Boaz Brown

by Stimpson, Michelle

  “Yeah, we’re okay,” I said.

  “Girl, please,” Peaches added, “you know it’s gonna take more than a white man—”

  I cleared my throat.

  “Any man to break us apart.”

  “So what, we can’t talk about your man?” Deniessa looked me up and down. “Bad as you all talked about my man last time—uh uh. We will not discriminate.”

  We followed Deniessa past the formal living room to the kitchen. The place was full of AKA paraphernalia: plaques, pictures, and ivy plants lined her walls.

  “Girl, you’ve got this looking like an AKA shrine up in here. No wonder Jamal didn’t want to stay,” Peaches teased her.

  “Anyway!”

  We gathered in the kitchen to prepare dinner: baked chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, and corn. Peaches huddled into her corner to make her secret Caesar salad to go along with the meal. While the food baked and simmered, we propped ourselves up on the bar counter and watched Tyler Perry’s play Diary of a Mad Black Woman. Peaches turned the volume sky high, which caused us to talk even louder.

  Peaches filled us in on the latest between her and Quinn. She said that she would soon let him meet Eric. “So I guess this means things are serious,” I suggested.

  “I think it’s about that time,” she confirmed. Obviously, I had been missing out on her life.

  “Speaking of serious, let me take my turn.” Deniessa reached into the basket of fake fruit on top of the counter and pulled out a box. She opened it and announced, “Jamal asked me to marry him.”

  “Pa-dow!” Peaches screamed. We towered over the velvet box to examine the ring. The band was combed platinum, with a clear, sparkling solitaire in the center. “This ring ain’t playin’. Why you keepin’ it in a box?”

  “I’ve decided that I’m going to pray about this.” She slid the ring on and wiggled her fingers. “Maybe he just asked me to marry him because his fresh supply of sex and housekeeping was suddenly cut off. I sayin’, how come he couldn’t pop the question before now?”

  “‘Cause he was gettin’ the milk for free, hello?” I said.

  “I understand that.” She nodded and pushed a loose braid behind her ear. “But is that all I’m good for? He knew I wanted to get married three years ago. Why couldn’t he see I was a good woman while we were living together? I’m still the same person I was before.”

  “No, you’re not,” Peaches corrected her. “You’re a different woman altogether. He now understands that you are not ‘free.’ The problem was, you sold yourself cheap, girlfriend. If you wanted Jamal to take you seriously, you shouldn’t have ever let that joker move in.”

  “Well, your decision to pray and seek God for guidance is the best thing. You will definitely get the right answer if you go to Him,” I told her.

  “I have you two to thank for that,” she said. “The last time we met, I really started thinking about how far I’ve gotten from God and church and everything I know is right. You two reminded me, I need to get back to the Word of God. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.”

  “Well, praise God,” Peaches smiled.

  “As for this ring, I think I’ll let him sweat it out a little longer.” She removed the ring from her finger and put it back in the box.

  Peaches put her hand over my mouth and said to Deniessa, “In the meanwhile, Quinn has a cousin named Mark—”

  “No!” I struggled between screaming and laughter.

  I asked Deniessa and Peaches to pray for me as I returned to school. “I have a meeting with the personnel director.”

  “What does this mean, exactly?” Deniessa asked.

  “It means they’re probably going to conduct an investigation.” I rolled my eyes. “Just more mayhem for me.”

  “Did you call the attorney like I told you to?” Peaches asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “You got all your Is dotted and Ts crossed?”

  “Yep. My documentation is tight,” I was glad to say.

  “Then hold on tight and stay on your knees, girlfriend. God’s gonna bring you out of this.” Peaches put her hand on my right shoulder, and Deniessa placed hers on my left. We touched and agreed that God would see me through.

  Chapter 15

  My first year of teaching, I taught in one of the more affluent white neighborhoods of Plainview. I didn’t make nearly as much as my students’ parents, but I wasn’t about to go down as the broke black teacher on staff. I did everything I could to acclimate to my surroundings while staying true to my heritage. I was determined: those little white kids in my class would leave knowing that black people were human beings.

  One of our lessons that year involved career investigation. I planned an interesting unit, with research activities and an actual lesson in budgeting that fascinated those little seventh- graders.

  I should have known that we were playing on two different levels when several students raised their hands and asked what “layaway” was during our conversation about making purchases.

  As I began to explain the concept of layaway and how it was available at major chains like Wal-Mart, one student blurted out, “What do you mean, not have enough money to buy something?” The concept was foreign to her. She explained that she had been told she couldn’t have things because she hadn’t earned them or because she was too young, but she’d never been told that she couldn’t have something because her family couldn’t afford it.

  Things came to screeching halt when I overheard a conversation between two boys in the computer lab.

  “You’ve got to be pretty stupid not to be able to afford the stuff at Wal-Mart,” one of them said.

  “Yeah—like a moron,” the other agreed.

  Okay, little Richie Riches, not everybody lives in a half million-dollar house with a three-car garage and a pool out back.

  I vowed then and there that Jason and Bryan might have it made at home, but they would not have it easy in my classroom. They would get a taste of the real world, if I had any say in it. They would learn what it meant to work hard—maybe even harder than the rest of the kids—to earn their A’s. Little white snobs.

  * * * * *

  Dr. Hunt’s office boasted of her achievements, both educational and social. I learned, during my wait in her office, that she did her undergraduate work at Baylor University and her graduate work at Texas A&M University. She was the recipient of several civic awards, as well as an honorary board member for an adoption agency. There were several pictures of what appeared to be her family—husband, three adult children, and one huge picture of an infant draped in a soft white blanket. Behind her desk, on one of the bookshelves, there was a plaque that read:

  This is your pilot, God speaking. I will be handling all of your problems today. I do not need your advice on exactly how to do my job. There may be turbulence along the way, but do not worry. I control the wind. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the life.

  “Hello.”

  Startled by Dr. Hunt’s silent entrance, I jumped a little. This prospect of investigation had my nerves on end. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, but just the thought. . . the process . . . the accusation . .

  “Hello.” I stood to greet her.

  She was a short, gray- haired white woman with piercing black eyes. Her round face gave mention of her Native American heritage somewhere down the line. I’d seen her only a few times in my career with Plainview. I’d heard that Dr. Hunt was retiring at the end of the school term—the contenders were already making their interests known in the district.

  Though her name was well known in our school system, I’d also heard that Dr. Hunt was not a people person, that she was brusque and impersonal. Still, I’d always wondered, how do you get to be the executive director of personnel if you don’t know how to deal with people? If she was anything like Peaches, she came in, did her job, and left. She obviously led a life outside school. Maybe she was just one of those types who didn’t mix business with pleasure.

  I wat
ched her walk around her desk and sit down, hoping to pick up on her body language and get a feel for her attitude. To my dismay, she was also hard to read.

  “Miss Smith, as you know, we are planning to conduct an investigation into your administrative practices with the district.” She read from a paper as though she hadn’t given it much thought already.

  “What are the allegations?” I asked.

  “Let’s see here. One is that you routinely give lenient consequences to black students but enforce firm consequences with white students referred to your office. The second allegation is that you have shown favoritism in dealing with parents and students by prompting teachers to change grades for black students who fail, yet neglect to provide reasonable options for white students in the same predicament.

  “Miss Smith, is there anything you want to say before we begin the investigation?” She gave me that judge look, as though she was asking me to state my plea.

  The union adviser, Beth Lang, had instructed me to keep my mouth shut when I didn’t have an attorney present because I might talk too much. My best bet, according to Beth, was to wait until they produced specific evidence (assuming that they could) and then dispute the findings and evidence piece by piece if necessary. I followed her directions—to the best of my ability. “All I can tell you, Dr. Hunt, is that I am not racially biased toward my students.”

  She looked at me like, that’s it? I hoped that she wasn’t getting the wrong impression. I cared about my job and my career and, of course, my livelihood. I’d worked long and hard to earn the bachelor’s and master’s degree. But if all that could be taken away by a couple of good ol’ boys, it wasn’t worth much.

  “I mean, is there anything that you want to explain?” She restated the question.

  I wanted to blurt out everything—that Mr. Donovan and Mr. Butler were in cahoots to ruin my career. But I knew that once I started, there would be no stopping until I’d spilled every last bean. “No.”

  Dr. Hunt took off her glasses and looked at me for a while and then said, “I take it that you’ve been advised by counsel to remain silent.”

  “That’s correct,” I admitted.

  Then she got that friendly, woman-to-woman smirk on her face. “Wise decision, Miss Smith.”

  I wiped my palms on my slacks, eased a bit by her implicit support.

  Dr. Hunt put her glasses back on, wrote some notes, and flipped through her files for a few documents. Then she delivered the blow. “It is standard procedure to place principals on paid administrative leave while we investigate. During this time of suspension, you are to have no contact with school district personnel in regard to the allegations. You may not return to the campus except to collect personal belongings. Should you have a need to collect such personal belongings, you must contact your building principal so that he can arrange for district security officers to escort you on and off the premises as well as observe your actions while on campus.

  “All district properties, including your laptop and the data contained on your laptop, must remain on the premises. If you need to retrieve personal data from your computer, please make arrangements with personnel in the computer technology department.

  “Upon the completion of our investigation, you will be contacted for a summative conference. At that time, we will inform you of our findings and take necessary actions to resolve the case. Do you have any questions?”

  Beth had prepared me for the words “administrative leave.” But she hadn’t prepared me for the humiliation. My lips tightened, and I forced myself to hold back the tears. “How long do you think it will take to conduct the investigation?”

  “It will probably take two to three weeks.” She sighed sympathetically and took her glasses off again. “Miss Smith, please be assured that we will conduct a full and thorough investigation. I’ll contact you as soon as we have completed our inquiry.”

  I pushed myself up from the seat and forced my hand to swing forward and meet hers. “I look forward to hearing from you soon, Dr. Hunt.”

  I walked out of the building and to the little Honda that I still owed nineteen payments on. What if lose my job? As I buckled the seat belt, I allowed myself the release of emotions I’d suppressed in Dr. Hunt’s office. Administrative leave. Suspension. I knew in my head that the battle had already been won, but I still felt defeated. Mr. Butler and Mr. Donovan were probably somewhere laughing it up while I sat alone, slumped over my steering wheel, crying my eyes out.

  Despite all the sermons I’d heard about hating the enemy and not the person, I came as close to hating Mr. Butler and Mr. Donovan as I could fathom. When the enemy has a face, it’s harder to see past the person. But I had to, or there was no telling what I might do when I went back onto that campus to get my things. Better yet, I decided to go on home. I’d completely backed up my computer on zip disks that were already in my possession. And I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Mr. Butler’s sinister smile.

  Father, You said that You would never leave me or forsake me. Right now, all I have to stand on is Your Word. Thank You for those promises, and give me the strength to make it through this. In Jesus’ name, amen.

  I called Peaches and gave her the news. She was a tower of steel. “Okay, Shondra, this is not the end of the world. People go out on administrative leave every day.”

  “No, they don’t!” I fussed, convinced that she was simply pacifying my anger.

  “How would you know?” she asked.

  “I . . . I…”

  “That’s my point,” she said forcefully. “You don’t work in H-R. You have no idea how often this kind of thing happens. Believe me, it’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. You have to keep your head up and keep your knees bent in prayer, Shondra. Let those people conduct their little investigation; they’ll come up with nothing, and you’ll be back to work in no time.”

  “But what about my professional reputation, Peaches? Once I’m accused, I might as well be guilty. I don’t want to live behind a shroud of suspicion.” It was nice to have someone to whine to, even if she wasn’t going to join in on my pity party.

  “First of all, neither your colleagues nor your superiors are at liberty to discuss this investigation with anyone, other than to gather evidence. If they do, they’re liable for everything from obstructing an investigation to slander— and you will sue the pants off of them.

  “Secondly, you are not responsible for other people’s misconceptions. If there’s one thing God has done to prepare you for this, it has been this relationship you have with Stelson. You’re not allowing other people’s thoughts to dictate what you will do or how you feel about yourself. Girlfriend, you are growing up! What are you now—thirty-five?”

  “Thirty-one,” I corrected her. I wasn’t in a joking mood.

  “Whatever. Look, people are falsely accused all the time. Anybody with half a brain knows that just because someone points the finger your way doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. You cannot let these white people—I mean, these people at your job—have your mind.”

  “I know better.” I sniffled and wiped my nose.

  “All right, then, act like it,” she commanded.

  “You want to do lunch?”

  “Well . . .” She hesitated. “I’m meeting Quinn. But I could cancel it—”

  “No, no. Don’t do that.” I knew Peaches. If she’d really wanted to cancel it, she wouldn’t have mentioned it. Besides, what I desperately needed was some quiet time alone with my Father.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ll catch up with you later. Remember, I’m on administrative leave. I’ve got two to three weeks off now.” I gave her a laugh to ease her conscience.

  “Don’t worry, Shondra. It’s going to be all right.”

  “Thank you, girl. You sure know how to give a sister a swift kick on the backside.”

  “Hey, that’s my job. Always ready to kick butt!”

  My house seemed different in the mid
dle of a weekday— when every able-bodied adult was out working. The sun’s light streamed through every window, and except for the gardeners performing their morning rituals, it was unusually silent. I rarely took off a day from work. When I did, it was to keep an appointment or attend some event that carried me away from the house for most of the day. During my two-week summer vacation, there was always the sound of children at play up and down the streets. But not now. This weekday silence was unnatural.

  There were three voices vying for my attention: one saying that I needed to go on to my prayer room, stay positive, and keep focused on God; another telling me that I needed to get busy thinking of a master plan to get even with Mr. Butler, with his old funky self. The third one told me to go curl up on my bed and have a good cry while eating an entire package of Mrs. Baird’s cinnamon rolls. I had a tough choice to make, since each idea did have a certain charm about it.

  I kicked my shoes off at the sofa, took my jacket off and hung it on the coat rack, dropped my purse on the kitchen counter, and headed to the prayer room, consciously choosing to obey the voice I knew was right. With every step in the right direction, I felt stronger. I felt the power of submission to His will, the surety of His sovereignty. He gave me that, even as I fell to my knees in brokenness.

  Stelson called me later that afternoon. “I tried to get you at work today, but they said you were out. Are you not feeling well?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’m out on administrative leave.” I then explained the situation to him.

  “Don’t worry. If you stay in any business long enough, this kind of thing comes up.” He brushed it off.

  “So, you’ve been falsely accused?”

  “They say the first lawsuit is the worst,” he laughed. “It’s always intimidating when someone accuses you of something you didn’t do. The first time it happened to us, a former employee threatened to take Brown-Cooper to patent court.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, the first step was to conduct an internal investigation. I can tell you the rest over dinner, but it’ll have to be Wednesday night after church. I’m all tied up for the next few days,” he said.