College Boy : A Novel (9781416586500) (20 page)

Professor Jameson added to her comment. “The Black church also held the community together through spirituals and work songs to keep them going in times of despair,” he said. “Later on in the course, I will bring in some of the gospel songs that I have collected.” The White students sat with nothing to say as Troy raised his hand and headed the discussion in a new direction.

“What I still can't understand is how millions of Africans were enslaved by a few White men. It couldn't have been nearly as many White men as there were slaves. So I don't see why they didn't just bum rush 'em.”

Troy's classmates began to chuckle.

Professor Jameson smiled and nodded. “Many of the slaves were sold into bondage by African chiefs who had no idea of what kind of slavery it was going to be,” he answered. “The African tribes had slaves from tribal wars. But these slaves were treated as regular workers and could even marry into the tribe. They thought American slavery would be similar.”

“Also, the White man brought material goods and made deals with Africans to capture other Blacks and sell them off as slaves,” Mike X added. “You're also forgetting that they had guns and cannons that the Africans couldn't fight against. So there were many things that contributed to the slave trade. It wasn't like the White people just went to Africa and rounded up a bunch of people. That could never have happened.”

Troy could sense that Mike X was very knowledgeable. His voice seemed to shake the class whenever he spoke; he was only twenty-one. Dude is a young soldier, Troy thought.

He left that first class feeling overjoyed. It was soothing and educational just to talk about the Black experience. Troy was also pleased with the amount of enthusiasm with which he had led the class discussions. He hustled straight to the the bookstore to buy his books for class. Black literature was the only subject on his mind. He began to read the
Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass
on his first night back.

 

Next morning, Troy rose at six-thirty for his first lab class of the new school year. He imagined the lab, filled with White students, as he rode the elevator down to his dorm's cafeteria level for breakfast. Three tall and thin White students stood in front of him getting their food trays.

“Ah, yes. I'll have the, ah, scrambled eggs and bacon, please, and just a wee bit of potatoes. Thank you very much, madam,” the first student said, moving along.

“Hello. How are you doing today? I would love to have the exact same thing as my partner, please,” the second friend said.

“Yes, and I'll just have the, ah, bacon and French toast, please,” said the third friend. They seemed to take all day to order.

Troy moved behind them, disgusted by their sluggishness. “Three French toast with eggs,” he ordered bluntly. He then proceeded to fill his cups at the juice machine, where one of the White friends turned, unexpectedly, and knocked his food out of his hands.

“Damn, you's a stupid White boy!” Troy yelled at him. “How come y'all never watch where y'all goin'?”

“I didn't see you.”

“Why not? I was right the hell in front of you!”

“Well, you don't have to get like that about it.”

Troy shook his head, feeling an increasing sense of agitation. “White boy, I swear to God, if you say something else, I'm 'bout to punch the hell out of you!” he exclaimed.

The one Black security guard strolled in from outside of the cafeteria. “What the problem here?” he asked.

“He's making such a big fuss because I accidentally knocked his plate over,” the White lad informed him, beating Troy to it.

“Yeah, well if you watched where you was goin', it wouldn't have happened. And I feel like punchin' you in your mouth.”

The heavyset guard stood in front of Troy and warned him with a stern face. “You're not going to punch anybody. If you want to take it to that, you'll end up making a run downtown.”

Troy realized he was struggling in a losing battle. He decided to let it slide.

 

Troy felt relieved, seeing two other Black students in his organic chemistry lab. He immediately sat next to one of the Black students and started a conversation with him.

“Ay', what's up, man? I'm glad to see a brother in the class,” he said, extending his hand for a shake.

“What was that?” the student responded.

Troy hesitated. His friend wore no socks with his docksider shoes. His pants were ripped and raggedlooking. His hair was uncombed and mangled, not a typically Black fashion statement. “Oh, never mind,” Troy said, continuing to observe. Maybe he ain't down with being Black, he thought.

A red-haired White student walked in. Troy's friend responded to him instantly. “Hey, Bob, did you guys go to that happenin' party on Henry Road last night, guy?” he asked.

“No, but was it really hot?” Redhead queried. He went and sat on the other side of the room. Troy's friend gathered his things and followed him. But before Troy received a chance to ponder the incident, the lab instructor decided to begin the class with a little joke.

“Did anyone see that guy on the news last night who overdosed on cocaine? Now, how stupid can you get?” the young macho instructor asked, filled with mockery. “They showed a desk full of the stuff. I guess the guy had watched too many
Scarface
movies, hunh, guys? I thought everyone would have learned their lesson after Richard Pryor fried himself. I mean, what kind of stupid people buy and sell drugs? I guess all I would have to do is sell some lab chemicals on a corner and I'd get rich in no time.”

The White students laughed along with him, finding his comments amusing.

“I can't understand why people take drugs,” a blond-haired girl added. “They're getting locked up every day for selling 'em. I mean, it's really stupid.”

Troy hated the class already. The man they spoke about on the news was Black, Richard Pryor was Black, and most of the drug dealers that the newscasters featured were Black. Troy had several friends who sold drugs, including Raheem, and he knew many Blacks who were on drugs.

When the students separated for the lab experiments, Troy was once again the only Black. However, his group had an Asian instructor, whom the White students continuously questioned. They were not the best of listeners, quick to ask the Asian instructor to repeat himself again and again, until finally they decided he was inept. They then ventured down the hall to ask the White instructor with the cocaine jokes to further explain the lab procedures for the day.

Troy shook his head and remained inside the lab room with the Asian instructor. He felt sorry for the man. He was also beginning to despise the White students. They were getting on every nerve in his body.

During his first week of classes, Troy felt an increasing sense of of isolation. He was starting to realize that maybe he didn't belong at State University.

 

It was Friday night, and Doc was in Troy's room getting his hair trimmed.

“Ay', Troy, hurry up with this part, man! I'm trying to go meet this girl on the ave. before the party,” Doc explained.

“You should let me give you a whole haircut,” Troy suggested.

“Naw, man, that's aw'ight. I got a professional cutting my hair now.”

“What, I messed you up before, or something?” Troy quizzed.

“No, but I don't wanna take any more chances with you. You may have lost your touch when you went back home,” Doc said jokingly.

Troy frowned while working his clippers around the front and sides of Doc's head “It's like that now?”

Doc smiled, feeling a touch of guilt. “I mean, Troy, you my boy and all, but I'm not tryin' to take chances. I got so many honeys on me this year. We sophomores now.”

“Oh, so you gon' get new since you got all of the ladies, hunh? Aw'ight, that's cool. You gonna sell me out.”

Doc left, and Troy later joined up with Bruce to attend the first Black party of the new school year. They were hanging out more often together for the first three days since returning to school. Troy had still not seen James or Matthew. He was almost certain that they would show up at the party. He felt guilty about cheating the Black-fraternity-and-sorority-sponsored parties out of their entrance fees, so he and Bruce planned to pay their $3 for a change.

When they arrived at the Student Activity Center, three White men checked their identification cards prior to entry. The money collector was White, the security guards and the stage crew were White.

Freshman year, Troy had gone to at least fifteen parties, but only as a sophomore did he recognize all of the White faces. The Black fraternities and sororities had to pay the campus to use their facilities for five hours at a time. White students had free parties and beer at their campus-surrounding clubs, and frat houses on Henry Road. Their parties would last all night. Blacks averaged two parties a month, where they danced inside a small hall for a mere three hours. No one ever came on time, so the first couple of hours were always wasted.

Troy daydreamed. He had lost his interest in partying. He began to remember how, at the football games, Blacks chose to sit at the side of the end zone. He had always dragged Bruce with him to watch from the fifty-yard line with all the White fraternities. At the basketball games, Blacks chose to sit behind the end line instead of at midcourt, where the White students had the best view of the game. Whites students always had something to do and somewhere to go. Most of the campus events were created by and geared to them. Yet and still, White students managed to integrate all of the Black functions.

Troy looked around and eyed the White girls who had joined Black sororities. They were having a better time at the party than he was. One was in her last year of nursing school, the second had finished her first year of medical school, and a third was a computer science major. Many of the sisters who headed the sororities struggled to make up their minds as to what it was they all wanted to do.

The party was no longer entertaining. Troy didn't feel like dancing, picking up dates, or even walking around. He just sat on a chair, situated in a corner, and watched everyone. He had become inactive, observing everyone else's life as the focus on his own faded.

“Yo, homes, I ain't seen you since I've been up here,” his friend James announced. He had walked up and taken a seat next to Troy in his daze.

“What's up, Jay?” Troy said excitedly, snapping out of it. “I was just thinking 'bout you, man. It was a long summer for me, cuz.” He spoke loud to make sure James could hear him over the music.

James moved his chair closer, to listen without straining. “So what did you do this summer?” he asked.

Troy shook his head. “Man, I think I'm messed up in the head, cuz. All I see is White and Black. Nothing is like it used to be. And it's killin' me!”

James nodded. “Yup, homes, I told you them White people are deep. But I joined the army reserves this summer,” Troy heard him say.

He was startled. “You did what?”

“I needed the money to pay my tuition,” James quickly explained. “I bought a car, too. It's a nice little ride.”

Troy was still shocked. “Man, I thought your pop had this big government job.”

James smiled. “Yeah, he do. But I wanted my own dough to finish college instead of having to count on them. I wanted to teach myself responsibility.”

“By joining the fuckin' army?”

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” James answered. He had cut off his goatee. Troy figured that the army made him do it. James would never have cut off his treasured goatee on his own.

Troy shook his head again. “I don't believe you joined the army, cuz. I thought you knew better than that,” he muttered in disdain. “This country damn sure ain't gon' own me. So
fuck
the army! You must of lost your mind.”

 

Troy left the party, bored with it by midnight. He went to the hallway bathroom on his dormitory floor. He read the graffiti inside the stalls while sitting on the toilet. “I'm proud to be Black, and I could never be a slave,” he read. Several responses followed: “Yeah, but your grandfather was.” “Whoever wrote this comment is obviously a fool. We could make you all slaves again if we wanted to.” The last one read, “Tell me one thing you have to be proud of, and I'll agree that you should be. But truthfully, there isn't any. So just be proud that you're free and living.”

Troy cradled his head in disgust. Things were falling apart. So-called minority students were dropping out of school like flies, despite all the affirmative action and scholarship programs. Many students from the previous year were no-shows. Only one Puerto Rican remained at State University out of the six that Troy had known his freshman year.

He, Matthew, and seven other students were the only Blacks to maintain 3.25 G.P.A.'s, or above, out of all 167 C.M.P. students. Some sophomore students were still finishing reinforcement courses. It would take them forever to complete what they needed in their majors. The lack of progress in so many Black collegians was scary. Yet it was real.

 

Troy rushed to the cafeteria for breakfast that Monday morning before another early class. The same three White friends were there, talking loudly as they ate. Troy could not help but overhear their conversation.

“The Japanese are now the world's number one supplier of technological goods,” the first was saying. He was the culprit who had knocked over Troy's plate.

“I don't know how they did it. You figure after we blew them up, we should have kept them down,” the second friend added.

“That's why they're more advanced than us now,” the third suggested. “You know that after the war, we invested millions of dollars to rebuild Japan. I mean, imagine that. We bomb a country to pieces and then fix it up to surpass us. I think we should have let them all die after the war,” he said with hearty laughter.