Boaz Brown

by Stimpson, Michelle

  They did, however, agree that Jonathan needed to remember at all times that he was black. The day before Jonathan left, Daddy sat him down and had a long talk with him. I heard the whole thing from the living room. Jonathan was told, in no uncertain terms, that he was not, under any circumstances, to come home with any woman who was anything other than black.

  “I don’t care what you see going on around you. I don’t care what a white or Korean or whatever girl says to you, you remember—if she can’t use your comb, don’t bring her home!” Daddy told him with conviction.

  “You know your great-uncle Eddie George got killed behind a white girl,” Daddy said. “And he was the only uncle I had on my momma’s side.”

  Momma was washing the dishes, yet managed to butt in the conversation. “Eddie George got killed ‘cause he was messin’ with a married woman.”

  “She was white!” Daddy yelled. “If she woulda been a black woman, my uncle woulda been alive today.”

  “He woulda been a hundred and ten years old!” I yelled from the couch.

  Daddy wasn’t having it that day, though. He was serious about his talk with Jonathan, and something in me was struck by Daddy’s desperate plea to my little brother. The fear and anger in his heart caused his voice to tremble. Jonathan listened intently as he never had before, and Momma stopped sloshing the dishwater. Daddy poured out his life’s understandings, and the heat of his words spewed out of his mouth like steam, thickening the room’s air.

  “The hardest thing in the world is being a black man in America. Nobody will ever understand that but black men. The best thing we got going for us is our women and our families. You can go off into this navy and bunk up right next to a white man, but don’t ever think he’s got your back. ‘Cause if push comes to shove, and he’s got a choice between saving you and saving a white man, he’ll save the white man every time.” Daddy stressed every syllable by slamming his fist on his knee.

  “Everywhere the white man goes, he destroys people. America is the greatest example of the white man doing what he does best. He killed off the Indians; he got the Mexicans over here to work the fields in World War Two, but now he’s trying to send them back with nothin’; and he worked the blacks to the bone for his own gain. And they’ve never paid any of us back. Now, you take this money they give you from the military and use it to help you and yours. But don’t ever turn your back on a white person, ‘cause sure as my name is Jonathan Smith Senior, they will stab you in the back every time.”

  Those words were meant for my brother, but they seeped deep into my spirit.

  * * * * *

  Unlike workday mornings, I liked to get up in plenty of time to prepare for church on Sunday. I sprang out of bed, quickly prayed, and got ready for service. As I pulled up my loathsome off-black pantyhose, I let out an indignant sigh. I hated wearing pantyhose, but I knew that many of my children’s church students had been told that when they grew up, they would be expected to wear pantyhose to church. I didn’t want to cause any discord, so I suffered that nylon and threw on black pumps, a black skirt, and a sweater.

  I still had to stop by the grocery store and get snacks for my children’s church class, so I rushed out without eating breakfast. Most of the R & B radio stations played gospel on Sunday mornings, so I gave my CDs a rest and listened to the latest in gospel music while driving to church.

  Something about the drive to church always calmed me. It was as though I were going to an old friend’s house—a place I had always known and cherished. A place where I could be me, only better.

  Sometimes, if I lay in bed too long, I would consider skipping a Sunday or two. And even if I did stay home for whatever reason, the part of me that longed to be in my Father’s house couldn’t rest well knowing there might come a time when I couldn’t get to a church and then I would regret all the times I’d lazed in bed on Sunday mornings. No, I had to be there.

  Once at the church, I made a few copies in the front office and set up my classroom. I turned the lights on, listened to the buzz, and waited for the lights to pop on, one square at a time. It was my classroom, my canvas, the place I could paint perfect.

  Since becoming a vice principal, I didn’t have the opportunity to stand before children and watch them discover and learn and love life the way I did when I was a classroom teacher. Tutoring on Wednesday nights was productive, but there’s also something blessed about presenting an actual lesson, looking down at tiny little brown faces and telling them how much they are loved. Teaching children’s church on Sunday mornings gave me the opportunity to use my gift as an educator for God’s glory.

  As I filled the plastic cups with crayons and scissors for the project we’d be creating, I turned on the intercom and listened to the service going forth in the main room. The praise team was singing a medley of “Jesus Is Mine,” “You Don’t Know Like I Know,” and “Victory Is Mine.”

  I had a surprise that morning when the children filed into the classroom. A little white girl visited our class. Maybe at another church, a white child wouldn’t stand out. But in our African-American southern Church of God in Christ, having a white face among the crowd was not a regular occurrence. I never really stopped to ask myself why, because I rather enjoyed being “at home” in church. As far as I was concerned, the less I saw of white people, the more I could be myself.

  The little girl’s name was Emily, and she told us that she was visiting with her mother. Her pale face was sprinkled with outstanding brown freckles, which were upstaged only by her bright, contagious smile. Something about children—perhaps the innocence of their beliefs, the blindness of their love—made me stand in awe of how close they are to ideal.

  Emily participated in the discussion and drew an awesome depiction of herself praying. When we finished class, I made my usual call for students who wanted to accept Christ in their lives. Emily came forward with a few others. We all clapped for them and asked them to repeat the prayer of faith. Then we hugged them and officially welcomed them to the body of Christ. Deep down inside, I had enough sense to know that everybody needed Jesus, regardless of their skin color.

  After serving the snacks, the ushers assisted me in getting the children to their parents. A few of my former students, now in the junior class, helped clean up the room, and then we all went back into the sanctuary.

  The Spirit was high, and Pastor Williams was whooping—preaching hard and catching his breath between the organ’s hits. The crowd was on its feet, giving him the impetus he needed to go higher and higher. I stood and joined in, catching on to the last part of his sermon and praising God right along with the congregation.

  “I stopped by to tell you this morning. . . that God is able. . . to deliver you. . . mmm hmmm. . . from whatever is stopping you.. . from receiving the fullness. . . of His blessing!”

  “Yeah!” The Mothers on the front row cheered him on.

  The older sisters waving their white linen handkerchiefs. “Go ‘head!

  “Preach, Pastor!” The Pastor’s mother, too ill to stand, sat with her hands in her lap but showed her involvement by poking out her lips and tossing her head left to right with such fervor that her whole body swayed. Pastor preached so intensely, even some of the deacons got up off their bench, crossed their arms, and nodded. Folks shouted for a good ten minutes before someone calmed us all down with the one-word song that wound us all down—“yes.”

  After the altar call and prayer line, we were all in a good, peaceful mood to be dismissed. Pastor made his usual comments about our minds turning toward food and football, and the congregation laughed.

  Finally, he asked the head usher to come again and recognize the first-time visitors as well as those who invited them. I saw a white woman, unmistakably the only visitor left in the crowd, and obviously Emily’s mother. I’d catch her after service, I figured, to tell her what a wonderful student Emily was and invite her to come again.

  Sister Wilson, dressed far too stylishly to be an usher, smoothe
d out her white gloves and spoke from behind the white veil poking out of her hat. “Pastor, this is Shannon Potter. She is a guest of Brother Paul Pruitt.”

  The congregation clapped as Shannon pushed herself up and nodded graciously. Paul stood up next to her—I hadn’t even noticed that he was on her pew. He closed in the space between them with his body and smiled broadly.

  “Would you like to have words?” Sister Wilson asked Emily’s mother.

  Shannon smiled and flipped her blond hair in that irritating white-girl fashion as she spoke. “My name is Shannon Potter, and this is my daughter, Emily. We’re members at First Methodist of Dallas. I have really enjoyed myself today. My daughter and I are guests of Paul Pruitt.” She smiled up at Paul.

  “Old Pruitt,” Pastor teased. “You finally brought you a woman to church!” Brother Paul gave a sheepish grin, consistent with his low-key manner.

  People laughed, but I knew there had to be a good majority of us who felt exactly the way I did: I know he didn’t! If ever there was anything that could get my blood to boiling, it was to see a black man with a white woman. Well, let me qualify that. When I saw what appeared to be a kind, decent-looking, gainfully employed brother hooked up with a bologna-fryin’, no-shoes-in-the-grocery-storewearin’, wanna-be-black-actin’, Ebonics-fakin’, nose-upturnin’ white girl, that burned me up.

  Now, if he was broke and busted, I didn’t mind him being all hugged up with a white girl. Nine times out of ten, a broke brother had tried to get with a sister but got kicked to the curb. And if she was a really pretty white girl, I could almost see it—but only on the grounds that the brother was disillusioned by the media, white-actin’ himself, and/or carrying out some secret taboo passed down to him through slavery. In either case, a sister really wouldn’t want a brother like that. The white girls could have him.

  True, I didn’t want Paul for myself, but there had to be a sister out there somewhere who would jump at the chance to be Mrs. Pruitt. This Shannon, with the hair flips and high-squeaking voice, seemed like the kind of white woman who just wanted to get with a brother and find out if all the rumors she’d heard from her girlfriends about black men were true. She was one of those kinds of white girls that spelled nothing but trouble for a black man. Any brother with half a brain should have been able to check that from the beginning.

  Why, Brother Pruitt?

  He seemed like a real brother; mentoring the young men of our church and playing on the church’s basketball team when he got the chance. He didn’t fit the bill for the white-girl type of brother. You know, the brothers that jog outside in the heat of the day. No, Paul was solid. What kind of message was he sending to our boys now that he’d trampled up in the church with this white woman?

  It was well past time to dismiss church, as far as I was concerned. My spirit was messed up after seeing that junk. Yes, Lord, the button had been pushed.

  After church, I went back to my classroom to make sure I hadn’t left anything; Emily caught up with me and gave me a big hug.

  “Are you Sister Smith?” Shannon asked me, walking up behind Emily.

  I put on my best white folks smile and said, “Yes. You must be Emily’s mother.”

  She nodded, and we shook hands. Blue eyes. Pale skin— no tan to speak of. Dark brown roots peeking out from under her limp, bleached-blond hair. “Yes, I’m Shannon Potter. Emily really enjoyed your class today. I don’t know what it is about you, but she just loves you to death.”

  I accepted the compliment, since it had come from an innocent child. I relaxed the corners of my mouth a bit and settled into an authentic grin. Emily hugged me tighter and looked up, flashing a big snaggle-toothed smile. “I had fun!”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that you had such a great time.” I returned her hug.

  “Emily accepted Christ today,” I told Shannon. “Did she tell you?”

  “Oh, girl, I think Emily accepts Christ every day.” Shannon laughed. “She’s a Christian at heart.”

  Did she just call me girl?

  “Oh, just call me Sister Smith. And I agree, Emily’s got a heart of gold.”

  I turned from Shannon because I didn’t know exactly what my face was saying. “Emily, I hope to see you again soon.’,

  “Oh, I’m sure we’ll be here again. Paul and I are alternating between churches,” she informed me. “We’re not sure exactly where we’re going to end up. I think we both enjoy each other’s churches so much.”

  See, here she goes with too much information. Did I ask her where she and Paul were going to church?

  Just then Brother Pruitt walked up behind Shannon in his dark three-piece suit and crisp white shirt. He placed his left hand on her shoulder and offered his other hand to me, greeting me with a smile, looking like a big, sorry something.

  I shook his hand, but I didn’t want to. What was his problem, standing there with his arm around Shannon’s shoulder like somebody really wanted that white woman?

  Emily released herself from my side and pushed her body into the side of Paul’s leg. He picked her up and kissed her on the forehead, then placed her down beside her mother. “Are you ready?” he asked Shannon.

  “Yes,” she said to him. “It was so nice meeting you, Sister Smith. We’ll be seeing you again.”

  “Great.” I smiled at Emily. It was the only thing I could do to try to hide the anger welling up inside me. “I’ll see you next time, Emily.”

  And then the three of them turned and walked away. Emily’s ruffled, pink dress bounced with every step she took between her mother and Paul. Halfway down the hall, Paul took hold of Shannon’s hand. His deep ebony skin seemed to clash with her milky- white complexion. As though she knew I was still watching them, Shannon turned back and gave me one last smile, swinging her chin just above her shoulder. I gave her the finger wave: fingers fluttering, palm motionless.

  On my way out of the church, I stopped to relieve myself in the ladies’ room. I’d been holding it all morning, it seemed, but the heaviness in my bladder had taken a backseat to my anger following Shannon’s introduction.

  The church’s restroom was small and only semiprivate, with one stall, which had a shower curtain rather than an actual door. With two older women inside, the room was already crowded, but I stayed put because I didn’t know if my bladder would tolerate much movement. I tapped my heel, ever so slightly, as I waited.

  “Yeah.” Mother Alderson shifted her hat on her head as she looked in the mirror. “You’re right about that, Marlaine. The only reason that white woman is with him is ‘cause she couldn’t find a white man who had just the same going for him. I’m sure she would much rather be with a white man—just wasn’t one out there that could match Pruitt. I sholy hate to see that, though. And I know Hester ‘nem ain’t too happy about it.”

  Mother Alderson looked away from her reflection and gave me a sympathetic grin. I grinned back and then looked down at my feet, expecting to see a pool of urine form around them if Mother Marlaine Cook didn’t hurry up and get out of that stall. They had been talking about Paul, I knew, and I wanted to jump in with my two cents’ worth, but it didn’t seem the right thing to do. At least not in church, anyway. Maybe, somewhere out with Peaches or in the car, I could say all the things I felt. But not in church.

  I thought about Emily as I traveled home. She was a child, now, but what would she be like when she grew up? Would she still hug black people? Would she still accept a black man kissing her on the cheek, or would she be one of those white girls who would tell the principal when a black boy expressed an interest in her? Would she like black boys? Would she follow her mother’s example and date or marry a black man?

  I wondered next how Emily’s father must have felt about a black man kissing his daughter. Hmm. I betcha it would burn him up that his little angel was in the company of a black man. He’d probably sue for custody.

  Chapter 6

  Daddy had his reservations about letting me join the debate team, let alone going off t
o competition with them. “How many black kids do they have on the team?”

  “None. I’m gonna be the first.”

  “Hmm.” He’d rubbed his chin with his thumb and reread the permission slip I’d given him.

  I sat across from him at the kitchen table, waiting for the verdict. Beneath the surface, I crossed my fingers and forced my fret to stay still.

  “Well, I guess you can sign up. There’s bound to be some more black kids who’ll want to get on this debate team in the future. It’s important that you open the door—but don’t forget your way back out! And keep lookin’ over your shoulder, that’s for sure. White people get real crazy when it comes to competition.”

  I rode with Amy Baltensperger and Judith Pinchowski to the movie theater following our debate team’s victory at Marley High School. We’d worked together long and hard on our arguments and impromptu chemistry, bringing in the crucial points that led to our team’s first-place trophy.

  “LaShondra, you were awesome,” Amy complimented me, her braces shining like flashlights in the front seat. “When they called our name for first place, I was like, shoot yeah, thanks to LaShondra. Nobody from those other schools knew we had someone new on our team. You’re like our secret weapon.”

  Secret weapon. I liked the way it rang, but didn’t know if I liked the connotation. Nonetheless, we’d won the tournament, and these two were my teammates.

  “Did you see the scores the judges gave us?” Judith asked. “I mean, I swear, they were so high I was freakin’ out.” She went on and on about how great it was that we were a team, especially since we were all juniors. “Next year, we will dominate!”

  Judith pulled into the theater parking lot and took a space next to her boyfriend Daniel’s car. Daniel worked in the theater’s box office and had promised to get tickets for Judith and her friends after the competition. They bounced out of the car. Try as I might, I could not match their enthusiasm.