What
About Your Roots?
Monica
arrived late to the party; deliberately. She stood on the doorstep of
the luxurious home in one of the most opulent neighborhoods in the
city. A warm spring breeze caressed her bare arms as she rang the
doorbell. Her stomach fluttered and her heart raced, waiting for
someone to answer; tired of pretending to be someone she wasn't,
afraid she would be found out. Her 'friend' from college,
Crystal, answered the door with an exaggerated smile, followed with
the flourish of a kiss on both cheeks.
"Monique!
How good to see you. Come in," she said.
"Thank
you, Crystal," Monica replied, as she followed her in; no longer
batting an eye at the glamorization of her name, Crystal had dubbed
her Monique, on the first day of college, simply based on her
assumption she was wealthy. It had stuck and Monica did not object,
after all, she was instantly embraced by a group of popular
socialites.
"Your
dress is fabulous. You have to tell me where you got it," Crystal
said.
Monica
looked down at her green flowing evening gown and smiled, thanking
her lucky stars she had a natural talent for fashion. She wore a
combination of items she picked up at the local Goodwill, carefully
tailoring them to resemble fashion designs she had seen on the
internet.
"Mother
surprised me with it. I begged her to tell me where she bought it,
but she wouldn't say. It must have been expensive though," she
replied
"I
can tell!" Crystal said as she led her towards a set of double
doors, the jarring sound of jazz and a hubbub of voices emanating
from within. They walked into a huge ballroom, which Monica guessed
was larger than the house she grew up in. A jazz band was playing at
the side of the room, tables were laden with hors-d'oeuvres and
elegantly dressed guests mingling on the floor and the veranda at the
end of the room. A waiter appeared at her elbow offering glasses of
champagne which she took quickly, masking a, "Thank you", with a
cough. Old habits die hard and ignoring the less privileged was
imperative to maintaining her fade.
"Are
you ok, darling," Crystal asked, taking her by the arm and guiding
her towards the veranda. Monica nodded with what she hoped was a
relaxed smile. "I'll bring you out to our friends. They're
outside enjoying the fabulous evening."
They
made their way through the guests and walked out into the fresh air
of the open veranda, overlooking the carefully manicured garden.
Monica saw the small huddle of five of their 'friends' from
college, all impeccably dressed in their evening wear. She was
relieved to see that Brad had arrived. Of all her 'friends', he
was the only one she felt comfortable with, but not enough to let
down her veil.
"Look
who joined us," Crystal announced, as they turned towards Monica,
warmly greeting her.
Sheila,
the self-appointed leader of the group, came forward, hugged her and
kissed her on each cheek. "It's so good you could make it,
Monique. I was just saying to Brad that I hoped you would come."
"I'm
glad you came, Monique," he said smiling. "Perhaps we could take
a stroll across the garden later?"
Monica
wanted to say "Let's go now," but caution dictated a more
reserved reply. "I would love to, Brad." She said with a
noncommittal smile.
Sheila
laughed and raised her glass. "Before you love birds wander off, I
think we should raise ourselves a toast since this will be our last
social this semester. We made a mark in our first year in college."
"We
certainly did," Crystal said, as they each took a drink, Monica
taking a small sip and suppressing the urge to spit it out.
"They're
building the transgender bathroom now and we started the petition."
Brian piped up, nervously pushing his glasses back up his nose.
"I
made sure we were all mentioned in the college rag," Lisa said.
Sheila
smiled and gently put her hand on Lisa's shoulder. "It helps when
you're the editor, doesn't it Lisa."
Monica
smiled, relieved, the paper didn't have wide circulation. What
would her family have thought?
"Or
what about the protest when Trump was elected," Gwyneth said,
smiling. "Monique, you said you didn't like to get involved in
politics but I bet you're glad now since the picture of you holding
the 'Not My President' sign made the front page of the local
paper."
Monica
struggled to maintain her smile, cringing from the embarrassment and
guilt she still felt. It had been a day she wanted to forget.
Lisa
started to laugh. "You remember the audacity of that guy who said
he supported Trump."
"That
was stupid," Gwyneth said. "He learned his lesson when he was
jumped and beaten up. What was his name again?"
"Rob
McKenzie," Monica said a little too quickly, and everyone gave her
a questioning stare. His name plagued her, though. He stood up for
what he believed and paid for it. Something she should have done.
"That
wasn't right," Brad said quickly. "He had every right to state
his opinion."
"I'm
surprised at you Brad," Lisa said, staring sternly at him. "After
all, he was just one of them Christian nuts."
"Yea,
and he didn't believe in evolution." Brian squeaked.
"What
a nut," Crystal said, shaking her head. "I'm glad he dropped
out. We don't need any ignorant rednecks around here."
They
all laughed, but Monica was finding it hard to play the charade
anymore. She masked her lack of humor by taking another sip of her
drink, looking across the rim of the glass at Brad who wasn't
laughing either. He noticed her glance and smiled warmly at her.
Sheila
quickly waved her arms to get their attention. "Brian and Gwyneth
came up with a great suggestion," she said.
Brian,
cleared his throat while Gwyneth gave him an encouraging rub on the
back and then held his arm. "You heard about that football player
kneeling when the anthem is played, right?" he said in his
high-pitched, nasal voice.
They
nodded, and Lisa spoke up. "He's making a stand against the
indiscriminate police shootings of black people."
"That's
right." Gwyneth piped up. "But his latest move is to walk out on
the field in socks with cartoons of pigs dressed in police uniforms.
Radical, isn't it?"
"Police
are pigs," Sheila chimed in.
Brian,
gaining some confidence, straightened up excitedly. "We bought the
same socks for all of us to wear at the field and track meet
tomorrow. We can pose in the socks and maybe we'll end up in the
last issue of the college paper. Our grand finale."
"I'll
make sure that happens, Brian," Lisa said.
"That's
great," Crystal said. "We'll really make a statement."
Gwyneth
reached into a bag and handed each of them a pair of knee length
socks depicting the political sentiment. Monica accepted the bundle
trying to hide her disgust; the pig caricatures jarring with her
conscience.
"Thank
you," Monica said. "How... thoughtful." She attempted to smile,
took another sip of champagne and grimaced again at its taste.
'What's wrong with a can of Coke?' She thought, furiously
squeezing the socks in her hand. She turned to Brad, maintaining her
smile. "Maybe we can take that walk now," she said.
"Certainly,"
he replied as they gracefully nodded at the others and walked down
the steps into the garden. They followed a path through flower beds,
meandering in between elegant hedging, the late spring blooms filling
the air with their scent. Dethatched from her surroundings, though,
her thoughts were spinning in her head. After all the compromises she
had made, just to be accepted, wearing those socks was something she
wouldn't do. The proud memories of her Father coming home from work
in his immaculate blue uniform filled her mind, the gun holstered and
the badge shining. He was a respected man and deserved it. She
clenched her hands into fists and walked faster.
Without
thinking, she took a sip of champagne, spat in disgust and angrily
flung the glass into the bushes, realizing she had just thrown away
sixty bucks, equivalent to an eight-hour shift at the fast food
restaurant she worked. 'Who was she kidding?' she thought
bitterly. She was taken by surprise when Brad gently pulled on her
arm to stop her. She had nearly forgotten he was there.
"Wait
up a sec," he said. "Why are you so upset?"
She
whirled around and faced him. "I just can't-do this anymore." She
said, tears starting to sting her eyes, overcome by the guilt of
being ashamed of her upbringing. She was proud of her parents though,
proud they both worked hard and sacrificed. As she left for college,
her Father's parting words echoed, "I'm proud of you, Monica.
Don't forget your roots." In frustration, she threw the socks
into a rose bush, where they hung glaringly amongst the flowers.
Brad
started to laugh. "I guess you don't like the socks, then."
He
cut his laughter short, though, as she glared at him. "Look," she
said, "I have something to say and I don't care what you think of
me. I haven't told anyone, but I'm not rich. In fact, I got a
scholarship and I work part-time. My parents both work hard. We
supported Trump. I voted for him! I don't care about transgender
bathrooms or anything transgender and I'm a Christian. I hate jazz,
champagne, and all that fancy food. And on top of all that, my Dad's
a cop. I'm proud of him and I'm not wearing those stupid socks!"
She
stood there, glaring at him, her hands on her hips and breathing
heavily. Brad smiled at her and apprehensively put out a hand to her.
"But,
Monique...," he started.
"And
my name is not Monique, it's Monica!" she shouted.
"Ok,
Monica?" he said, as he offered his hand again, a smile breaking
out across his face. "I'm Brad and I'm pleased to finally meet
you."
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