Coffee Will Make You Black (29 page)

Suddenly, I felt a lump in my throat. I was sad to be leaving everything familiar, even Mama.

“You just keep your head in your books,” Mama admonished. “And don't let men distract you. Men are nothing to get excited about, remember that.” It was obvious that Daddy no longer excited Mama. The two of them reminded me more of business partners than lovers. She often passed Daddy like a vegetarian walking by a steak house. I wondered if the earth had
ever
moved.

“I don't know what you talking about.” Grandma winked. “Men
are
too something to get excited about! Jean, if you can't be good, be careful.”

Mama folded her arms. “You oughta be ashamed of yourself, talking like that at your age!”

“
You
the one who should be shamed,” Grandma insisted, stepping into the bedroom and swinging her full hips.

“Chile, there might be snow on the chimney,” she laughed, pointing to her Afro. “But, there's sho' nuff fire down below!” She snapped her fingers and did a boogaloo step.

“Get it, Grandma!” I laughed, clapping my hands.

“Poppa must be turning in his grave,” Mama sighed.

Grandma rubbed her nose. “My left nostril is itching. Some man is talking about coming to see about me right now. And if he cain't cut the mustard, he kin least lick the jar!” Grandma rushed out of the room.

Mama shook her permed head in horror.

Grandma said her good-byes in Chicago. She shoved a twenty-dollar bill in my hand and then we hugged for the longest time.

As soon as my brothers, my parents, and I were out of Chicago good, we saw corn for days. I don't mean that literally; it was only a four-hour drive. But I don't care if I ever see another cornfield again, no matter how much I like eating it.

I've been assigned to a coed building, modern twin towers with twenty floors. Mama says she would've preferred for me to be in an all-girl's dorm. Daddy agrees with her, like he usually does on matters involving us kids. I don't know why Mama's tripping. We're on two different sides of the building. We even have different elevators.

It got a little emotional in the parking lot for us and plenty of other families. Everybody hugged me, Mama, Daddy, tall, lanky David—who will be a junior on Southside High's basketball team—and cute, chubby Kevin, who I can't believe will be a freshie this fall.

There wasn't a dry eye among us, including my father's narrow dark eyes. He's due for a dye job, I thought, noticing the gray around his temples. But Daddy still looked strong and athletic in his bowling shirt.

Grandma says white people are born actors. So, I'm not sure how my roommate and her family really felt when they discovered that I was black. I'd moved into the room first. My family was long gone by the time Barbara, her parents, big brother, and little sister trooped in with her stuff. Everybody was cordial; none of them tripped out like they'd seen Godzilla or anything. But who knows how they
really
felt?

Anyway, thank goodness, my roommate seems like the sweet type. Maybe because she's so homely. She probably figures she has to be extra nice. I hate to be cold, but the girl's face is hurting. Barbara is tall and skinny, downright gawky. She's got long, stringy, brown hair and pinched features. I don't have to worry about any latent homosexual tendencies being aroused by the sight of her, that's for damn sure.

I know that I can be attracted to a girl. I got a crush on the school nurse back in high school. Nurse Horn said it was normal for adolescents to develop same-sex crushes. But it still bothered me that good-looking girls turned my head.

Barbara is from a small town—Quincy, Illinois. She goes to bed at nine o'clock and plays a lot of Barry Manilow and even some classical. I'm thankful that she plays it real low. I try to be considerate, too. I don't blast my Motown sounds unless she isn't here. I made up a riddle. Why do white people go to bed so early? The answer is, because they're “tired.” If you don't get it, that means you're “tired” too.

Today, I finally found the ivy. I'd always pictured a college having old, stately, brick buildings with ivy hanging from them. But I've only seen one place like that on this campus. The newer buildings outnumber the older ones, about two to one.

I like most of my classes. Only one of my teachers seems racist. Not anything overt, just a feeling I get. But that's nothing new. I can't trip on it. I have to keep my eyes on the prize, like Daddy says.

In class, my answers better be right. I feel like I have to represent my race. If I look dumb, we all look dumb. It's a burden. Sometimes I envy the white students, who can just blend in.

It's a trip suddenly to be surrounded by wall-to-wall white folks. And it's really strange living in the same room with one. It's a mindblower to look over at a pink face sleeping in the bed across from me. I keep waiting for the girl to go home, but then I remember she lives here.

In the cafeteria, when I sit with white girls from my floor, I cut my chicken with a knife. And I surely don't suck on the bones. I pretty much avoid watermelon altogether.

In the second week of September, I made my first trip into town. The place reminded me of that song “I Wanna Holler, But the Town's Too Small.” There are no signal lights or busy intersections. But there is a statue in front of the courthouse of some dude on a horse. Every small town probably has one, I thought.

I was sitting on the bench waiting for the campus bus. I'd just finished buying a flashlight and some tampons. The weather was perfect, about seventy-five degrees and very little humidity, for a change. Suddenly, I heard somebody shouting “Nigger!” Then I felt wet spit on my arm. I looked up as a truckload of men passed by, leaving a cloud of gravel dust. It all happened so fast, I was stunned.

I felt anger, fear, and humiliation all rolled into one. The white people walking by and the campus bus pulling up to the curb became a blur. Since I couldn't kill the assholes in the truck, I simply wanted to disappear. Somehow, I gathered my composure and boarded the bus. And, I was able to stare out of the window at the postage-stamp-size town just like anybody else.

But tears ran freely down my face when I told Mama on the phone what had happened. She said in a calm but concerned voice, “Baby, I'm sorry that happened to you, but you will just have to tough it out. Lord knows, we as a people have come through slavery, survived the KKK, and the dogs being set on us in Birmingham. And you will just have to survive getting a college education in rural Illinois; so long as they're giving you a four-year scholarship. It's too bad, but that's just the way it is.” Mama paused. “Sometimes, your soul looks back and wonders how you got over.”

I'm thankful for the camaraderie I feel with the other 500 or so black students on this campus of 20,000. Most black folks speak to one another, whether we know each other or not. The few who don't are scorned as “Uncle Toms” by the rest of us.

I met a sistah named Sharlinda in the dorm bathroom. She had Noxzema all over her face. We nodded and introduced ourselves before I brushed my teeth. Then Sharlinda said that it was hard getting used to not seeing roaches running every which way when you turned on a light.

I could've turned my nose up and acted insulted. Just because I'm black doesn't automatically mean I'm acquainted with roaches, does it? But despite Mama's vigilant efforts, we keep us a few roaches in residence. Not to mention occasional mice and a rat every blue moon.

So, instead of copping an attitude, I laughed and said, “Girl, I know what you mean.”

Sharlinda confided that she'd never slept between two sheets before in her life. She said it had taken her a whole week to figure out what the second sheet was for. I laughed and told her I could relate.

It seemed like by the time I'd rinsed the toothpaste out of my mouth, Sharlinda and I had become fast friends.

Sharlinda is cute and “healthy,” not a size eight like me. She's light skinned with sharp features and curly hair that you could barely call a 'fro. You might think she was born to purple until she opened her mouth. Sharlinda talks like a stone sistah. She can butcher the king's English with the best of them. She was probably raised on a boot and a shoe.

Sharlinda grew up on the West Side of Chicago. I came up on the Southside. She says the West Side is the baddest side of town. I don't disagree with her.

I'm a journalism major. Sharlinda's major is undeclared. She's in the “Reach Out” program. Mama would say that they had to reach
way
out to let Sharlinda into somebody's college.

Mama seldom likes my friends, and I know she wouldn't approve of Sharlinda. She prefers seddity people and I don't. I like it that Sharlinda is funny and down-to-earth. I'm often drawn to people like her. Mama would say that's my downfall.

Anyway, it's nice having a friend to hang out with. Especially since I don't have a boyfriend yet. The competition for brothas is a little stiff because more than half of the black students are female. A few of the dudes have been checking me out, especially a handsome, clean-cut type named Myron. But so far nothing has materialized, just a couple of smiles and one long, lingering look in the campus bookstore. Maybe I'll give Myron some play soon. Blood seems nice, I just hope he isn't too square for me.

Yesterday, Sharlinda and I went shopping in town. I was nervous, but at least I wasn't alone. Besides, I knew I had to conquer my fear. There were almost no other black people in sight. We felt like aliens until we found this cool store run by hippies. Sharlinda bought a black light and a reefer pipe. That's how I know she smokes dope. I've still never even tried it. But I'm ready to.

I bought two posters for my room, one of a woman with a big rainbow Afro and another of a peace sign.

Speaking of peace, I marched in my first demonstration against the war last night. A few dudes even burned their draft cards. That's when the campus police ordered us to disperse. When we didn't disband fast enough, they sprayed us with tear gas. I hated that shit. My eyes and throat were burning all the way back to my dorm.

There was a long-haired photographer taking pictures at the demonstration. I told Sharlinda that I might end up in
Life
magazine. She said, I'd be more likely to wind up in a CIA file. That worried me a little. But Sharlinda said, “Don't trip. You're small potatoes, ain't like you're Bobby Seale or somebody.”

Tonight, my roommate and I were interrupted from our studying by a big commotion outside. We stuck our heads out the window into the warm Indian-summer night to find out what the deal was. I thought it might be another antiwar demonstration.

But to my surprise, what I saw was as traditional as the Fourth of July. I'd heard about panty raids but I never thought I would actually witness one in 1971.

Girls were sliding the window screens open and panties were raining down on white boys' heads. They sniffed them like they were fresh-baked rolls.

They talk about us being wild, I thought. I swear, white folks are something else.

“I have half a mind to throw my funky drawers down there,” I said aloud. I forgot I was talking to square-ass Barbara.

“Let's do it!” She smiled wickedly.

I was as surprised as if a nun had invited me to an orgy.

“Who knows? This may be the last panty raid. It's the end of an era.” Barbara sighed. “This will at least give us something to tell our grandchildren.”

“Yeah, we won't be able to say we were at Woodstock, but we can say we were in a panty raid.”

“Well, it beats swallowing goldfish or stuffing yourself inside a phone booth.”

“OK, let's go for it then.” Barbara and I reached under our long nightshirts and pulled off our drawers.

We giggled as our panties, still warm from our body heat, were quickly snatched up.

2

Sharlinda and I were sitting up in the room of this girl named Today, waiting for her to come back from town. Today had gone to the Prairie Star Diner to apply for a job as a cashier. Last week we started this tradition of playing gin rummy and ordering out for pepperoni pizza on Thursday nights. None of us had Friday morning classes.

Sharlinda had gotten Today's roommate, Becky, who was working down at the desk, to let us inside the room. Becky and Today got along well enough to coordinate their room. They had matching red corduroy bedspreads and each had a stack of beer cans over her desk.

Today was more Sharlinda's friend than mine. They were both Kappa Kittens, little sisters of the black fraternity Kappa Alpha Psi.

“Damn, Today know it's Thursday night.” Sharlinda dumped several albums on the bedspread.

“Maybe they're showing her how to use the cash register. You know it's Spaghetti Night at the Prairie Star Diner. The joint is probably jumping. They might have had to put her to work right on the spot.”

“Whatever,” Sharlinda muttered. She put Marvin Gaye's dynamite album on the box.

I shuffled the cards for Solitaire. Sharlinda stuck the other albums back in their stand.

“Girl, I didn't tell you I saw you over by the Union this morning,” I said.

“How come you ain't say nothing?” Sharlinda opened the beige, vinyl-covered bolster over Today's bed. She pulled out a bottle of Boone's Farm and some paper cups.

“Sharlinda!” I raised my eyebrows.

“Today won't mind. You don't understand. We're both Kittens.”

I decided not to trip. Sharlinda knew Today better than I did. Maybe she
would
understand. And hadn't Grandma always said, “People would rather buy you a drink than a sandwich?”

“Anyway, girl, you were making tracks so fast. I didn't want to yell out and sound all ignorant. You weren't late for a nine o'clock. Why were you booking like that?”

“I was rushing to get to my math class.” Sharlinda handed me a paper cup full of wine. “We had a test today, girl.”