Boaz Brown

by Stimpson, Michelle

  We talked a little more about my job as an administrator and his company’s expansion before I looked at my watch and discovered that I was going to be late getting back to the school.

  “Oh,” I excused myself, “I’m sorry, Stelson, I’ve really got to go.”

  “It was really nice talking to you,” he said. An ambiguous moment passed, with the clink of dishes and silverware the only noise to be heard. Then he blurted out, “I’d love to see you again.”

  “Oh.. .“ I looked around the room for something to say. “You’ve got my number?”

  “I’ve got your office number,” he hinted.

  “Okay,” I chirped, clutching my purse and standing. I’m not about to give no white man my personal information so he can come serial-kill me.

  He stood, too. “I’ll walk you to your car.” We faced each other at the end of our booth. I noticed just then that he was a good five or six inches taller than me.

  “Oh, stay,” I told him. “You’re not finished eating.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to your car?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head. “Go ahead and finish.”

  “Okay,” he relented. He took my hands gently, leaned my way, and then planted an innocent kiss on my cheek. You know, one of those friendly kisses that white people do on TV, the ones that always serve as the precursor for the man to run off with the wife’s best friend, that kind of mess. “Thanks again for joining me.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, LaShondra.”

  ‘When I got in the car, I called Miss Jan to let her know that I was on my way back in.

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  I chose my words carefully. “Just fine.”

  “Okay.. .“ She must have been hoping for more information. “I. . . I guess I’ll see you when you get back.”

  Driving back to school, I thought about the lunch with Stelson. Little things he did flashed through my mind: holding the door open for me, refusing to let Dunley sit between us, praying before we ate, and the respectful way that he treated me. He was very nice. Well, actually, nice wasn’t the word for it. Anybody can be nice. Stelson was kind. Kindness is something that comes from the inside.

  Miss Jan gave me my messages and tried to pick me about the lunch with Stelson. “So, did you have a good time?”

  “I had a salad, Miss Jan.” I gave her a fake smile and blinked my eyes a few times.

  “Okay, okay.” Then she asked, “Is he married?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Jan. We didn’t discuss that.”

  “Everybody wants to know.” She followed me into my office.

  “It was a lunch, Miss Jan. That’s all there was to it. Mr. Brown is very nice; he enjoyed himself with the kids today. . . What else do you want me to say?”

  “Was it business or pleasure?”

  “Strictly business.”

  “He didn’t look like business when he asked to speak to you personally,” she said, implying.

  “Well, I don’t know what it was on his part, but it was business on my part. Keep his number so that we can call on him again for next year’s career fair.

  “Did you get a chance to contact Mr. and Mrs. Shuling about Melissa Shuling’s absences?” I changed the subject abruptly.

  Truth was, I liked Miss Jan. But there were times when she got on my nerves, always wanting to talk about irrelevant stuff like recipes and gardening secrets. She was always telling me how much she wished her hair was like “ours” because we can do so many things with “our” hair.

  But when I practically pushed her out of my office that day, I felt a twinge of remorse. In my heart of hearts, I knew that Miss Jan never meant any harm by the things she said. And she only told me about recipes and gardening secrets because that was a part of her life that she was trying to share with me. I opened my office door once again and hung my head out.

  “Yes?” she stopped working and asked softly. “Thanks for setting everything up this morning. The career fair went very smoothly,” I said.

  “Oh, you’re welcome.” She beamed.

  “And my lunch with Mr. Brown was just fine. He asked to see me again.”

  “I knew it!”

  “But don’t get your hopes up. He’s not my type.”

  Chapter 8

  Someone came up with a plan to celebrate Juneteenth in the community, and the Purity class of Gethsemane Church of God in Christ was called into action. Year after year we marched down Main Street in the hot sun wearing our African colors, with maybe an American flag or two somewhere in the background, celebrating the announcement of slavery’s end in Texas. Even Daddy came out to support the annual Juneteenth celebration. The keynote speaker changed every year, and this particular year it was our pastor’s turn to deliver a call to the community: we need more unity and progress.

  “Juneteenth,” he said, “is a great time of reflection for us as black people and as Christians. It’s a time for us to sing both ‘Look Where He Brought Me From’ and ‘We Shall Overcome.’ For as much as we have overcome, there is just as much to conquer. But rest assured that by the power of God, we have the victory!”

  The crowd spent what little energy we had left and applauded my pastor. At times like these, there was an unmistakable quality about blackness and religion: that somehow, because of the African-Americans’ plight, Jesus belonged to us just a little more than to anybody else. We had been right, and they had been wrong, and righteousness ultimately prevailed—as it always did for those who were on the Lord’s side.

  I heard those messages, from church and home, and formed a sort of black vs. white, good vs. evil battle in my head. As circumstances and situations ran through my life, they were sure to sift through the black-white filter. My world didn’t revolve around it, of course, but it was present, ready to give its interpretation of any issue.

  * * * * *

  “Thank You, Lord!” I called out. “Thank You for another year!”

  It was my birthday, and I felt especially blessed. I made my way to my prayer closet, still making a joyful noise. Once inside, I shut the door and got down on my knees. I praised Him freely, with my arms raised high and tears marking fresh trails down my cheeks. My life flashed before my eyes: the time I almost hit a bus head-on, the fibroid I’d had removed from my uterus, the nights that I should have been at church but I was at the club—all that time I was running from the Lord and He’d still been watching over me. He’d still sent an angel to keep me even when I didn’t want to be kept. And He’d completely forgiven me despite all the things I’d willingly done against Him.

  “Yes, Lord!” I’d called out. “Yes, Lord! Yet will I serve You, Lord!”

  I finally got to a sitting position to read the Word and speak the Scriptures of deliverance that God had given me. I found the next page in a women’s devotional that I read weekly. The day’s verses were Proverbs 31:26: She opens her mouth in skillful and Godly wisdom, and on her tongue is the law of kindness. And Psalms 141:3: Set a guard over my mouth, O Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips.

  It had been a while since I’d read either of those verses, and for some reason they touched me in a different way. I repeated the verses several times, letting them sink into my soul. My heart was full of expectation. The feeling of victory was so tangible I could hardly contain myself. God had been so good to me!

  By the time I came out of my prayer closet, I felt as if I’d been to the mountaintop and seen glory with my own eyes. It was at times like those that I didn’t care what was going on outside my closet. Satan himself could have been waiting to take my life once I walked out of that room, and I wouldn’t have flinched. That would just be all the sooner I could see Jesus face to face. Sometimes I longed for my heavenly home, to be physically present with God and leave the cares of this world behind. Can I get a witness?

  I greeted Miss Jan with a big smile: “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Miss Smith. H
ow are you today?” She matched my enthusiasm.

  “Great!”

  I waded through data and documents and students’ files and teacher absentee forms that morning. Nothing too stressful, just stuff that I’d saved for a rainy day. Since it was my birthday, I kept my calendar clear. The staff usually did something for me at some point during the day as part of the tradition.

  Just after eleven, a small crowd gathered outside my interior window. I peeked through the blinds and saw Mrs. Harmon’s gospel chorus assembling along with Mr. Matthews and Mrs. Turner (sixth- and eighth-grade principals) and a few other teachers who were on conference.

  “Get away from there!” Miss Jan scolded me. “This is supposed to be a surprise!”

  I ran back to my inner office and waited with anticipation.

  After the students were assembled, Miss Jan walked into my office and said with flair, “Ms. Smith, could you please come with me?”

  The students were perfectly silent as they waited for the magic moment.

  “Surprise!” they screamed. “Happy Birthday, Miss Smith!”

  I put my hands up to my mouth and held my breath. “Thank you, guys!” Even though it wasn’t a surprise, it still felt good.

  They sang Stevie Wonder’s version of “Happy Birthday,” and I swayed with them, acting as young as they were. It probably wasn’t what a vice principal was supposed to do, but I raised my hands in the air and swayed to the music. Mrs. Harmon almost knocked me over with a deliberate whack of her hips. She did it twice before I gave in to her cheerful persuasion and joined her in the bump. All the kids got a big kick out of it. Being in their midst reminded me how much I missed their youthful energy and the direct influence of being a classroom teacher. I hugged several kids and thanked them again for the serenade.

  “Girl, you so crazy,” Mrs. Harmon said in a whisper. “You know we have absolutely no business out here doin’ the bump with all these white people around.”

  “Please . . .“ I waved my hand. “If they haven’t seen us dancin’ by now, they have other, more pertinent childhood issues that need to be resolved.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone on the second- floor balcony move. It was Mr. Butler. He’d obviously been watching the celebration but hadn’t come to participate. Mrs. Harmon saw him, too.

  “Don’t look now,” she said.

  “I already saw him,” I snickered. “He’ll get over it. Nobody said anything when all those teachers got sloppy drunk at his birthday party last year. They did a whole lot more than just the bump!”

  “Ooh! You need to quit!” She smiled.

  “Thanks for bringing the kids to sing to me,” I told her again. “You have really blessed me today.”

  “Any time, my sister!”

  I truly liked Mrs. Harmon. Her natural Afro and earth- tone makeup complemented her down-to-earth, genuinely good attitude. She was dedicated to her work and her students. I never knew that a music teacher could squeeze standardized test material into her curriculum, but she did. I wished that I could spend more time with Mrs. Harmon, but her life was far too busy. She was a newlywed, new to Texas, and they had a brand-new baby. Somehow, she still gave those kids her all. I was glad to have her on our staff.

  When we interviewed for new teachers in the spring, I tried to snatch up as many black teachers as possible. Mr. Butler didn’t seem too happy about that. Yes, I know I have to try to pick the best person for the job, but when you’re hiring new teachers, you don’t know who’s good and who’s not. Grades and certificates don’t tell you who can actually convey his or her knowledge while managing the classroom. With the teacher turnover rate as high as it was in our district and across the state, I figured it couldn’t do any harm to give a brother or a sister a chance. Maybe I was right; maybe I was wrong—I didn’t give it much thought.

  I took Miss Jan up on her offer to treat me to Chinese food for lunch. She ordered, and we spent the lunch hour in my office talking about my thirty-first birthday. Though everyone referred to my secretary as “Miss Jan,” she had been married for more than twenty years. She was forty- five and didn’t look a day over thirty-eight. “I hope I look as good as you when I get forty-five,” I often told her. I could be nice to Miss Jan—when I wanted to.

  “Well, if it weren’t for your business suits, I’d think you were one of the kids,” she said. “You’re gonna look great at forty-five.”

  The residue of my morning worship was still on me, so I made an effort to squeeze in a little casual witnessing during the lunch hour, telling Miss Jan how thankful I was that God had blessed me with such a rich, full life.

  She sat quietly, smiled, and nodded her head as she always did. Her brown hair was interrupted here and there by strands of gold and red: her highlights caught the glare from the overhead illumination perfectly. The telltale signs of aging were in their infancy: thinning lips, crow’s-feet near her eyes. Her slightly tanned skin was just the slightest bit loose on her arms and neck. Were it not for her clothing, I would have given her the thumbs-up for presentation. But the one-piece clown suits and ruffled collars gave her away. Miss Jan was stuck in the eighties from the neck down.

  I stuffed my mouth with food, allowing Miss Jan the opportunity to say something.

  “Your life is so great,” she said, looking down. “You’ve got everything already, and you’re not even forty.”

  “Hey,” I said to her, “your life looks pretty good to me, too. You’ve got two great teenage girls, your husband adores you, and you only work because you’d be bored at home.”

  “Well . . .“ she smiled, still looking down. “I’d trade places with you in a minute. I mean, my life is more than halfway over, and I really haven’t done anything with it, you know? Let me ask you: how did you know what you were supposed to be doing? And how do you get past the fear of failure and just go out and do things? I’ve seen you do so much stuff here—things that people had been saying they were going to do but never got done. You just came in and did it without ever looking back. It’s like—you’re so amazing.”

  Her eyes were big with awe, and I knew that she meant well, but I was a little agitated. What did she think I was supposed to be doing? Sitting up somewhere on welfare with five kids and five different babies’ daddies? But I wouldn’t go there. Instead of telling her what I wasn’t, I’d tell her Who is.

  “Well,” I said, slowly, “the key, Miss Jan, is in a real relationship with God. When I gave Him full control, He also assumed full responsibility for me. After all, I am His child. Whatever success I have, whatever trial I have, whatever comes my way, God gets the glory out of it.”

  “Wow!” She smiled again. “I hope my girls grow up to be as strong in their faith as you are. You know, Christina asks about you all the time.”

  Little did Miss Jan know, she’d just twisted my stomach in knots and caused the Spirit’s warning bells to go off. I took another huge bite of sweet-and-sour chicken and washed it down with remorse. I had taken something as simple as a compliment and turned it into a racial incident that quickly in my head. Regardless of the root of Miss Jan’s comment, there was no malice in her accolades. Quit trippin’, Shondra. Get a grip.

  Mr. Butler called an after-school faculty meeting to discuss end-of-semester disciplinary issues that had been simmering on campus. Afterward, he asked to see me. I met him in his office and immediately sensed that he was up to no good. He closed the door behind me and took a seat.

  “There is still the matter of the Donovan girl and your disciplinary strategies, Miss Smith,” he said in long-drawn-out words.

  “Is there something I should know, Mr. Butler?”

  “They have contacted the board, and I’m sure the board will be getting in touch with you in turn.” He was close to smiling.

  “I’ve been in contact with my legal advisers,” I said. He wanted to know more, but I wasn’t about to lay all my cards on the table. I walked out of there as if I had a full house—whatever that is.


  Miss Jan was still at her desk long past four o’clock. “Working late today, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah. . .“ She smiled and faced me. “I decided to stay and finish up some things. Christina’s got a late basketball practice today. I thought I might as well hang out here instead of going all the way home and have to get back out again to pick her up.

  “By the way, Stelson Brown called for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Brown. From the career fair.”

  “Oh, did he say what he wanted?” I took the yellow message slip from her.

  She batted her eyelashes. “Obviously, he wants to talk to you, missy.”

  “Just take a message the next time he calls,” I said.

  Miss Jan was never good at following directions. When Stelson dropped by the next day, she led him right to my office, with very little notice.

  “Miss Smith, hi! How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Brown. And you?” I shook his hand at the door to my office. He looked different underneath the bright lights of my office. He hadn’t been in the sun lately; that was for sure. But even though his skin was about the business of returning to its natural shade, he was still handsome.

  “Great.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “Well, I was doing some work in this area, and I decided to stop by and ask. . . . I was wondering if we could get together again.”

  I invited him into the office and closed the door quietly to save him the embarrassment. “Mr. Brown, I . . . I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” “Would it be too much to ask why?” he probed gently.

  I put my head down and hung my hand on the back of my neck. To be truthful or to be rude? I at least owed him an honest answer. “Mr. Brown, I don’t know what you’re going to make of this. I think that you’re a nice, friendly person, and this is all very flattering, but I’m attracted to African-American men.”