Black Boy White School

by Brian F. Walker

  “What the hell is that?” Nate stepped back into the road and squinted. The light drew closer and more intense, and then they saw what was coming: ghostly figures, pulling a wagon that carried a burning cross.

  At first Anthony thought he was asleep. Everything suddenly had the slow-motion quality of dreams. He moved closer as the parade approached and saw a figure with a can of lighter fluid dancing around and squirting the flaming wood. He saw the blue jeans and work boots underneath their white robes, the homemade hoods with uneven eyeholes. He had to be asleep because this couldn’t be the Klan. Not in Maine. Not walking right in front of him.

  “What’s the matter, monkey boy?” one of them shouted. “Want a banana?” The man grabbed his crotch and hooted. Soon the rest of the marchers fired insults.

  “Put that nigger back on the boat!”

  “Take your AIDS back to Somalia!”

  Brody hollered, “He’s from Cleveland, you fucking assholes!”

  “Cleveland?” one of them shouted back. “That’s even worse!”

  Something about the voice broke Anthony’s trance. He started after them, but a speeding truck reached the marchers first. They planted the sputtering cross in the side of the road and piled inside the pickup. Then they sped off down the black strip of state highway, hooting as their taillights faded.

  Brody yelled and kicked the cross over. More Belton kids and faculty spilled out into the street. Some of them shouted and a few even cried, but most stood in subdued little clusters.

  Anthony looked at the road stretching out into darkness, strained his eyes for signs of the pickup. If it came back again, he’d be waiting with rocks.

  The truck never returned, though, and the kids went to their dorms. Frustrated, Anthony broke a window along the way. He liked the sound, so he broke another one. Later that night, Mr. Hawley poked his head into the room. Brody was asleep, but Anthony wasn’t. “Hey, you busy?”

  “Nope,” Anthony said, getting up. “I figured somebody would come here, sooner or later.”

  They went to Hawley’s apartment and took familiar seats. “So how are you?” Hawley asked. “I can’t sleep, especially after what happened.”

  “What did happen?” Anthony asked. “I was right here and I’m not even sure, myself.”

  Hawley took a deep breath. “There was a meeting the other day up at the town hall,” he said. “Some people want to make it illegal for any more Somali families to move here. I know,” he said as Anthony made a face. “You would think it is 1968. Anyway, it got ugly when they couldn’t get enough support. And I guess some people got the idea to send their own kind of message.”

  “By coming down here and burning a cross?” Anthony said. “What kind of sense does that make, Mr. Hawley? We don’t even have any Somali students.”

  “I know,” he said. “They started on Birch Street and ended right here, the only two places in town where they can find black people. . . . From what I could tell, they weren’t really even the Klan, just a bunch of drunk rednecks, being stupid.”

  “Rednecks being stupid, huh?” Anthony said. “So I guess next you’re going to tell me it was wrong for me to get mad?”

  “At them, no. But why did you have to go and destroy school property? Belton didn’t have anything to do with what happened.”

  “Maybe not the march,” Anthony snapped, “but plenty of other stuff.”

  “But breaking windows isn’t the answer, Tony.”

  “Well, what is the answer then, Mr. Hawley? Tell me, ’cause I wanna know!” He hadn’t meant to shout, but it made Anthony feel better.

  Mr. Hawley rubbed his temples and spoke evenly. “I don’t have the answer either, but being a proctor next year can help. Sometimes the best way to change something is from the inside out.”

  Next year. Anthony thought about telling him that he wouldn’t be back, that Hawley would have to look for someone else to help him run the freshman floor. But then Anthony thought about the bus tickets and kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want Mr. Hawley to try to rescue him again. Besides, he wanted the opportunity to speak his mind in front of everyone, to get some things off his chest in a way that would be memorable. Most of all, though, Anthony wanted to go through the process and be told that he was good enough. It wouldn’t exactly be a Belton diploma, but it would have to do.

  On Monday there was another healing assembly, and then Anthony met with the disciplinary committee. At first they voted to suspend him for three days, but he couldn’t afford to go back home. As a compromise, they grounded him to campus for a week and made him see Dr. Milton, the school counselor.

  When they met, the bald doctor shook Anthony’s hand and asked him to have a seat. Anthony relaxed a little and complied. Until then, he had thought he would have to lie on a couch. “Good to see you, Tony,” the doctor continued. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Good to be here, Dr. Milton, but I don’t go by Tony anymore. Call me Anthony, or Ant for short.”

  “No more Tony?” Dr. Milton made a face and then shrugged. “Maybe later you can tell me why you made the change.” He pulled out two Cokes from a little refrigerator and gave one to Anthony. Then he popped his can open, sipped, and stared.

  Anthony opened his soda, too, drank half of it down, and belched. He looked around the office, but there was nothing interesting to see. Soon his eyes found Dr. Milton again, who was staring at him patiently. “So how is this supposed to work?” Anthony asked. “Do you ask questions, or am I supposed to just talk?”

  “Whatever feels comfortable to you. . . .” Dr. Milton sipped his cola again and smiled. It made Anthony want to jump up and run.

  “They said I had to talk to you because I broke some windows. . . . I don’t know. Maybe they think I went too far.”

  Dr. Milton folded one leg over the other and nodded. “Is that what you think? That you went too far?”

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t sound very sure about it.”

  “I’m sure,” Anthony said. “I realize it now.”

  Dr. Milton sipped his Coke. “Why now?” he asked. “Is it because you’re sitting here with me?”

  “It got me in trouble, right?”

  Dr. Milton raised an eyebrow. “So you think that this is some kind of punishment?” he asked. “For breaking some windows?”

  “It did come from the disciplinary committee.”

  Dr. Milton laughed, and Anthony heard pity behind it. “You just survived a traumatic experience, Ton—I’m sorry, Anthony. People dressed as the Klan had just marched through campus. You were angry and needed to do something with that anger. Given the situation, I think it was completely understandable. . . . Maybe a little over the top, but understandable nevertheless.”

  Anthony stared at the man across from him, waiting to hear a catch. When none came, he decided to push it. “So you can tell them that I’m not crazy?”

  “You’re not crazy. That’s my clinical opinion.”

  “And that’s it? I can go now?”

  Dr. Milton nodded but looked at him sideways. “You can go, but why are you in such a hurry? We haven’t talked about the name change yet.”

  At first he didn’t understand, but then Anthony remembered and laughed. “People called me Ant for almost all of my life,” he explained. “Tony was just a temporary nickname that I picked up, up here.”

  “Temporary?” He raised his eyebrows. “Why? You don’t like it?”

  Anthony looked at the ceiling and thought. “I used to. But not anymore.”

  “I see.” Dr. Milton made the face again. “Why don’t you like it anymore? Is it related to everything that’s just happened?”

  Anthony thought awhile longer before saying anything else. He was wary of the way that the doctor was looking at him. “To tell the truth, I never liked it,” he said. “People started calling me that from the first minute I got here. It used to drive me crazy. Not crazy crazy,” he added quickly. “But you know what I mean.” He checked t
o see if the doctor was following but couldn’t tell by his blank expression. “Anyway, I’d introduce myself as Ant or Anthony and they would just call me Tony anyway. Why is that? Why do some people think they know you better than yourself? Why do they want to give you a different name when you’ve got one already?” He waited, but Dr. Milton didn’t say anything. “I guess it’s one of those things that comes with privilege,” he continued. “In a way, this whole school is just like it. You only let us wear certain clothes and try to make us all think the same way about things. . . .”

  “That’s interesting,” the man said, leaning in. “I’d like to hear more about that. Think the same—as in coming up with the same answers in class, or do you mean it in another way?”

  Anthony thought. There were hundreds of examples to choose from, but finally he picked the most recent. “Like these diversity assemblies. It’s obvious that a lot of people here don’t like it, but we keep on having them anyway. What’s the point? The fact is that a lot of people here are racist. They might as well have been marching with those townies. . . . Shoot, for all I know, some of them were.”

  Dr. Milton frowned. “Is that what you really believe?”

  “No. But I could think of a few who would fit right in. . . .”

  “Care to share any names?”

  Dr. Dirk. Coach Rockwell. Half the student body and probably most of the maintenance crew. “No,” Anthony answered. “And you don’t really want me to, either. It’s all right, though. That’s what I’m trying to say. Instead of trying to stuff everybody in the same box, this school should just let people be themselves.”

  “Interesting.” Dr. Milton took another sip from his can and put it back down. “So by your logic, people can write and say what they want. And you shouldn’t have become angry over any of it.” He made a big show of crossing his legs again. His pleasant smile turned smug.

  “Not really,” Anthony said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have broken the windows, but I had every right to get mad. If the dudes in the hoods would have stuck around, I could have told them exactly how I felt.”

  “Break them, instead of the glass?”

  Anthony sighed. “I told you I was wrong for doing that, okay? Like I was wrong for fighting McCarthy in the fall. Just because you knock somebody out doesn’t mean it’s gonna change his mind. But how can I ever have a debate with a person who stays invisible? They should have done it without their hoods on. Now I won’t ever know who I’m looking at anymore.” He thought about that night again and the familiar voice. Had it been Mark from the supermarket or someone from the pizza place?

  Dr. Milton finished his Coke and threw it away. “You do understand what that was really about, right? This is small-town Maine,” he said. “They were reacting to a changing demographic.” He jumped and seemed to catch himself. “Not to say that their reaction was correct, mind you. Dressing up as the Klan and using hurtful words is wrong and completely unacceptable.”

  For a couple of seconds Anthony tried to imagine the good doctor under one of those hoods. But all of the men on the march that night had been much taller. “What is it with everybody trying to defend those clowns?” Anthony said. “Mr. Hawley tried to spin it the same way, like they were just a bunch of good ol’ boys wearing costumes. I know it’s your town and maybe you don’t want to believe it really happened. But it did. Just like that word was really in the bathroom; just like the way people acted at the last diversity assembly. Just like a hundred other things that you’ll probably try to explain away. Sometimes things aren’t that complicated. Sometimes a thing is exactly what it is.”

  Dr. Milton tapped his chin. He was obviously buying time. But Anthony was tired and had said too much already. Plus the doctor was too smart for his own good. “Let’s talk about that,” Dr. Milton said finally. “Are you saying that we’re all who we are right now? That no one changes?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “I’m saying that sometimes we don’t want to see the ugliness in others because it means seeing what’s ugly in ourselves.”

  “Fascinating. What do you mean?”

  “Some other time,” Anthony said. “Can I go now?”

  Dr. Milton blinked and regained his smile. “Of course. But can we schedule another appointment?”

  “Do I have to?”

  The doctor shook his head.

  “Then no.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  For the rest of that year, Anthony Jones was a model citizen. He participated in class discussions, did his homework on time, and spoke pleasantly to everyone he encountered. Despite all of that, he remained a pariah. To most everyone at the school, he was that angry black kid again, the one who would rather fight and break things than learn and get along. If it wasn’t for Brody and a couple of his dorm mates, he wouldn’t have had any white friends at all.

  He’d found copies of winning proctor speeches in the library, all of them delivered by popular kids who bled Belton blue and gold. But Anthony wasn’t popular, and he wasn’t even coming back. What could he say that would win the crowd over and at the same time not be a lie?

  He looked down at what he’d started to write and then crumpled up the paper. In the grass next to his spot on the bleachers was a small pile of other failed drafts. A shadow fell across his knees. Gloria was standing there, laughing and shaking her head at the same time. “Somebody looks serious,” she said, bending to kiss him. “I tripped on my way up the stairs and you didn’t even notice.”

  “Sorry. Guess I’m in the zone.” He covered the blank sheet with his arm but then saw her looking over the railing. “Those are just rough drafts. The real stuff is in my head.”

  “In your head, huh? More like your ass. If you’re going to lie to me, at least try to be more convincing. What’s the matter?”

  “Everything,” he admitted. “Maybe I should just write some typical rah-rah shit and call it a day. I’m sure it would make everybody happy.”

  “Not everybody,” she said, looking at him fiercely. “Forget the rah-rah and bring the raw-raw. These people need to hear the truth.”

  He tried to give her the pen and notebook, but she dropped her hands. “If you won’t write it down, then tell me,” he said. “What’s the truth? Because I don’t know it.”

  “Yes, you do. And you can say it better than anybody else. Give it time and you’ll find the words. . . .” She crossed her legs and sniffed. “I heard people forget most speeches anyway.”

  Anthony looked at her. She was wearing the same clothes as the day they’d met, but her eyes were a little darker and her smile not as bright. “So, do you know where you’re going next year yet?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I looked at this place down in Massachusetts that seemed pretty cool. Still a lot of white people, though.”

  Anthony laughed. “Why don’t you just go on back to Brooklyn and get it over with? You know you and white people won’t ever get along.”

  “I just might,” she said, but then her smile faded. Anthony thought he knew what she was thinking. Just like Anthony, Paul, and Khalik, she no longer fit in at home. “Anyway,” she continued, “I might give this school a try. It’s close to Boston, so at least there’ll be some other black people in shouting distance.”

  “Yeah,” Anthony said. “Some brothers.” They laughed, and Anthony felt a brief tug in his chest. He would always wonder how things could have been.

  “What about you?” she said. “You still haven’t told anybody else? Not even your boy Brody?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. But me and Brody don’t hang out that much anymore. I mean, we’re still cool, but since all that junk happened, I don’t know . . . I guess I kinda closed myself off from him in a way.”

  Gloria nodded. “I’m sure he understands all that, but you still should tell him about next year. The poor boy still thinks you’re gonna be his roommate.”

  “I know.” He tried to think of arguments agai
nst it but couldn’t come up with any. “Guess I’ll go do it right now,” he said, gathering his things. “I’m not getting anywhere with this speech, anyway.”

  He found Brody in the lounge, watching TV with Venus. He gave them the news at the same time, which in a way made things easier. Venus hugged him and promised to stay in touch, but Brody just stared at him.

  “When were you gonna tell me?”

  “Today,” Anthony said. “At this moment. Right now. I would have told you sooner, but I was still holding out hope that my mother could come up with the money.”

  “What about the school?” he said. “Can’t they give you more financial aid?”

  Anthony shook his head. “We tried. Believe me.”

  “This sucks.” Brody’s eyes were wet and shining, but Anthony pretended not to notice. “Maybe you can come back for junior year? Get a job, save some money. Make it your goal.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “I’m fucking serious,” Brody said, and punched him in the arm. “You do it, dude. Or I’m gonna come to East Cleveland looking for you.”

  “Okay. I will. But you have to make me your roommate. Nobody can leave snot rags on the floor like you.”

  “Awwww!” Venus put her arms around them. “You guys are sooo cute!”

  That night Anthony had the room to himself. Brody had brought Venus home for the weekend to meet his parents. He was almost asleep when he got a phone call from home. It was Reggie, and he didn’t sound right.

  “Ant? How you doing, man? What’s the deal?”

  “I’m good,” Anthony answered. “What’s up with you? I didn’t even know you had this number.”

  “I got it from Floyd,” Reggie said. “Off his cell phone. . . .” There was silence, and Anthony was just about to break it when Reggie cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but niggas shot Floyd last week. He dead, man. His funeral was yesterday.”