Boaz Brown (30 page)

“Why does everything have to be black and white?” I asked.

“Because it
is
black and white. What planet are you living on, Shondra? Do we need a history lesson here?”

“I’m not talking about history. I’m talking about now. And I’m not talking about America, either.”

She smacked on her gum, shaking her head back and forth defiantly.

“Peaches, don’t you ever just get tired of it all—this race stuff?”

“Yeah, I’m tired of it. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” She voiced all the objections I had within myself. “You are still an African-American woman, and you will never be held in the same light as a white woman for as long as you are black. It’s not gonna change in our lifetime, Shondra.”

“My point is—” I slowed down. Thoughts and words were coming faster than I could give them voice. “I think that if you went up to any person on the planet and said, ‘Are you tired of racism?’ they’d say yes, yet they don’t have a clue where to start. It’s not a matter of some hate-crime law being passed or an equal opportunity statement in a company’s employee handbook. It comes down to people who can see other people as individuals and embrace all of humanity through the love of God. And even if they can’t embrace humanity with God’s love, if we could just judge everyone on the basis of their character, that would cut out seventy-five percent of the problem right there.”

She scratched her head and looked past me to her blind spot before changing lanes. “I know all that. I’ve heard Dr. King’s speech probably a million times. But it’s hard to see them as people when they don’t see us as people. I don’t see how you can get past the facts, Shondra. You’re acting as though you haven’t been black all your life.”

“Well, you know I told you, God has been working with me on love. And I really think this racial thing is a big chunk of what He’s changing in me. We’ve got to stop judging people by their skin,” I explained, but I felt as though I were talking to a brick wall.

“Well, when they stop, I’ll stop.” She raised her right hand and swore like we used to do when we were kids. “Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye if I’m lyin’.”

“So there’s no hope for white people with you?”

“What about the
slaves,
Shondra—the
slaves?”
Peaches made a fist and pounded it on her chest three times. “How can you just dismiss hundreds of years of injustice? What about all the blood they shed? What about all they went through? How can you look in his face and not think about what his people did to ours? That ought to just make you want to pop him dead in the eye. Pop!” She swung at the air.

“What about the blood Jesus shed?”

“That ain’t got nothin’ to do with it! We’re talking about slavery and salvation. Those are two different things.” She opened her fist and beat her palm on the steering wheel.

“No, we’re talking about forgiveness and reconciliation, and that’s what Jesus came for. We have to forgive them, they have to forgive themselves, and we also have to forgive ourselves.”

“We didn’t do nothin’ wrong!” Peaches screamed. “Ooh! It’s worse than I thought, girl. You’ve been brainwashed.”

“No, Peaches. You remember that class we took with Dr. Fielder at Jarvis? Man, Culture and Society?” I reminded her.

“Yeah. I made a C. Brought my whole GPA down.”

“Do you remember how angry we felt when we walked out of there that day that he told us the
truth
about the slave trade—that it was a trade? Something for something.

“Remember, it wasn’t all about white people going over on ships and snatchin’ black folks up out of the rugged jungle. White people could not have penetrated the country without the help of natives any more than a white man can come into the hood without some kind of black connection. Africans—black folks—were very active in capturing other Africans, and earned money by trading Africans from other tribes as well as their own. You remember that lesson?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Her eyelashes made one slow beat.

“As quiet as it’s kept. The slave trade was about the love of money. And you know who’s behind that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she relented. “I know the love of money is the root of all evil.”

“Then call it like it T-I-Z: humanity has fallen for the enemy’s tricks since Adam and Eve. But we don’t have to keep falling for them, no matter how many thousands of years they’ve worked. The brainwashing doesn’t come from mere men; it comes from the enemy.

“Now, I agree that a lot of white people are prejudiced—but so are a lot of black people. You know you don’t feel sorry when you watch the news and learn that a Mexican got killed working at a construction site, do you?” I quizzed her.

“It’s not that I don’t care,” she squirmed. “I just didn’t know him.”

“Oh, but let somebody black get killed in a car wreck— you’re the first one sending money to the family’s memorial fund, aren’t you?”

“I like to help my own,” she defended herself.

“And there’s nothing wrong with that. But when we see others as less than ourselves because of their citizenship status, we’re no better than the worst white racist.

“Let me ask you, Peaches,” I said softly, “what would it take for you to feel like you could see past a white person’s skin color? What would have to happen before you could actually be, let’s say, friends with a white person?”

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” Peaches said frankly. Then her eyebrows jumped, and she exclaimed, “I know what we could do!”

I was afraid to ask. “Okay, Peaches, give me the answer to the million-dollar question.”

“Line up all the white folks, have ‘em bend over, and let all the black people kick them square on their behinds one good time. Then I might call it even.”

“I’m gonna pray for you, Peaches—hard, serious prayers.”

“Please do,” she yelled, “‘cause I just can’t see it happening with a white man! Girl, I saw you sittin’ there with him and almost fell out on the floor!”

I looked at her to see what kind of yelling this was— angry yelling or hilarious yelling.

Peaches finally met my gaze, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes. “Whoo!” She held on to her stomach.

“You are too crazy.” My heart settled back into my chest, and I waited for her to unload her first impressions.

“Shondra, girl, I came through that door, and I saw him—what’s his name?”

“Stelson.”

“Okay, we’re gonna have to do something about that name later. But anyway, I saw Stelson and I was saying to myself, ‘Oh, he’s a cute white man.’ And I saw the back of your head and I was like, ‘She reminds me of Shondra.’ And then I got to that profile and I was like, ‘Aw, naw! Not my girl! Not
my
girl!’ Whoo!”

“So you think he’s attractive?” I asked her.

“Yeah, I mean, he’s got a cute thing going, for a white man. I just. . . he’s still white, Shondra. And he’s the kind of white that doesn’t even show a hint of diversity anywhere down the line—except for maybe his dark hair. Other than that, he’s just a regular old white man with a tan.”

“He treats me well. A whole lot better than Quinn’s cousin, Mark!”

“Mark is not a good comparison. Pick somebody else.”

I thought,
Let’s see. Who in my past treated me the way Stelson treats me?

“Gerald?” she asked.

“Please—he only treated me well ‘cause he wanted some.”

“Dandre?”

“He was all right, but we didn’t have a good time together. We didn’t click. The more I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever clicked with anyone the way I click with Stelson. To be honest, up until now I never was able to think clearly about any man, because once we started having sex, it was like I was overly invested and I didn’t have any kind of perspective on who he was. But Stelson.. . he’s so solid, you know?”

“No, I wouldn’t know.” She regained her normal composure, attitude slipping away. “I can’t see it, girl. I just can’t see it.”

“And that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you. I
know
you.”

“Me! What about you, Miss ‘I can’t stand white folks’ and ‘I’m on white folks overload’? Now here you are eatin’ ice cream with a white man up in a black establishment!”

“I know, I know.” I rocked my head on the headrest.

“But Stelson. . . he’s changing my mind. Not just about him—about people, period. I mean, all this
stuff
that I’ve always believed about white men and white people. . . Stelson’s not like that.”

“So, how long you have been seeing him?”

“About a month, I guess.”

“Give it some time.” She rolled her eyes. “My momma always says you gotta be with somebody at least four seasons before you can say you know ‘em.”

“Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything,” I apologized.

“I can’t say I blame you. Ooh! You told your parents yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Ooh, I want to be there. I
got
to be there! Pop me some popcorn and get ringside seats.”

“Whatever!”

“You know your daddy’s gonna knock you out,” she said.

“It’s not going to be like that, Peaches.” I shoved her shoulder. “I’m already praying.”

“Well, Stelson must be doin’ something right for you to be going through all these changes.”

“Yeah. He’s really somethin’.”

She leaned up toward the steering wheel and looked at me from a different angle as we approached a traffic light.

“What?” I asked.

“You really like this white man, don’t you?” Her eyes slits, she peered into me as though looking through distorted glass.

“Yes. I really like
Stelson.”
I tucked in my lips to hide the smile.

She sat back and gave her attention to the road again. “Well, I’m sorry for actin’ up at the Marble Creamery.

“You’re still my girl, even if you are with a cute little ol’ white man.”

Deniessa was waiting on us with a batch of fresh homemade chocolate-chip cookies. I felt my buttons getting tighter before she even opened the door. “Hey! Did y’all make up?” she initiated a group hug at the door.

“Yeah, we’re okay,” I said.

“Girl, please,” Peaches added, “you know it’s gonna take more than a white man—”

I cleared my throat.

“Any
man to break us apart.”

“So what, we can’t talk about your man?” Deniessa looked me up and down. “Bad as you all talked about my man last time—uh uh. We will not discriminate.”

We followed Deniessa past the formal living room to the kitchen. The place was full of AKA paraphernalia: plaques, pictures, and ivy plants lined her walls.

“Girl, you’ve got this looking like an AKA shrine up in here. No wonder Jamal didn’t want to stay,” Peaches teased her.

“Anyway!”

We gathered in the kitchen to prepare dinner: baked chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, and corn. Peaches huddled into her corner to make her secret Caesar salad to go along with the meal. While the food baked and simmered, we propped ourselves up on the bar counter and watched Tyler Perry’s play
Diary of a Mad Black Woman.
Peaches turned the volume sky high, which caused us to talk even louder.

Peaches filled us in on the latest between her and Quinn. She said that she would soon let him meet Eric. “So I guess this means things are serious,” I suggested.

“I think it’s about that time,” she confirmed. Obviously, I had been missing out on her life.

“Speaking of serious, let me take my turn.” Deniessa reached into the basket of fake fruit on top of the counter and pulled out a box. She opened it and announced, “Jamal asked me to marry him.”