Boaz Brown (15 page)

“Naw, he ain’t cute to me.” I realigned myself with her head and continued my work. “I think he’s kind of skinny, too.”

“Hmm. Let me see.
. .“
Peaches sized him up, turning his centerfold picture vertically. “I don’t think he’s ugly.”

“He looks like he needs a haircut every time I see him on TV,” I said. “I don’t see what all those white girls see in him. Then again, white people are always sayin’ somebody is cute when they look just as plain-Jane as the rest of
‘
em.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that. To me, the only time a white person is really cute is when they’ve got somethin’ else mixed in ‘em,” Peaches observed.

“Otherwise, they’re just white with that do-nothin’ hair that they’re always tryin’ to tease so it’ll stand up like ours.”

I agreed, putting the last pin in place.

* * * * *

I spent hump day in team meetings, listening to a variety of teacher concerns from problems in the cafeteria to curriculum issues. I took note of their concerns and put them on my lists of things to investigate, do, or delegate. I closed each meeting with the good news about our test scores and with reminding them about the next day’s career fair. I got moans and groans when I asked the teachers who were off during the morning to drop by and monitor for just a few minutes during the exhibit.

Eighth grade was receptive to me, but I could tell that something was going on with seventh grade. Especially with Ms. Ashton’s academic team, the Pacers. They didn’t give me the courtesy of letting me know that they had changed their meeting place, so I ran around the building for a good twenty minutes looking for them. Then they scheduled a parent conference for the second half of the period, and the team secretary claimed to have misplaced the agenda that I e-mailed them the previous week. I couldn’t put my finger on which of them was the ringleader, but they were all in on this display of group unprofessionalism—griping about their duties, complaining about this and that, but offering no alternatives to solve problems. I explained to them that it was okay to complain about a problem, but it was also incumbent upon the complainer to suggest a solution.

“Isn’t that your job?” Mr. Baudin, a language arts teacher, asked.

“That job belongs to all of us. We’re a team,” I answered slowly.

After I met with them and their nasty attitudes, I was just about ready to call Peaches and tell her that I was ready to come to Northcomp because I was fed up with being a vice principal. I went in every morning trying to do my best, but it was never good enough. For as much as I got done, it seemed there was twice as much left on my to-do list by five o’clock. Bottom line, I was frustrated and I wanted to quit that morning.

You know how it is sometimes? Sometimes one little thing can make you just want to run off to Mexico, build a hut, and set up a jumping-bean store—anything to get away. You just get sick of it all.

When I got back to my office, I slammed the inner door and prayed at my desk. The enemy was getting on my last nerve, and the week wasn’t nearly over. I needed strength. And even before I was finished praying, I heard the words of an old Clark Sisters song, “Count It All Joy.”

I laughed at myself as I stood again. I knew that someday I would look back on all of it and be able to see what was happening and why the Lord had put me on a staff that needed so much work (myself included). I couldn’t think of a trial to date that hadn’t worked to my advantage in the end, and I knew that working here at this school, even with Mr. Butler, would be manipulated for my benefit.

When I got home from work, I found a package on my doorstep. It was from Jonathan. I grabbed the box and unlocked the door. An all-too-familiar smell assaulted my nostrils as I realized that I’d forgotten to take the trash out again. I set the bags back into the garage. They’d have to wait there until Monday. I could almost hear Daddy in my ear:

“See, if you had a man, you wouldn’t have to worry about that.”

I ripped the box open, knowing that there would be some thoughtful gift enclosed. Jonathan had a knack for finding just the right things to give. I tore through the paper with no regard for the beautiful print. He hadn’t let me down.

“Oh!” I put my hand before my lips and gasped. It was an old picture of Jonathan and me outside, leaning over the balcony, when we used to live in the old apartment. It was blown up, framed in antique gold, and the frame was engraved:

To My Big Sister,

LaShondra

I’ll Always Look Up To You

God Bless,

Jonathan
He’d attached a sticky note on the back of
it:
I found it while going through some old stuff Hope you like it!

My hand fell on the bed as
I
revisited the picture. It had been probably twenty years since I’d seen it. Jonathan, with his chubby stomach hanging out of the bottom of his shirt, pants too tight, button screaming to be loosened. Then me, with untamed pigtails, snaggleteeth, and ashy knees. I remembered that day at the old apartment complex clearly. We’d been playing outside in the sandbox when Daddy came out to call us up for dinner. We’d just gotten the new camera. There had been a big fight about
it
only moments before.

“Daddy,” Jonathan asked, “can you take a picture of me and Shondra?”

“We don’t have to take pictures every five minutes,” Daddy bickered.

“Well, what you think we got a camera for, Jon?” Momma stopped washing dishes and asked.

“For important stuff.”

“What’s more important than our kids?” she asked.

“Nothin’. Just, we don’t have to act like we’ve never had anything every time we get somethin’ new,” he said, shaking his head.

Daddy had told us to go on outside and he’d take a picture of us later. We were thrilled when Daddy came to the apartment’s playground to get us. “Is it time for the picture yet?” I begged to know.

“Go on upstairs,” he said softly, with a hint of mischief in his tone. I knew he was stalling. Jonathan and I got all the way to the second floor when he called, “Hey, look down!” He pulled the camera from behind his back.

We ran to the balcony, linked arms, and smiled as Daddy snapped the shot. This shot that I hadn’t seen or thought about in so long.

I called Jonathan later that afternoon. “Hey, Jonathan, it’s me. Thanks for the picture! That took me wa-a-ay back.”

“Yes,
I know,” he laughed. “I forgot how chubby I used to be.
Say,
what are your plans for your birthday?”

“Nothing, really. I think I’ll just relax, you know?” I lay back on my sofa and let my head rest on the pillows.

“That sounds good. So, no man, huh?”

My neck tightened. “You sound just like Daddy.”

“Yes, I know. I talked to him the other day. He’s been on my case, too. Says I should have settled down by now. I told him I could settle down if he didn’t mind me doing so with a German woman.”

“Ha!” I screamed. “What’d he say?”

“He said he’d give me some extra time since there aren’t as many black women out here.”

“How fortunate for you,” I teased him. “It must be nice to have your harassment postponed. It’s getting so bad that I almost don’t want to go over to eat with them on Sundays.”

“I’d trade places with you in a minute for a piece of Daddy’s fried chicken,” Jonathan offered.

“I can’t argue with you on that one.” I smiled. “Hey, when are you gonna come home?”

“Maybe in the summer—July,” he said. His speech was so standardized now, no hint of the southern drawl. “So, what else is up?”

I thought of telling him about the mess at my school, but decided not to burden him with something that I wasn’t sure would amou
nt to anything. “Same old same
old. Working, going to church. What about you?”

“Well, actually, I’ve been doing a lot of reading and thinking and praying. I’m debating on whether or not to reenlist after this term. Maybe Daddy’s lectures are getting to me.” He gave a troubled laugh.

“But I thought you really enjoyed the military.”

“I do. It’s just that—I think it’s time for me to move on. This experience has taught me a lot, and I think it’s time that I took this knowledge and applied it in some other field. Maybe teaching.”

“Are you serious?” I envisioned my little brother dressed in slacks, dress shirt, and tie, standing in front of a classroom full of little black faces, filling them with knowledge and hope. I was proud already.

“Yes. But I’m still praying on it.”

“You’d make a great teacher. And black boys need role models and structure like nobody’s business,” I encouraged him.

“Well, that’s just the thing,” Jonathan said. “It’s a black thing, and then it isn’t. I know that black boys need to see black men doing things.

But by the same token, people need to help people regardless of race, you know? It’s not nearly as much about color as I once believed. At least that’s what I’ve learned in the military.”

Okay, I’m cool with the whole humanitarian thing. But the fact still remained, in my book: black men needed to be in classrooms primarily for black reasons.
Jonathan ain’t thinking black and white, because he ain’t in America.
“Well, I do hope that you give it considerable time and prayer. We could definitely use you in our field.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Well, speaking of the field of education, I’ve gotta go. It’s Wednesday night—that means tutoring at True Way. It’ll be a madhouse, but I’m enjoying it.”

We ended our conversation with love and promises to talk again soon.

True to my prediction, I was completely swamped at Wednesday night tutorials. We were nearing the end of the three-week grading period, so kids came from miles around to get help. I was almost sweating from the immense pressure and the physical demand of buzzing around the crowded room. At one point, some of the kids became so frustrated with having to wait to ask specific questions that I had to tell them to come back after the service and I’d help them when church was over. I ended up staying another half hour, working with the kids whose parents were willing to let them stay late and get the extra help.

The last student, Reshawn, asked me to pray with her because there was a very good chance she’d end up in summer school if she didn’t pass her next test. Reshawn, her father, and I prayed, touching hands and agreeing that Reshawn would be successful through Christ. They also prayed for me, that the Lord would send me help with Wednesday night tutoring.

I went home and rejoiced.
Thank you in advance for the help, Lord.

Thursday morning I rose a little earlier due to the career fair. I put on my best red pantsuit and took time to apply my makeup neatly. Days like these, when our campus had visitors, I felt as if I was on display. I had to represent on so many levels: women, African-Americans, the best that the field of education had to offer. By the same token, it was also my time to shine and to proclaim to the world: “I’m a black woman thriving in a white man’s world. How you like me now?”

I was pleased to find the kiosks already set up when I got to work. Miss Jan had directed most of the representatives to their slotted spaces just beyond the foyer. Some of the presenters were already networking, exchanging cards and talking over coffee. The students weren’t in the building yet, but there was already an electricity in the air.

I wasn’t running late, but everyone else seemed to be running early. I overheard Miss Jan talking to one of the teachers, Miss Gallahan, about one of the presenters.

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Yes,” Miss Jan cooed, “he certainly is good-looking.”

“If I had known that we were going to have centerfolds here, I would have worn my blue dress,” Miss Gallahan laughed.

“Good morning, Ms. Smith.” Miss Jan finally noticed me looking at the papers in my In box, only a few feet away. She handed me a name tag to stick on myself so that the visitors could easily identify me.