Culture Clash (11 page)

Jeremy nods good-bye to me as he heads out of the room ahead of me. I guess we won’t be spending lunch together. He probably needs some time to process what he just heard. Mickey and Nigel are spending lunch together off campus, and so are Nellie and Chance. It’s apparently couples day and I’ve been left out of the group. But that’s okay. I’m sure I’ll find something to get into if I set my mind to it. A girl like me is never single for long unless it’s by choice. And right now, I choose to honor my hunger and worry about the rest later.

Monday was such an intense day that the rest of the week has been mild, comparatively speaking. After dealing with meetings and work all week, I’m looking forward to the last two days of the week going by just as quickly. And so far, today has also been a chill day, especially since our regularly scheduled AP lunch meeting was cancelled.

Yesterday’s ASU meeting was much less eventful than the first because about a third less students showed up. I knew that would happen. Shae, Tony, and a few others from South Central decided more reading wasn’t important on their to-do list, but KJ and his boys stuck it out, with Misty dutifully right behind him. Emilio, Chance, and Alia also showed up to our second meeting, which was a good thing. We need the multicultural balance in the room.

With me, Nigel, and Mickey also in attendance, Nellie was the only one missing from our crew. She’s been acting a little reserved ever since Mickey and I checked her for calling us bitches, not that it’s stopped Nellie from being her regular bougie self. Jeremy has also kept his distance, only speaking to me to say “hi” and “bye” when I do see him third and fourth period. I don’t know if he’s mostly upset about my being a voodoo priestess or because Emilio’s obviously got the hots for me. I’m sure it’s a little of both. Jeremy really needs to grow the hell up and get over it.

I make my way through the lunch crowd and into the main hall to switch out my books for tonight’s homework and to again attempt returning Ms. Toni’s book. As usual, she’s been hard to catch all week.

“Hi, Jayd,” Emilio says, approaching me as I continue sifting through the various notebooks and papers littering my locker. Someone should really organize this thing.

“Hey, Emilio. What’s up?” I ask, closing my locker door and readjusting the heavy backpack on my shoulders. I already have my lunch so all I need to do now is find a spot to chill for the next half hour.

“Would you mind if I joined you for lunch?” the cute sophomore asks. I look around the emptying hall, trying to buy time to make up an excuse because I do want to be alone. But on second thought, I can see no reason why I shouldn’t have lunch with Emilio.

“Not at all,” I say, allowing him to take my backpack and lead the way outside. It’s a nice day to relax in the sun.

Emilio finds a shady spot under a tree not far from the entrance to the main hall. I don’t usually like to sit where there’s a lot of foot traffic, but this spot will do. He takes out his lunch, which consists of a sandwich and chips he just bought from the cafeteria. His food looks much more filling than my chosen banana and Doritos with the bottled water I bought during snack time. Maybe he’ll give me a bite of his sub if I ask real nice.

“So how are you enjoying our crazy campus?” I ask between bites. He unwraps his sandwich and starts eating it like he’s as hungry as I am. On second thought, maybe I won’t beg for his lunch. At the rate he’s grubbing, it looks like he’s going to be finished before I am.

“It’s a beautiful school, esthetically speaking,” he says, looking at all of the white students enjoying the day. We won’t see any students with skin tones close to ours unless we venture over to the main lunch quad near the cafeteria, where South Central and El Barrio—the Latino clique—congregate on a regular basis. “But the culture is a bit strange for me. And everyone keeps treating me like I don’t know anything. I guess it’s the accent,” he says, smiling at me. I know how Emilio feels. My first week at South Bay High was a culture shock, too, and I’m still feeling it a year and a half later.

“Trust, the school has earned the nickname Drama High.” Emilio looks at me curiously. Do I have something in my teeth?

“What is this ‘Drama High’ name for?” Emilio’s innocence is so cute, but I’ll keep that to myself, just in case he takes the intended compliment as demeaning. I don’t want him to feel like I’m treating him the way some of the ignorant students do.

“It’s just a title the school has earned since its inception, I’m guessing. But I never questioned it because it’s true.”

“Yeah. There’s something very different about the way these white Americans with money act. My last student exchange program took me to Puerto Rico. It was like a home away from home.” Emilio finishes the last bite of his food and moves on to his Dr Pepper.

“So do you consider yourself black?” I had to ask, especially after that comment he made about white folks. Emilio looks like a fine young black man with hella curly hair to me. But I want to be sure he sees the same thing.

“Do I have a choice?” he asks, tickled by my question. “In this political environment, anyone with African blood is black, and I am definitely of African descent.”

“I figured as much,” I say. I’m glad Emilio stood up for his people in class the other day. I’m also glad he identifies with being black, which I wasn’t really sure of before. Some South Americans call themselves black and others don’t. Being black is about more than skin color and hair texture: it’s also about claiming an identity rooted in the recognition of a shared survival.

“I liked what you had to say about the religion in class on Monday,” he says, lowering his voice as any practitioner with the proper training would when talking about orisha worship.

“Are you familiar with the orisha?” I ask, curious if he’s been a quiet priest all these weeks. It would be cool to have another ally on campus other than our teacher, Mr. Adewale.

“Yes, I practice Santeria, the way of the saints,” Emilio says, pulling his shirt collar down, revealing a brown and green eleke. “I’m a child of Ifa.”

“Ashe,” I say, smiling at our secret. I knew there was something special about Emilio. His eyes are piercing and his energy calm. Yes, Emilio is definitely a child of Ifa or Orunmilla, the prophet of the religion, who is known for his controlled behavior.

“I was so impressed that you—an American descendant of slavery—knew about our ancestors’ ways. Most of you do not,” Emilio says, no longer sounding as cute as he did a few minutes ago. His head may be cool, but it’s big.

“Excuse me?” I ask, ready to show him how we get down on this side of the world. But he continues with his conceited view like I didn’t say a word.

“
Mi abuelita
always says African Americans really know nothing about the religion. She also says that we—the Africans in the South Americas and Cuba—saved the orisha. If it were left up to the Africans here, there would be no more santos.” I want to slap Emilio so bad right now I can feel the hot flesh on my cheeks fully exposed.

“Do you believe everything your grandmother tells you?” I ask.

“Of course I do. Don’t you?” he asks, as serious as a heart attack.

“Hell no,” I say. I didn’t mean it like that, but I do have a mind of my own. If I’d shared Mama’s opinion about reading novels about our lineage, I would’ve never read the book Ms. Toni let me borrow. And that would have been my bad.

“Well, my grandmother never lies to me about anything,” Emilio says, dusting grass off his jeans and bringing his knees up to his chest. “And she knows everything there is to know about the religion.” His blind allegiance is slightly dramatic and scary.

“What the hell are you talking about? Just because American blacks don’t express it the same way y’all do doesn’t mean that we don’t honor our ancestors. Look at our history. We’ve always been root workers, obeah women and priestesses. We call it voodoo and speak Creole, Ebonics and whatever other language we could use to survive,” I say, giving him a quick lesson in African American culture. He needs to check his ego at the curb when talking about us like he’s an expert.

“Whatever you say, Jayd, and I don’t want to argue with you,” Emilio says, putting up his hands in mock surrender like we do in debate class when one person gives in to the other’s reasoning. But I know that’s not what’s going on here. “The difference between my culture and yours is that we never left our gods. And in return they never left us. Can blacks in this country say the same thing? I think not.” Emilio’s a cocky little something when it comes to his South American orisha culture, I see. And he’s also a grandmama’s boy in a very dependent way that is very unattractive. I’m glad we had this little chat. I see that even though we’re both from essentially the same culture, we’re still on different sides.

The bell rings, leaving me to think about what Emilio just said. Part of me actually agrees with him and that pisses me off. I’m a grandmama’s girl, but not to the point where I think that Mama shits gold. The after-lunch rush to fifth period has begun and we’d better join the flow of bodies if we’re going to make it to class on time.

“Until next time, sweet Jayd,” Emilio says, taking both of my hands in his and pulling me into a kiss. I give in to his soft, sweet lips momentarily before punching him in the chest and pulling away from his embrace.

“What the hell was that?” I shout, making my way up from the grassy spot. Jeremy hears my loud voice and starts walking across the quad to where we’re standing. Good. Maybe he can save the tail end of this lunch break by finally apologizing for his strange behavior this week.

“I’ve been waiting to do that all my life,” Emilio says, looking pleased with his rude behavior. “Have you ever seen
The Cosby Show
? Ever since seeing that television show I’ve liked black American girls. And you are so beautiful,” he says, coming in for round two—but it ain’t happening.

“Emilio, you can’t just go around kissing on people without their permission,” I say, picking up my belongings and punching him one more time. Jeremy arrives just as I land the blow.

“Oh, Jayd, you hurt me so sweet,” Emilio says, feigning hurt while holding my fist to his chest. This fool is crazy.

“So now you’re hanging out with him?” Jeremy asks. I thought he was coming over here to rescue me, not yell at me. Oh no, not another confrontation. I look at both Jeremy and Emilio and realize that I’m wasting my time and energy fighting with these clueless dudes.

“Who I hang with is my business, Jeremy,” I say, passing them both by and heading for class with the rest of the student population. They can argue with each other. It seems like Jeremy and I never talk anymore, just go back and forth about one thing or another. What happened to my friend I could have interesting debates and good chess matches with?

I attempt to continue my trek in solitude, but Jeremy’s not having it. He follows me down the hill toward the drama room and away from Emilio and his
novela
now costarring me. The drama never seems to end.

“Jayd, we’re having a conversation. You can’t just walk away from me,” Jeremy says, grabbing me by the arm. Oh no he didn’t go there with me.

“Look, Chris Brown, you need to let go before you find yourself laid out on the cement,” I say, snatching my arm away from him. Jeremy looks truly shocked by his own action. I guess he’s never had a girl walk away from him before. All I can say is
welcome to dating a black girl
because we usually don’t stay around and get yelled at unless we’re yelling back.

“Jayd, I saw you kissing Emilio,” Jeremy says, his tone deeper than I’ve ever heard him speak to me before. “Are you seriously telling me that you and he are hanging out now?” What’s gotten into him? He’s been aloof lately, even for him. But this rage is coming out of nowhere, especially since he’s well aware that I’m kicking it with Rah, too.

“What if we are, Jeremy? Are you going to snatch him up, too? Because I’ve already been in a relationship like that and I’m not going back there again.” As a matter of fact, most of the dudes I hang with are a bit on the jealous side. And by a bit I mean they don’t want anyone else touching their girls.

“You know what you are, Jayd? A tease,” Jeremy says with all of the venom of a scorpion dripping from his words. Me, a tease? All I did was accept a lunch invitation. How did we get here? “From now on you can kiss whomever you like. I’m done being your bitch,” he says, storming off toward the parking lot. I guess he’s not going to class this afternoon. I’ve never seen him so mad at me before. And I’ve never heard him refer to himself as anyone’s bitch. What the hell just happened?

I should know how to control my temper because of what it can do to my ashe, just like I should know better by now than to trust Rah with my heart. Luckily I don’t have to work at Netta’s this evening, leaving me free to go home early and relax. Maybe I’ll even bake something sweet for myself that’ll help shake this negative school day off of me.

It’s a bright sunny day and I’m glad for it. I love to sit out in the sun on days like this, pop in my headphones and let the music on my iPod carry me off to a place where I can just be, especially when I get home early enough to enjoy the last hour of sunlight. It never lasts for too long, but it’s nice to steal a moment to myself every now and then. I have some school and spirit work to catch up on and could use the peace to get it done.

“Don’t sit out here too long,” my cousin Jay says, passing me by on his way up the front porch heading toward the front door. I guess he decided to hang out late after school. “You’re already black enough.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I wish these headphones could block out ignorance, but they’re not magic. I try to focus on my English paper rough draft, but it’s no use with Jay around.

“You know what I mean. You’re out here getting a tan. I know you go to school with white folks, but don’t forget you ain’t one of them.” Jay smacks me on the head and I return the love by tripping him on his way across the threshold into the house. He looks back and smiles at me, indicating his surrender, just like I thought he would. We used to fight hardcore when we were kids, and I was always the victor. Not because he was weak, but more because I’m relentless when it comes to winning, no matter the game.