Local Histories – SoundCloud Project
Sophie Friedman and Amelia Vergara
Through the link, you’ll find our podcast, called Local Histories, and you should be able to access both episodes, called Pam Cummings and Cathi Belcher.
The Missing Generations
The Missing Generations
By Aisha Rickford and Rowan Staley
Preface
For our collaborative project, we decided to further explore the stories of characters featured in the texts we read. Whether main or secondary characters, we felt that there were elements to them that had not been explored adequately enough in the text and we wanted to add color and context to their stories. We chose to write our own narratives in the form of short stories, both because we were inspired by the form of Uncle Tom’s Children and because we wanted to take the opportunity to challenge ourselves through creative writing. We also felt that in continuing the narratives of certain characters we were exploring modes of response to literature and immersing ourselves more fully with the content of the course.
We wrote our early drafts of the first two stories together at first, bouncing ideas off of each other and offering advice. Then we separated to write the remainder of the stories. We met five times between beginning the stories and submitting them to read over each other’s, offering input and making edits to unify the narrative voice and the themes. We both knew that we wanted to focus on the themes of childhood and family, and loss and trauma, and how racism both informs those things and is informed by them, and so we drew specifically upon The Third Generation and Uncle Tom’s Children. We were both inspired by particular passages in these texts and used specific quotes to frame our stories, similar to Richard Wright’s epigraph at the beginning of Uncle Tom’s Children.
Once we had completed all four stories, we decided on the final order: beginning with Mrs. Taylor from The Third Generation, then Will from The Third Generation, then Peewee from Down by the Riverside, and then Sarah from Long Black Song. This was not a random order; Mrs. Taylor is the only story that flashes back, while Will and Peewee flash forward, and then Sarah’s story continues immediately after the end of Long Black Song. We wanted to create a narrative arc of moving from past to future, and then to present again. Sarah’s story is about moving forward from trauma yet remaining in the present moment; it is imbued with the idea that life goes on, and so it felt appropriate as the final story.
(1) A Childish Game
“She had added to the story, enlarging and changing the parts she didn’t like. The resulting story was that her father was the son of Dr. Manning and a beautiful octoroon, the most beautiful woman in all the state, whose own father had been an English nobleman. Her mother was the daughter of the song of a United States President and an octoroon who was the daughter of a Confederate Army general. At first it had been a childish game of fantasy. After having received several whippings for recounting it to her wide-eyed schoolmates she had kept it to herself, and in time had outgrown it. As a young woman she had felt a real sense of superiority which, in her home environment, had needed no support” (Himes 18).
Lin had started the flower garden in February, on the weekend after officially moving in. It was the first time that Lin had ever felt that she’d had something of her own. The garden, and the house as well. It was a tiny house, really, with peeling paint and gutters that hung halfway off the side of the roof. But by May, it was more alive somehow, the sun brightening the white exterior, which Lin’s husband Charles had given a new coat of paint on the first day of spring. Now the children could run about in the yard, and the sounds of their cackling and the sight of them tumbling about in the grass gave Lin a warm feeling of contentedness each time that she looked out at them through the kitchen window, like she did now.
Tom and Charlie, her two older boys, were kicking a ball around the yard, while their younger sister Ella, only four, tottered about in their wake. Lin’s hand found their way to her stomach; she was heavily pregnant, and due any day. Charles was hoping for another boy, but Lin felt for certain that this time, it was another girl. There was something soft about this pregnancy, light. The baby had hardly kicked, and her belly was significantly smaller than it had been with her boys or even with her youngest daughter.
The sound of glass shattering punctured the moment. She rushed outside to find Tom and Charlie standing in a patch of wildflowers a little ways out the backyard. The bottle they’d been kicking around was in pieces – it had broken, evidently, from being kicked at a pipe that ran up alongside the exterior walls of the house. Lin scanned her children quickly; they all seemed to be alright, if not stunned. The shards of glass were scattered in the patch of bluebells that, back in February, Lin had slaved over on her hands and knees, digging deep in the ground to plant the bulbs. Her mouth set in a hard line.
Ella looked between her terrified brothers and her furious mother and started to cry.
“Mama, we didn’t mean to -” began Tom.
“Get a switch,” said Lin. Now Charlie started crying. “I said get the switch!”
Tom ran off to obey, Charlie crying in his wake.
Lin sank to her knees, her stomach swelling before her. It was a conscious effort not to let the weight of it pull her forward onto the dark, glass-strewn earth. She began the work of picking up the pieces of glass, placing those that she could into the front pocket of her apron. She then rose to her full height again.
Ella watched her, her chest heaving with little sobs too big for her body, the breath hitching in her throat and coming out of her mouth in labored intervals. “Mama, please don’t hit them,” she begged. “Mama, it wasn’t on purpose -”
“Be quiet now, Ella,” Lin warned.
“Mama, please -”
“I said be quiet now Ella, or you’ll be getting the switch too.”
Ella let out one last frightened sob, then fell silent.
“It shouldn’t be taking them this long,” said Lin, scanning the grassy horizon for her sons. Surrounding the little house were green hills and fields, framed in the crisp and cloudless blue of a Georgia day in May. In the distance, Lin could see the tall sycamore tree that marked the edge of the property, branches swaying ever so slightly in the breeze. Past that was the railroad, the wind whipping up dust from it under the hot sun. She couldn’t see the boys anywhere.
And then – two brown heads emerged from a dip in the hill, running with fervor. Towards the sycamore tree they moved, desperation in each stride.
“Tom! Charlie! Y’all get back here this minute!” bellowed Lin, even more enraged now that the boys had tried to escape from her.
They said nothing but kept running, and Lin felt her heart race with anger, for she knew they could hear her.
“I’ll get you! I swear it, I’m coming after you!” she cried, and she took off after them, barefoot in the hot sun.
Tom turned back and saw his mother, running after him with extraordinary speed for a woman nine months pregnant. Terror filled his lungs; he could feel it all the way through his body, prickly and threatening to rob him off his ability to stay upright.
The sight of Tom looking back and seeing her running after him, but not stopping, filled Lin with an uncontrollable rage, and she picked up speed.
At last, Tom and Charlie reached the tree, and just as Tom began to scramble his way up, his mother reached them. She picked up a branch from the ground with one hand and wrenched Tom down by the collar of his shirt with the other.
“Pull your pants down,” she ordered.
“Mama, please -” he begged.
“I said pull your pants down, Tom,” said Lin.
“Mama, please, we’re sorry – ” Charlie tried.
“Don’t you start with me!” Lin yelled. They fell silent.
Tom obeyed, sniffling pathetically, and Charlie followed suit. The sun fell on them through the canopy of the leaves of the sycamore tree, and then a cloud covered it, bathing the three figures in shadow.
Lin picked up the switch and grabbed her sons by the shoulders. Slowly, methodically, she beat them. With each hit, each boy would let out a cry of pain that would reverberate in Lin in days to come, when she recounted this story of her most unbridled rage. She would tell the story as though the boys deserved it, as though she couldn’t control her emotions at the time due to her pregnancy, but secretly she felt ashamed. What she remembered most of all – the part she never told – was the baby thrashing away in her stomach, kicking and moving her fists against the walls of her womb, as if awakened by the rage, hot and unrestrained, that had began to run through her mother’s veins.
***
Soon after that, baby Lillian was born. But within a few years, Charles and Lin could no longer afford their Georgia railroad home. Lillian remembered the day her father turned to her mother and told her that they had to sell the house. She was only five years old, but she understood that this meant leaving the home she had only ever known.
So the newly-named Mannings picked up from rural Georgia and moved to Atlanta. After struggling to make ends meet there as well, they wound up back in the town of the plantation where Lin and Charles had lived before they were freed, in South Carolina. During their time in Atlanta Charles had fallen sick with tuberculosis, and upon his recovery he and Lin realized the best thing for them to do was return home and bring the children up in the church.
At first, the new home felt wrong and unfamiliar to Lillian, who, even at this early age, tired of the constant movement. From place to place they moved, never settling, no sense of permanence ever existing in this family that birthed a new baby what seemed like every year and was dealt difficult card one after the other. But something about returning to the place of their youth brought a new energy to Charles and Lin, and soon it was clear that the adversity they’d survived in the years after being freed was going to remain in the past.
The difficulty of her early life had never seemed further away to Lillian than on the morning of her tenth birthday. It was still quite early – none of her brothers and sisters were awake, and if she listened closely enough, she could hear distantly the quiet breathing of her parents, the snoring of her father. She stood in the hallway bathroom, examining herself in the mirror. Her hair was wispy and reddish, wild with sleep, framing her face and neck. Her skin, a light, creamy brown, was almost translucent in the weak light that poured in through the curtains. Lillian stood there, only the top half of her face visible in the mirror that was high on the wall, and watched herself. She placed her hands on either side of her face and pursed her lips. She didn’t feel any older, and she didn’t look much older either, it seemed. Maybe it took time before you could tell the difference, she thought. After all, she’d only been ten for a few hours – perhaps her body didn’t realize it was older yet. It was still small and thin, and she still had to stand on tiptoe if she wanted to see herself while she brushed her teeth.
A little disenchanted with the lack of physical proof of her entry into the double-digits, Lillian turned off the bathroom light, went back to her bedroom which she shared with her sisters and brothers, and clambered back into bed. She was comforted by the fact that in a few hours, the rest of her family would be awake, and for once, she could be the center of attention.
It felt that she had only been asleep for minutes when she was awoken by the sound of muffled voices. Lillian opened her eyes to see her mother and father and her brothers and sisters surrounding her. Closest to her was her mother, holding a pancake on a plate with a candle sticking out of it.
“Happy birthday, Lillian!” they all shouted, and then began to sing. A huge smile flooded Lillian’s face, and she soaked in each moment of the song, relishing in the moments that were just for her.
***
Lillian’s birthday was a Sunday, and so after breakfast the whole family made the journey down to church, wearing their Sunday best. “You look just beautiful,” said her father just before they left, straightening the collar of her dress. Lillian beamed at him, and gave him a kiss, feeling his wispy beard, so like her own hair, against the skin of her cheek.
Lillian was especially excited for the end of the church service because Mrs. Jones, the Mannings’ neighbor, had promised to take her to get ice cream in Greenville. Mr. Jones had permitted his wife to take their car for the occasion, a particularly nice one that they rarely used. Lillian was popular with much of the community, adored for her beautiful face and high self-esteem so rare in young black girls. Though she would never admit it, it gave Mrs. Jones such pride that a family that could easily not have to stay in their community, could pass for white, chose to remain and raise their children as black.
Mrs. Jones was a striking woman, tall, dark, and lean, and she kept her hair cropped short. She leaned against her blue car in the lot, finishing off a cigarette, and watched as the church doors burst open and out came a flurry of people. Lillian was one of the first out, eager for her trip into town, and hurried off to meet Mrs. Jones. Behind her, Bonnie Johnson, another little girl in Lillian’s Sunday school, followed. She had heard Lillian going on about going to Greenville with Mrs. Jones, and was eager to join. She was a skinny girl, taller than Lillian, with lots of thick curly hair twisted into bunches.
“Good morning!” said Lillian brightly, reaching Mrs. Jones.
“Happy birthday,” said Mrs. Jones, dropping a cigarette on the ground and putting it out with the toe of her shoe. “Are you ready?”
“Oh yes,” Lillian said. “I’m so, so excited -”
“Wait just a minute,” said Lin, walking over with the rest of the Manning children. Bonnie was with her.
“Lillian, Bonnie is going to come with you this afternoon,” said Lin.
“But, Mama,” Lillian began. “I thought it was just going to be me and Mrs. Jones – ”
“Don’t be rude, Lillian, or you won’t be going into town at all,” Lin warned.
Lillian swallowed the rest of her words and crossed her arms. Her mouth set in a hard line.
“Bonnie has had you over her house after church a lot,” said Charles. “She should come with you on your birthday.”
Bonnie smiled at Lillian, but Lillian looked away.
“Yes, Pa,” said Lillian, and she turned to get into Mrs. Jones’s car. Bonnie followed after her.
The three adults watched the two children sitting side by side, Lillian with her head turned, face propped on an arm against the window. Lin pursed her lips.
“We should be back well before dinner,” said Mrs. Jones.
***
On the way to Greenville, Lillian was mostly silent, cursing her mother in her head. This was supposed to be her special day, and Bonnie had ruined it. Lillian loved Mrs. Jones – she thought she was a beautiful, poised woman. Something about the way she walked and talked made Lillian think about who and what she wanted to be when she was a grown woman. She wanted to spend time alone with her, soak in what she could.
The ice cream place was a fairly new one, that Mrs. Jones had taken her nephews to a few weeks prior. She found a place to park and the three women, two girls and one grown, walked around the black part of town, wandering into shops. She bought Lillian a new dress, and Bonnie a cheap little notebook.
“Mrs. Jones, when are we going to get the ice cream?” asked Bonnie, after they had been walking around town for about an hour.
Mrs. Jones had not forgotten, but had simply been planning how best to go about it. The ice cream place, called Tom’s, was located in the heart of the white section of town. At a glance, they did not serve Negroes, but Mrs. Jones had been a nanny for one of the white woman who worked there, and if she went to the back of the building she could be served. She would need at least three hands to carry all the ice cream, but did not want to ask either of the children to come with her and then have them asking questions about why they couldn’t go in through the front way. It made more sense, though, to take Bonnie, as she was not anywhere near as passing as Lillian.
They came to a stop in front of a bench on a street corner a few blocks from the ice cream store. “Lillian,” said Mrs. Jones, you sit here, since it’s your birthday, and Bonnie and I will come back with ice cream for all of us.”
“But I want to come with you – ” began Lillian.
“No,” said Mrs. Jones. “A birthday girl shouldn’t have to get her own ice cream.”
She and Bonnie walked off, and Lillian sat on the bench, pulling her new dress out of its bag that held her brand new dress. It was green with a white trim, and looked beautiful on her fair skin. She thumbed the fabric, and swung her legs over the side of the bench, taking in the sight of the quiet city street and the sun pouring down on her face.
A white man who looked like he was in thirties walked by, and paused at the site of the fair-skinned girl with reddish hair.
“That’s a pretty dress, there,” said the man, removing his hat from his head.
Lillian said nothing at first, a bit afraid. She was taught not to speak to strangers, and rarely if ever did she come into contact with white people, let alone speak to them.
“It’s alright, miss,” he said. “I have a daughter just about your age, I think she’d love that dress. She looks just like you.”
Lillian was puzzled. How could a white girl look just like her?
“I got it for my birthday,” she said shyly, at length.
“Well it’s just lovely,” said the man. “And it brings out the red in your hair.”
“Thank you,” said Lillian, feeling a rush of color to her cheeks.
The man looked at her for a moment and, seeming to assess that she didn’t see him as a threat, sat down next to her. “Now what is a little girl like you doing here all by yourself? Where’s your mama?”
Lillian was not sure why, but she was struck with the notion that telling the truth of where she lived would be very unsafe, and not just because of what her parents had always said about not talking to strangers. Something inside of her told her that if she told this man where she really lived, the way he was speaking to her would change.
“My mama’s at home,” said Lillian at once. “She’s making a surprise for me and she told me to go and buy myself a dress.”
“That’s lovely,” said the man. “Do you have any guess what the surprise is?”
“No,” said Lillian, “But I know that my mother is preparing for my grandfather to visit for dinner tonight. He is from England, you know.”
“Was he now?” said the man. He removed his glasses and looked closely at her. “Well, now! I suppose he was. I see it in you.”
Lillian beamed.
“And my pa – he’s the son of Dr. Jessie Manning, he was born south of here.”
“Well, isn’t that nice,” said the man. “It’s nice to know where you come from, isn’t it? And how nice is it that everyone’s coming together to celebrate your birthday?”
“Oh, it’s so nice,” said Lillian. She sat up a bit straighter. “Oh, it’s my favorite day of the year.”
Just then, a couple of boys and a girl rounded the corner, kicking a ball.
“Papa,” said the older boy. “Papa, who’s this?”
“This is a nice little girl I just met,” said the man. “And her name is – ?”
“Lillian.”
“Lillian. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” The man smiled, wiping his glasses on his shirt. He took her hand and shook it. “Now, Lillian, you said you lived around here? What’s your father’s name? I’m sure we must see you in church now and then.”
“Lillian!” called Bonnie’s voice. “Lillian, we got you strawberry!”
Lillian whipped around to see Mrs. Jones and Bonnie approaching, holding three cones of ice cream.
The man turned too, and stood up straight in surprise. “What are you doing, girl, leaving Lillian all by herself?” he said roughly, talking to Mrs. Jones. “I’m sure her mama told you to watch her.”
Mrs. Jones was without words, watching the scene unfold in front of her. It made no sense, seeing Lillian there on a bench surrounded by white people. She looked too comfortable. She looked like she was one of them.
“Come on, Lillian,” said Mrs. Jones, outstretching her hand.
“Oh come, Mrs. Jones, say hello! He’s a very nice man -”
“Lillian, I said come here now,” snapped Mrs. Jones. Lillian obeyed, and when she reached Mrs. Jones and Bonnie, she took their hands.
The three white people said nothing as Mrs. Jones rushed them away, but as they began to round the corner, the man called out,
“Well, have a nice birthday now, Lillian!”
The sound of his voice sent fear through Mrs. Jones’s heart, and once they reached her car she loaded up the kids and drove them home in silence. Lillian sat in the front seat, and she saw that Mrs. Jones’s knuckles were almost white from how hard they were gripping the steering wheel.
***
Mrs. Jones dropped off Bonnie first. By this time, twilight had fallen, bathing the streets of the small South Carolina town in gray light. Lillian was not sure what she had done wrong, besides talking to strangers, and talking to white people – but she didn’t understand why she’d never been allowed to before. After all, those people had been perfectly nice, and they didn’t look very different from her either. The idea of the man having a little daughter who looked “just like” her was one that she couldn’t let go of, couldn’t make sense of. What did that mean, if Lillian was Negro and that little girl was white?
They pulled up to Lillian’s home. Mrs. Jones turned off the engine and turned to Lillian.
“Now, Lillian, I need you to be honest with me,” said Mrs. Jones. “What did you say to that white man?”
Lillian told her. Mrs. Jones took in a deep breath. It seemed to rattle in her throat.
“Stay in the car a moment,” said Mrs. Jones.
Lin was sitting on the porch in a rocking chair. Mrs. Jones walked up to them, and Lillian watched from the car as they engaged in quiet, yet vehement conversation. They glanced back at Lillian a great deal. Lin stood up with her hands in the pocket of the apron, gave one grave nod, and beckoned with one hand.
“Come here, Lillian,” she said.
Mrs. Jones came back to the car and opened the door for her. “Happy birthday, Lil,” she said, coaxing the ten-year-old out of the car. “Have a good night now, I’ll see you soon.”
Lillian walked over to her mother, feeling even smaller than she did this morning, which felt like a lifetime away. She walked over to her mother, who towered over her. Lin’s eyes were glassy, full of concern, and her mouth was set. Her brow was furrowed in a deep worried line across her forehead.
“Let’s go for a walk, child,” said Lin, taking her daughter’s hand. They walked through the back gate of their house, out into the wildflowers and under the sycamore and magnolia trees.
As they walked further and further from the house, Lin’s grip on Lillian’s hand grew tighter until it was almost uncomfortable. Lillian looked up at her mother. She looked lost in thought.
Suddenly, Lin stopped and squatted down, so that she and her daughter were eye-to-eye.
“Tell me, child,” said Lin urgently. “Just who do you think you are?”
***
A Mind at Ease
“Practically overnight he’d grown into a charming young man, quite different from his younger brother. He was poised in social contacts and talked with ease. No furtive compulsions harassed him in his associations with young women. He was gay and witty and quite frankly liked them all” (Himes 195).
Will idly tapped the blunt end of his fountain pen against the mahogany of his desk, further chipping its already worn edge. This office had belonged to Mr. Danahy before him, and Mr. Lovell before that, and although the furniture wore its previous owners well nothing could completely halt the ravages of time and long days spent grading papers and conferencing with students. In fact, Samantha was still sitting across from him and interrupted his fidgeting with another question.
“Professor Taylor?” she asked.
“Yeah?” He replied, his thoughts still drifting. Although he didn’t know what Samantha looked like, he could hear a Southern drawl in her voice and knew from her frequent visits during office hours that she had come to college in Cleveland from a predominantly black town in Alabama. She was bright, and they got along well. Will knew he could connect with all of his students in one way or another, but he most liked working with students who had followed a path similar to his. For them, academia offered an escape from a constricted family life and a future of working menial jobs in hotels or department stores. Being here, at the most prominent school for the blind east of the Mississippi — not that there were many to choose from — was a privilege, and students like Samantha rarely forgot that.
“What do you think is the driving motivation of Achilles in the Iliad? Is he guided by his honor or his hubris?” The Iliad was the next reading for their class on Homer and the Greek epics.
“Well, what do you think Samantha? Could it be both?” He queried in response. He’d been teaching for three years now and had learned that it was typically best to answer a question with a question, putting the burden of analysis back on the student themselves. After all, how were they supposed to learn if all of the answers were given to them?
Samantha launched into a response, and he could hear the fervor in her voice as an argument came to her, could hear the rustling of paper as her reader, a young man named Mark who was new to the institution, relayed relevant passages of the Iliad. Truth be told, Greek epics weren’t really his thing. He found the propensity for grandiose description and exaggerated emotional arcs exhausting and obtuse. Besides, he could never quite bring himself to emotionally engage with mythology anymore, although he certainly had loved the fantasy of it when he was young. Now he preferred the realism of more current literature, but Samantha wouldn’t read contemporary works for at least another quarter or two.
Bringgggggg!!!! The sharp sound of the bell permeated the air and stopped Samantha mid-sentence. The bell marked the time as 3:15pm, the end of the school day during summer session. He heard the scrape of the chairs against the stone floor as Samantha and Mark stood, and breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a long day of teaching and he was grateful for the day’s close.
“Let’s finish this conversation tomorrow Sammy. Perhaps focusing in on the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus might provide new insight into Achilles’s character and motivations.”
“Thanks Professor!” Samantha chirped.
“Good night, Mr. Taylor,” contributed Mark, before shuffling out behind Samantha.
***
On his way home, Will stopped at the Jackal, his favorite bar on the corner of Maine and Washington St., only a block or two away from the dingy but well-maintained apartment he shared with his fiancé Annie. He used his cane to edge open the glass door at the entrance, and gingerly eased himself through the opening. He’d injured his knee playing football with a few of the other professors and readers after school on Tuesday. He’d tripped on a rock that had been covered by the newly cut grass and banged his knee forcefully on the ground. The others had swarmed around him immediately, offering sounds of concern and offers to take him to the local hospital. He’d vehemently refused – hospitals left a bad taste in his mouth, and had since the accident that blinded him, despite the ridiculous amount of time he had spent in and out of waiting rooms over the past ten years as his mother took him from specialist to specialist. He had never complained because his mother’s love could turn from comforting to terrifying without warning, but also because he too had hoped something, someone, might miraculously restore his vision. But he had long given up on that dream, and besides, his sight had been partially restored over the last five years or so. He could see in shades of gray now, could make out larger shapes and found he had an increasingly sensitive response to variations in light.
In fact, a large gray shape passed in front of him as he entered the bar and made his way over to his usual spot, a stool along the windows facing the bustling street. Although the dim lighting of the bar rendered his vision completely obsolete, he recognized the voice of his most devoted friend, Ramsey Douglas, immediately.
“Professor Taylor!” Ramsey joked. “What are you going to teach me about today? The inner life of Poseidon, that watery fucker? The sordid affairs of your highbrow colleagues? How about you teach me how to get a girl like Annie?”
“Not sure anyone can teach you that Ram, women like a man with intelligence and sensitivity and you’re about as sharp as you are handsome.”
“Ah, so very!”
“Sure, Ram, whatever gets you through the day,” Will said. As they slipped into their familiar pattern of conversation, Will felt the tension of the day ebb from his limbs. He met Ramsey at the Jackal every day after school let out and Ramsey’s shift at the bank ended, where they mulled over the intricacies of the day and relaxed before heading home for the night. Right now, Ramsey was nursing a dark ale while Will sipped only tonic and lime, the cold glass soothing against the sweat of his palm. Will had never really been one for alcohol; he didn’t like feeling out of control and besides, adding poor motor functioning to impaired vision was clearly a bad combination. Plus he didn’t want to follow in the footsteps of his father or brother, Charles. Although he had been off at school, Will distinctly remembered his father in the weeks before his death, remembered his whiskey-muted gaze, the half-smoked cigars. He had visited for an afternoon two weeks before he died and had been deeply shocked by the man he had seen before him. His father was a shell of his former self, so embroiled in his own tragedies and diminished by his mother’s perpetual insults and biting criticisms that he had turned to alcohol and cigars to dull the emotion of daily life. And if that wasn’t enough to stop Will from partaking in the casual drinking of his companion, the alcoholism had already passed from father to son.
Will had last visited Charles three years ago in Missouri – he’d gone down for Charles’s birthday, hoping for a brief reconciliation of their childhood bond brought on by a day of bar-hopping and an evening spent walking along the river or driving through the countryside. Instead, he’d been sorely disappointed by Charles becoming blind drunk after their first bar stop, throwing back ten whiskey shots in the space of an hour. He’d spent the rest of the day in the hotel room he’d rented gently propping Charles on his side as he slept fitfully, vomiting on the sheets and crying about their mother’s failure to acknowledged Charles’s birthday that year. He’d held Charles in his arms for five hours, worried he might choke on his own vomit and add to the Taylor family body count. When Charles had finally passed into a more peaceful slumber, Will had been left to pay the bar tab and slip the housekeeper something extra to clean up the mess. He’d been disappointed, sure, but certainly not surprised by his brother’s behavior. Finally, he’d decided around midnight to slip away and catch the last train back to Cleveland. They hadn’t spoken since.
“Hey, Will, you in there buddy? Where’d you go?” Ramsey’s voice saying his name brought Will back to the present, and he guiltily looked at his friend, realizing he’d completely forgotten the course of the conversation.
“Sorry, Ram. I guess it’s been a longer day than I thought – what were you saying?”
“How’s Annie? You said yesterday she’d been feeling kinda sick.”
“Oh yeah, no, we haven’t figured that out yet – she threw up again this morning. Maybe one of those weeklong illness things? That’s a thing, isn’t it?”
“Sure? I don’t know man. I work at a bank and you get all clammy and quiet around hospitals, I’m not sure we know jack-shit about women or sickness.”
“Hey! Watch it. I only get quiet because you get all loud and pretend to know doctor shit!” Will said, re-entering the conversation with a new vigor. “And I definitely know more than you do about women. Annie and I are working on four years now, and she hasn’t gotten rid of my ass yet.”
Ramsey’s silence conceded the point, and the conversation moved on to other things.
***
Annie had dinner waiting when Will got home, a full chicken taking up the center half of their tiny two-person dining table. The apartment was toasty from the fire, and the light appeared to Will as a flickering orange tint. He made his way over to their lumpy sofa, a holdover from Annie’s mother’s sister who lived down the street. He sank into the cushion and motioned for Annie to join him. She curled up next to him, nestling her feet under his leg and placing her head on his shoulder and softly kissing his neck. His hand worked its way through the tangles of her soft, fine hair as he thought back on when they first met.
She had been his reader in his last year of college, and he had fallen in love with her voice first, the gentle cadences of William Blake’s poetry worming deep into his heart. Her voice was angelic, pitched low and expressive, warm in its empathy. They’d soon moved past talk of fiction and he had shared memories with her he had almost forgotten himself. She’d grown up in New York City to a middle-class white family, but had pursued a passion of literature that led her to the paying job in Cleveland where they’d met. He liked that they were so different: she was quiet around new people, he could engage a crowd no matter the venue. She was introspective, he was charismatic but closed-off. She asked all the right questions – about his mother, his father, his brother. He’d taken her to his father’s funeral only a month after they’d first met.
“You’re late,” Annie said, her voice a mild chastisement. “Did Ramsey keep you again?”
“Yeah, he’s still trying to steal you away from me,” Will grinned.
“He’s going to have to try a lot harder,” Annie joked, “Maybe promise me a new collection of poems or something.”
“You’d trade me for a book?” Will said indignantly. “What can poetry provide that I cannot?”
“Romance,” Annie proclaimed dramatically.
Will laughed as he got up, walking over to the counter to pour himself a glass of water. He didn’t need a cane inside the apartment – after a year of living here he had memorized the layout and could have found the counter in his sleep. Annie had only moved in a month ago, and it was still a few weeks until the wedding. His mother had frowned on the propriety of it all, but he ignored her wishes as usual, and he knew his mother was secretly pleased he was marrying a white woman. She hadn’t changed much from their childhood, and his love was forever intertwined with discomfort at her presence and a deeper worry that she found Annie threatening to their mother-son relationship. He wanted to be with Annie forever, he knew this, but part of him was dreading the wedding and the familial reunion the ceremony promised.
“Will?” Annie said. The tone of her voice had shifted; the pitch was lower and more tentative. He turned towards and her voice and his face shifted quizzically.
“I have something I wanted to tell you,” she said.
“Okay? You know you can tell me anything,” Will replied, now worried about what she might say. Did she want to call the wedding off? Had she finally decided his family was too much to handle? That he wasn’t worth it?
“I think I might be… don’t get mad,” she cautioned.
“Mad? Annie what is going on,” Will said, his voice becoming more urgent.
“I know you never really wanted… I mean, I know your childhood had its problems… but I think this would be different… I mean, I think it could be better, you know?”
“Annie, I have no idea what you are talking about. What does my childhood have to do with anything?”
“I think I’m pregnant,” Annie finally blurted out in a muffled voice. Will heard her flop onto the couch pillow, and wondered if she had covered her face with her hands.
He didn’t know what to think, and he could hear the pounding of his heart, loud and furious in his ears. Thoughts rushed through his head, and images from his youth flashed back in series. Playing with Charles in the fields outside of his father’s classroom. Running through the woods at night – silently, so mother wouldn’t hear them. The feel of the switch on his back. The sounds of his parents screaming at each other. The vacancy of Charles’ expression whenever he overheard. Reading in the living room, Charles and Tom by his side, mother knitting in the corner and father reading a newspaper. The memories, good and bad, flashed faster and faster and he realized Annie was waiting for him to speak. He couldn’t see her face but knew from experience that she was biting her bottom lip, her forehead slightly crinkled with anxiety, her nose scrunched up.
“Well I guess that means we’ve got to start thinking about names,” he started. “I’m happy with anything other than Charles, Tom, or something stupid like Achilles.”
By the River’s Edge
“Look, Pa!”
“Whut?”
“Hush, Peewee!” said Grannie.
“Theres lights, see?”
“Where?”
“See? Right there over yonder!”
Mann looked, his chin over his shoulder. There were two squares of dim, yellow light…their soft, yellow glow was in his mind. They helped him, those lights” (Wright 77).
When Peewee Mann woke up, his face was wet. He opened his eyes, and saw that he had been salivating in his sleep again, his head lying in a puddle of his own drool. He groaned, and extended an arm to cover his eyes. The light that was pouring in was all wrong – not morning light, but moonlight. Across the room, the lavender curtains undulated with the cool night air coming in through the cracked window.
Waking up with the moon. This was how Peewee generally found himself. He worked odd jobs in bars and jazz clubs, sleeping in the day and staying awake all night. He checked the clock. His shift at the club had started two hours ago.
“Goddammit,” he said aloud. He jumped to his feet, pulling on his pants and throwing on a sweater. “Goddammit,” he said again, as his foot got caught in the pant leg. He scrambled over to the other side of the room to pick up his glasses. He wouldn’t bother calling the bar to apologize and let them know he was coming, that would take too long, and so he decided just to try to make it over there as quickly as he could. He already had a couple strikes against him and – Goddammit – he wasn’t sure if his boss would give him another chance.
Peewee raced outside into the night, straightening the collar of his shirt as he went, his eyes still heavy from sleep. But the cool night air shook him awake. It had rained today, it appeared, and Harlem’s streets were decorated with puddles. An icy wind blew off the East River, cooling Peewee’s hands and making his eyes water. The streets around his apartment were quiet, no sounds but the hum of the garbage truck and the distant sounds of traffic. He hurried into the subway, his throat full.
He emerged further uptown, the street bathed in light from the buildings and the streetlamps. The sidewalk outside of the bar was swarming with bodies as Peewee approached, and he pushed through them, into the doorway. The bouncer, Jimmy, gave him an indecipherable look as he approached.
“How’s it looking?” said Peewee, breathless.
“Not good, Mann,” said Jimmy, taking the cigarette from his mouth to exhale a cloud of smoke. “Harry is pissed.”
“Alright, I’m going in.”
Peewee pushed his way through the people into the bar. It was dimly lit, and there was a young woman singing on the stage. Harry liked to get a new jazz act every Saturday night, and Peewee had never seen this woman before tonight. She wore a sparkly black gown with a slit up to her thigh, and under the lights, Peewee could see a sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead, the roots of her blowout becoming curly with the moisture. He headed to the door off to the side of the bar, where his boss Harry’s office was, and shouldered his way in.
Harry was a stout, broad-shouldered man, who seemed to be perpetually sweating and continually wore button-down shirts that were too small for him. He swung around in his chair as Peewee entered.
“I don’t want to hear it, Mann. You’re done.”
“Harry, please -”
“Late at least three times every week, and this time you show up two hours into your shift? Unacceptable, kid.”
“Harry, you know how much I need this job – ”
“I don’t think I do, kid, because if you needed it, you would treat it like a goddamn job.” Harry glared at him, taking the cigarette from his mouth and putting it out on the ashtray on his desk. “Get out of here, or I’ll make security do it.” By “security” he meant Jimmy, so Peewee wasn’t deterred.
“Harry, do you want me to beg? Because I will.” Peewee sunk to his knees, his hands folded together as if in prayer.
Harry stood up from his chair. “Get up, Mann,” he said, so sternly that Peewee obeyed. At his full height, Harry was still at least six inches shorter than Peewee, but something about the way he filled a space intimidated him all the same.
“I’ve given you chance after chance, kid,” said Harry. “Do you think I’m playing? Get the fuck out.”
***
After leaving Harry’s bar, Peewee wandered the streets, eventually settling in at a club on 126th street. There, he drank himself silly, snorted cocaine with a few people from a circle he frequently ran around with, and danced. There, Peewee found for himself a comfortable degree of anonymity, moving among other writhing bodies, catching only flashes of movement and of faces.
The lights, the dancing, the struggling bodies – it all conflated in his head, and the music stopped – now he could hear the thunder clapping, the water rushing around him, spinning the boat, the gunshots – No – It was Ma, cold and dead on the hospital table – It was Pa, saying “Good-bye!” – It was the small disk of light, searching, searching, never finding – It was the gunshots –
Peewee found himself waking up in bed again. This time, morning light poured in through the curtains. His head was heavy and swimming, the bed damp.
He opened his eyes. In front of him was a worried face, and hands holding a cup of hot coffee. Through the haze of his hangover, Peewee recognized the face behind the glasses and the shock of curly dark hair.
“Hey there,” said Allen.
Peewee moved to sit up, only to sink back down again, his head spinning too much to sit up properly. Allen placed the back of his hand to his forehead.
“Hey,” he said. “Take it easy. Drink some coffee.”
Peewee took the coffee gratefully. Allen watched him.
“So how did you find me this time?” asked Peewee.
Allen looked at him. Then he stood up, turning his back, and put his hands in his pockets. “I just had a feeling,” he said. “You weren’t at Harry’s.”
“Did he tell you?”
“That he fired you? Yeah,” said Allen.
“Bet he was happy to tell you that,” muttered Peewee.
“Not really, actually,” said Allen, turning to meet Peewee’s eyes again. “He was pretty cut up about it actually. Said it was hard to do, but you gave him no choice. You know, he really does care about you.”
“Obviously not enough.”
“You don’t make it easy.”
“Oh, don’t you start with that shit again. The old, you-don’t-make-it-easy-for-people-to-care-about-you-thing. The old, why-don’t-you-just-let-me-in tirade. Whose side are you on, anyway?”
Allen glared at him.
“I’m here, aren’t I? Obviously I’m on your side.”
Peewee softened. “I know. You’re right. I’m sorry.” He reached out a hand. Begrudgingly, Allen took it.
“You got a letter this morning,” said Allen. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an envelope. Peewee took it from him. The handwriting was unfamiliar, boxy, but the address was impossible to mistake. The town where Grannie lived, back home in Mississippi.
“No,” said Peewee.
**
Peewee couldn’t believe it. Grannie, dead. Just like Ma, just like Pa. The letter was from a distant cousin, a girl a little bit younger than Peewee who had been living with Grannie and taking care of her during the last few years of her life. Two years prior, the frequency of letters from Grannie had slowed considerably, until eventually they’d ceased altogether. Peewee had known that Grannie was dying. So why did this come as such a blow?
He felt as if the last thread holding him here had been snipped, and he hadn’t even known it had been holding him. It was a terrible feeling, of placelessness, of homelessness even though he had a home.
“Are you going to go down there?” Allen had asked, and Peewee couldn’t bring himself to decide.
“I don’t know,” said Peewee, staring at the bedcovers. He looked up and locked eyes with Allen. “Should I?”
Allen said nothing, but what he thought was clear. “I can hold the fort up here, as long as you need,” he said, the corners of his mouth turning up just slightly. And Peewee knew he could: Allen’s wealth was something they never spoke of, though it came up between them often, invisible and visible at the same time, like Allen’s whiteness.
“I love you,” said Allen.
Peewee took his hand, used his eyes to say what he couldn’t. “I know.”
Allen booked the flight. The last and only time Peewee had been on a plane was when he’d first left Mississippi for New York, the summer after high school graduation. He had been planning it for months, but never told Grannie. He broke her heart that summer, leaving his bedroom bare of anything that belonged to him. He had never been back.
The Mississippi ground was foreign under his feet – soft, green, and always retaining some kind of dampness. The air was wet too, humid. Peewee couldn’t stand it, it didn’t feel natural, moisture like this in November. He hated the harshness of it, the lack of cycles. The earth itself was unpredictable here, hot and uninhabitable, the ground always threatening to open up. It brought it all back, unprecedentedly vivid. The gunshots, his mother’s body heavy against them in the back of the boat, dead but none of them knowing yet. Grannie’s horrified cries when the doctor told them that Ma was gone. It rendered him speechless, unable to move.
But he had to move. He had to go home, at last. When he got to the airport in Natchez, he called Allen.
“Hello?” said Allen, after the first ring.
Peewee said nothing for a moment, just listened to Allen’s breath from the other line of the phone. “I want to come back,” he said. “I can’t do this.”
A breath.
“You can,” said Allen. Again, with conviction: “You can. You have to.”
***
The night after he arrived in Natchez, Peewee took the bus to his grandmother’s house. After the flood, they’d been lucky enough to move in with Grannie’s older sister, a widow who lived outside of the areas in danger of flooding. She’d died a few years after they moved in, and they were able to live there in the house. Grannie’s nieces and nephews were grown and, like Peewee, had chosen to leave Mississippi.
The house didn’t look the same. The rose bushes had grown wild, thorny and making the path up to the front door hazardous. The wooden exterior walls were patchy from peeling paint. The gate made a loud screeching noise when Peewee pushed it open. The noise evidently startled whoever was inside, because a woman swung open the front door. She was about Peewee’s age – maybe a few years younger – plump, with a kind face. She held a small child in her arms.
“You must be Peewee,” she said. “I’m your cousin Mae. Well, just don’t stand there,” she added, when Peewee did not move from his place on the path. “Come on in.”
“You must already know this,” said Mae, leading Peewee inside, “But your Grannie was just a wonderful woman. So loving. She must have told you this, but she took me in a few years ago after I got pregnant. My folks kicked me out, but she couldn’t bear to see me on the street. I used to come keep her company after…” she caught Peewee’s eye. “Anyway, she liked me a lot. And I loved her.”
She shuffled into the kitchen, placing her child at a seat at the table. “Come sit,” she said. “This is my boy, Henry.”
Henry was quiet. He gazed at the unfamiliar intruder without looking away. Peewee couldn’t stand the feeling of the little eyes on his skin. Asking him, who are you? Why did you come back?
***
Mae took him to the grave in the morning. It was three miles from the house – Mae left Henry with a neighbor when they set off. The walk was mostly uphill, and the graveyard overlooked the Mississippi River.
It didn’t take long to find Grannie’s gravestone. The earth was still wet and soft, still raised a bit off the ground.
“Did she want to be buried here?” asked Peewee.
“Oh, yes,” said Mae. “Your Grannie loved this part of town.”
“But by the river?” said Peewee, bristling. “I have a hard time believing she’d want to be buried here.” Peewee was uncomfortable on the riverbank, the ground soft beneath him. He wanted to leave. He hated the idea of Grannie staying here, next to the river that had claimed his parents. The river that any time could burst open and swallow her grave, taking her body down in a flood –
“Peewee, your grannie wasn’t afraid -”
“Obviously you don’t understand,” Peewee interrupted. “Of course she was afraid.”
Mae hesitated. “Maybe she used to be,” she said. “But she wasn’t when I knew her.” When Peewee said nothing, she spoke with new fervor. “Don’t you understand? She was tired of being afraid. And she didn’t want you to be afraid anymore either. You’ve lost so much. Don’t rob yourself of what you still have.”
Peewee looked at the gravestone, his grandmother’s name etched in with a permanence he had not prepared himself for. There she was, dead in the ground. She had left him, like he’d left her, like Ma and Pa had left both of them, and he was still standing. The only remaining member of his family, the only one who had seen, had borne witness – the only one who could carry the burden, remember that dark, dark night, and that cold, empty, lonely morning on the hills. Good-bye.
***
Peewee’s tired eyes could hardly stay open, but he was comforted by the lights that filled the streets. He could not stand to be swallowed in darkness. The city held him by both arms, lifted him up, helped him walk. With that many lights, he would never be lost. He walked down to the park by the edge of the East River. Here, the concrete kept the water out. Here, there was no threat of being swept away. Here, light led him to safety, and not into danger.
He walked to the bench where he and Allen always sat, and he found Allen there, staring out on the water. This was the only way they could be out in the city alone together, in darkness.
When Peewee sat beside him, Allen did not ask him how he was, or how it went, or how he was feeling. He just said, “I love you.”
A broken streetlight near them flickered and turned on, bathing them in warm light. There, the two looked at each other, their clear faces exposed to each other on the empty footpath.
And Peewee said, “I love you, too.”
Red River’s End
“White men killed the black men and black men killed the white. White men killed the black men because they could, and the black men killed the white men to keep from being killed. And killing was blood” (Wright 147).
Blood may be red but ashes were grey, and ashes were all that remained. The smoke plumed up from the blackened and singed floor, spiraling and curving into ghostly facades, haunting Sarah as she slowly made her way through the wreckage. The weight of each step disturbed the mottled gray and black ash underfoot, creating a charcoal-filled haze that obscured the earth below. Part of her mind, disjointed, scattered, and filled to the brim with a dull ringing, felt as if she were walking on a cloud, hovering over the ruins of her house with Tom’s comforting presence by her side. Was Tom still alive somewhere? He could’ve saved her but he left her. Was alive but gone better than here and dead? The ashen clouds offered her no answer. The gritty dirt scraping beneath her bare feet and the heavy weight of the child asleep in her arms snapped her out of her reverie and back to the destruction before her. The particle-filled air stung her eyes, but through the stars she could see the charred debris: the already-shattered gramophone scattered in opposing corners, a partially blackened and overturned tabletop, a scrap of cloth pinned to the pine beam from the hat of the white man who’d lit the match. Silas would have hated the sight of the white men’s flames shrouding the results of his own rage-filled carnage. The silence was so loud it hurt, the ashes softening the crunch of her exploration and padding the walls with quiet. Even the crickets, with their perpetual background melodies, were suffocating in the smoke-laden air. White men killed the black men and black men killed the white, and the crickets were dead too. Tom was gone, Silas was gone, gone-gone-gone. Sarah was the witness. Sarah had seen, was seeing, would see.
A sharp putrid scent wafted towards her, and her nose instinctively crinkled up as she turned towards its source. The scorched shape of a body lay in the back corner of the cottage, covered in a thick layer of ash and rubbish, clothes darkened by soot and peeling off the curled figure. Silas. A wail tore from her chest, guttural and thick, it filled up the silence of the room and Sarah felt Ruth stir against her side. She felt her body begin to seize, the cries pouring from her without control like a dam that once broken cannot be repaired. Her mind, partially detached from the scene, was a spectator to her own suffering, and she felt both at once entirely present and chillingly far away. She knew death. Everyone around here knew death of one kind or another. She’d grown up on a nearby farm, known not to get attached to the creatures they raised with love and care once spring came. She knew human death too, her father passing away too young after his heart gave out from days working the land until the land could give no more, until he could give no more. She knew pain. Everyone around here knew pain. The memories of the hands of the white man fumbling around her hips came flooding back. Had they ever left? Would they ever leave? She felt again the warmth moistness of his breath on her neck as he moved on top of her, and the bruises from fingers gripping her upper arm began to ache as her breath quickened into short gasps, as if the air was stopping just short of entering her lungs. As if God had decided he would no longer save her.
Still trembling, Sarah placed the newly awakened Ruth gently on the ground before kneeling to cover the body with her shawl. The dull purple of the woven fabric looked out of place with the solemnity of his figure, and the lower half his body stuck out from underneath the material in what felt like a perverse reminder of their mismatched relationship. A laugh ripped from her lips, punctuating the cries with a hiccupy whoop that sounded foreign to her ears. Have I gone mad? Death made him look so small, child-like almost, as if the years of barely contained rage and the fear of never measuring up had melted away along with the top layers of flesh. Sarah rested her head next to his, shrouded in her last possession, and felt the weight of her body on the floor. What was she going to do? She had nothing, she had been left again with nothing. Why had she invited the salesman in? Why had she not spoken up and told him to leave? He might’ve listened. She might’ve avoided all of this, prevented Silas from entering one of his rages. The thoughts raced into her mind, unbidden. What was she going to do? What could possibly be done? Everything always went wrong. Tom left, Silas died, and she was alone among the bodies that remained. The stars in her eyes flashed red and the fear and sadness and hopelessness and rage and rage and rage finally swept her away into a sleep that had been escaping her for far too long.
Sarah woke to the piercing cries of her child and guilt swept through her at her inability to comfort the only family she had left. Her arm and cheek ached where they had touched the hard floor and when she stood she saw that her entire side was blackened with ash. Dusting herself off as best she could, she felt the nausea rising again at the sight of Silas, the bile in her throat threatening to release down her front. Darkness washed over as she shut her eyes once more, and she breathed deeply. The air was still heavy with fire and the stink of charred flesh but the crickets were back, and she focused in on the sounds of their soft chirps coming in through the window.
She must have slept for at least an hour, because twilight had come unbidden with its lavender and orange hues permeating the room with an apricot glow. The chill of the evening breeze raised bumps along her skin, and without her shawl she felt vulnerable to the waiting dangers of night. She couldn’t stay here much longer, what if the white men came back? What if they wanted more, what if Silas’s death hadn’t been enough? What if the score still seemed uneven, the insult not yet revenged? Who knew what logic guided their actions, but she felt the urgency in her veins as she turned over the options she had left. She could go into town? The walk was over two hours and she would arrive with the darkness, but she had a childhood friend who lived on the outskirts near the post office. Would they take her in? They had to. They had to. They would. Her mind made up, she began to gather the few items that had been, miraculously, relatively untarnished by the inferno. Sifting through Silas’s jar of coins and pocketing the most valuable change, she spotted the broken clock that kept Ruth quiet and placed it in her infant’s hands. The baby gurgled and spat, a smile stretching her chapped lips wide. Sarah lifted the baby, broken clock and all, into her arms and shifted the bulk of her weight onto one hip. Amidst the dimming sunlight, Sarah began to walk. Bang! Bang! Bang! Ruth hit the broken clock with a charred stick she must’ve found on the floor of the house while Sarah slept. The Bang! Bang! Bang! echoed against the gone-gone-gone still ricocheting in Sarah’s head, and her feet fell into rhythm with the words as she moved farther and farther away from the plumes of smoke behind her.
Uncle Tom’s Cabin and its Responses
Jared Cole and Lucy Ryan
May 14, 2018
Uncle Tom’s Cabin and its Responses
Professor Chakkalakal
White-Washed
Preface
White-Washed is a contemporary response to The Third Generation by Chester Himes, published in 1954. Our story rewrites the relationship between Mrs. Taylor and Charles in a 2018 setting. We took the toxicity of Mrs. Taylor’s racial inferiority complex, and the life-long, destructive inner conflict it spawned in her son, and recreated it in the more sympathetic character of Liz Walker. With Chris, we wanted to preserve the responsibility, love, guilt, anger, and empathy Charles felt toward his mother while giving Chris more agency, consciousness and ability to defend himself from her.
The primary message behind White-Washed that we wanted to promote is one that can be found in The Third Generation and is still relevant today. The world, and the United States especially, is only producing more and more mixed-race children, and for that reason it is becoming increasingly difficult not only for children to garner a sense of their racial identity, but also for parents to raise their children to embrace all aspects of who they are. The story of Liz and Chris is certainly a unique one, but it’s one that could exist in today’s world. It is important to acknowledge that and to understand that there are potential consequences for choosing to raise a child to only see one side of who they really are. Just like Mrs. Taylor fails to accept the black side of her children due to her outward prejudice, Liz fails to come to terms with Chris’ blackness due to her insecurities as a mother. Both mothers hurt their children with their fears of racial difference, but Liz eventually reckons with the damage she’s caused. Meanwhile, Chris, unlike Charles, ultimately discovers and explores his blackness for himself, and is able to garner a sense of racial identity. While Mrs. Taylor refuses to accept her children’s blackness, Liz understands and admits to her wrongdoings in raising Chris as white, taking the necessary steps to love and accept him for who he truly is.
This story alternates between the perspectives of Liz and Chris. Lucy wrote the third-person narration of Liz, a white mother, and Jared wrote the first-person narration of Chris, a mixed-race adopted son. The process of writing White-Washed was a collaborative one in that we both were most compelled by the complex mother-son dynamic in The Third Generation, chose to respond to it by rewriting it in the present-day, and wrote the plot and scene-by-scene outline together. Writing simultaneous but disparate narratives to tell the story of this wrought mother-son relationship allowed us to channel our varying interpretations of and emotional responses to The Third Generation through White-Washed. The alternating perspectives of our story enabled us to exhume the internal dialogues of these two characters. This allowed us to fully explore the forms Mrs. Taylor and Chris would take in the present day.
Chapter 1
Glancing away from the road to gauge Chris’ mood, and quickly back to the road, Liz, in the driver’s seat, said flatly, “I’m sorry Grandma said that.” She fixated on the car in front of them and waited for him to respond, even though she didn’t want him to. She checked her mirrors and tapped them into place, then out of place, then into place. “She just shouldn’t have made that comment.” She merged into the left lane.
“What comment?” Chris didn’t look up from his phone.
Liz stretched her lips into a thin line, then pursed them. “When Grandma joked about being black.”
“Oh yeah,” Chris looked up from his phone and started drumming it on the dashboard. “What did she mean? Are Grandma and Grandpa actually black?”
“Uh, no, honey. It’s not worth talking about if you——nevermind.”
“What? No, Mom, say it, come on,” Chris put down his phone.
“Grandma and Grandpa, and me, I guess, and you, you too, are white——”
“I know!”
“And she was saying that you look so similar to us, but you’re part black, that maybe we’re part black too. That’s all. That’s all she was saying.” Her eyes bore into the road.
Chris started drumming on the dashboard again. “You could be, how do you know you’re not?”
“That’s not really the point I was making, Chris.” She merged back into the right lane. “Honey, I just didn’t like what Grandma was saying. Like you’re different than the rest of your family. She wasn’t thinking when she said that.”
“But that’s not what Grandma was saying. She was saying that we’re all black. That we’re not different.” Chris plugged his phone into the car stereo. “Song requests?”
“Ok, ok I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Liz mumbled.
“You always get mad at Grandma for something. You’re making a big deal out of nothing. Song requests?” he asked again.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” she said. Then she was quiet for a moment. “Play our favorite song.”
Chris grinned. “Already queued.”
Chapter 2
Like most half-days, today felt like a blur. After a week of full classes everyday, the Wednesday half-day always came as a welcome relief after a tumultuous Monday-Tuesday. With each class only thirty minutes long, it felt like as soon as I sat down I would have to get up again for my next class. First I had science class where we discussed the upcoming lab on dissecting dead frogs, followed by math where we learned about the Pythagorean Theorem. Considering I’m not a math or science person, I simply stared at the clock all class, pretending to pay attention and look interested in the subject matter. Once the bell rang, I quickly gathered my things and headed to history class to hear the teacher talk about Napoleon Bonaparte I then headed to my last and best class, English, where we discussed the most recent chapter of John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. While I was for the most part interested in the discussion we were having, my eyes were once again fixated on the clock. All I could think about was the day I was gonna spend with my best friend Sean after school. In all the years that I had known Sean I had never actually been to his house before, so I was more than excited to spend time with him outside of school. He had been hyping up his house all week too, proclaiming he had mountains of snacks, a new flat screen TV to play FIFA on, and a nearly full-sized goal to play soccer with. I was curious to see if his house would live up to the hype. Once class was dismissed I rushed out the classroom and met him in the lobby to ride with him on the bus back to his house.
I had known Sean for only a couple years, but he was one of the best friends I ever had. I had first met him from soccer because we played for the same club team, and we seemed to click instantaneously. We had undeniable chemistry on the field as I was an attacking midfielder and he was a striker, so it was typically the two of us who would provide the goals for our team. We also shared very similar humors, so we were always able to joke around with each other without offending one another. When we got to his house I was surprised to see that it was for the most part as-advertised. There was a big goal in the front yard which had tons of space for playing. I would say for the most part that his house was a bit larger than mine, and his front yard was absolutely massive. “You got a pretty big house bro,” I told him coolly.
“Yeah? It gets the job done for the most part if I may say so myself. Everything I need and nothing I don’t.”
With my eyes locked on the goal in his front yard I asked him, “You wanna kick the ball around for a little bit?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We passed the ball around, progressively backing away from each other so that we would have to make longer passes. We then took turns taking shots on net for about an hour, and then we went inside to go play FIFA on his new TV. I’m a Real Madrid fan and he’s a Barcelona fan, so multiple games using those two teams was always inevitable. After I had whooped him three games in a row, he finally gave up and we decided to just relax and talk about high school. “You still planning to go to Johnson Academy?” I asked solemnly.
“Yeah, that’s the plan. I really wish you could go with me though.”
“Yeah same. It’s alright. We’ll still be able to talk and text. Plus you’ll be back on the weekends, right?”
“Yeah, only on some weekends though. We’ll definitely have to hang out a ton over the summer.”
“Yeah, definitely.” Johnson Academy is a private boarding school about an hour away from where we lived. Though I had the grades to go to Johnson Academy, the plan was to send me to the nearby public regional school known as Green Lake High School since my mother couldn’t afford the tuition,
While we talked we listened to his Spotify playlist which consisted of alternative rock bands like Smallpools, Coldplay, and We The Kings along with EDM artists like Alesso and DJ Snake. After we chatted about our high school plans we checked out his pantry which did indeed have mountains of snacks. It was as if his family was preparing for the apocalypse. “Damn you got a lot of snacks,” I said in disbelief.
“Yeah, I told you my pantry was stacked,” he chuckled. Then we watched a couple of his favorite TV shows, Friends and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Afterwards we watched one of his favorite films Stand by Me while I waited for my mother to come pick me up, paying more attention to my phone than the actual movie.
Chapter 3
“Chris, grab the green beans and bring them to the table for me, would you?” Liz turned the stove off and peered over her shoulder at her son. His body was hunched over a textbook and his notebook at the kitchen table.
“Chris, it’s dinner time,” she said. Chris hurredly scrawled something into his notebook.
“Put the homework away so we can have a conversation like normal people. C’mon, Chris.”
Chris slowly closed the book and slid it onto the chair next to him. He stretched his arms and rolled his head in circles. “Why do you say my name so much? There’s no one else in this house you could possibly be talking to.”
Liz stared at her son. Of course she knew there was no one else she could possibly be talking to. It’s just one of her mannerisms, right? Just like how one of his was the sarcasm of an eighth grade boy.
She rolled her eyes. “I know that, honey. It’s just how I talk. Why, you want me to say your name less?” She smiled and nudged him with her wrist. “I like your name. I chose it.”
Chris placed a forkful of green beans in his mouth. He chewed then said, “Did my birth parents name me first?”
Liz, midway through cutting into a piece of chicken, stopped, her elbows suspended in the air over the table. She sat there like that, her hands grasping the fork and knife, then she continued cutting.
“Yes, they did. But they’d only had you for a couple days before they put you up for adoption. And I’d been on the waitlist for a while. So you were only a few weeks old by the time I named you.”
“What was it?”
“The name?” Liz put down her fork and knife and leaned slightly over the table. Her brows knit upwards in apology. “Oh honey, I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”
“What?” Chris’ voice cracked. “How could you not remember?”
Liz’ throat suddenly ached, like she was about to cry. “I—I don’t know, Chris. I was so excited to have a baby. I’ve told you this before, honey. I knew I wanted to name my son after my brother. You remember me telling you that he died that year, right?”
Chris stared back at his mom. Her eyes were trembling as she tried to read him.
“That’s all it was,” she continued. “I just really knew what I wanted to name my son, then you came along right at that moment and I was so excited and scared to be a mom, all by myself, well, honey, you know how it is, I could only focus on that, on what was next when I brought you home—I don’t know.”
“I don’t know how it is,” Chris mumbled.
Liz wanted the conversation to end. Chris had only asked about his birth parents a few times in his life and each time it had felt like he was ripping something out from inside of her. The first time happened when she brought Chris to Boston when he was four, and he saw other black people on the T, and she realized it may have been the most black people Chris had ever seen at once. When they came home that night, Chris looked up at her and with his four-year-old fingers stroked her hair and picked up a piece. He placed it on his head and said, “Mommy, we have different hair.”
“What are you talking about! Hair is hair!” She had replied, with her most animated, highest-octave inflections. But inside her heart had pounded and she couldn’t look her son in the eye. What was she doing? She was fucking up her son, that’s what she was doing. But what did it matter if she just loved him? Loved him so much that she couldn’t see their differences?
But then again, he was only curious because who wouldn’t be curious. It had nothing to do with her. But what if it did?
Chris was looking at his mom, peering at her, in disbelief. He could tell she was upset, that he had made her upset. He wanted to question her more—did she really just not remember? But his mom looked like she was about to cry, and he hated when she cried, and he hated how easily he could make her cry. It made him feel helpless, as though he had all the power and yet none of the power to make her feel better.
“Ok, Mom. Nevermind. Good to know. Can we stop talking about this?”
Liz sucked her teeth and looked down at her plate, ashamed that her son could be so even-keeled while she felt as though every sin in her life was unraveling before her eyes, and her son’s. “We can talk more about this, about them, if you want, Chris.”
Chris felt his chest tighten for her. “Nah, Mom, it’s ok. I had a good time at Sean’s today, by the way.”
“Oh that’s good to hear. You guys didn’t just play FIFA did you?”
Chris rolled his eyes and smiled at her. “Mom, we’re in middle school. We have to have fun now before we all go to high school.”
“Oh my gosh, honey. There are more ways to have fun then to just stare at screens together. How’s soccer, speaking of?”
“FIFA makes me better at soccer. There are studies that prove—”
“There is no way there are studies proving that playing FIFA makes you better at soccer than actually playing—”
“I didn’t say it’s better, Mom, it just happens to be effective on its own.”
Liz was laughing, and her heart hurt. She loved when Chris let them joke together like this. Chris started to laugh, too, and when he did, his body leaned forward and his forehead grazed his green beans, which made them laugh harder.
Chapter 4
With 8th grade over and summer finally at the onset, all I could ponder about was high school in the fall and the friends that I would be leaving behind. I knew that if my mother could help it I would be attending Johnson Academy with my friends, but those just were not the cards we were dealt. For that reason, I tried to hang out with my friends as much as I could that summer.
One weekend Sean and I went over to our friend Donovan’s house to have a bonfire. I originally met Donovan through Sean who have known each other since they were very little. I got to know Donovan for myself though when we got partnered for a 7th grade lab project on gravity. He and Sean are very similar in regards to their upbeat personalities, in fact they look very similar too. They could honestly pass for brothers. Donovan is a bit more outgoing and talkative than Sean though, and for that reason it did not take long for Donovan to befriend me and get to know me on a personal level.
Along with Sean, Donovan was also planning to attend Johnson Academy in the fall, so it was really nice to be able to chat with both of them at the bonfire. “You guys excited to be going to Johnson in the fall,” I inquired casually.
“Yes sir,” they responded in unison.
“You know, I heard the chicks at Johnson are absolute smokeshows,” Donovan added.
“Oh yeah?” I asked with a smirk.
“Where’d you hear that from?” Sean questioned.
“My boy Bobby told me the other night,” Donovan responded.
“What are the odds you actually get with one of ‘em?” I added.
“As high as the moon, Chris. As high as the moon,” Donovan proclaimed.
“I like the confidence buddy,” I laughed.
“Come on Donovan, we are talking about reality here, not your dreams,” Sean added.
“Yeah yeah you’ll see Sean. You’ll all see,” Donovan said.
“Hopefully the chicks at Green Lake are just as fine,” I noted.
“Chris, Green Lake is literally massive, you’ll probably get laid before the both of us,” Sean responded reassuringly.
“Yeah, hard to argue with that,” Donovan added.
“You know, I heard their soccer program is one of the best in the state too,” said Sean.
“I know. I’m gonna go to tryouts in a couple weeks,” I responded.
“You’ll probably make the team easily. I on the other hand am gonna have to put Johnson on my back if we are to go anywhere this season,” Sean added jokingly.
“Yeah, I heard you guys lost a lot of seniors. At least you’ll be one of the coach’s favorites right off the bat,” I told him.
“True that,” he responded.
“You know, I heard that Green Lake’s program is so good ‘cause they got a lot of ethnic guys on their squad,” Donovan claimed.
“Yeah true. I heard they get guys from Brockton and New Bedford every year,” Sean added.
“Really?” I questioned.
“Yeah, those guys are athletic freaks. Meanwhile my white ass is stuck on my white boy team preparing to play other white boy teams in our white boy league haha. I’d kill to play with some of those guys,” Sean said.
“Yeah Chris, you’re gonna be playing with the best of the best,” Donovan added.
This was something that I had not really given much thought before. My school was pretty white for the most part along with the soccer team I played for— and our town in general. It made me feel a little uneasy thinking about life at Green Lake and whether or not I would fit into the social sphere of the school. Sean and Donovan were right that Green Lake is a huge school, with a population of around 8,000 students. A school that large is bound to have pretty decent diversity, especially considering it’s a regional school. As I stared into the bonfire, I decided to look at my future at Green Lake in a positive light, figuring that this would be a great opportunity for me to experience different cultures that I wasn’t used to. As I was pondering my future, Sean broke the silence. “Hey Chris, since we won’t be home very often, make sure to give us a call every once in awhile.”
“Yeah, definitely,” I responded.
As we stared into the bonfire some more, Donovan threw on his Spotify playlist which consisted mostly of EDM artists like Avicii and Zedd. With my mind spinning thinking about Green Lake, Sean, and Donovan, I pulled out my phone and started avidly reading the latest Real Madrid news.
Chapter 5
Liz had been looking forward to the summer. Chris would be home, she would be home, and she knew, from the parenting books, that entrance into ninth grade was really an entrance into a world of conflict, defiance, and distance from her sweet, naive fourteen-year-old. These three months should have been the three months she severed that path. She and Chris were different. In all their years together, just them in that little house alone, Chris and Liz regarded each other with a comfortable deference. They were partners against her skeptical, and probably racist, parents, against their brow-raising neighborhood, against the parents at Chris’ school who would say to her, “It’s so good for my Sammy to have diverse friends.”
But Chris had spent most of the summer with Sean and Donovan, and his absence in their home had begun earlier than she planned. Suddenly it was the end of August and Chris was starting his first day of high school in a little more than a week. Liz mandated that they go out to dinner in celebration.
Chris was in a good mood. She could tell because he kept asking her questions about her life before she adopted him. What preteen boy knew how to ask questions? Liz had to discreetly wipe her eyes throughout dinner, she felt so much pride and love for him.
Liz knew she should ask her son how he was feeling about his friends leaving for the private school, or about going to Green Lake, but thinking about it made Liz nervous. It was such a big school, such a diverse school, Chris would have to decide who he wanted to be for the first time in his life, and she had no idea who that was.
On the drive home, Chris was quieter. Liz sighed quietly and cleared her throat. “What are you thinking about, Chris?”
Chris looked down at his laced fingers and twisted his palms around.
“Kinda bummed about Sean and Donovan are leaving, I guess. Not that I want to go to Johnson with them. I’m excited about Green Lake, I guess. And nervous.”
“Yeah, honey, that’s too bad that they’re leaving. But that happens a lot. Most people have to start over in high school, you know? You’ll be one of so many kids having to do that.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“I’m trying out for soccer. Donovan said they have a really good team because of all the black guys on it. It’d be cool to be on an actually competitive team.”
Liz glanced over at Chris and wondered what he was trying to say to her. She waited for the right response to come to her mind. Then Chris said, “Maybe I’ll find out I’m an athletic freak, too.”
Liz scoffed. “What on earth is that supposed to mean, honey?” She realized she sounded angry.
Chris looked over at his mom, confused by her tone. “I was, like, joking, Mom. Calm down.”
“Did one of your friends call you a freak?” She tried to hide the anger in her voice.
“No, Mom. Why are you flipping out? Donovan just said the guys on the team are athletic freaks. He was saying that black people are good at sports. It’s a good thing. You’re not black, why are you offended?”
“You’re not black either! Do your friends treat you differently because they think you’re black?” Liz gripped the steering wheel. Why was she getting so worked up?
“Mom, what the hell? I am black. Look at me.”
Liz didn’t say anything. The car approached their driveway, and she pulled in. She shifted into park and took her hands off the wheel, the car still running.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said ‘hell.’ But Mom, I don’t care that I’m black. I’m just saying that I am. But you know, I’m also white. I don’t care about that either. Why do you? Why do you care so much?”
Liz wanted to throw up. This was horrible. This was her worst nightmare. She had to say something but could think of nothing, absolutely nothing.
Finally, she inhaled and said, “Chris, that is a horrible thing to suggest about your mother. I don’t know how we got into this conversation. But I also don’t know why you’re saying you’re black all of a sudden.” Liz took another deep breath and said slowly and loudly, “You are whatever I am and you always have been and—” her voice broke ”—always will be.”
Chris sighed and shook his head. He wanted his mom to be right, for her sake. It’d be easier.
“Yeah, whatever. I guess. I don’t know how we got into this either but I’m going inside.” Chris got out and tried not to slam the car door behind him. Liz watched her son walk into their home. The living room lights flicked on. A minute later, the lights in his bedroom turned on, too, and Liz cried into the steering wheel.
Chapter 6
When the Green Lake soccer tryouts finally came around a week before school commenced, I was both nervous and excited. I of course more than anything just wanted to make the team, but knowing how great the program was I knew that was not a given. I appreciated Sean’s confidence in me as a player but I knew the guys I would be trying out with would surely be on my level or even above it. Regardless of my nerves I was confident in my own abilities. I had been playing soccer for seven years and club soccer for four so I knew that I had the skill level to matchup against anybody. And deep down I did in fact relish in the prospects of being able to tryout against some of the top talent in the state. I figured that it would be a great way to gauge how my own skill level stacked up against the competition.
When I arrived at the tryouts my mother wished me luck and reminded me that as long as I stuck to what I knew and showed the coaches that I was willing to work that I would be fine. When I actually reached the field I was at first taken aback by the amount of players that were in attendance. Due to the small schools I was accustomed to growing up in, it had completely slipped my mind that there would be 2,000 incoming freshman students. At the tryout there were about 65 of us, and only 40 roster spots between the JV and varsity squads. I was not only taken aback by the enormity of the tryout, but also the diversity of the players, even knowing beforehand that there would be plenty of minority players. There seemed to be a range of skin tones, from really dark skinned to really light skinned players, and only a few other white players, which really took me by surprise. All my life I was so used to seeing whites as the majority.
First the head coach Pete Turner introduced himself along with his two assistant coaches John Wilder and Ryan Leavitt. Then they split us up into three groups to go through some passing and dribbling drills, followed by some one on one shooting drills, and a final scrimmage at the end. I was placed into coach Turner’s group, and I think I caught his attention during the passing and dribbling drills with my proficiency in the two areas. I was however caught off guard by the athleticism of some of the players, as they really seemed to be as fast and strong as Sean and Donovan had claimed. As a player speed was always my number one asset, and growing up I was always the fastest player on my team and usually the fastest player on the field against opposition. During the one on one shooting drills though I had to switch my tactics once I realized I couldn’t just use my speed to blow by players the way I could so routinely before. I instead had to use a lot more dribbling tricks to create enough space to get a shot off, and I had to be sure to be patient on defense and not lunge or else my opponent would just fly right by me for an easy goal. After the one-on-one drills were finished we took a brief water break before we concluded the tryout with the scrimmages.
While I was grabbing water from my bag one of the guys I matched up with in the last drill came up to me. He was one of the faster kids I went up against, and after he had dispossessed the ball from me rather easily the first time around, I had used an array of dribble moves to get by him the second time we faced off. Like many of the players there, he clearly looked mixed race, with light brown skin, curly hair, and black facial features. “What’s good nigga?” He asked me.
“Oh, what’s up?” I responded.
“What’s your name?”
“Chris.”
“Cool, my name’s Bruno. You got some quick feet bruh. You got me pretty good with ‘dem scissors moves over there.”
“Oh, thanks,” I snickered. “You’re pretty fast, so I had to get a little more creative in order to get around you.”
“Are you a freshman?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool, same. Where you from?”
“I’m from around the Cape. How ‘bout you?”
“I’m from Brockton.”
As soon as he said this, coach Turner whistled for us to start the scrimmages. “I’ll see ya out there,” he added.
“Yeah, see you out there.”
Overall I thought I did really well during the scrimmage. Coach Turner had placed Bruno and I on the same team, and we both propelled our team to victory. Playing the center attacking midfield position, I got two assists, one of which was to Bruno who joined the attack often even though he was playing left back. I also scored the winner in the last five minutes of the game with a shot from close to thirty yards from goal, which completely caught the keeper by surprise. After the goal, Bruno came over and celebrated with me, and coach Turner complimented me on the goal. When the scrimmage ended, coach Turner told us that he would announce the results of the tryout by the beginning of next week, and before I left Bruno and I exchanged numbers. Leaving the tryout, my confidence was at an all time high and I felt that I left a good impression on the coaches. While waiting for my mother to pick me up I responded to a text from Sean asking about the tryout.
Chapter 7
Liz and Chris hadn’t spoken about the night they went out to dinner, which worried Liz. It was three days later and Chris should have apologized by now. He never let things fester between them, not for this long.
Clearly, something about this fight was different for Chris, she thought. Perhaps she’d struck a nerve. But so had he. He’d hurt her. He knew how much it mattered to her that he not question her legitimacy as a mom. He knew he was all she had. How was it supposed to make her feel when he talked about being black? How could he look at his mother’s face and go on talking like that? As if she needed a reminder that she had not birthed him, that he had a whole other set of parents out there somewhere, that he was not hers and hers alone.
She pulled up to the soccer fields and rolled down the windows, trying to discern her son from the throngs of boys spilling out from the bleachers. She squinted. From this distance, Chris’s face was, for a moment, indistinguishable. When she thought she spotted him, her hand went to the wheel to honk for him. In the last second, she stopped herself, realizing the person she thought was Chris was in fact not Chris, but another 5’10” light-skinned boy with kinky hair. She stared at the boy in shock.
“Mom,” a voice called behind her. “Mom, will you pop the trunk?” Chris stood at the back of the car, rapping his fist against the trunk hood.
“Sorry, honey,” Liz called, looking around for the trunk lock switch.
A minute later, Chris slid into the passenger seat. Liz was about to pull away when a darker-skinned boy approached the open window and stuck his hand toward Chris.
“Hope I see you tomorrow, man. Good playing today,” the boy said, sliding his hand against Chris’ and locking fists.
“Thanks, bro, same to you.”
The boy motioned a small wave to Liz, who stared back and offered a quick smile.
Liz pulled out of the parking lot and crept onto the road. She looked over at Chris, who was looking at his phone.
“Who was that, honey?” She asked, her voice straining for innocence. “A new friend, yeah?”
“Bruno. Cool kid on the team. From Brockton. Sick at soccer.” Chris said, avoiding his mom’s gaze. He’d been having trouble looking her in the eye since their fight in the car.
“Oh? What—what’s his position?” Liz stumbled through the question.
Chris folded his arms and stared down the front of the car. “Left back. But didn’t you hear me say he’s from Brockton? It’s a pretty black neighborhood, right? That’s what you’re thinking, right?”
Liz opened her mouth to defend herself, but she couldn’t speak. Why was Chris being so mean? The two sat in silence as the car merged onto the highway.
Finally, Liz spoke. “You’ve been very rude to me, Chris. It’s—you—you are hurting my feelings.”
Chris was quiet. He felt guilty. He knew this feeling well. Was he really being all that unfair to her? She was the one who was probably racist, and how fucked up was that? He wouldn’t apologize.
“Seems like a nice guy. Bruno. Kinda nice to have a friend a week before school starts,” Chris said, his voice low and monotone. Liz didn’t say anything. They rode the rest of the way home in silence.
Chapter 8
I had found out a couple days before school that I had not only made Green Lake’s soccer team, but was also one of only three freshmen who were made alternates for the varsity squad. The other two freshman who were made alternates were Bruno and a center forward named Denzel. Denzel was also from Brockton and he and Bruno had gone to the same middle school and played for the same club team. They actually happened to be neighbors. Like Bruno, Denzel was also clearly mixed race as he had curly hair and black facial features, but distinctly darker skin than Bruno. I remembered him from the tryout because he was among the tallest players there, standing at 6-1. Even though he was very thin for his height, he was surprisingly strong and knew how to use his length to his advantage. He was also almost as fast as me, and could easily beat Sean in a foot race any day of the week. Since the three of us were varsity alternates we practiced with the varsity squad but played mostly JV games. Considering we were the only freshman at the practice, the three of us became close early on in the season.
One day after practice Bruno invited Denzel and I over to his house to study and hang out. We had to prepare for a group project in which we had to act out a few scenes from William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet for our English class in a couple weeks. We worked on the script for about an hour until we felt like we had gotten enough done and we decided to eat dinner. While Bruno’s mother was setting up dinner, my own mother was texting me constantly asking if I was coming home to eat with her. I was having a good time with Bruno and Denzel and I wanted to stay, so I lied to her and told her that Bruno’s mother insisted that I stayed for dinner. Bruno’s mother had prepared macaroni pie and fried chicken with peach cobbler for dessert which was all delicious. I had never heard of macaroni pie before. It was apparently a Caribbean dish as Bruno’s mother was from Trinidad and Tobago. My own mother very rarely cooked fried chicken as she mainly just cooked Italian pasta dishes, and her fried chicken wasn’t nearly as good as Bruno’s mother’s. I had also never had peach cobbler before which that day may have became my new favorite dessert. Afterwards we decided to play a little FIFA. Like Sean, Bruno was also a Barcelona fan while Denzel and I were both Real Madrid fans, so there was certainly never a lack of banter between us whenever we played FIFA.
“Damn Bruno, your mother sure is a great cook,” I said as we were adjusting our lineups.
“Yeah, she definitely knows how to make a good macaroni pie,” Bruno responded.
“Yeah nigga, when I become rich and have my own mansion Imma hire your mother to be my personal chef,” Denzel stated jokingly.
“Nigga please, if you tried to buy my mother then I would have to buy a ladder to clock you in the face,” Bruno responded.
“Come on man, I ain’t just gonna buy her, she would be very well paid,” Denzel added.
“Shut the fuck up nigga,” Bruno responded coldly.
“Relax nigga I was just playin’,” Denzel stated.
“You both need to relax, and Bruno you need to get ready for this whooping,” I chimed in.
“We’ll see about that,” Bruno responded.
While we played, Denzel threw on his Spotify playlist which consisted of rap artists that I had never heard of. I didn’t really like the music at first, but I just remained silent since Bruno and Denzel both seemed to be enjoying it. However, as we kept playing, the music started to grow on me more and more.
“Hey Denzel, who is this?” I asked curiously.
Suddenly, Denzel and Bruno both looked at me and then each other with perplexed faces.
“Nigga, you don’t know A Boogie wit da Hoodie?” Bruno asked with a look of surprise.
“Nah, I’ve never heard of him,” I answered timidly.
“Nigga what the fuck?” Denzel added equally surprised. “How do you not know A Boogie?”
“I don’t know, I guess I just don’t listen to much rap music,” I responded, a bit embarrassed.
“Damn son, then what the hell kinda music do you listen to,” Bruno inquired.
“I don’t know, mostly alternative rock and EDM I guess,” I muttered.
“Damn, you musta grown up around a lot of white folks,” Denzel chuckled.
“Sure seems like it,” Bruno snickered. “Here’s another question for you Chris. Have you ever had macaroni pie before today?” Buno asked.
I wanted to lie to save myself from even more embarrassment, but I figured it really wouldn’t do me any good.
“Nah, not really,” I admitted.
Bruno could see how visibly embarrassed I was. He decided to stop interrogating me.
“Damn bruh, you’ve really been missing out on a lot. But I guess it makes sense. You come from a predominantly white area, right?” He asked.
“Yeah,” I answered.
“True, they probably don’t listen to much rap music where he’s from,” Denzel added.
“You are part black though, aren’t you? I mean, you certainly look part black,” Bruno questioned.
“Yeah I am, I guess I just haven’t really been exposed to the things you guys grew up with,” I responded.
“Hmm. You ever seen the movie Boyz n the Hood Chris?” Denzel inquired.
“Nah, can’t say I have,” I answered.
“Damn, you need to see that movie now,” he exclaimed.
“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Bruno added.
“Hmm, It’s getting kinda late, I think I might need to head home soon. I don’t want my mom to have to try to find your house in the middle of the night,” I answered.
“Nah Chris, you really need to see this movie. Plus my dad can just drop you back home once it finishes,” Bruno implored.
I gave it some more thought and decided that I probably should stay to see the movie. There seemed to be so much about my blackness that I didn’t know, and the more I hung out with Bruno and Denzel, the more I wanted to explore it. “Alright, then let’s get this movie started now so that I don’t get home mad late.”
By the end of the film I had so many questions for my mother about my own blackness that I didn’t know where to start. In a way I felt a bit betrayed by her. Like she had been concealing such an important part of my own identity from me and it made me both upset and angry. On the car ride home Bruno’s father tried to make small talk with me, but I more or less gave him one-word answers because I just wasn’t in the mood to talk. When we got home I thanked Bruno’s father for the ride and then slowly walked up to the doorstep of my house which was pitch black. Suddenly, the kitchen lights flashed on and I knew that my mother was still awake, waiting for me.
Chapter 9
“Before you say anything, tell me something, would you?” Chris approached the kitchen table, his bookbag, soccer bag, and shoes all slung over his shoulder. He dropped everything to the floor.
Liz glared back at him, her arms folded on the table.
“Why did I just spend the past six hours getting schooled on being black? Why did it feel like I was being taught a foreign language? It was humiliating, Mom. Humiliating.”
Chris stood, there, his hands at his sides, his stance unchanging as he waited for Liz to say something.
Liz’ throat went dry and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.
“You should have told me you were coming home late. Not texting me was unacceptable,” she said.
“That doesn’t fucking matter, Mom! That’s not the point right now!” Chris slammed his hands on the table and leaned forward in exasperation. Liz flinched.
“I’d never even heard of Boyz n the Hood,” Chris cried.
“Chris,” her voice cracked. “I don’t know what you want me to say. You had a wonderful childhood. You’re being incredibly ungrateful,” Liz’ voice hardened.
“Oh, am I?” Chris’ voice was getting louder. “I’m being ungrateful for all the whiteness you gave me? Because that’s what you mean, right? You saved me by making me white like you, right?”
Liz covered her face with her hands. “Honey, that’s so unfair, that’s so unfair,” she sobbed.
Chris took his mom’s wrists and pulled her hands from her face. “You can’t cry you’re way out of this conversation again, Mom. Just admit it. You’re a racist!” Now Chris’ voice broke, and tears started to form in his eyes.
Liz kept her eyes close, her body trembling as Chris held onto her wrists. She wanted to tell her son no, of course not, no she was not a racist, she loved him and all of him, even the blackness. But she knew she hated his blackness. But not the blackness itself, she told herself. She hated that it was the one thing that separated them, the one thing that distanced her son—her beloved son, the only person to unconditionally love her, the only purpose she had in her life, the love of her life—and this, this was the one thing that could take him away from her, and she hated it, she did. But she knew that made her an awful, awful mother, and now Chris could finally see her for the abominable person she was. This was the moment. This was the moment she lost Chris forever.
Tears were streaming down Chris’ face. His mother wasn’t saying anything. His mother really was racist. His own mother.
Liz opened her eyes and saw her son’s broken face, and she wanted to die. “No, honey, I love you so much, you have to know that, you just have to know that.” The words came out a strained, course whisper.
“Yeah, whatever. I’m not a naive little kid anymore, Mom. I love you too, but this is fucked up.” Chris said, releasing her wrists and backing away. He leaned down to pick his bags up, not breaking eye contact with his mother. “I’m going to bed,” he said. He walked upstairs, not looking back at her.
3 years later
Chapter 10
After thinking about it for quite some time I had made up my mind that I wanted to attend Howard University the following year. After spending the last three years exploring my blackness with guys like Bruno and Denzel, and knowing that my exploration was not quite finished, my heart was set on attending a historically black university. Bruno was also planning to attend Howard with me, while Denzel had his heart set on Morehouse College. For the first time in my life, I really felt like I finally had a true sense of my own racial identity, and I knew that I wanted to investigate my blackness further over the next four years of my life. Before meeting Bruno and Denzel, I felt as though I had been living a lie fabricated by my own mother.
With time, I understood why she had raised me as white. I was her whole world. I think raising me as white was a way for her to confine me to her world. For a long time I was angry with her for trying to mold me into something that was only half of my identity. I didn’t want to forgive her for what she did, but I knew that eventually I would have to. I couldn’t stay mad at her forever, because I knew that it would break her heart. Though I was angry with her, she was still my mother, and there was no one on the earth that I loved and cared about more. She may not have been my birth mother, but unlike my birth mother, she brought me into her home and raised me as her own son, and for that reason I knew that I could never stay mad at her. I never did forget about that night I called my mother a racist, and it felt like everytime I closed my eyes I would relive that night in my head again. If there was any reason I had to forgive my mother, it was to free myself from the guilt that had been slowly eating away at me over the last three years. Guilt for convincing her that I no longer loved her, when that simply wasn’t true.
Truthfully, I do believe that my mother had good intentions raising me as white. She was white of course, and so was almost everyone else around me. She not only wanted me to be able to identify with her as my mother, but also with all the other kids that I would grow up with. I still strongly believe that if she had the financial means, she would have sent me to Johnson Academy with Sean and Donovan. I think that discovering my black identity was one of the last things she expected sending me to Green Lake, and one of the things that she always feared deep down. I hadn’t told her yet that I wanted to go to Howard, and I hadn’t even told her that I was interested in attending a historically black university, though I’m almost certain that the thought has crossed her mind at some point over the last three years. In the end, I wanted to let her know that I loved her, and that I was no longer angry with her for raising me the way that she did. And more importantly, I wanted to let her know that no matter where I went or how black I became, I was always going to be her son and nothing would ever change that.
Before speaking with my mother about this, I knew that I wanted to let Sean and Donovan know about my decision first. Though we didn’t hang out nearly as much as we did in middle school, which was only natural considering we were no longer around each other 24/7, we still kept in touch and tried to hang out whenever we could. At this point, I was much closer to Bruno and Denzel than Sean and Donovan. Donovan was actually out that weekend so I spent the night at Sean’s to discuss our college plans, and I was surprised to hear how supportive he was of my decision. “That’s awesome Chris,” he exclaimed.
“Wow, um, you really think so?”
“Of course, it’s a great school, especially if you want to attend a historically black university.”
“Yeah, that’s the idea,” I snickered.
“It’s cool to see that you want to explore your blackness more, that’s awesome.”
“I guess I just wasn’t expecting you to be so enthusiastic about my decision,” I chuckled. “Though I guess that’s more so my mom I’m thinking about.”
“Have you not told her yet?”
“Nah, not yet, I will soon though. By the way, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while now.”
“Shoot.”
“I know that I told you years ago that I’m part black, but did you always view me as black, or different from everybody else, or different from Donovan?”
“I mean, yeah I always knew that you were mixed, but I guess I never really viewed you differently than someone like Donovan, at least in regards to your race. We seemed to be interested in the same things, and I don’t think you ever had any distinctly black interests, otherwise I probably would have taken notice. That’s likely because of the way you were brought up though. It doesn’t seem as though your mom ever pushed you to embrace your blackness.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve come to realize. So did you view me as white?”
“In a way, yeah. I guess I just didn’t really view you as different from anybody else.”
“I see. I guess I’ve just been trying to get a better of grasp of how others viewed me growing up now that I’ve begun to embrace my true identity.”
“That makes sense, and it’s cool to see how you’ve come to terms with your blackness these last few years.”
“Yeah, Bruno and Denzel definitely opened my eyes quite a bit.”
“How are they by the way?”
“They’re doing well, Bruno is also planning to apply to Howard as well, and Denzel wants to go to Morehouse.”
“That’s awesome. That’d be sweet if you and Bruno both got into Howard.”
“Yeah, that’s our hope. Where do you plan to apply by the way.”
“Northeastern is my number one choice right now.”
“Wow, that’s awesome, that’s a great school.”
“Yeah, I think I want to apply early decision too ‘cause I love the school so much.”
“Oh yeah? Bruno and I are thinking of doing the same thing for Howard.”
“That’s great, you definitely have a better shot of getting in if you apply early.”
“Do you know where Donovan plans to apply? I haven’t gotten the chance to ask him yet.”
“I’m pretty sure his first choice is BC.”
“Oh okay, nice. That’d be great if you guys both got to go to school in Boston.”
“Yeah, that’s the plan.”
“Well, you down for me to beat your ass in some FIFA now?”
“We’ll see about that buddy,” he laughed.
As we played I began to reminisce about all the games of FIFA we used to play back in middle school. It’s crazy how much time has changed, and I was happy to know that Sean and I were still good friends. My thoughts then began to dwell on my mother and how I would tell her about my decision to apply to Howard. A part of me didn’t want to talk to her about it for fear that it would push us even further apart or make her unhappy, but I knew that it was a conversation that we had to have. As I waited for him to adjust his lineup, I put on my Spotify playlist of Bryson Tiller, A Boogie, and Tory Lanez. While we were midway through the first game, Sean asked me, “What rapper is this? I like his flow.”
“His name is A Boogie wit da Hoodie, my friend,” I chuckled.
“Huh, interesting name, I’ll have to check him out later.”
“Definitely.”
Chapter 11
The fight marked Liz’ letting go of Chris. She refused to go to any of his soccer games, to ask him about his friends or what he did in his free time. She asked him about his classes and his teachers, and pretended she didn’t notice him growing his hair out or buying new clothes or listening to new music. She pretended to become indifferent, and it was painfully difficult for her. The first year of high school, as Liz tried to remove herself, she told herself that if she showed Chris what it looked like to have an apathetic mother, he would take back everything he said and apologize and everything between them would be okay again. But he didn’t, and that hurt Liz more than the fight had.
It had hurt Chris too, though, a deafening amount. He knew his mother was being vindictive, and he knew it was because she felt alone, and that it was he who made her feel that way. But he felt alone too and his mother couldn’t see his pain.
The second year, she showed up to his first game, and he was a starter, and he was great. Watching him score, his black, brown, and white teammates surrounding round him with such blatant joy and love, and his face breaking out in the smile she hadn’t seen in so long—it all made her feel so intensely the guilt she had been suppressing. But she felt it, and it was debilitating. She couldn’t look Chris in the eye that night. She couldn’t look in the mirror.
The third year, she met the other parents on the team. The mother of the boy who came up to the car that afternoon would approach her at games and go on and on about Chris and how much her family loved having him over. Liz felt embarrassed and ashamed. She couldn’t say the same about Bruno; she barely remembered his name. So she asked Chris if he would bring his friends over more, and he did, and she loved them.
When he was a senior, Chris approached his mom one evening in October and said, “I just had my interview today with a Howard admissions rep and it went really well. I wanted you to know. I might really get to go there.”
Liz was quiet. She’d seen the Howard brochures arriving in the mail earlier that month but hadn’t said anything. She and Chris hadn’t talked about his race since the fight three years back, and she was terrified to remind him of it. She’d realized just how much she had wronged Chris, how much hate she must have made him feel for himself over the years, how confused her little boy must have been about who he was growing up. She had denied him his whole self; she crippled her boy’s ability to be his entire self. Forgiving herself for that would already be hard enough. She couldn’t bring up the brochures. She had no idea if Chris had forgiven her. She knew she wouldn’t deserve it if he had.
“Wow, honey,” she said. For the first time in three years, Liz started to cry in front of Chris. “I want to say: why didn’t you tell me? But I know why you didn’t. I know why you didn’t and I am so sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.” Liz shielded her eyes with her hand.
Chris rubbed the back of his neck and looked at his feet. He hadn’t seen his mom cry in a while. He’d heard her do it at night, when she thought he’d fallen asleep, but now he was seeing it, and suddenly he was seeing his mom from that night, at the kitchen table, her hands crumpled in front of her face and her eyes closed and her body shaking.
“I was scared of what you’d say. It felt like things were getting better,” he said.
Liz nodded, her eyes still shrouded under her hand. She inhaled and wiped her eyes and looked up. “Of course you were scared. Honey—” her voice caught and she had to take a deep breath. “You thought I didn’t love you because you were black. That—that was the worst thing I’ve ever, ever done. Let you think that.”
“That’s what you did for seventeen years. You let me think my being black was an unspoken evil for seventeen years, Mom.”
Liz nodded. “I know,” she said, firmly. “I did that. And I am disgusted with myself, Chris. I am repulsed.”
Chris stuck his hands in his pockets. “How are you going to make it better?” he asked.
“Honey, I will do anything. I will really do anything. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
Chris shook his head slowly. “Mom, I can’t do that. It needs to come from you. I know you’re sorry, and I know how much you love me. But I can’t tell you how to fix what you did to me. I love myself and who I am, I really do. Part of that is because of you. But part of it is because I had to do a lot of work, alone, without your help, with you actively avoiding talking about the things I most wanted to talk about with you. So now you have to do work, too.”
Liz stood straighter and placed her hands in her pockets to mirror Chris. “Ok honey, I will. Thank you for telling me that. I will.”
Chapter 12
I waited anxiously for about an hour for Howard to release their early decision results. I tried to relax myself by watching The Boondocks while my mother was preparing dinner, but all I could really do was pace back and forth in my room, constantly refreshing my online portal to see if the results were out yet. I really wasn’t sure how my mother would react. Would she be disappointed if I got in? Would she secretly be happy if I didn’t? I immediately dismissed the latter, for as long as I’ve known her, nothing was more important to her than myself and my happiness. Though this was something that I knew she would have to get used to, I was confident that she wanted nothing more than for me to get an acceptance letter from Howard.
When it was finally 8:00 p.m., I stopped pacing back and forth and lunged toward my computer to refresh the online portal. As I waited for the page to reload, my stomach was churning, as if all the forces in the world were pushing down against it. Suddenly, the page loaded and all I saw were the words, “Congratulations Chris, You’re in!” As soon as I saw those words I shut my computer and sprinted down the stairs to the kitchen. However, as soon as I saw my mother, my excitement subsided. A sense of doubt crept into my thoughts, and for a moment I sincerely questioned whether or not my mother would be happy for me. “Mom, I got in.”
“Oh my God, Chris!” My mother dropped her cooking spoon and ran over to hug me for what felt like an eternity. “I’m so proud of you!” She sobbed.
As soon as I heard those words, I cried too. Hearing her say those words felt like a dream, and I didn’t want to wake up. I hugged her even tighter, not wanting to let go. As we held onto each other, I whispered in her ear that I loved her, and that no matter what happened, I would never stop loving her, and I would never stop being her son. Hearing this, she sobbed even more, then she let me go once she realized that the stove was still on. “Come sit down and eat, Chris. I made your favorite chicken stew,” she said holding back her tears.
As I sat down I frantically texted Bruno to tell him I had gotten accepted to Howard and to see if he also got accepted. When he responded that he did, I nearly dropped my phone and immediately told my mother. “That’s great news Chris! It’ll be so good to have friend to go to college with!” I then got a text from Sean saying that he had been accepted to Northeastern and asking if I had gotten into Howard. After I had told him the news, my mother joined me at the table and I told her about Sean’s acceptance, and she stated how proud she was of all of us.
That night, I sat down on my bed with tears streaming down my face as I thought about everything that had transpired that night. I was delighted to know that I would be able to spend the next four years with Bruno, and I was so happy for Sean to know that he had gotten into his dream school. But I cried that night not for Bruno or for Sean, but for my mother. For the first time in years, I finally felt as if she loved and accepted me for who I was, and that’s all I ever really wanted from her. I slept easier that night than I had in years, as I finally felt the warm love and acceptance I had been seeking from my mother.