings with country brothers, but I never allowed anything to get serious.
Somehow, I wasn’t embarrassed, talking to Scooter about my sexual history. He was a married man. I didn’t need to impress him, or pretend to be a good little virgin. And I didn’t turn away when he moved closer, or when h
e kissed me. Even when things got heated, I didn’t stop him. In my bedroom, he begged to make love. I told him I didn’t have any condoms, and was surprised when he assured me he’d brought his own.
I pushed at him, ordering him to lie on his back, and when I settled on top of him, he started moaning. I was so wet, so tight. I leaned down, whispering in his ear. How long had he been thinking about this? How long? And he confessed, since the very night he met me. When I hadn’t called, he’d driven all over town, looking for me. That’s when he found me, out at Shug’s. He couldn’t get me out of his mind.
We made love twice, and afterward, when his eyes started to close, I shook him. He needed to leave. I didn’t want anybody to see him in the early morning. God forbid Eddie and Mike came back to town early and saw him creeping out my door.
The next night, he came by without calling, and I told him this wasn’t a good idea. This couldn’t continue when school started back up, and he kissed me, pulling at the band of my sweatpants.
“Whatever you want, Ailey. Whatever you need.”
I didn’t mention his wife’s name or ask when she would be back in town, because Scooter’s hand was already inside my panties. I tugged at his belt, ordering him, go into the bedroom. Get ready for me to fuck him. When he reached for me, I reminded him, pay attention to me. Go in the bedroom and wait.
Song
The Worthy Lineage
When Aidan Franklin settled his second wife and his many children in the cabin he built on top of that flower-covered mound, he continued a legacy that had been established by his grandfather, a man by the name of Gideon Franklin. In 1733, this man had found sea legs on a ship baptized Anne, along with one hundred fourteen others, including James Oglethorpe, the founder of the Georgia colony. It was the ship that had been anointed by Oglethorpe’s lofty prayer of the worthy poor.
In England, Gideon Franklin had been in jail, in anticipation of his hanging. He had been a young man with opinions about the monarchy; he was angry King George the Second had allocated property for rich men, carving it out from the land that common people had freely roamed in centuries past. These commoners had picked fruit from trees, fished in ponds, and hunted deer that roasted deliciously on spits hovering above fires. Then the king had taken this land, parceled it into gifts for his noble friends, and the common fellow—and his family—was expected to scrabble or starve, even as he stared at food that hung over his head, or that swam or ran within his sight.
The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois Page 63