by Tiana Laveen
“What do you mean?”
“In the last couple of conversations we’ve had, you’ve admitted to not being perfect. That’s not like my son.” They both burst out laughing at that.
“Yeah well, it’s true. I looked at it more simply, too. These guys were paying customers, Dad. As long as they didn’t bust up my place, I was cool with it. Any chance for rival gangs to come together and have a sit-down, I’m all for it.” He threw up his hands. “The Crips, Bloods, Latin Kings were there. It was like five different gang leaders representing. It was a beautiful thing.”
“How long were they there?”
“For about two or three hours. We kept the music playin’, the appetizers comin’, the vibe chill, everything was cool. Of course I had beefed up security and they got a little heated at times, but no one came to blows. It was a get-together. We’re the leaders, ya know? Just like you taught me.” His father nodded and smiled at his words. “If we as Black men don’t like how shit is going down, then it’s up to us to change it. We have to stop waiting for someone else to save us from ourselves. If someone offers you help, and you need it, take it. There’s no shame in that, but don’t expect everyone to solve your problems. That’s the difference between a boy and a man.”
“That’s right. Cameron. Wow. I’m proud of you, son. You’ve always been so passionate about these things and as you know, your mother and I have been concerned about you for years. Very boisterous, getting into trouble because you didn’t respect authority.”
Cameron grimaced. “Huh? I got arrested for protesting and fighting an illegal maneuver by a police officer who was tryna put his hands on people, and grabbing women all hard, tryna get them out of the way when we all had the right to be down there protesting Meyerson’s discrimination against hiring Blacks. In my lifetime, I’ve never disrespected teachers, a cop writing me a speeding ticket, or what have you. I’m not out here tryna start shit; I just try to end it. I don’t know what you’re talking about, not respecting authority. That never happened unless my rights were infringed upon or I was provoked. Yeah, I have changed. A lot has happened this year. I’m trying to own my shit now.”
“That’s not what I mean. By authority, I mean anything, or really, anyone you disagreed with who had seniority over you, you made it known. I wasn’t upset that you and I have had different political and world views at times, Cameron,” his father stated, his tone a bit softer. “I was upset that you weren’t always rational when you felt anger inside, and that would cause trouble. Do you know how upset your mother was when you were arrested?
“I know it was a protest, and I know that you were aware of the possible consequences, but that’s still your mother, and seein’ you locked up like some animal in a cage upset her so badly, she could barely sleep until you were released.” A wave of guilt rushed through Cameron at that admission. “All I’m saying is that you’re brave, son, but sometimes bravery is actually foolishness in disguise. Anyway, back to the gang meeting. Yeah, a lotta people would’ve been scared to do that, to let those people close to you like that. I admire that sort of thing about you and it concerns me, all at once. Anyway, this has been a hard year for you. We worry about you sometimes. When and if you ever become a father, maybe then you’ll understand.” Dad rested his hand on his shoulder as they looked into each other’s eyes. “How have you been holding up?”
“Just like I told you last week. I’m fine. I’m Gucci. It’s all good.”
Cameron made his way into his parents’ living room, a hasty retreat. It was full of overstuffed cream furniture. On the walls hung thick, gold-framed paintings of exaggerated featured Black women wearing colorful robes, pouring water from buckets atop their heads, and babies wrapped snugly around their backs. Large mauve vases with plastic emerald-green plants dotted the area. Not much had changed since he’d lived there as a child. Mama kept the place sparkling clean, but she loved her trinkets. He plopped down on the couch and shoved his hand in his pocket. His father sat beside him, and they turned their attention to the rerun of Roc playing on the television.
“Cameron, you might think I’m out of line.” Cameron braced himself for a conversation he wasn’t in the mood to have. “But I was curious if you’re dating again? I mean, it’s been a half a year now, right? That’s not a real long time, but I just want you to be happy. You’re a young man and well, you always kept female company. You never went long without it. You told me you wanted to get married and settle down. I just don’t want you to give up that dream if that’s what you still want. I hope that—”
“I can see where tonight’s discussions are going. You’re afraid for me. You don’t want me to get stuck, become bitter. See, I told Mama to let you know that Brooke’s killer has run off, and yeah, when I called the other night, I was pissed, but I can’t live in fear, Dad. I can’t make choices based on that. I need to be able to grieve in my own way, too.”
“I didn’t say—”
“I know you don’t want me upset anymore, Dad. I know you’re worried that I’ll fall into my old ways because in your eyes, I have no handler any longer. You and Mama think I’m wildin’ out, and I guess in some ways I am, but I’m far from stupid, and I do learn from my past mistakes, all right? Brooke had me settled down a bit. She calmed me. I learned a hell of a lot from that woman. You and Mama appreciated that from her. Now you’re both worried because I had been drinking a lot after she died and the grief was taking me places I shouldn’t go to, be with people I shouldn’t be with.”
“If you think this is about control, Cameron, it’s not.”
“It is. But your motives are pure.”
His father averted his gaze, listening, patient.
“You can’t control what I do, who I see, or how I mourn. I’m your only child, your only son. We don’t even talk about Carmen’s death—it happened so long ago, but it affected you and Mama to the point that you two focused on me so hard, afraid you’d lose me too, I guess.” Dad’s eyes shone with moisture. “This has been an ongoing issue, you and Mama being this way, and it hasn’t helped either of you. I’ve been out of your house since the age of nineteen, never asked you both for a damn thing after that.”
“I know that, Cameron. I am not bringing this up to get into an argument. It’s to—”
“I know that. I’m just saying.”
“Your sister dying did affect your mother and me, Cameron. But how could it not?” He tossed up his hands. “Yeah, that happened thirty-three years ago, but not a day goes by that I don’t think about my daughter, and my son, too. I know you don’t remember her much; she was your older sister and you were just a baby, but when I look at you, I see her, too. We love you, Cameron. And showing concern is nothing to apologize for. I’m not sorry about that.”
“And I’m not mad about it.”
They were quiet for a spell.
“So, are you seeing anyone?”
“I see we’re back at square one. Doesn’t Mama usually ask this sort of thing? This is weird, man.” Cameron chuckled, and so did his father.
“I guess so since I never really asked you about this stuff before, but I’m curious. Considering the circumstances and all.”
“I just, uh.” He ran his hand across his forehead. “I didn’t really expect to talk about this right now.”
“Cameron, you know I’m not the kinda guy to get into your business.” Cameron winced at his dad’s words, in total disbelief at what he’d just heard. He folded his arms. “All right, all right!” Pops snickered, his dark eyes turning to slits. “I do on occasion, okay, but not because I wanna try and push you into the arms of someone new. Not because I want you preoccupied, even though, yes, Brooke did have a great influence over you. I just…I just want you to be happy.”
“Yeah, I’m seein’ someone.”
Dad’s eyes grew wide. “Really? Who?”
“She’s—”
They both turned when Mama’s keys turned in the front door. Moments later, the lovely woman st
ood in the foyer area. The swaying trees showed through the open door, and the sidewalk behind her was covered in brown, mustard-yellow, and auburn leaves. Closing the door, she tossed down her baggy, brown leather purse and wiggled out of her sneakers. She looked cozy in jeans and a white turtleneck sweater. Heading to the kitchen, she noisily set the white plastic bag she’d been carrying down.
He heard the refrigerator door open and close a few times, the rattling of the plastic bag, and the flicking of a switch, probably turning off the light. She stepped back into the foyer area, her long, black, wavy hair, framed with strands of silver at the temples, swinging about. She hadn’t yet noticed him sitting there. Finally, she cast her sights in his direction and grinned from ear to ear.
“Cameron! Baby, so good to see you. How long have you been here?” She squealed as he got to his feet and she raced over to him with open arms before he got a chance to make a beeline to her. She embraced him tight.
“Not long.”
He could smell her all too familiar signature perfume, Issey Miyake’s L’EAU D’ISSEY.
“Are you hungry, baby?” She grabbed both of his arms and looked him up and down as if several years had passed since they’d seen each other. Mama was so dramatic. All he could do was laugh.
“No, Mama, I’m fine. I had a chicken sandwich and mac and cheese before I came here. Got it from Kings Table over there in BedStuy.”
“How was it?” Her tiny nose wrinkled as if she were concerned. “I heard they are under new management and things have changed, and not for the better. I haven’t been there in at least a couple of years.”
Mama slowly removed her sweater. Cameron reached around and helped her take it off. “Thank you, baby.”
She walked to the hallway closet and hung it up before returning to him.
“It was okay.” He shrugged. “Their prices are higher now than what I recall. Anyway, I’m full. Thanks, though.”
“Cameron and I were just sitting here talking,” He turned in the direction of his father, who was now sitting with his feet propped up on the table and a smug expression on his face. “It turns out, Camila, he’s started dating someone.”
Cameron rolled his eyes and sucked his teeth as he made his way back to the couch. He hadn’t been saved by the bell, after all.
“Oh, really?” Mama sat in the love seat across from them, looking peachy and pleased. He reached for a magazine on the coffee table that he didn’t give a damn about, and casually flipped through it.
“Yes,” was all he offered.
“Well?” Mama waved her hands. “What are you waiting for? Tell us about her.”
Cameron flipped the pages of the Reader’s Digest, pausing on a photo of some gluten-free cookies. They looked dry and crumbly.
“Her name is Emily.” He took notice of the look Dad shot Mama.
“Emily? That sounds like a White girl’s name.” Dad chuckled. “I had no idea Black people were naming their daughters Emily.”
“That’s good though,” Mama interjected, wiggling her finger about. “It’ll help her with jobs, I’m sure. You know they discriminate if you have an ethnic-sounding name.”
Dad nodded in agreement.
“That’s true. Back in 1982, there was a Black girl named Amy that I went to school with and she—”
“She’s not Black.” Cameron flipped to another page, then another.
“Oh,” his parents said at the same time. Mama offered a nervous laugh as she leaned forward, clasping her hands together.
“I bet she’s like that girl Jazmín you dated a long time ago. She was really pretty, a nice young lady. Jazmín was Dominican, honey.” She looked at his father with a tight smile on her face as she attempted to refresh the man’s memory. “Is Emily Dominican?”
“No.”
“Puerto Rican?”
“Nope.” He flipped more pages.
“Cuban? Japanese? Mexican? Hawaiian? Colombian?”
“She’s White.”
It seemed all the air in the room was sucked into an invisible vacuum. Cameron tossed the magazine back onto the table and buried his head in his hands for a moment, gearing up to speak his piece. When he finally looked at his parents, their eyes were practically bulging out of their skulls, and you could’ve heard a pin drop.
“Did you say White?” Mama questioned, her head cocked to the side.
“Look, I know, with my personal views, you’re in shock.” He pointed to himself. “And I can’t blame you for that. I’ve been obviously quite outspoken on topics like race relations in this country and this must come as a surprise.”
“A surprise? A surprise?” Mama veered back in her chair. “Is that what you’re calling this? You are the same little boy who walked up to my friend, Cathy, a Swedish woman I adored, and still do, and told her that she was benefiting from White privilege and that she owed me and your father reparations.”
Dad burst out laughing and shook his head.
“I remember that.” Pops chuckled. “You had her over here for dinner and Cameron embarrassed us so bad.”
“Cameron, you were only six or seven years old. I had no idea where you’d even heard such a thing. You are the same child who said that interracial dating happens when the Black person hates themselves and the White person is just curious or wants to make their racist family angry. You are the same person who told me that if the world was ending, and there was only you and one White woman left on the planet, then that would be the end of civilization because you would never make a baby with a White woman. You also said that—”
“All right, all right.” He gestured wildly with his hands, feeling a bit embarrassed as his old opinions and judgements were thrust in his face. “Yes, all of that happened, but I said that stuff years ago, Mama. Back then, I likened myself to a real-life Huey P. Newton. Anyway, I didn’t go searching for this woman and she didn’t go searching for me. Well, I take that back. Actually, she kinda did, but not directly. It’s hard to explain.”
“Try me.” Mama crossed her legs, rocking one back and forth. “I’ve got all night.”
“Anyway.” Cameron rolled his eyes. “This just kinda happened, all right? It wasn’t planned. We’ve been seeing each other for a few months now. We met, we connected. Simple as that.”
“How do you feel about this young lady, Cameron?” his father asked, sitting straight like some judge peering down at him from behind a bench.
“I care about her. I care about her a lot.” He sighed as he looked listlessly at the television for a spell.
“Well…uh, yes, I’m stunned.” Mama readjusted herself in her seat and shook her head.
“Do you have a problem with her being White?”
“Not really. I don’t have the same racial and religious outlooks and philosophies as you, Cameron. My thoughts are far more conservative in some regards, and in others, more lenient. I think we are all God’s children. I’m just still stunned that my son, the Black militant, is dating a White woman, but if that’s what you want, that’s fine.”
“It’s not that that’s what I want or seek, it’s that I’m accepting who she is because I enjoy her as a person. I don’t think about her race anymore. That’s not even an issue at this point, I’ve moved past that.”
“So, you see her whiteness as problematic, something you don’t like but she can’t help it, so you’ve just accepted it?”
“No. That’s not what I mean.” He shook his head.
Now both parents were on him like hot gravy on mashed potatoes. The revolution would not be televised, but the damn inquisition would be broadcasted from every radio tower in the entire city of New York, it seemed.
“Even when I was with Brooke, Mama, I didn’t see White people as the enemy anymore. You may not have noticed because I wasn’t around here all the time. I was busy with starting the club and everything, but I was no longer calling them White Devils and blaming them for everything. I was growing older, and I was even working with more and more peop
le who were not Black, and I saw good in some of those people. It took me getting out of my usual circle of friends, my environment, to even be open to the discussion. Brooke would take me places for her concerts, and that, too, aided in me seeing that people are just people. Some people are assholes, some people are not. Period.” He shrugged.
His father picked up the remote control and put the television on mute.
“Brooke and I would have passionate debates about this all the time. She knew a lot that I didn’t, and vice versa. We were teachers to one another, and I realized that some of the people who were treating her the best were not Black; they were White. It went both ways. I had to get real and be honest with myself about that, ya know?”
“I understand,” Mama said softly.
“Brooke had friends of just about every ethnicity you could think of. Yeah, she was definitely Afrocentric, but she never excluded anyone. She could love anybody, as long as they were a good person.” His voice cracked as the memory of her came rushing, blowing up his resolve. He lowered his head and shut away the tears before they had a chance to fall. He felt his father pat his back, giving comfort. “Yes, I still believe in White privilege and supremacy. I still believe that oppression and racism are systematically imposed on people of color in this country and that without it, the economy would crumble. It’s all intertwined. I still believe we have to fight and protest these injustices. I still believe that when someone has all the power, they are not going to give that power up willingly, ethics and morals be damned.” He took a deep breath. “I didn’t want this. God knows I didn’t, but it was almost like I was set up, like the universe was testing me. She’s an amazing person. Emily is special. I think you’d both like her, actually.”
“What does she do for a living?” his father asked.
“She’s the head financial analyst for the Windsor Financial Group in Manhattan, has several degrees, real sharp woman.”
“Wow. Windsor? That’s impressive.” Mama ran her hand along her calf, massaging it.
“Yeah, she’s a Windsor, too, actually. Her full name is Emily Windsor. Her family, her father’s side, started that company.”
