Boaz Brown

by Stimpson, Michelle

  “That’s a long time from now, Stelson.” I needed to see him.

  “Not really.” He kept me at bay. “You’ll probably need some time to conduct the internal investigation.”

  I bristled. “You think I did it, don’t you? You think I’ve been bias?”

  “No. I never said that.”

  “But you think that I could be wrong?” I quizzed him.

  “Anybody could be wrong, LaShondra.”

  I’d never been confronted so gently. I smacked my lips one good time. “Okay. Wednesday night. Your church or mine?”

  “I’d like to do mine. I probably won’t leave this place until late, as it is. By the time I pick you up at your house—”

  “You don’t have to do that. I can pick you up. Just email me the directions to your house,” I offered.

  Peaches invited me to a play at the local junior college Tuesday night. Quinn was directing a jazzy production of Hamlet. Eric sat next to me, yawning a few times and impatiently asking when the play would be over. He liked the lights and the scenery but grew bored with the plot. “Ooh, Momma! Here’s Mr. Quinn’s name!” Eric announced during the intermission.

  “Yes, baby. He’s the director—he makes sure that the actors are doing what they’re supposed to,” she explained.

  Eric’s eyes never moved past Quinn’s name on the program. Obviously, my godson had come to adore Quinn. He was quickly taking up space in their lives. Perhaps the space I occupied, once upon a time. I had to step aside, I guessed, to let them become a family, if that was God’s will.

  “Since when did Quinn get to be so artistic?” I whispered to Peaches as the cast and crew bowed at the end of the play.

  “This is his dream,” Peaches informed me as we clapped. “He wants to get into the entertainment industry.”

  “Well, at least he’s keeping his day job in the meanwhile.” I eyed her and held out my hand.

  “Amen.” She gave me five.

  After the last curtain, we waited for Quinn backstage. Eric was so excited to be on the wooden platform, I told Peaches that she had a star on her hands. “He is too happy to be on this stage,” I said, pulling him behind the curtain.

  Quinn grabbed Peaches by the waist and lifted her a few inches from the floor. “What did you think?”

  “It was great, baby.” She gave him a smack on the lips, and Quinn lowered her. They pulled Eric in and made a circle, sharing in Quinn’s successful debut. I waited for Peaches to call me into their little love world. She made the motion after Quinn released her.

  “I really enjoyed this production, Quinn,” I congratulated him, shaking his hand. “I can’t wait to see you on Broadway.”

  He lowered his head and smiled. “I’ve got a long way to go.”

  “Well, you have to start somewhere,” I encouraged him. “You just have to stick with your heart.”

  “Thanks.” He seemed reticent.

  Does he know I’m on administrative leave, or am I just paranoid?

  Later, as Quinn, Peaches, and Eric walked me to my car, Quinn apologized for the lateness of the hour. “I know we’ve all got to get up early tomorrow.”

  I went along with him. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be all right.”

  I stayed up late Tuesday night, watching television and reading. It wasn’t until almost one o’clock that I remembered what I was supposed to do before I saw Stelson Wednesday evening. Conduct an internal investigation. I wanted to get started, but I desperately needed sleep. I’ll do it tomorrow.

  I brought the investigation before God in prayer on Wednesday morning. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. I fired up my computer and printed out my notes, searching through my documentation for any errors in procedure or policy I could find. Statistically, they were right to think that I took harsher disciplinary action against white students. But that isn’t really true.

  I spent hours going through those files, pulling up records from my past two years as an administrator. Over and over again, the statistics showed a pattern on my part. Okay, they had a leg to stand on. But I had my reasons, too.

  Lord, what are you trying to teach me?

  By the time Stelson called for me to meet him, I was still stuck. I couldn’t wait to rack his brain with the evidence. And I couldn’t wait to see him again. I’d missed his company, his charisma. The smell of his cologne. Then, there was that certain quality about us that I couldn’t quite explain. Chemistry.

  I grabbed the printout of the map to Stelson’s house and proceeded to a well-hidden sector of eastern Dallas County. I’d heard of the outlet malls in Rockwell, but it always seemed too far out for me to use my gas getting there.

  Beyond the shopping center, which boasted of clearance prices on the hottest designer brands, the main street into Rockwell resumed its country charm. When I first saw Stelson, I thought he was a Lexus, vegetarian, party-all-night kind of guy. But now that I knew him and his testimony, I knew he’d already had his fling with the high-maintenance lifestyle.

  It was so dark out, I really couldn’t see much of his neighborhood. The houses were spaced a good half acre apart, with huge yards that probably required a drive to the mailbox. Stelson’s house was preceded by a wrought-iron gate, which he’d already opened for me.

  I pulled up into the circular driveway and took in Stelson’s home. It was a two-story, contemporary home with gorgeous landscaping. There was a grand column on the porch and a little bay window that I guessed was perfect for a kitchen nook. Off-white trim accented the deep-red brick exterior, giving the home a touch of classic charm. The house didn’t have a big country porch with a swing on it, but it certainly looked as though it belonged to Stelson— cozy and well kept.

  He was out the door before I had the chance to honk. “Hey,” he said, hopping into the front seat.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Did you have any problems getting here?” he asked.

  “No. The map was perfect.” I backed out of the driveway.

  His church wasn’t far from his home. We rushed into the sanctuary and joined in praise and worship. I knew enough of the members now to catch a few waves and winks across the pews. My feet started hurting, so I pressed them flat against the floor, yet worshiping God. Lord, I lift Your name above all others. For there is none like You.

  After the songs, one of the younger ministers read an Old Testament and a New Testament Scripture. The sermon followed immediately thereafter. Stelson and I shared a highlighter, placing emphasis on the message scriptures that spoke most clearly to us. For me it was Ecclesiastes 7:21—22: Do not pay attention to every word people say, or you may hear your servant cursing—for you know in your heart that many times you yourself have cursed others. At first glance, I so identified with verse 21. But I quickly became fixated with verse 22. I knew that I’d cursed others in thought and occasionally with my mouth. But in my heart?

  I wasn’t ready to brief Stelson on the internal investigation when he asked me about it at dinner. In a way, I was hoping he had forgotten about it. We ordered a trio of finger foods for an appetizer and muddled through the preliminaries without incident.

  “So, what have you come up with?”

  He remembered.

  “Well, I looked through all the files and, statistically, my practices are questionable,” I admitted. I went on, still searching for the words to convey my confusion. “I was prepared to justify my actions on the cases in question, but then I thought about some things tonight during the sermon.”

  “About the heart?” he asked.

  I jumped. “Yes—the heart. How did you know?”

  “When I spoke to you on Monday, I forgot to tell you that you always start with your key players in an internal investigation. You examine their motives, their strengths and weaknesses, and so on. All of those factors should be taken into consideration. People have their own agendas.

  “In our case, we were sued by a former employee for revenues earned by an invention he crafted wh
ile working at Brown-Cooper. Through the experience, we learned to express the distinction between company-owned inventions and the intellectual property of our employees. He had his agenda, and we had ours. So,” he pushed me, “what is it about the heart that struck you tonight?”

  “Look, I know what you’re getting at. Actually, the Holy Spirit and I already talked about this. I know that the bottom line with me is and always has been race.” I took a long sip of tea. “The hard part is knowing where to draw the line, Stelson. How do I keep my old self and gain this new self? Which one is better? Should I have to choose between being black and being like Jesus?”

  “You were His before you were black, LaShondra.”

  He’s right. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself before I was black—when God was ordering the steps of my life. Maybe back when He was piecing together my genealogy. He made me black for a reason, I was sure. But that blackness was never meant to override the calling He’d placed on my life.

  Still, there were issues.

  “The fact remains, Stelson, I don’t like the way the white teachers treat black students at our school.”

  “What have you done about it so far?” he asked.

  I sighed and plopped my arms down on the table. “I guess I’ve been subconsciously playing the role of the great equalizer, you know?”

  He gave an understanding nod.

  “It’s not so much the specifics of any one student’s case as it is the attitude I take in handling discipline procedures. I always come at it like it’s a race thing—and maybe it is, in some cases. I don’t know, Stelson. I am not going to enforce harsh punishments for stupid, silly stuff.

  “Problem is, white teachers and I rarely agree on what’s stupid and what’s serious.”

  “Why do you think that’s so?”

  “Number one, I think they’re scared of black kids. Maybe because of what they read or see on television—who knows?

  “Number two, they don’t understand our culture. They think that every time a black child gets loud, it’s disrespectful, but that’s not necessarily the case.

  “And number three, I think some of the stuff white kids do is just as bad but goes unreported because it’s not a big culture shock to them when a white kid cheats on a test. To me, cheating on a test is worse than carrying a pick in your back pocket. And to me, constantly bullying someone is worse than having a fight.”

  “Which brings us to the heart of the matter—that sometimes truth is relative,” he said.

  “Relative to what?” I asked.

  “Relative to perspective. Intentions. Interpretations.”

  “Therein lies the problem.”

  “What do you think can be done about the difference in perspective?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Stelson. I guess we all have to learn to negotiate differences instead of making judgments about them.” I smiled. “I think I got it.”

  The look in Stelson’s eyes had gone from professional to personal. He smiled, now, nodding as though I were still talking.

  “What?” I asked him.

  “You are so wonderful,” he said.

  “Stelson, I am not trying to hear that right now.” I sat back in my chair and folded my arms.

  “No, really.” He shook his head. “It takes a lot of courage to look at yourself in the mirror and evaluate your beliefs against God’s criteria. That’s challenging for anybody, no matter what their race or sex. It’s hard work, LaShondra. But you’ve submitted yourself to it.”

  “You are so positive, you know that?” I pursed my lips. “I bet you pop out of bed every morning like a Pop-Tart, don’t you?”

  I gave his hands a little squeeze, and to my surprise, he squeezed mine back. My heart rate flew up a notch with his unexpected gesture. Suddenly, my focus switched from my problems to the man in front of me. My eyes zeroed in on his lips as they came closer to me. I met him halfway, closed my eyes, and we kissed. The buzz was exhilarating.

  I’m gonna have to tell my parents about Stelson.

  I spent the next two and a half weeks in a crash course on love. Aside from tutoring on Wednesday nights with Stelson, and children’s church on Sunday, I pretty much stayed home undergoing this metamorphosis.

  I bought several books on humanity, prejudice, and God’s love. I also prayed and fasted a few days as I felt the Holy Spirit birthing me into this new level of love and consciousness.

  Stelson remained prayerful but gave me the space I needed to go through. We talked every day, even when he went to Michigan for a trade convention.

  Sometimes he’d call me in the middle of the day just to check on me. “I’m fine,” I’d say. It was nice to have somebody looking out for me.

  Dr. Hunt called me exactly three weeks after our initial meeting to schedule our second conference. In the meanwhile, I had a chance to talk with Beth Lang again. She told me that I needed to be ready to discuss the findings, and be willing to undergo some type of diversity or sensitivity training.

  Because the Holy Spirit had prepared me for their findings, the second conference was actually anticlimactic. I conceded that the statistical data was troubling and I needed to be more aware of how I handled discipline, including having conferences with teachers when there was a difference in interpretation of a student’s actions.

  “Dr. Hunt, do you think that maybe our campus could use some additional training in diversity?” I suggested.

  She seemed pleased with my approach to solving the problem. “In speaking with your colleagues and reviewing your files, it became clear to me that this was simply a matter of miscommunication, perhaps deeply rooted in cultural differences.” Without placing blame, we settled on an amicable solution. I agreed to enroll in a sensitivity class at the local university, and she would get with the staff development coordinators to ensure that our entire campus staff received adequate training as well.

  It had been a tough but productive hiatus. Thank You, Lord, far bringing me out on top. I went back to work with a renewed sense of commitment to my students and staff. Miss Jan hugged me when I got into the office. I hadn’t been expecting it, but I welcomed it.

  “Oh, my goodness,” she said, “we are so glad to have you back. I know it must have been hard—it was certainly hard on me. But I did what I know you would have told me to do. I prayed for you, Miss Smith.”

  “Thank you, Miss Jan. I certainly needed it.”

  I did my best to steer clear of Mr. Butler, but he found me in the main foyer during the lunch hour. I smiled at him, intent on keeping our conversation civil. “Good afternoon, Mr. Butler.”

  He shot me a sly grin. “Did you enjoy your little vacation?”

  Vacation? How do I tell this man off and still stay in the Spirit? “It was a very blessed three weeks,” I answered truthfully.

  When I got back from cafeteria duty, I found a huge gift basket of chocolates attached to balloons on my desk. “Oh, when did this get here?” I asked Miss Jan.

  “A few minutes ago.” She rushed into my office. “Open the card! Open it! It’s from Stelson, isn’t it?

  The card read, Happy Work-Day.

  Miss Jan was right. It was from Stelson.

  Chapter 16

  The paternal side of my family was religious on holidays. They were C.M.E. members—Christmas, Mother’s Day, and Easter. They believed in God and Jesus but, for the most part, they were not spiritually active until necessary. Aside from the holidays, thunderstorms were the only other occasion I saw Grandmomma Smith would pull out a Bible.

  “Y’all cut off those TVs! Open some windows! Git off that phone! Everybody sit your butts down and shut up!” Her three- hundred -pound frame shook the floor as she walked the perimeter, settling the whole house down.

  We scrambled to the main room, obeying her orders with fear and trembling. Jonathan and I sat Indian-style on the oval rope carpet.

  “Wh. . . why we got to stop playin’?” Jonathan stuttered.

  “Cause God is
doin’ His work right now, chile, that’s why. Now, you shut your mouth and don’t ask you Grandmomma Smith no more questions. Children ain’t supposed to ask no questions. Just do as you’re told,” she grumbled while gently cracking her Bible open to a place she had marked with a red ribbon.

  I thought for sure she was gonna get struck down for talking to us so mean while holding the Holy Bible. We sat quietly as the storm passed over. She rocked back and forth, humming a generic gospel hymn.

  The good thing about Grandmomma Smith (which I didn’t come to appreciate until I was an adult) was her ability to teach me things—things you could not learn by reading a book. I never asked her to teach me anything; she’d just see that I didn’t know how to do something and then insist I learn it before I left her house.

  “Shondra, you mean to tell me you can’t blow a bubble with bubble gum?” she asked me one day while we were outside sharing the candy we’d gotten from the ice-cream man.

  “No, ma’am.” Was I in trouble?

  “That’s a shame. Seven-year-old girl don’t know how to blow a bubble. Your daddy says you got straight A’s, but let me tell you somethin’—white folks can teach you a lot of stuff in them books, but they can’t teach you common sense, they can’t teach you how to survive, and they can’t make people like you.

  “Come here, gal. I’mo teach you how to blow a bubble. That’s somethin’ every little girl oughta know.”

  Somewhere in her impromptu lesson, she’d cuss and command me to pay closer attention, to watch her every move and catch on. That’s how it always was. When she taught me to tie my shoes, she pushed me until I could do it in ten seconds flat.

  “One of these days you’re gonna have to do it fast and do it right the first time. Now, untie ‘em and do it again! And don’t start that cryin’, ‘fore I give you somethin’ to cry about for real!”

  She stayed on me until I learned how to perform these life skills right—quickly, the first time. These things, she said, I would take and use for the rest of my life: on my job, in my marriage, with my children.