It Doesn't Take a Genius

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  ***

  “Welcome to Black to the Future,” says a woman in a just-loud-enough voice. The auditorium quiets down quickly; there’s something about her that makes me sit up straighter. Charles is next to me; we’re a team now, and I guess Marcus was right, because it doesn’t even feel strange that he’s telling me about his plan to get fluent in three West African languages before he’s sixteen, just because. He’s traveled to Africa once, on a band trip to Senegal. DuBois is the farthest from home I’ve ever been.

  A man walks in and joins the woman in front, and they stand there together in silence until we’re still in our red cushioned seats. No AC in here, but there are giant fans blasting, so they both have to keep almost-shouting.

  “Thank you for your attention,” says the man. “I’m Gordon. Show UP!”

  “And I’m Charisse,” says the woman. “Show OUT! And no, we’re not brother and sister, girlfriend and boyfriend, father and daughter, or mother and son, or whatever story y’all decide to make up this year.” After a pause, she smiles, and everyone laughs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Luke and Lamar walk in, both dressed in DuBois shirts and Adidas everything else.

  “So now that that’s out of the way, let’s get down to business,” she went on. “Gordon and I have been members of the DuBois community for twenty years—”

  “Yo, y’all must be vampires, or Black really don’t crack!” yells a voice from the back of the auditorium. We laugh again, and Charisse goes on. “No, it doesn’t. But the point is that we started here as campers, just like you. And like some of you, I didn’t come from a world of privilege that resembled anything remotely close to this.”

  Some whoops and cheers.

  Gordon jumps in. “And we know that some of you, like me, do come from exactly this world of privilege.” More whoops. “And there are many in between. So this is going to be a space to examine what it means to be Black in today’s world.”

  “And what it means to the future of our community,” finishes Charisse.

  “Sounds like a Ta-Nehisi Coates kind of class,” whispers Charles. He doesn’t hear me ask, “Who?” because Michelle plunks down on the other side of him, and I notice the sweat spreading from his armpits immediately, like a reverse superpower.

  Charles and Michelle start whispering about reparations, which for once at this place, is a word I know, because when Mom saw my history textbook and a line about how “Because they were often treated with respect and good care, slaves sang as they worked” she called the principal and aunties Carolyn, Frances, and Renée and the school board and the city councilwoman and the local paper and bought me a book called Slavery: Its Infinite Impact. Unfortunately, I’d only read the introduction before I went back to practicing for the spelling bee, and then I forgot about it.

  “We’re going to show you a brief presentation, then we’ll pause for questions,” Gordon says.

  After a Powerpoint that has a lot of charts and statistics on it about things like “resegregated schools” and “internalized racism,” a sea of hands raises, and I’m glad, because my head is spinning right now. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I know it wasn’t like … Black Power Prep School.

  “Is this place some kind of college boot camp in disguise?” I whisper.

  “Disguise?” answers Michelle. “Pretty much all of us here have been in college prep since second grade, right?” Michelle and a few others laugh, but when Natasha snaps in agreement, she’s not smiling.

  “Why did y’all add this class?” a girl asks Charisse and Gordon. “I come here to work on my dance technique and have fun with my friends. I know DuBois is all about Black excellence, but it’s still summer!” The murmuring around me sounds like a lot of people have the same question.

  “Well, we had the Black History elective every year,” points out Natasha.

  “Yeah,” says the girl. “But we just had to memorize a bunch of dusty facts, not get all … deep.”

  Gordon and Charisse nod. “Yep, we’re trying something new,” says Charisse. “And there is a long legacy of intersection between social justice and the arts, by the way, especially in the Black community, so your—excuse me—ignorance of that is exactly why we think it’s important to do this.”

  “Do what, exactly?” asks Natasha, in a voice that makes her question sound genuinely curious and not rude.

  “We’re just going to talk in an informal way, and we hope that will get you thinking about how these ideas can intersect in your own work.”

  “Like Lorraine Hansberry and A Raisin in the Sun,” calls out Michelle. The community theater group in my neighborhood did that play last summer, but I didn’t see it.

  “Nina Simone,” says a boy who I’ve already noticed is always singing and humming under his breath just so people can tell him he can sing.

  Charisse nods. “Yep, Travis. For those of you not familiar, you should be. Nina Simone was a singer, pianist, activist, and so much more. I’m sure your parents have some of her music.”

  I look over and Luke is nodding, so I guess Mom does.

  “Nina Simone spoke about the artist’s responsibility being to ‘reflect the times.’” Charisse reads from her phone: “‘An artist’s duty, as far as I’m concerned, is to reflect the times. I think that is true of painters, sculptors, poets, musicians. As far as I’m concerned, it’s their choice, but I CHOOSE to reflect the times and situations in which I find myself. That, to me, is my duty. And at this crucial time in our lives, when everything is so desperate, when every day is a matter of survival, I don’t think you can help but be involved.’ Let’s just start there. What do you think that means?”

  We get into small groups to talk about that question and it ends up being pretty cool. The I-came-here-to-dance girl is in my group. “So, you’re gonna tell me if I draw a rose, that’s some deep political thing?” she asks. “Or even the Conjuring movies? Everything is political?”

  “Yo, Hannah, maybe it’s the choice to do it,” asks another kid. “The art we decide to create has political implications.” A debate starts, but it isn’t like the debates I’m used to winning, where it’s mostly a battle to fit as many words into as little time as possible. This is real talk, and it feels itchy like that suit I only wear for funerals and weddings.

  “So if I choose to make a challenge video and post it online,” says Hannah. “I’m being political?”

  “You sound stupid,” says a boy.

  “No, you do,” Hannah shoots back. For a few seconds the debate goes into a second grade style I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I vortex, but Natasha pulls us out.

  “I think that’s a good question, and my answer would be yes,” she says slowly, raising her voice a little. “Because you’re kind of showing what’s important to you and what you think people want to see, right?”

  “Everyone’s saying political and we haven’t, like, defined it,” says a boy.

  Too bad Charles is in a different group; he’d get all dictionary in a second. Somebody looks up the definition on their phone, and we decide to write down motivated or caused by a person’s beliefs or actions.

  Gordon walks over. “Toni Morrison once said that ‘all good art is political,’” he murmurs, then glides away.

  Who’s Toni Morrison? I keep my mouth shut because no one else asks.

  “So is bad art not political?” asks Hannah the dancer.

  “I guess I see the point that everything we create is influenced by the world around us, so, like, it makes a difference if I write a story about homeless people in a rich country when I live in a country that doesn’t care about homeless people,” says a boy.

  “This is giving me ideas,” whispers Natasha at one point. “As a filmmaker, I have an opportunity to work through a social justice lens.”

  Wow, she picked up the lingo fast. “I wanted to sign up for filmmaking, but it was full,” I say. “But whatever, like I said, I’m here to hang with my brother and have fun. I don’t have anything like this
at home.”

  “But it’s like they’re saying … then what?” asks Natasha. “What will your legacy be?”

  “I’m thirteen,” I say. “I’m pretty sure I don’t need to think about that now.”

  “I don’t think we should have to,” says another girl, nodding. “Like why does everything have to be so heavy all the time?”

  Counselors and junior counselors are group facilitators, which means they keep us on track and try to keep us from joking around too much. I see Luke with his group and wave, and he waves back without smiling. I’m guessing that Derek, who’s in his group and all up in his face, is getting on his nerves. Charisse and Gordon walk around and listen to the conversations, but they don’t say much. They flash questions on a big screen, things like “How can art empower communities?” and “Which Black lives matter more, and whose stories do we tell?” and tell us these are the things we’ll be talking about this summer. Whoa. And the thing is, people like Natasha and Michelle really are talking like they have real things to say. I feel like I’m in one of those dreams when I didn’t know there was a test and it’s too late to study.

  Our group’s discussion kind of peters out, and Marcus gets on his phone, so I stand to stretch my legs. Luke is leading a conversation about Jacob Lawrence and the Great Migration. He’s taking every point that Gordon and Charisse had made and breaking it down, connecting it to people like Faith Ringgold so even the youngest kids start nodding their heads and buzzing about their own projects. He’s waving his hands a lot while he talks and squats down low to listen whenever one of the little kids talks. Even though we’re in a totally new environment, Luke seems so confident and smart and separate—less like my brother by the minute. He’ll definitely be able to tell me about this Toni Morrison guy. I try to catch his eye when Derek says something pretentious about knowing Auntie Kara Walker, but Luke doesn’t look my way. He goes over to Gordon and Charisse and gets into a huddle with them. I stand close to them until Marcus notices me.

  “Hey, Emmett, you good?” he calls out. He steps away from the counselor he’s been talking to. She escapes immediately, rolling her eyes, but he doesn’t notice.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. “Just going to have a word with my brother.” I point to Luke.

  Luke excuses himself from Gordon and Charisse and comes over. “What’s up, E?”

  “I heard you talking about those artists,” I say. “You were really schooling everybody!”

  “I did get an art scholarship to Rowell,” he reminds me. “It’s kind of my thing.”

  “Who’s Toni Morrison? He sounds like fire.”

  “She was an amazing writer. Nobel Prize winner. You’ll read one of her books in high school, probably in Ms. Hartwell’s class. Hartwell’s ignorant, don’t let her ruin it for you. She’s still mad Huck Finn isn’t required reading anymore.”

  I’m just glad I didn’t make myself look stupid just now by saying he out loud to anyone but Luke.

  “What about Kara Walker? Who’s … that?” I’m not taking any chances on gender pronouns.

  “She does all kinds of amazing paintings, silhouettes, large installations … I’m planning to do an independent study on her next year. There’s a kid here who knows her—he actually calls her auntie!”

  “Maybe he was making it up,” I mumble. “Some people do that.”

  “Hey, is Marcus your counselor?” Luke asks. “He’s cool. You’re in good hands.” At the moment, Marcus is up in another counselor’s face, making a lot of big gestures, and judging by the look on her face, he might want to invest in some mouthwash.

  I shrug. “I guess. His hands seem to be more focused on other things.” I try to wiggle my eyebrows, but Luke’s not looking at me. He pats my shoulder.

  “I gotta get back to my group,” he says, and leaves. Marcus comes over and guides me over to some other kids who are talking about old school hip-hop groups like Public Enemy and X Clan.

  “My mom likes to go on and on about the nineties conscious rap,” says a girl. “But I know gangsta rap was big then too.”

  Charisse is taking notes. “Oooh, we should have a debate about hip-hop and what people think is for the culture, who decides what’s harmful to the community …”

  “How about what’s fun?” Hannah says “It’s all just music! It’s not that deep.”

  “We can talk about regional rap too,” says Gordon coming over.

  “My dad still won’t acknowledge anything outside of New York City as hip-hop,” says a girl.

  Charisse says a few lines that sound familiar.

  “What’s that from?” I ask. I’ve heard Uncle Davidson say those lyrics. I’m thinking it might be Boogie Down Productions, but I’m not sure. Not trying to look like I don’t know anything about hip-hop either.

  Her eyes are about to pop out of her head. “Really, dude?” She frowns. “We can’t go Black to the Future without knowing our past,” she says, and a couple of kids nod, like they aren’t just as clueless as me. “You’ve got to know your roots!”

  “BDP—Boogie Down Productions,” whispers Natasha. “‘The Bridge Is Over.’ 1986 or 1987. I need to review the classic hip-hop category.”

  Argh! I did know it.

  “And just so you know,” says one of the other counselors. “Big ups to Jamaica. Hip-hop was started by a Jamaican named Kool Herc in the Bronx because we always start the party right.” He whoop-whoops, and a bunch of people join in. I want to, but I hear Ja-fakin in my head, so I just smile and raise a fist halfway.

  “Who wants to present on this?” asks Charisse. “I’d love to see somebody dig into the roots of rap. Maybe shout out to female MCs—y’all think Nicki Minaj is an OG. What do you know about MC Lyte? Sweet Tee?”

  “How old are you?” asks a girl, and everyone laughs. “I think my Nana was friends with MC Lyte.”

  After we talk for a while longer and end up shouting out a bunch of different lyrics, Gordon claps us all quiet. “I’m hearing some great questions on top of questions, and that’s cool. You’re not going to find answers here in one meeting. Maybe not by the time camp is over.”

  Charisse says, “Maybe not ever. But we believe that the questions are important.” A boy raises his hand. “And no,” she says, “there isn’t going to be a test.” The boy slowly puts his hand down, and we all laugh.

  “We’re encouraging you to continue the conversations informally,” says Charisse. “During your free time, at meal times … I know this is a change up, but the world is changing, and some of us believe that DuBois has to change too.” She looks like she wants to say more, but just adds, “Take advantage of being in this space; it’s precious.”

  “You said informal, but I don’t see any snacks,” mutters Hannah. “Informal gatherings of Black people showing up and showing out should always include snacks, is all I’m saying.” She nudges me and rolls her eyes. I smile, but not too much, because Natasha is nearby, and I’m not trying to look like a lightweight. The truth is, I don’t know what I think, except that I need time to think about it. Luke is rounding up his group, and as we file out of the room, he sees me and waves, a smile on his face. Other people notice, and I know that’s why he did it. Troy waves and says, “Hey, E,” and we walk out together with Charles, Michelle, Natasha, and some other kids. I turn to Luke and wave back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Everyone has to take the test,” says the woman with the clipboard. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and her lips are so tight I’m surprised words can even escape her mouth. She looks like the type of person who always has a clipboard. “Even people who say they ‘don’t swim.’”

  I can feel the air quotes in her tone. I can feel the line behind me getting restless. I can feel my stomach doing flip flops. Under normal circumstances, I’d say that this pool was impressive. There are two diving boards at one end, and the three foot, five foot, and nine foot (!!!) markers all look freshly painted. The water is clean and allegedly not too cold.
But I’m still shivering in my old blue swim trunks. This is not going how I expected, and I don’t see Luke anywhere.

  “Ensuring swimming proficiency is one of the most important traditions at DuBois. You will be assessed. You will be placed in the appropriate group for your skill level.” She moves her lips into something almost like a smile. It looks like it takes a lot of effort. “Don’t worry, the test isn’t a big deal. You just swim across the baby pool.”

  I want to explain that I know I can’t swim, so why waste everyone’s time and laugh muscles on a swim test, but I can’t get the words out and she tells me to take my number and move on.

  I walk over to the “baby pool” and offer to forfeit and just be named a beginner, avoid public humiliation, but nooooooo, they wanted to “assess” us each individually. I stand in the back and try to keep a low profile. Any hopes I’d held that a camp full of Black people might have a plethora of non-swimmers are dashed within minutes. The people I met from my dorm jump right in, laughing and easy. Everyone from sixth grade on up seems to be about to get their lifeguard certification. Even these two girls who say they spent too much time on their first day hairstyles to ruin them finally put on DuBois swim caps and get in. I see Luke, standing in front of a group of little kids.

  “Luke!” I call out. “This swimming thing, they’re saying I have to do it. Can you talk to somebody for me?”

  He glances over and frowns. “E, man, I’m working right now. Take the test.”

  “Maybe I can postpone?” I say, figuring I can come up with a way out if I buy a little extra time. “You could give me lessons during your breaks.”

  He doesn’t answer, just shakes his head and moves his group over to the pool.

  My turn goes just as badly as I expected, and after I splash around, swallow an enormous amount of water, and ignore the giggles, I’m assigned to Novice 0.

  Charles, Michelle, and Natasha look away as I approach them, and I grab my towel without saying a word. I walk over to my Novice 0 groupmates, who are standing next to the little pool, which is three feet deep. They incidentally are not much bigger than three feet tall themselves.