They Said This Would Be Fun

by Eternity Martis

  White students can do worrying things at night because they know they’ll be protected. Whether it’s conscious or not, that is white privilege.

  It is a privilege not to worry about looking stupid or getting too drunk. It is a privilege to misbehave or engage in criminal acts in public, and have people see it as so non-threatening that there’s no need to call the cops. It is a privilege to get a “slap on the wrist.” Meanwhile, young Black people are being stopped by police across North America for walking, sleeping, swimming, selling lemonade, going to class, picking up garbage. Killed for putting their hands in their pockets or for simply being in their own home. For being “suspicious-looking.” White people can be suspects, but they are hardly ever viewed as suspicious.

  In February 2015, Aaron Ferkranus, a twenty-six-year-old Black man, went into medical distress after being restrained by bouncers at the Thorny Devil nightclub in London for throwing a punch that temporarily knocked a white man unconscious. As the man was taken away by ambulance, bouncers kneed Ferkranus several times in the leg and pinned him down, keeping him there even after he stopped moving. While he was unresponsive and barely breathing, a police officer arrested him. When they did call the paramedics, Ferkranus had no vital signs. He was pronounced dead the next day. The Special Investigations Unit completed its investigation seven months later, clearing the officer in relation to Ferkranus’s death and concluding that the cause of death is still unknown. The officer who was facing charges refused to participate in an SIU interview and refused to provide a copy of her duty notes, which is legal.

  Black men are plagued by others’ belief that they’re brutish and dangerous, but a fight between white men is viewed as nothing more than a boys’ scrap, even when blood streams from broken noses. It’s that privilege that allows white men to dominate nightlife spaces, to assault without punishment, to make others feel unwelcome. And they laugh and joke while doing it.

  And our culture tells them: where is the danger in that?

  * * *

  ///

  Spring arrived, and the departing winter took away the dirty, cigarette-filled snow banks and most of the city’s student population.

  London in May was quiet. Only locals and summer students strolled around during the day, and at night, clubs were near empty. I was taking two summer classes, the perfect excuse to not go out as much, opting for daytime nachos and evenings indoors watching movies. Taz quietly adapted to our new schedule, but to compromise we still went out on one weeknight, and on Saturdays.

  As she tried on dress after dress, I did my course readings, only getting up to take a quick shower and put on a little makeup before we left. I relinquished my status as pre-drink DJ, so Taz got ready in silence. My fitted dresses and high heels remained in the closet as I threw on a T-shirt and jean shorts. Even the bus driver had stopped slowing down at our usual stop.

  Like our new schedule, things weren’t the same with Taz anymore. We used to scream in excitement when our favourite song came on; we’d dance with our arms slung around each other’s shoulders, and we didn’t care who else was around. Now Taz would dance with the guys who approached her, and I would hang out by the bar on my own, watching my surroundings, watching her like a chaperone.

  Choosing when I went out was one way I could control the amount of discrimination I experienced. I was finally able to see what I wasn’t willing to before: Jack’s was never my home. Nightlife was a seductive facade that made me believe I could fit in somewhere among the swirl of lights and sweaty bodies; that I could be that carefree, untouchable party girl. These possibilities seemed limitless in a dark room.

  When you go home before the lights come on after a great night, you get to nurse the illusion, take it to bed with you, let it cuddle with your insecurities, your loneliness. But when the music stops and the lights abruptly turn back on, it’s just a littered, beer-soaked dance floor.

  Taz still had her haven, dancing in the dark with strangers, but it was no longer my refuge. The dim lights couldn’t hide what I had seen.

  The Necessary Survival Guide for Token Students

  The Token on Campus

  WHAT TO EXPECT: You’ll count how many Black people you see on campus. And if you are lucky enough to find others, you and your group of friends will be stared at with fear and loathing for daring to even laugh simultaneously. On your way to class, you’ll pass by wannabe hood handshakes and “What’s up, nigga?” greetings, signs of a strong bromance. White students will not make room for you on the sidewalk—their conversation is too important to be interrupted by you—so you’ll either be shoved as they barrel through or you’ll step off the sidewalk instinctively, and then they’ll look at you like you’re the problem. Anywhere you are on campus—walking through the field, at the bookstore, in line for coffee, at the library—you will get pushed, shoved, ignored, hit in the head with a football: all the things that happen when you’re a ghost, apparently. You’re basically as invisible as you are hypervisible.

  HOW TO DEAL WITH IT: Stink-eye is passive-aggressive and still scary enough to get the job done without confrontation. These people are perpetually shook—adjusting to student life, constantly hungover, failing Calculus, afraid of everything. Let them know they have one more thing to fear by crossing you. When white kids refuse to make room for you on the sidewalk, do not step off. Jim Crow South etiquette is over. When people bump into you, spook them by firmly letting them know you aren’t Casper. You’re nobody’s friendly ghost.

  anthony,

  my

  italian

  greek

  tragedy

  In my mandatory first-year Introduction to Narrative course, we read the classics like Frankenstein, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and Heart of Darkness (a book I had to discuss as the only Black person in the room). We learned about the Romantic era and the Sublime, we read Kafka and Poe, and we braved the epics like Gilgamesh. A lot of this didn’t impress me.

  In second year, however, I took literature courses that did interest me: Twisted Sexuality, Post-Colonial Literature, Feminist Literary Theory, Indigenous Fiction. I saw myself represented in many of these stories, these texts that weren’t in the canon, electives that were not required to complete your degree.

  But I did love me some classical Greek tragedy. I had read Oedipus Rex in my Grade 12 Advanced English class, and was mesmerized by the sin and salaciousness contained within the slim volume. I loved the structure in which it unfolded, the satire of the era. In my courses, I devoured texts like Electra, Antigone, and Agamemnon, fascinated by the plot lines: revenge, sex, desire, lust, polygamy, scheming. I loved that every character’s action, which was always a bad decision, had a reaction—a consequence to look forward to.

  That’s how I came to think of my relationship with Anthony. He was a Black guy in a white man’s body, or so he liked to say. Our relationship, if you could even call it that, was so unfortunate that you might compare it to a Greek tragedy: I was the tragic hero who, with my hubris (my arrogance and foolishness), made a fatal error (misjudging a white guy’s interest in me), thus resulting in suffering, self-enlightenment, your pity, and a cautionary tale to share with friends. The chorus is my common sense just shouting insults at me while I ignore it at my peril.

  In typical Greek-tragedy style, it was fate that we met—without him, I probably wouldn’t have started my career as a journalist so soon. So, here’s to you, Anthony, and our contemporary drama. You cheeky, fateful bastard.

  Prologue

  We are here to witness a tragedy of the most tragic: the twenty-first century dating life of a modern woman of colour. It involves the disastrous combination of a twenty-three-year-old fuckboy and a nineteen-year-old female clown. What ensues is his fetishization of Black women, a pregnancy scare, bell hooks, and a lot of crying.

  Act One

  CHORUS: Girl, I know you don’t know what the hell is
going on yet, but he don’t look right. Just run, girl, RUN!

  Most evenings in October were warm enough to skip pantyhose. Taz and I had just left Jack’s and were walking on Richmond Row, which had shut down traffic for Homecoming Weekend.

  The streets were jammed with hundreds of drunk people trying to get home, and barely any taxis. By 2 a.m., the breeze was biting; we rubbed our palms along our thighs to keep warm as we walked north to find a cab.

  In my first fatal error, I wore a cheetah-print dress that night.

  CHORUS: Gasp! A sign!

  A few months earlier I had read an essay by Black feminist scholar bell hooks in which she talks about the problem with Black female entertainers who wear animal print or writhe around in cages in music videos. It reinforces stereotypes, she says, about our primitive, animalistic sexual nature—our Otherness—which is packaged for white audiences. I knew better than to give in to the tropes. I was a bad feminist.

  “Hi.” The voice came from behind me.

  I turned around and saw a white guy with dark hair and dark eyes. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just a T-shirt and jeans, looking mildly uncomfortable as the breeze beat through his clothing.

  “Hi,” I mumbled. Taz was now on the street, begging for a cab to stop.

  “Your dress really caught my attention,” he said.

  CHORUS: You see?

  “That’s nice,” I said as I waved frantically for a cab.

  “I’m Anthony,” he yelled over the whistling wind, and put his hand out. I reluctantly shook it, then turned back around and continued flailing my arms, desperately wanting to go home to my warm bed. I was not interested in freezing to death with this strange, smiling man who couldn’t take a hint.

  “Look, I know you’re probably not interested, but can I have your number? I’d really like to take you out for breakfast tomorrow.”

  I had never been asked out for breakfast. Drinks, yes. Dinner, sometimes. But breakfast was a serious display of interest. The very act of waking up early after a night of drinking to treat a girl to a meal seemed thoughtful.

  Then he reached out his arm and, with ease, hailed a cab.

  “You take it. I’ll wait for the next one,” he said.

  I looked to Taz for some backup, but she wasted no time in running towards the cab as it pulled up to the curb.

  “So, can I have your number?”

  I quickly recited it while I stuck my foot into the cab, shooing away the drunkards clawing at the door, and he texted me his.

  “If you’re bored, text me tonight,” he said, as I got in and reached for the handle to pull the door shut. He stopped me. “I’ll be waiting.”

  He shut the door and I watched him as we drove away.

  We ended up texting until 6 a.m. In our flurry of messages, I mentioned that we were struggling to install our new showerhead. He was a handyman, and said he’d come install it later in the week. I wasn’t sure about his intentions, but we definitely needed the help. We planned to meet Friday evening.

  * * *

  ///

  Anthony looked different in the daylight. He was tall, about six-foot-two, with a slender but soft build. His slightly receding hairline was negated by his boyish face—tiny dark eyes, puffy, rosy cheeks, full lips, and some light stubble. He wore dark Guess jeans and a crisp white T-shirt with a sprout of dark chest hair visible from the V-neck collar. In his left hand was a toolkit. He smelled like Adidas cologne and spearmint gum, which he chewed on with straight, white teeth.

  “Hey.” He didn’t smile. I brought him into the bathroom and showed him the new showerhead.

  We tried to engage in some small talk as he worked, but he was bright red and tight-lipped. I watched him install the new head, staring at his shoulder blades moving in his shirt. Just as we started talking about the weather, he twisted the cheap plastic of the showerhead too hard with the wrench and water shot out from all sides, spraying us both. He apologized furiously, all wet and laughing in his white shirt like a college girl on spring break. I got him a towel, trying not to look as he dried off. He insisted he get us a new showerhead, on him, and said he’d be back in an hour.

  As soon as he left, Taz came running downstairs. “What’s he like?” The truth was, I was uncomfortable. White guys had only ever approached me to say something racially charged. I was suspicious about his intentions, though he hadn’t given me any reason yet to be alarmed.

  When he returned, he brought an expensive showerhead for our bathroom, and a Starbucks coffee for me.

  He finished his handiwork and we went to my room. I sat on my bed and he sat on my office chair. Breaking the showerhead also broke the ice—in a rapid exchange, we learned we had the same taste in books and music. We were also both Geminis. We spoke for hours, which we attributed to our zodiac sign. We joked about how Geminis love making up nicknames for people, so he decided to call me “E.”

  Anthony was second-generation Italian; he had never eaten tomato sauce out of a jar. Originally from Winnipeg, he had recently come to London to work at his uncle’s plumbing company. He was older, out of school, and he had a job, a car, and his own apartment. He carried himself with confidence; I was intimidated.

  As evening turned into night, there wasn’t a single moment of silence. But I was still waiting for the deal-breaker: the mention that I was cute for a Black girl or that he loved Black people, like all the other white guys I’d met.

  It didn’t come.

  Suddenly, Anthony jumped out of the chair. “I have to go,” he said, grabbing his keys.

  “Oh, uh—okay. I’ll see you out.” I tried to conceal my confusion as I went to get his coat and walk him to the door.

  It was tense again as we went down the stairs. He put his shoes on quickly, without a word, and then looked at me.

  “Bye,” he said abruptly, and left.

  I stood in the hall for a few minutes, not sure what had just happened, but by the time I went back up the stairs, I had received a text from him.

  I’m being so standoffish because I’m currently in a long-distance relationship that’s in the process of ending, and I want it to be completely over before I do anything.

  Part of me was relieved this couldn’t go any further, but that didn’t stop me from feeling a sliver of disappointment.

  I texted back. No worries. Thanks for letting me know. You deal with your issues first and we’ll talk when you’re ready.

  He thanked me for understanding, and I jumped onto my bed, tossing my phone to the side. I wondered about all the things he hadn’t said. Maybe she’d cheated? Broken his heart? Maybe they’d grown apart? Whatever it was, I was now curious about him.

  Act Two

  CHORUS: Girl, you know something’s up AND YOU STILL HERE? You a damn fool.

  What are you doing tonight?

  It was the beginning of November, just a few weeks after Anthony told me about his relationship. He hadn’t mentioned anything more about the situation with his girlfriend and I didn’t press. He had been texting me platonically since he came over, always polite and formal—Hey, how’s your day going? What readings are you doing now? Hope you’re doing well. And when he started dropping hints—I was wondering if you’d like to go for shisha or catch a movie?—I remained firm in my decision not to see him until he told me that his relationship was over. I was casually seeing other people, though my mind kept bringing me back to our conversation in my bedroom.

  I was getting ready to meet Taz and her friends at the bar to celebrate another long week, and I had already started with a few drinks of my own. Anthony was at his boss’s wedding, so it must have been the alcohol that gave him the brazenness he needed to send this abrupt and suggestive message. There were none of the usual inquiries about my day.

  I didn’t respond.

  Ten minutes later, he called me.

 
; “E!” he slurred obnoxiously. There was loud music in the background. “What are you doing tonight? Can I see you?”

  “I’m going to meet Taz at the bar and I know you don’t like Jack’s, so maybe another time?”

  “No, that’s fine. Wait for me, I’ll get a cab.” He hung up.

  Did he want to hook up? It seemed that way, but I didn’t know if I could go through with it. Nothing about it felt right. I wrestled with myself, pacing around the room, spritzing on another layer of perfume and then trying to remove it with unscented lotion, touching up my lipstick then wiping it off with the back of my hand. I dialed his number to cancel, but put the phone down.

  My doorbell rang fifteen minutes later. Anthony was standing there, still in his suit. He was swaying, his eyes unfocused, with a hint of childlike fear. He looked me up and down. He leaned in to kiss me, and I moved away. “No. You have a girlfriend,” I said, but he just stared at me, bored, like he knew this was the part of the night where I gave him the mandatory scolding.

  I wanted to muster up the courage to tell him he needed to break up with his girlfriend first, like all the strong-willed and in-control women I idolized in movies. To command respect. But I had no willpower. I couldn’t deny that I wanted whatever was about to happen.

  Act Three

  CHORUS: Damn, chile, you really screwed this one up—but that’s okay, we know you’re impulsive and haven’t yet been blessed with the truth that is Lizzo (or the reality that is Get Out).

  “Goddammit,” Anthony sighed. Every time he said that, he sounded annoyed. Gahhhd dammit.