“Have you given going to university some more thought?” he’d ask every time we went out to lunch.
“No, not really,” I’d answer, and that was the truth. He wanted me to go so I could get a better job, but I couldn’t think of any other perks. I planned to go into the workforce, like my mother. She didn’t seem to mind it—after her shift, she came home, and had time to do whatever she wanted. But when my girlfriends started talking about the Ontario Universities’ Fair, I decided to tag along.
At the Western table, a student rep from the Arts and Humanities department started explaining the program to me. I told her that I didn’t want to go to university—I couldn’t go through another several years being teased for sitting and studying alone. She looked at me like I was half stupid, half deserving of pity. “That only happens in high school,” she said. “In university, it’s cool to sit by yourself.”
On the TTC ride back from the fair, I struggled to contain my huge smile. My two big plastic bags were ripped at the corners, overstuffed with university viewbooks. My girlfriends sat in silence, more conflicted than ever about whether university was really for them. As for me, I was definitely going.
I wanted to be a writer, and the only English and writing programs that interested me were all the way at Western, in London, a city I hadn’t even heard of until I read the brochure. To be practical, I opted to major in Social Work and take a few English courses on the side, and I did more research into the school. Western was known for three things: quality education, school spirit, and partying. It was the place where keggers and raves happened, and all the other epic university fantasies that Canadian kids see in American movies about student life.
London was just far enough to get a fresh start, and I had the privilege of moving away for university. I worked on applying for scholarships to fund my residence and tuition fees, as well as my sales pitch to Taz: we both needed an adventure, and this was our chance.
Taz coming with me to Western almost didn’t happen. Her mother, a strict, Catholic woman, didn’t want her unmarried daughter to move away. She barely let Taz hang out with her friends, worried that they’d be a bad influence. But her mother’s skepticism of the people around her daughter didn’t extend to me. After school, she’d pick us both up and make me dinner, and later on, Taz and I would go upstairs to talk on MSN Messenger to boys from class we were crushing on. I was invited to every family event, and the kids called me “auntie.” Taz and I had become like sisters, I had become part of their family. If her mom was going to let her go away with anyone, it would be me.
After endless fights and tears, and with one day left to accept the offer, Taz managed to convince her mother to let her go to Western. Her own pitch was that it had one of the best science programs in the country, and making her settle for anything less would hinder a successful career and marriage. Much to their annoyance, her parents couldn’t disagree with that.
We were homesick our first few nights in Med-Syd, alternating between squealing over our new freedom and crying about how much we missed home. We immediately felt the isolation of our new environment: there were no other brown-skinned girls on our floor. By our fourth day, we hadn’t made any friends yet; as we ate together in the cafeteria, questioning our decision to move two hours away from everything we knew, Malcolm approached us. Tall with a baby face, deep brown skin, small, deep-set eyes, and a buzz cut, he held his tray, also looking sad and pitiful.
“Can I sit with you guys?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, moving my tray over.
Malcolm sat down and was quiet for a minute.
“So,” he said, looking at Taz and me, then smiling. “It’s just us.” We laughed and laughed and laughed without saying a word, three brown bodies cackling in the near-white cafeteria like we were going mad.
Originally from Jamaica, Malcolm lived in a small, white town outside Toronto. As the only two Black people on our dorm floor, we bonded instantly. Along with Taz, we spent most of our days laughing obnoxiously at foolishness, hanging out in Malcolm’s room listening to music, and sharing stories of the racism we’d experienced back home. Malcolm and I had both come to Western worrying about where we would fit in—if we would need to change to survive here. We already had, to an extent: we learned the lingo, like biddy (usually a white, hot girl) and wheel (to flirt). Malcolm anglicized his already-subtle Jamaican accent so he didn’t have to deal with the terrible Caribbean impressions that people loved to do, and I found myself upping the vocal fry just to make myself relatable and unthreatening.
But in our rooms, we were unapologetically Black, playing hip-hop so loud that surfaces would vibrate, laughing obnoxiously, doing the Dougie and the Superman, and rapping to songs off Nicki Minaj’s Pink Friday and Kanye West’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. When we weren’t screaming and hollering and being extra, we were sharing stories about our lives before we met each other. Most of our floor wanted to be part of the fun, joining us in our rooms to let loose or just to watch us enjoy ourselves. Others rolled their eyes. We annoyed them, we were too much. Some of the white girls stopped talking to us because our noise made them mad, totally oblivious to their own rowdy squealing on weekends. We didn’t give a fuck what they thought, and instead we held on to being Black as tightly as we could.
* * *
///
Kait spent her weekends out-drinking preppy kids who’d end up puking in house plants or passing out by the family pool. As her friends said, “There ain’t no party like a Kait party.”
She had lived in London her whole life. We met in our first-year Intro to Social Work class at King’s University College, an affiliate school just a short walk from Western. She was a dark-haired pale-faced girl with wide brown eyes and a smile that took up her whole face—even if you were a stranger, she always looked happy to see you. We became friends by the second class, when our professor told us to pair up for an assignment, and all the King’s students quickly rushed towards each other, leaving the two of us, both from Western, behind. Together, we studied at the library during weekdays and met up for coffee before class so I could hear her tales of the city. She was a party veteran thanks to her fake ID.
The week before second year began, I came back to London early. Kait already had a plan to get me white-girl wasted: Clarissa, her friend from high school, was having an end-of-summer party at her mom’s house. Clarissa had been the hottest girl at their school—the epitome of white female beauty, a mix between Phoebe Tonkin and Megan Fox.
Our cab pulled up to a bungalow with a wood-panel exterior. Inside, above an old, floral cream couch, hung a taxidermied deer. The house was packed with people—all white, and mostly men. They slurred as they spoke, spilling beer on the carpet. I had never been to a house party before, though I had imagined it would look something like this.
These were local kids, and they definitely knew I wasn’t from here. People stared as I walked through the crowd. In the kitchen, I stood beside Kait as she chatted with old friends. As I munched on chips, I caught a glimpse of a girl with long dark hair staring at me from the next room, her piercing blue eyes, rimmed with black eyeliner, were unblinking.
“Who’s that?” I asked Kait. The girl was still watching me.
“Oh, that’s Clarissa.”
A tall, fit middle-aged woman with dyed blond hair in a tight dress approached us with a tray of Jello shots. “Oh, you’re new! Are you a friend of my daughter?” She handed me a neon green shot.
“Actually, no, I’m just here with Kait,” I said, thanking her.
“Well, you should really meet my daughter, she’ll love you,” she said, winking. Then she looked me up and down, took a shot, and continued her rounds.
As Kait and I made our way to the living room, I felt fingers brush softly through my hair. I turned around. Clarissa was peeking out from behind a wall, smiling at me. I caught up to Kait and followed her in
to the living room, which was full of guys in a colourful range of plaid shirts playing beer pong, yelling and cheering each other on. A few girls stood in the corner, watching their crushes, who were more focused on scoring a point than flirting with them.
“Hey everyone, this is Eternity,” Kait said. A few people looked but said nothing, then went back to what they were doing.
I quietly went over to stand beside the pining girls, also pretending to watch. I was so uncomfortable. I could see how the token being here made other people feel awkward. I was that Black person who tagged along to one of their parties. They had to watch what they said, which songs they listened to. Even as the only person of colour, I knew how much space I took up just by being here.
Suddenly, one of the guys looked up at me. One by one, the rest of them fell silent as they also lifted up their heads. Self-consciously, I turned around, and Clarissa was right behind me again, her feline, electric blue eyes on mine, a smirk on her pink glossed lips.
“Hi, Clarissa,” one of the guys said. She didn’t answer—she didn’t even look his way. She slowly lifted a hand up to caress my cheek, before putting it behind my neck. Her eyes didn’t move.
“You are so beautiful,” she whispered, pulling me into her, our lips gently colliding.
I don’t know how much time passed, but it felt like minutes that Clarissa and I were kissing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the guys who were in love with her and the women who loved them. When we finally pulled away from each other, the room was silent, and mouths were open. “We should hang out,” she said, before turning around and slinking away.
I looked at Kait, hoping she wasn’t regretting bringing me to this party. “That’s my girl!” She high-fived me. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here and go to The Barking Frog. These people are boring.”
We had only been at the club for a few minutes when I spotted Sunil, the only other person of colour there that night. He looked at me, then walked towards us.
“Hey.” Sunil smiled, his teeth glowing white in the darkness. “Wanna dance?”
We danced the rest of the night and exchanged phone numbers. Soon, we were spending our weeknights at bars with his friends, and our weekends listening to hip-hop. Originally from New Delhi, Sunil had come to London to pursue his dream of becoming a pilot. He was in his last year studying Aviation, and he had blown most of his OSAP loan for the year on partying. Though he was a few years older than me, Sunil expressed a kind of vulnerability that made him seem much younger—especially with his baby face and puffy cheeks, tall and lanky stature, and a pristine white grin that made his small, brown, almond eyes crinkle.
We shared our deepest secrets and trusted each other to keep them. Both having grown up in South Asian families, we had an unspoken cultural connection. We could snap at each other without the other taking it personally—the way I had seen my own cousins do to their spouses. We knew the same inside jokes about brown culture. He missed his mom back in New Delhi, so I tried my best to give him a taste of home. We’d make Indian food together—chana masala was our favourite. When he was feeling down, I’d surprise him with chai. In public, we made out just to scandalize the brown uncles and aunties who stared. He’d say words in Hindi and Urdu, thinking I wouldn’t understand, then laugh in surprise when I’d respond in English.
But at night, in the middle of the dance floor, Sunil would pull his friends and me together in a huddle. “I never thought I’d be dating a Black girl!” he’d say, clinking his beer with everyone else’s, like it was a cause for celebration. “It’s true that once you go Black, you never go back. You should try it.” Then he’d put his arm around me, pushing me forward. “Can you believe that she’s Pakistani—and Black too?” When we got home, we’d fight about it. “It’s a compliment. I don’t know why you always get so mad,” he’d say impatiently.
I thought only white folks could tokenize me. But Sunil and I were both South Asian. We were both from the same culture, and yet my brownness was negated by my Blackness. He was my reminder of my family back home; but to him, I was a story he could share with his friends about the Black girl he once dated. By early October, the phone calls fizzled out and we went our separate ways.
* * *
///
Megan was a little bitch. With her round, cherubic, freckled face, her Hunter boots and raspy voice, she was the epitome of a Western girl.
I was taking a second-year theory class with Professor Williams, one of the few Black professors I had during my years at Western. I could tell she was playing smart—you have to as a Black academic—leaving her pursed lips for when she thought the class wasn’t watching. Sometimes, when I walked past her office in the department I heard her normally slow, deliberate speech quicken and a giggle emerge. I liked her, but she was especially curt with me. I understood, though: as the only Black person in her class, she wanted me to be her star student, to prove the others wrong, the way I’m sure she still had to with her peers. And yet she and her TA never cut me any slack. Unlike the rest of my courses, which I soared through with mid- to high 80s, I fumbled through Professor Williams’s tough assignments without any of my usual academic finesse: I was getting low 60s in her class, the lowest marks of my second year. And even though it was my own fault, part me hoped she would help me out as the only Black girl in the class. But the message was clear: I don’t want you to fail, but I won’t show you favouritism either.
Megan sat two seats to my left and one row up. She was constantly talking to the girl beside her during the lectures, her annoying voice unable to successfully whisper. If she wasn’t being disruptive, she was texting on her phone or smacking her gum.
For our last assignment, we had to get into groups. I looked around the room, and everyone had already settled into a team but me. “Eternity, why don’t you join Megan’s group?” Professor Williams said. Megan looked like I had taken a shit on her desk.
I wasn’t happy about it either; still, I got up and joined the group, who fell silent and gave each other side-eye when I sat down. At our first meeting the next day, we sat in a circle, but they had all squeezed in until only my knee was included. I couldn’t even get a word in as they talked about their ideas for which topic we should choose for the assignment and then delegated the work.
“Guys, I really need to get a good mark in this class,” Megan whined. She looked at me. “Maybe you could do, like, the summary section. It should be easy.”
“Sure, of course.” I smiled and accepted my role as group dunce.
A few days before our Tuesday class, I caught a cold. I skipped, which Professor Williams had clearly warned us would drive down our grade, but I didn’t want to go all the way to campus to get a doctor’s note. That weekend, I gave in to Taz’s pleas to go out on Saturday night. At the bar, I went to the bathroom to blow my nose, and as I was exiting, Megan walked in with her crew of girlfriends.
“Oh. My. God! Hey gurrrrl!” she squealed, her arms outstretched as she hugged me. I reluctantly hugged her back, unsurprised by her intoxication-fuelled friendliness. “I didn’t see you last class,” she said, her eyes searching mine for some gossip.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” I responded. “I’m still sick, actually. I probably shouldn’t be here.”
As I spoke, I watched her lips curl into a grin. She put her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” she said, winking. “Enjoy the rest of your night, gurrrrrl. Have so. Much. Fun.”
Next Tuesday, I was back in class working with my group, minus Megan. Professor Williams walked by my desk. “So glad to see you’re feeling better and with us today, Ms. Martis,” she said, trying to hold in her amusement. “I hope you had a great night at Jack’s. Megan told me she saw you there.”
Before I could answer, Professor Williams gave me a look I knew well: pursed lips, sassy eyes, a hand on her hip. I was mortified. Everything I needed to know wa
s on her face: You have to move better.
I knew she was right. Black students have to work twice as hard in order to be seen as smart, and studious. Nearly half of U.S. undergraduates today are students of colour, but Black students are still lagging behind, especially at elite schools. (Canada doesn’t collect race-based data, so we don’t have these numbers.) They also have a higher dropout rate, which research has attributed to feeling there’s an implicit bias by faculty and the school towards white students, not seeing peers who look like them, being unable to find community, financial issues, and experiencing discrimination and racism at school or by faculty and students.
In another class, with another professor, Megan’s little tattle could have affected my academic performance. She had gone out of her way to make sure she ratted on me. But I wasn’t surprised. I knew how white girls operated: smiling in the faces of women of colour, acting like our friends and allies, calling us “queen” and “girl” and snapping their fingers; then turning on us for personal gain—using tears, or carefully chosen words disguised as false innocence or concern, to plant seeds that they can reap for their own benefit.
When Megan missed class or texted or had conversations about her weekend instead of listening to the lecture she paid for, that was not my business, nor my money. When her friends skipped class, she took notes for them. When I skipped class, she took notes for our professor. She was policing me, and she used it as her one-up, as if it were her job to report and weed out the bad, lazy students who were not devoted, who didn’t belong.
They Said This Would Be Fun Page 4
