Boaz Brown
Page 7
Their bubbly personalities could be observed from the flouncing of their spiral curls to the spring in their steps. I didn’t have anything against being friendly, but Judith and Amy took it to another level. I couldn’t help but hope that next year there would be other black students on the team.
We approached Daniel’s booth, and Amy happily informed him of our victory. “First place!”
“Cool!” he said. And then he saw me. “Who’s she?”
“Oh, babe, this is my friend LaShondra. She’s on our team.” Judith introduced us.
His eyes traveled my body in disgust. “I don’t have a ticket for her.”
“Daniel. . . “Judith looked at me and then back at him. “I thought you said you could have as many as—”
“Not for coons,” he said.
“Oh, my God, Daniel! I don’t believe you just said that!” Amy shrieked.
“I don’t have a ticket for her,” he repeated, and smiled, swinging his brown hair away from his eyelashes. He refused to look at me and spoke as though I weren’t standing right there in his face.
I have replayed that instant a million times, thinking about what I should have said or done at that precise moment. How I should have spoken up for myself. How I should have approached that window as though I were going to purchase a ticket and then reached through that hole in the glass and popped him dead in his face. But I didn’t. I just stood there, frozen by his verbal ambush.
Judith and Amy apologized the whole way home for Daniel’s behavior. “I can’t believe he said that, “Judith kept saying.
Amy kept shaking her head. “I didn’t know Daniel was like that.”
When they dropped me off I faintly waved good-bye and went to my bedroom. I cried with anger and disbelief. Somebody actually called me a coon? In the ‘80s?
The only thing that made me angrier was to learn that Amy and Judith had gone back to the theater later and watched the movie using Daniel’s free tickets.
I never signed up for debate again.
* * * * *
I was ready to go back to work after the long weekend. I woke and spent a good half hour in prayer and meditation before beginning the week. Following prayer, the rush was on—shower, brush my teeth, do my hair, put on a dab of makeup, and eat a bowl of cereal if I had time. For a single person with no kids, I should have had the morning thing down pat.
Nevertheless, I left seven minutes later than I wanted to.
I listened to a compilation of greatest gospel hits as I drove in to work, but my mind was far from the familiar tunes that came across the speakers. Rather, I was consumed in thought about the previous weekend.
Since Saturday night, I had been perturbed about this race thing. I could feel myself sliding, albeit minimally—a gradual distancing from my Father. I felt it, much the same way you feel a void when a friend has moved out of town. Perhaps it’s not so bad the first day or the second day. But as time goes on, you miss that person, begin to know how much their presence meant to you. I knew then that God meant business about what He’d shown me in Galatians.
I wondered how, if ever, I could see past a white person’s skin. How do you see someone and not see what color they are? I knew, theoretically and morally, that labeling people was wrong and there was always an exception to the stereotype. I didn’t appreciate being stereotyped any more than the next person. But it was a fact—a reality of life in twenty- first-century America. I wasn’t as adamant about things as Daddy, but I did believe in Blackness, in unity, and in the power of our solidarity.
An even greater question was whether I wanted to start dealing with white people beyond casual and professional acquaintanceships. Miss Jan, my secretary, was okay, and most of the white people on staff were fine. I cared deeply for every student on the campus, regardless of race. Bottom line, I did love everybody. Don’t I? I mean, I wouldn’t kill or hurt someone just because they were white or Hispanic, and I didn’t wish anyone any harm.
Still, I knew Father well enough to understand that He wasn’t talking about the cordiality most of the population extends to every other human on the planet. He was after my heart.
“It’s just a matter of time, LaShondra,” I said to myself, breathing in and then exhaling until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I had no idea what I was getting myself into, but experience had shown me that the best thing to do when convicted by the Word is to surrender. “Okay, Father. I submit to Your will.”
Well, the devil always gets extra busy when you start breaking down a stronghold. Can I get a witness? He met me bright and early when I walked into my office.
“Ms. Smith, the Donovans are waiting for you in your office,” Miss Jan forewarned me.
“Why didn’t you have them wait out here?” I asked her.
“They insisted on waiting inside,” she said with her head down.
Mental note: Miss Jan needs to attend a workshop on assertiveness.
“Good morning,” I said to Mrs. Donovan, and held my hand out to greet both her and Mr. Donovan. Neither of them shook my hand. How rude.
Mrs. Donovan sat upright in her chair, legs crossed at the knee, exposing her six-inch heels in their entirety. Mr. Donovan was stony in his dark suit and personalized cuff links. She had a little too much bosom to be natural, and his hairline was unnaturally straight—both evidence of how money can attempt retard the aging process.
I put my things down and sat behind my desk. The details of Katelyn Donovan’s issue were still fresh in my mind: state law mandated that if a student failed a course for the six weeks, he or she was ineligible to participate in any extracurricular activities.
Mr. Donovan started on his spiel about poor Katelyn and how she’d really learned her lesson and didn’t need to be suspended from extracurricular activities.
When he seemed to be at a stopping point, I told him blankly, “Mr. Donovan, when I spoke with your wife last week, I explained to her that our state does not allow for a student to turn in late work beyond the end of a six-weeks period unless there are extenuating circumstances such as illness or a need to travel out of town for a funeral—things of that nature.”
“I’m asking you to make an exception for Katelyn,” he said with no hesitation.
“On what basis?” I asked.
“On the basis that I’m telling you to,” he said. His jaw flinched, and his lips pulled in tighter.
My neck must have done a flip, because all of a sudden Mr. Donovan looked as if he was sideways to me. “Excuse me?”
“Miss Smith,” Mrs. Donovan added, “we are very well connected people within this school district and this city. If you value your professional reputation and your paycheck, it would be in your best interest to allow Katelyn to continue to practice and compete.
“I can assure you she will make up any work or do whatever she needs to do to bring up her failing grade. We’re not asking you to let her off the hook with no repercussions—she will make up the work.”
“It’s too late to make up the work. The grading period is over,” I told her without the least bit of fear or trembling in my voice. “And I will not be threatened into defying the orders of the state of Texas.”
“You would do it for a black kid, wouldn’t you?” Mr. Donovan asked me.
“I’m afraid this meeting is over.” I stood up.
“Not quite.” Mr. Donovan remained in his seat. “Chauncey Sarrington, in Ms. Ashton’s class. You made Ms. Ashton change Chauncey’s grade. Those were her very words. You do have the power, Ms. Smith.”
“I do not have to answer to you for the actions I take as an administrator.” My hand flew to my hip, but I caught myself before the neck-work kicked in. “Mr. and Mrs. Donovan, I’m going to have to ask you to leave my office.”
Mr. Donovan stood and stormed past me, saying something to the effect that he would be making a call to the principal and the school board. His reddened jowls shook as he ground his feet into the floor with every step.
I felt almost sorry for her. She really thought her husband had power over people’s entire lives. I held my head up high, did one of those white- girl hair flips, and told her, with every intent to chase that spirit of fear right out of my room, “Mrs. Donovan, your husband does not possess the power to make me or to break me.”
The Mrs. Left without saying another word.
After I’d closed the door, I heard myself say, “Ooh, these white folks ain’t got the sense God gave a fly.” I was fuming mad. I let the neck roll as I replayed the scene. Who does he think he is, comin’ up in my office tryin’ to intimidate me with his money and influence? He is messin’ with the wrong black woman!
This situation had politics written all over it, and I was no stranger to the ins and outs of the game. I needed to have my behind covered both spiritually and professionally.
I calmed myself by pacing the room a bit and then watering my plants. I had been enamored of that office when I first moved in: cherry wood desk and shelves, leather chair with antique gold tacks in diagonal rows across the back. All the things that make an office an office. I’d done my best to make it serene by bringing in the plants, miniature waterfall, and crystal figurines. But none of that was working. The job was stressful, and I was feeling every ounce of it.
My plate had quickly filled itself. I took a seat at my desk and documented the meeting right away, then printed a hard copy of my notes for my records. Next, I thumbed through the master schedule to find out when little Ms. Ashton had her conference period. We needed to have a little talk.
Afterward, I quickly checked with Miss Jan about the arrangements for career day. She informed me that everything was set—except the engineer.
“What happened?”
“She canceled. That’s one of the messages I put on your desk.”
“Okay. See if you can schedule another engineer so the people in the math and science departments don’t feel underrepresented at the job fair.”
“Which firm?”
“I don’t care.”
“I mean, I thought we were trying to achieve a certain number of…well, I thought we were going for diversity.” She said it like it was a score.
“Right now I don’t care who you call, Miss Jan. Just pick the first one in the phone book.”
I closed the door to my office and made a call to my building principal’s private cellular phone. He was out of the building, but I knew he always kept his cell turned on.
“Mr. Butler, this is Miss Smith. I need to speak with you about a situation involving a student who failed a class and isn’t able to participate in sports.”
“Is it the Donovan girl?” he asked.
“Yes, as a matter of fact it is.”
“Donovan called me just a few minutes ago. You and I will need to sit down and discuss the circumstances of the situation.” He rushed me off the phone.
“Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
I knew then that they were on the same side.
“Ms. Smith?” Miss Jan poked her head into the door. “I’ve got the engineer on the phone.”
Why can’t she schedule this on her own? “Okay,” I told her. “Go ahead and transfer the call.”
“Hello, this is Miss Smith,” I said in my most professional tone, trying with all my might to hold back any hint of annoyance.
“Hi, Miss Smith, this is Stelson Brown.” Okay, this was a man with a super-dee-duper deep voice, but I couldn’t quite catch the race by his diction or voice quality. “Your secretary tells me that you’re in need of an engineer to present Thursday?”
“Yes, we are.” I lowered my voice an octave, hoping that he’d pick up on my blackness and then, perhaps, feed me a phrase or two to let me know that he was a brother. “We’re having a career fair, and we’re looking for presenters in the fields of math and science. I know it’s short notice, but if you could spare a few hours Thursday morning, we would greatly appreciate it.”
“Certainly,” he said cheerfully. “I’d be honored. Will you have a booth prepared, or should I need to bring my own kiosk?”
“We’ll have a booth ready for you,” I said. “Just bring a few brochures, flyers, and perhaps a model to display. Other than that, just be ready to answer students’ questions about your field as they come by.”
“Sounds great,” he said. I could tell that he was smiling, but I still couldn’t pick up on his ethnicity. “What time should I be there?”
“You can probably start setting up at around seven- thirty. We’ll be closing off the exhibit at noon.”
“Okay, I guess that’s everything I need to know,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, “I need the name of the firm that you represent, so I can put it on the bulletin.”
“It’s Brown-Cooper Engineering.”
“Brown-Cooper Engineering,” I repeated as I wrote it down. Was that Brown, as in Stelson Brown? “Okay, Mr. Brown. Thanks so much for being such a willing participant.”
“Thanks for having me,” he said. “I look forward to meeting you, Miss Smith.”
Not a hint. Mr. Brown would have to wait until Thursday.
Ms. Ashton came to my office at 10:30, as I’d requested. She pranced in there with her teacher clothes on (denim jumper with rulers, apples, numbers, and the alphabet embroidered across the bodice). She crossed her ankles and her arms to go along with her cross attitude. For a first-year teacher, she sure had a lot of nerve coming up in my office like she had her act together.
“Ms. Ashton, I’d like to speak with you about a serious matter that has recently come to my attention.” I weighed my words carefully as she sat across from me, her eyelashes fluttering. “This morning, a parent repeated some very confidential information about a student who was not his child.”
She shook her head, and her face remained expressionless as she lied through her teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her jaw tightened.
“Ms. Ashton, let me just get to the point here.” I put my pen down. “The Donovans came in this morning to speak with me about Katelyn’s failing grade. In the process, Mr. Donovan let me know that you discussed Chauncey Sarrington’s situation with him. You are aware that student confidentiality is paramount.”
“I was just stating the facts. I let him know that apparently grades can be changed under certain circumstances for certain people.” She shrugged, with her nose still in the air.
“Ms. Ashton, I thought we were clear on why I advised you to change Chauncey’s grade.” I ran down the list to refresh her failing memory. “First of all, Chauncey is a special education student, and you made no effort to make the modifications he needed. Secondly, you only took seven grades the whole six weeks, while district policy states teachers must record a minimum of twelve grades to average in a six-week period. Thirdly, you made no effort to contact Chauncey’s parents and let them know that he was performing unsuccessfully when it was apparent early on, according to your own calculations, that Chauncey was in danger of failing.
“And, for the record, I did not instruct you to change Chauncey’s grade. I advised you to do so. I made that recommendation to you to save your face, not Chauncey’s. Had you gone before the special education committee with your shoddy documentation, they would have eaten you for lunch, and they would have had a nice little note put in your personnel file. Did you tell the Donovans all that?”
She let out a loud, airy breath and checked her watch. “I’ve got a parent conference in five minutes.”
“Ms. Ashton,” I said calmly, “every student has the legal right to privacy. This is not what we expect of our teachers here at Plainview Middle School.”
She cut me off. “So what are you saying? Are you going to report this to somebody, or something?”
I took a deep breath. “I have to find out what is customarily done in circumstances such as these.”
“Uh…” She had that gag-me-with-a-spoon, Valley-girl look on her face. “This is not that big a deal.”
“The Donovans seemed to think so.” I gave her the look that cashiers give when they tell a customer that the card has been declined, complete with my closed lips rolled in between my teeth and my head cocked to the side. “They’re ready to use this confidential information to pursue their daughter’s case. If this quest gets very far, the source of their information—you—will inevitably be uncovered. And if I don’t reprimand you now, who knows? The school board may do so when they begin their investigation.”
I stopped for a moment and read her. She’d gotten the message, and she was afraid. She unfolded her arms and threw them helplessly over the sides of the chair.
“You didn’t think about all of this, did you, Ms. Ashton?”
“It’s not like I meant to tell them,” she said, “I was just angry about what happened with Chauncey, and…I don’t know what made me tell them all of that. Katelyn’s not even in my class, but for some reason Mr. Butler sent them to talk to me—”
“Mr. Butler told you to talk to them?”
It suddenly occurred to me that she was being used in all this.
“Yes, Miss Smith.” She looked around the room for a second and then established eye contact. “It was weird. Mr. Donovan came up to me and said something like ‘I understand that you know how a person’s grade can get changed around here,’ and I told them about Chauncey and what happened with his grade.”
The light went on in her head. “Oh, my gosh. How could I have been so stupid?”
For the record, I could neither deny nor confirm her suspicion. She balled one of her fists and used the other hand to grab the paperwork that she’d brought in with her. “Don’t worry, Miss Smith. This kind of thing won’t happen again.” She averted her eyes and dismissed herself from the office.