“This is blowing my mind.” Cora frowns. “Aren’t you angry with him? Don’t you want to get back at him?” The volume of her voice increases with each question.
“No, I’m not angry,” I say. “But it sure sounds like you are. I appreciate you caring about me, but I don’t think anger at Godfather will help me. Like I said, it was my decision, a bad one. Godfather was actually trying to help me out in his own way. What I need is to understand how I got myself to such a point, how to deal with the shame I feel, and how I can trust myself. I think my anxiety was part of the issue, but now I’ve added shame over being a drug dealer to that.” I lean forward. “Let me ask your advice. I’m thinking of trying to talk with our English/social studies class about everything, to help with getting past how ashamed I feel.”
Cora throws herself back in her chair, shakes her head, and looks at me, speechless. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her speechless before. “Wow, Daniel,” she finally says. “I suggest getting advice from Dr. Lewis on that idea. My question is, where are you getting all this bravery from?”
“It doesn’t feel like bravery. More like something inside me died. Like I lost the identity of Mr. Mayor, but I found something else. People besides you who know what I did are really supporting me. Did you know that Sean’s dad comes to visit me every Saturday? He’s a history teacher at the college, so he talks about people like Martin Luther King writing letters from the Birmingham jail and Nelson Mandela taking the time, twenty-seven years, in jail to think and grow, and later becoming president of South Africa. Can you believe he talks about those guys in the same breath as me?”
She still looks shocked and her arms are crossed tightly across her chest, but she says, “Really? Okay, I’m going to stop worrying about you. Truth. Maybe I can learn some things from you about me not trusting others.”
“Better learn quick, because my upswing today could be a downturn tomorrow,” I say with a grim laugh. “Seriously, Cora, I need to ask for your help. My rock of support comes from Mom. But I worry about her. She has had to deal with as much as I have. Since you’re not going to spend time worrying about me anymore, how about you visit Mom once in a while?”
“Deal!”
Sealed with me reaching out and hugging Cora’s steel-tight body.
Chapter 9: Looking for Me
Once upon a time, confusion reigned. Questions of either/or yielded nonsense answers. History made more sense.
CORA
“Cora, help!” Chelsea says in her Facebook message to me. Seems she has a new boyfriend. He’s in a fraternity (yuck!), good looking (Chelsea always had good taste there), and scaring her to death (he wants to zoom in close, fast, and apparently has a lot of practice at that).
“I don’t know how to love,” she writes. “My withdrawn parents, their shutdown of my life with Jake, and my joy with the dogs are not sufficient examples. Plus, add sex to the equation … I don’t trust myself to know what’s best for me.”
Chelsea always goes back to her parents breaking up her relationship with Jake. She also describes her parents as emotionally distant.
My parents definitely show they love me and vice-versa. But that hasn’t helped me avoid the “in love” quandary. I now see my falling in love with the musician in ninth grade was a fantasy. I didn’t really know him, he didn’t know me, and I didn’t know myself or what I wanted. It became clearer to me what happened after listening to Ms. Hoffmann, my counselor, speak in first period a few weeks ago. She said many students she talks with confuse intense emotions between people (love) with a physical act (sex). The students say the physical act without emotional connection makes them feel used, lonely, and hopeless that they’ll ever experience “true” love. Ms. Hoffmann recommended focusing on learning to listen to the person you want to be in love with, recognize your own emotions, and speak honestly.
She wasn’t talking about hookup culture, casual sex where the only meaning attached is demystifying the physical act or meeting someone else’s expectations, usually women pleasuring men. Emotional connection is not a prerequisite for this sex, nor is it expected during sex.
Ms. Hoffmann helped me understand why I have been avoiding sex. Hookup sex seems like treating other people, particularly women, like objects. On the flip side, I don’t feel like I can feel emotional closeness with someone my age unless I figure out myself, my own emotions, first.
My talk with Daniel helped me realize how I’m generally distrustful of other people. I think it may come from people putting me in boxes, not seeing the “me” inside.
I remember a couple experiences with boxes when I was younger. At six years old, my heart was broken when my teacher said I didn’t have the right body type for ballet. I did not even know what that meant until Mama explained my inherited genes.
The end of fifth grade, all of us from different elementary schools took a standardized test to place each of us in sections for sixth grade at the middle school. Class sections one through four took a foreign language, along with advanced math and English classes. I was in class section number eleven of thirteen, considered to be in the remedial category. When I asked the teacher, “Why?” she asked in return, “What’s your address?” I was too ashamed to mention it to my parents. I was learning. But I got even, becoming an overachiever in school so nobody could put me in the bottom boxes anymore.
My Conflict Resolution Council training defined box thinking as either/or, black/white, student/teacher, male/female, mind/body, etc. In reality, we need to think both/and, which leads to new directions and understanding.
Chelsea’s dilemma came to a head with the boyfriend last night when he accused her of being in the lesbian box—as in, why else would she not want to have sex with him? Chelsea’s roommate is the proposed transgressor. Chelsea says her roommate is a lesbian, and they are close friends, but she’s furious at the bully approach her boyfriend used, like she has no say in whether there are romantic feelings. She said to him last night, “So, do you think I practice bestiality because I love my dogs?” That comment was so far beyond the norm, the boyfriend thought it was hilarious. Then Chelsea tried another tack and asked him, “Are you jealous of my feelings for my roommate?” He responds, “No, I’m not. In fact, it’s kind of cool, if you know what I mean.”
Chelsea was so stunned, she didn’t know what else to say. It didn’t help that she was a little drunk at the time, too.
Chelsea writes that several cups of Starbucks’ Dark Roast led her to conclude, “What it means is, for him, it is all about the sex. Am I a prude for being offended at that?”
My response to her:
As your Free Willing friend, I think you’re feeling offended he only wants sex and not something more. Like appreciation of the whole you, as a really neat person, who can’t be bullied into doing something on someone else’s terms. But, then, the sex part is out of my realm of experience. Trust your gut. It’ll be okay. Cheer in the struggle!
I go to bed thinking about her conundrum, and wake up in the morning to another message from her. This one has a very different tone, though, urgent and full of fear.
I woke up this morning, and my first thought was, “I could have been date raped last night.” Then the fear set in. What am I doing?!?! My second thought, really a feeling, was anger. The entire day I’ve been trying to sort out, anger at him or anger at me? Obsessing works sometimes. It hit me finally. The reason I was attracted to this guy was he reminded me of Jake in a superficial way—his long, wavy, coal black hair. But nothing inside him was remotely like Jake’s sure-footed, beautiful, trusting nature. I could go on and on, but the short story is no more dates with the creep. Thanks, Cora, for your confidence in my gut.
Thanksgiving brings a focus on our school-wide project, joining other community service groups, to distribute food in the community so everyone can have a good holiday. The last two years I helped pack baskets along with my parents. This year I’ve signed up to be on one of the teams that distributes baskets becau
se I want a person-to-person experience. Today, the Saturday the weekend before Thanksgiving, our team is delivering baskets in the city, in residential neighborhoods just outside the city, and out in some of the mountain areas with gravel roads, farms, country stores, and—always—a church.
When we arrive at each house, I make sure I’m one of the group actually knocking on the door and greeting the family living there. As we’re pulling up to one house I see a classmate from school out back. She quickly disappears into the house and is not part of the group who greets us at the door with many thanks for the basket.
I am surprised that our team is delivering to so many black families, so I start keeping a count. I text Sean, who is on one of the other teams, and ask him to keep a count also. I ask our team leader, who is older and says he has done this for eighteen years, if the proportion of blacks to whites this year seems the same or different than previous years. He says it is about the same every year. I determine that about one in three deliveries go to black families. I know from a research project last year that about one in eight people who live in the whole community are black. Sean reports the same numbers I’m seeing from his team, and says his team leader also says that’s typical of past years. Knowing the food baskets are for people of low income, Sean and I conclude a disproportionate number of black people in the community are low income. If I had been told that in a classroom and shown a statistics sheet, it wouldn’t have had the impact of meeting, even briefly, so many charming and hungry black people.
Right after Thanksgiving we started our junior class project for the year. We decided to follow the recommendation of a local minister to pair up with a student from one of the five elementary schools or two middle schools in the county to be a mentor. Together, we came up with a common approach of focusing on how younger students can start recognizing their interests and acting on those in school classes.
What I learned from my first month of mentoring, but already knew from my own experience, is that younger kids are very shy with strangers and try to hide significant things about themselves. Like when I was encouraging a second grader, who I had been laughing and talking with for weeks, to ask her mother to read to her at night, her friend told me the girl’s mother had cancer and was in the hospital. I couldn’t fathom why but the girl clearly wanted to hide that information from me.
I’ve started to see a pattern in my recent experiences that raises some hard questions for me to think about. Would a black teenager have had as positive an outcome with the justice system as Daniel? Why don’t I want to hang out with the Stone Creek political action club of black students? Why did a large share of the Thanksgiving baskets for families in need go to homes of black people in our community? How many of the elementary students I’ve met through my junior class project feel like they also have to hide, like Maria, for various reasons—because they’re undocumented, black, gay, fat, poor, have a dying parent, on and on?
I see Chief walking down the hall and impulsively ask, “Can we walk a bit? I’d like to ask you a question.”
Slowing his long-legged pace, he says, “Sure. What’s on your mind, Cora?”
“Why are there all these boxes with labels defining what group people are supposed to fit in?”
“Boxes, huh? Give me some examples of labels you’re thinking about.”
“Black, criminal, poor, slut, things like that.”
“Well, when we don’t know people very well, seems we take one thing about them we do know and believe it is an essential characteristic of who they are. That, of course, is wrong, because the essential things are the same for all humans, as science tells us.”
I literally stand in front of him so he can’t keep walking. “So why do we focus all the time on differences, Chief?”
His face grows serious. “These are great questions, Cora. You realize I’m just giving you off-the-top-of-my-head thoughts. I guess the differences are interesting, one way we learn new things. But then differences are scary too. People your age have grown up in a climate of fear, as fallout from 9/11. Our country’s reaction to being attacked by terrorists was ‘get the bad guys.’ Going to war spread the circle of who was considered bad guys and expanded the fear. And then there’s fear of immigrants, poverty increasing in the Great Recession, and some police targeting young black men.”
“And now here I am, growing up in a climate of fearing people I don’t even really know.”
“Ah, Cora, that’s an amazing thought.” Chief takes out a small notebook and writes something. “I want to be sure to remember that one.” Then he starts saying out loud, word for word, what he is writing. “If we did really know them, and if we really knew ourselves, we wouldn’t fear them.”
“I’m one of ‘them,’ Chief.”
Chief puts his hand on my shoulder, “Are you? Who do you see when you look in the mirror? Do you feel like a ‘them’?”
During winter break, my parents and I drive to Alabama. Recent US History class discussions of slavery and the Civil War have roused both my curiosity about and wariness of the Deep South. The farther south we drive, the more displays of the confederate flag on trucks, houses, and businesses I see. Our class talked about the flag as a symbol of rebellion and regional heritage, both of which speak of violence toward other human beings. How can anyone take pride in that? How can other people trust a culture built on violence? Of course, you could say all of US society is built on original violence—to Native Americans.
The last time I saw some of my relatives was six years ago, when they came up to Virginia. Last time I visited Alabama I was five years old, so my memories of the place are scarce. My parents talk to relatives on the phone all the time, and we get a few letters from them each year. My grandma, Dad’s mom, sends great presents—things she makes by hand, like stuffed animals when I was younger, and for my birthday this year an awesome knitted sweater, which I brought to wear on the trip.
I vaguely remember the cabin she lives in: it sits on a stream, and large and impressively beautiful old water oaks define the spacious yard. The many acres of woods on either side of the cabin were walking grounds for Daddy when he was growing up. The line of red tick hounds he started when he was a teenager remains, in their latest rendition, though now their mating arrangements expand all the way to surrounding states.
As we pull in the driveway at Grandma’s, Daddy’s uncle CJ leaves the porch and comes to greet us. “Welcome!” he says. “You made good time. What time did you leave this morning?”
Funny, I’ve only heard that greeting in the South, usually followed by, “How long are you going to stay?”
We find Grandma in the kitchen, making final adjustments to the smells of dinner.
“Y’all sit right down while the meal is hot,” she says, making her way around for a big hug from each of us.
Conversation must wait in line behind everyone helping themselves to abundant dishes. “Grandma, fried chicken never tasted as good as this!”
Mom chimes in, “The mashed potatoes literally melt in your mouth.”
Grandma has not even started to eat, too busy taking in all the praise.
“What are these?” I ask. “I’ve never had them before, but they seem kind of familiar tasting.”
“Those are acre peas,” Grandma says, looking amused.
“Daddy, can we get these in Virginia?”
“I’ve never seen any fresh, Cora. I’ve also never seen you so into food. Is that a comment on your mama’s and my cooking?”
Uncle CJ and Grandma entertain us with accounts of local people and events. They really know how to tell a story. I don’t remember ever being around people who open up so easily. Grandma tells about a fancy wedding she went to last weekend, “not sweet and moving like yours,” she said looking at Mama, with a warm smile coming from way down deep.
“Cora, what do you like to do when you’re not doing homework?” Uncle CJ asks.
“Actually, I like reading novels and reading for research o
n projects, and those are the only kind of homework I have. This year I am taking US History, and I read a story based on the Grimke sisters from Charleston and the oldest sister’s friend, a slave owned by the family. I thought of you, Grandma, because the slave girl’s mama stitched a beautiful quilt that told the story of the girl’s family history going back before slavery. I’d like to know more about our family history, starting with you and Big Daddy.”
“Well, Big Daddy worked his whole adult life on fishing boats in the Gulf,” Grandma says. “Growing up in the Depression, hard work was driven into his whole being.” She pauses to pass Daddy the plate of chicken. “He was lucky to get that good job, from a buddy he fought with in WWII. Big Daddy came home from his job every weekend, and for a month in the winter. A whole month! We spent every second together when he was here, appreciated each other more than if we were together all the time.” She holds her napkin to her mouth and giggles. “We could happily make it on our own during the week, but those weekend times together, they were beyond happy. I got to know the soul of that man, a good man.”
“What did you do during the week, Grandma?”
“Well, keeping up the place and taking care of your daddy and his older brothers and sisters kept me busy until your daddy went to school. Then I had more time for my stitching work. Built up a good business. Everybody wanted something knitted, tatted, or sewn.”
Uncle CJ gets up from the table, goes into a back room, and returns with clothing folded up in plastic bags. “Here’s some of her handiwork. She wins prizes all over the county.”
“The white customers mostly want clothes,” Grandma says. “Quilts are the biggest thing our black friends want. I charge whites three to four times what I charge blacks, always have, because they can afford it. I design the dresses and such. Never used any store-bought patterns, and I won’t make anything tacky that the people might dream up. If someone doesn’t like what I made, I won’t sew for them anymore. I say, ‘I’m too busy right now.’ They get the message and spread it around to all their friends. Never hurt my business any, and it’s made my other customers more agreeable-like.”
School Tales Page 19