Black and White (Symmetrina)

Black and White Symmetrina






Brotha' Man -- January 2006

I stood outside the door to Dr. Willeta Gaines's Black History 101 class. I watched young Black women and men walk into the classroom. I smiled and greeted some of my peers before they went inside. But I still stood outside the door.

I was crazy. I knew it. I'd grown up in a predominately Black neighborhood. Gone to predominately Black schools. I could count my White friends on one hand (and I met most of those here at college). Heck, when I was a kid and people would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I'd answer, "I want to be Black!" To say I was comfortable around Blacks was an understatement.

It was ingrained in me. Black culture, their music, the hip-hop fashions, the amazing food, the beautiful bootilious sisters, the respect for God-all of that was apart of me. They were my people, my tribe, my family.

Yet, no matter how close we were, when Black history was brought up, I suddenly went from "My vanilla brother" to "You White people".

History. It's the one thing that connects the Black man selling dope on the corner with the Black man running a fortune 500 company. History. It was the one thing I didn't share with my own people. History. It's what I desperately want to understand, and what I fear the most. I really don't look forward to 50 people thinking my name is "You White people..."

So I stood there watching the amused or annoyed looks of my Black peers as they passed "That White boy" (as I overheard one girl say).

"Take your seats everyone," I heard a female voice saying. "It's a new year: Happy 2006." Hand clapping. "Now, I have a question for you."

Taking a deep breath, I walked into the classroom. 100 eyes stared at me. I'm sure I shrunk from 5'11" to 5'5" in that moment.

"Why are you taking my class?" A tall dark skinned woman (who must have been Dr. Gaines) asked.

"Because I have much respect for the people who built America." I answered.

Dr. Gaines nodded and asked the same question to another student. I quickly found a seat.

"Hey, Brotha Man," the guy next to me whispered. "Can I use that line when my turn comes?"

Those around us laughed. A few of us carried on a quiet discussion of what would be the best sounding answers while Dr. Gaines was occupied with the other side of the room. I knew I'd have to work extra hard to keep from being labeled "the ignorant White man", but it was cool. I had nothing to worry about. I was home.

Word Count: 449















Passing -- Spring 1919

"And I said, 'Darkies don't know nothing about that!'" Fred, Walt, and Christy laughed. You laugh too. You have to. You can't tip them off that you're a... you're a... That you're not one of them. You're stomach twists even as you raise a soft hand to your giggling mouth.

Fred wraps an arm around your shoulder and plants a kiss on your forehead. You smile at him. Three days. You'll be married to Fred and off to Chicago where no one will know you. You'll have a new life and complete peace in three days.

"That John Roberts sure is one stupid Nigger," says Christy as she calms down. "Robbing McGregor's store like that."

"We'll see him hanged yet," says Fred. "That's where all the darkies belong anyhow."

You laugh hysterically to keep from weeping. John would never rob anybody. He's too proud for that and you know it. You peek over at Old Man Johnson while he trims the shrubs in the Elkhart's front lawn. Old Man Johnson was dirt poor, bit he always had a piece of licorice for you when you were a girl. Now you hope he doesn't recognize you and give you away.

Feeling the sharp pangs of a headache from all this talk of John, you suggest ice cream for everyone. As your friends agree, you notice a bunch of people gathering at the center of town 100 yards away. Fred and Walt dash off to find out what's going on. Christy begins to fidget like she always does when she's nervous. You walk off the porch to see what you can from the distance. A bunch of people crowd around an old sturdy oak tree. They're yelling and screaming, but you can't make out what they're saying.

That tree. That death tree. Your heart pounds, your stomach coils. Taking a few steps away from the commotion, you bump into Old Man Johnson. He grabs your elbow and hisses in your ear,
"Run, girl. Run far and fast."

You nod. "Yes Sir!"
Your feet move. Your heart is already flying thousands of miles away.

But you don't get far enough, fast enough. Fred and Walt are calling to you. Although your spirit tells you to keep going, don't stop. Your head turns. You see Fred's face and your feet halt. Keep going. Your spirit urges you on. You can't live this way. But Fred's face is filled with concern. Fred loves you. Your hope for love, Chicago, a better life than you've ever known, a peace filled life, a proud life, allows Fred to catch up to you.

Allows him to steer you toward the crowd. Allows you lift your chin high when you pass Old Man Johnson. Allows you to do nothing as they lynch John, your cousin, for robbing the grocery store. Allows you to marry Fred and move to Chicago. Allows you to live the life you've dreamed of for a couple months.

But your world crashes that hot July in 1919 when a riot breaks out. After helping a Negro woman who's being beaten by White men, Fred beats you. You figure it must be penance, because at night the tears flow as you, a well-to-do white woman, remembers when you were just a poor Negro girl with poor Negro parents in a poor Negro town.

Word Count: 557














Love and Marriage --Fall 1953

Blazing oranges, deep reds, and bright yellows zoomed by as they drove passed trees. The sweet spicy air of autumn wafted into the car. A Louis Armstrong song drummed from the radio. Nate tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the fast beat. It was a beautiful day and he prayed it would stay that way.

He heard a deep sigh beside him. Turning his head slightly, he watched Gloria turn the radio dial until Louis's vibrant voice disappeared. She leaned back into her seat and bit her thumbnail. He knew what she was thinking, but he didn't want to be reminded. Maybe if he went about this nonchalant it would happen. He reached for the radio dial.

"Don't." Said Gloria.

His hand paused in limbo before returning to the steering wheel in defeat. But the thick silence is too much so he began whistling.

"Nate."

He loved the way she said his name. He'd do anything just to hear his name coming from her lips.

"I don't think we should do this again, Nathan," Gloria said. "It's not going to happen. We should just forget about it."

"Gloria, no-"

"Being together... that's what matters, right?" She looked over at him. "So lets just be together."

He shook he head. He'd thought about that too, but he couldn't.

"No, Gloria. I love you. And I'm going, no, we're going to show the world our love. And the only to do that is by getting married. And things are changing. You know that school segregation case, the Brown case, is at the Supreme Court, and if they make it illegal, then maybe-"

"I don't care about the schools right now. Nate, we've been turned away by all the churches, and at each city hall." Tears filled her voice. "I just can't let someone else tell me that I can't marry the man I love just because he's white and I'm not."

He didn't answer. There was no answer. The pain she felt ripped through his heart too. He gripped the steering wheel harder and focused completely on the road ahead. By the time they reached Mabel's City Hall, his could barely pry his numb fingers from the wheel. Slowly getting out of the car, he walked around to the car and opened the door for Gloria. She sat still. Nate looked out at yellowing grass. He felt the once warm summer breeze now turn cool on his cheek.

Finally, with her head held high, Gloria climbed out the car. She smiled at him, pushing back the fear he knew was there. Hand in hand, they walked into city hall.

"Name?" The secretary asked.

"Gloria Mae Bratton."

"Nathan-" his voice squeaked. Gloria laid a soft, gloved hand in his sweaty palm. Clearing he throat, he finished his name.

After asking their birth dates and parents' names, the secretary comes to the pivotal question for the marriage license. The one that would have them kicked out as soon as they answered.

"Your race?" The secretary looked up at Gloria, in disgust.

"Negro," answers Gloria in a voice as calm as a warm Sunday morning.

"Your race?" The secretary turned to Nate.

Nate looked out the window at the once green leaves of trees now changed to beautiful colors. Then he turned to Gloria's frightened eyes. He loved her so much... Looking the secretary dead in the eye, he answered.

"I'm Colored." He said firmly. "I'm Negro."

He waited for a dispute, as the secretary frowned and squinted. But the secretary wrote it down muttering something about mulattoes.

"The Justice of Peace will be with you momentarily." The secretary said, leaving the room.

As soon as the door slammed closed, Gloria fells into his arms, weeping. He held her tightly and soon tears fell from his eyes too.


Word Count 638










Mixed -- Mid-Spring 2006


Kim tapped her pencil on her desk in irritation. Her 2 o'clock class was supposed to have started five minutes ago. Instead the learning was delayed while little miss Whitey held up Dr. Gaines in some stupid conversation. No one else seemed to care. The rest of the class was busy talking and goofing off. But Kim wasn't going to allow this waste of time. Sucking her teeth, Kim thrust her hand into the air.

"Dr. Gaines." She said loudly over the hubbub of the multiple conversations. "Dr. Gaines!"

Dr. Gaines looked over at her with a dazed look.

"Are we gonna start class anytime soon?" Asked Kim.

Dr. Gaines blinked. She glanced at her watch in shock. With a smile and nod at Laurel the White girl, Dr. Gaines called for order to the classroom. Laurel quickly took her seat.

"I can't stand her," Kim said to Donnie who sat next to her. "Coming in here like taking this Black history class is gonna make up for everything her people did to ours."

She hoped little miss Whitey heard her. It wasn't White people. She did like Brotha' Man after all, but he was down with the cause, and the White girl wasn't. Don didn't answer, but that was probably because Dr. Gaines was clapping her hands. The clapping signaled the beginning of a discussion for which Dr. Gaines always poised a question.

"What," Dr. Gaines stopped clapping and stared at the ceiling as if getting the question from heaven. "What does it mean to be Black in America?"

Kim thought for a moment and then stuck her hand into the air with the perfect answer. Dr. Gaines called on a couple others first. Then she looked in Kim's direction. Kim sat up straight and opened her mouth. But before she could say anything...

"I think being Black means being stagnant," Laurel said. "You can't go forward because the past still has a hold on you, but you can't go back to the past to loosen its grip either. So you're just stuck."

"Oh no!" Kim twisted around in her chair so she could look straight at that girl. "Don't sit in here pretending like you know anything about what it's like to be Black, White girl!"

"White girl?" Laurel repeated. "My dad is a Black man."

"Please." Kim rolled her eyes. "Sitting there with your straight brown hair, and snow white skin. You're about as Black as a member of the KKK!"

Laughter filled the room. Laurel pressed her thin lips together, and Kim was sure she detected water in the girl's eyes before Whitey turned her face away. Victoriously, Kim faced the front again.

"English, French, and Spanish," Dr. Gaines said.

"Huh?" Kim chuckled.

"My White ancestors were English, French, and Spanish." She clarified.

"My great grandfather's parents were from Germany," Don said.

"You're not part White," Kim told him. "Look how dark chocolate you are!"

"Miss Johnson." Dr. Gaines placed her hands on my desk, leaned down toward her. "I've got to wonder... Just where did you get that mocha skin from?"

"From my ancestors," Kim said proudly.

"Miss Johnson, are you trying to tell us that you're 100% African?" Asked Dr. Gaines.

"100%?" Kim repeated. "Of course not! But I'm still Black."

"You are Black American, but if you're not 100% African, what's the rest of you?"

Kim looked down at her ginger brown arms as if seeing them for the first time. The skin color seemed almost foreign as understanding dawned on her.

"I-I guess I never thought of it like that," she said slowly. "I guess if I'm not 100% African--I'm mixed too... Then really there's not as big a difference between Laurel and me."

Dr. Gaines stepped back and smiled. She then led a new discussion on the effects of "race mixing" in America. And Kim silently sat through the rest of the class feeling as if she'd never really known herself.



Word Count: 661









Who's My Neighbor? -- Summer 1973


Michael ran out of the baseball field and down six blocks. Leaping over Mr. Crann's bushes, he jogged to the side door and burst into the kitchen.

"Mama! We won! Mama! Mama?" Michael looked around. He wanted to tell his mom how right she was about moving, and making new friends, and what a great summer it was, and... and... And where was everyone?

The kitchen door opened. Michael's grandma walked in.

"Grandma, guess what! My team won the baseball game and-"

"Not now baby," she said getting a pot of tea and a plate of ginger snaps, and placing them on a tray. "Your mama's got some neighbor's over for lunch, and well, they're in a bit of a titsey after they found out I'm Vicky's mama. They loved her when they foolishly thought she was one of them, now that they finally figured it out... Like it was that hard, that girl may be light but she got more color in her than a midnight sky. But... Well, why don't you help me?"

Michael nodded and after washing his hands, picked up some linen napkins, and walked into the living room behind his grandma. Mrs. Crann, Mrs. Nelson, and Mrs. Toby stiffly sat in three cushiony chairs. His mom sat on the sofa next to his sister, Lucy. The women frowned and stared down at their empty plates. The room felt so cold, Michael got goose bumps on his bare arms. He walked up to Mrs. Crann and offered her a napkin.

"I don't want it after it's touched your dirty hands." She snapped.

"I washed my hands." But all the women turned up their noses.

"Would you like some tea?" His grandma held out the tray in her coppery hands.

"No. We would not." Mrs. Crann huffed. "We will not accept anything from liars."

"We did not lie." His mama said, standing.

"Then why didn't you tell us your family was Negro when we first met?" Mrs. Crann challenged.

"Why does it matter? What we are is neighbors. Nothing less."

"I told you that husband and daughter of hers weren't just 'very well tanned'. From the South indeed." Mrs. Nelson put in. "I knew there was something wrong with him and these people. And that girl's ugly coarse hair, and the man's nose-"

"There's nothing wrong with my Dad!" Michael yelled. He have been only 12, but he felt a man's anger. "Or my sister. Or anyone in my family. The only people wrong are you!"

"Well, I never." Mrs. Nelson rose, as did the other ladies.

"What do you expect from Negroes?!" Mrs. Crann spat.

His mama marched to the door and opened it.
"It's the '70s ladies," she said. "We'd prefer it if you honkies would refer to us as Afro-Americans. Now get the hell out of my Black house!"

With a shocked huff, the ladies left. After slamming the door, his Mama swept Michael up in a big hug.

"Your daddy's gonna be so proud when he gets home," she smiled.

"What about my White friends?" Michael wondered.

His mama and grandma glanced over at each other with an odd look in their eyes.

"Oh, baby, those women are spreading the news around right now," his mama said. "I don't know. They still might want to play with you, but it's their parents that'll be the problem."

"If they all haven't moved away by tomorrow." His grandma added gruffly.

Michael sighed. He hadn't fit in their old neighbor either. All the Black kids said he wasn't Black enough to be their friend. Now he was going to be an outsider here too.

"Don't give up hope, baby," his mama said. "Things'll change for the better. In the end, they always do."




Word Count: 629












Related -- March 1991

You walk into a little arts and crafts shop with your sister. You'd been meaning to go there for ages. Every time you passed it, you talked of going, but when you had the time, there was always something that had to be done. Now, you triumphantly browse through the aisles with one more thing off your lifetime "to do" list.

As you stop to look at some picture frames, you notice a shadow following your sister again. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. Why did this always happen to her? Why not you?

Then, instead of knocking the shadow over with your fist, you ask it to help you pick out a frame. The suspicious frown leaves its face, and its eyes brighten as looks at you. It is obviously more than happy to help you. As it tells you what kind of wood the frame you're holding is made of, you notice its eye keeps slipping over to your sister. All she was doing was rummaging through a barrel full of containers of glitter. A moment later, your sister walks away. The shadow asks if you need anything else. You barely answer "no" before it backs away. Trying to look inconspicuous, it runs a hand through the glitter as if actually trying to gauge the amount still there. You're not sure if it's satisfied or not, but it follows your sister into the garden section.

It wasn't fair. You stare into the barrel of sparkling glitter. Why should one sister be treated like a criminal and the other like a saint merely because one looked Black and the other looked White?

"What's your problem?!" Your sister says loudly. You rush over to where she is.

"Problem?" Asks the shadow. "Ma'am, I'm only trying to help you. But if you think there's a problem, then-"

"Then what?" You question knowing what it was trying to say.

"Oh no, Ma'am. Not you. I'll be with you in a moment."

You step between the shadow and your sister.

"Anything you have to say to my sister, you can say to me to."

"Sister?" The shadow looks from you to her and back again. "That's not funny. Look, we are just being extra careful. With those riots in L.A. going on because of that Rodney King, we aren't taking chances whether you're Black." It turns to you. "Or White."

"Just because I have vanilla skin and red hair, and she's darker doesn't give you the right to treat us differently. We were born from the same parents. If you follow her, then follow me too. And if you can't figure out who's Black and who's White, then check everybody out."
On that note, you both give the shadow-clerk the finger. Then, heads raised, you proudly walk out together.

"You go girl," your sister laughs. "We are Black and proud! One White grandpa-rapist ain't gonna screw us over."

You laugh with her. But you know she's thinking the same thing you are. It didn't matter what blood ran through you're veins, all anyone saw was the covering over the blood. Things were supposed to be different now.


WC 528










The End is the Beginning -- Late Spring 2006

I stood in front of my desk and looked out at my class. They sat behind their desks smiling, talking, arguing. I clapped my hands in the same rhythm that my mother and grandmother had when they wanted our attention. My students looked up. They were ready for discussion. I smiled both excited and saddened. Today was our last day together.

"I am so proud of each and every one of you," I told them. "This is one of the most diverse Black History classes I've ever taught. But it really isn't about the race, it is about each person's experience. And the more diverse the experiences that sit in those seats before me, the further we can understand this thing called the human. What I really want is to begin the healing of the wounds of the ancestry. You all have taken the first and second steps.

"The first step is to learn where these wounds come. When, where, how, and, possibly, why did these abrasions come about. But there is much more to be known, and I hope each of you goes in search of more knowledge and understanding.

"The second step is to openly discuss these issues, these hurts. The tragedies and triumphs of the African-American have had a big effect on the history and culture of America. We love to speak of the victories, but forget about the pain that brought it about. Remember, triumph is nothing without heartache.

"I love the experiences you each brought to this class. From Donnie's mom and aunt's experience in a store in Chicago during the 1991 riots; to our reactions to the story of Vera Kelsey who passed for White during the Red Summer of 1919. From the sacrifices that Nick's great uncle and aunt, Nathan and Gloria Richards, made for love; to the sacrifices my family made (as told by my cousin Rev. Martin Gaines) for a better life. (My own family moved to their neighborhood two years later). We know our histories, and we have discussed them, now there remains one thing to do.

"Spread it around. You are each a match. Light the dry wood of ignorance and strife, and ignite the people in a fire for love, in a fire for peace, in a fire for hope. I applaud each and every one of you. The torch has been passed."

I firmly clapped my hands to my wonderful students. Nick "Brotha' Man" Richards stood up.

"Dr. Gaines," he said loudly, "we want to thank you, our teacher and mentor."

He began to clap and the whole class stood in cheers and applause. Kim Johnson and Laurel Williams came up to me with a bouquet of roses and a wrapped gift.

I wiped the wetness from my eye. It was not the end, I reminded myself, for my students, for myself, for us all, today was only the beginning. Who knew what hope tomorrow would bring.


Word Count 490