by Robin Farmer
It happens in a snap, and I instantly jump back against the wall. Entangled, all three bounce down the steps as Sister Elizabeth’s glasses fly across the stairwell. Her white slip flies up revealing fat legs in black stockings. I cover my eyes because I was raised right. The sound of bodies tumbling down twenty-two steps shoves a lump of ice in my stomach.
When the falling stops, I peek between my fingers at three bodies sprawled in a messy heap several feet away from my frozen legs. Donna scrambles to a motionless Sister Elizabeth, whose head rests near David’s torso. Dazed and moaning, Geoffrey lies across him. My knees wobble like jelly at the unimaginable sight. Someone broke a neck. I just know it.
Students cover their mouths to stifle laughter. Some ask, “Sister, are you okay?”
“Yes,” Sister says, grabbing her crucifix and gesturing for Donna to hold off helping her up. “Let me get my bearings. Where are my glasses?”
I pick up Sister’s glasses from the corner. A lens is cracked.
“Geoffrey and David, are you okay?” Sister asks, sitting up and straightening her veil and habit, which thankfully landed below her knees.
“Yes, Sister. Sorry, Sister,” they answer.
I start to carry the glasses to her just as Geoffrey moves off David, who fails to realize the tail of Sister’s long veil is wrapped around his leg. As he stands, he accidentally tugs on her habit and it tumbles off her head.
I halt, gawk, and choke at the image in front of my eyes.
Shock forces my saliva down the wrong way, closing my windpipe. I cough and struggle to breathe because Sister Elizabeth is not bald. Far from it.
Plenty of hair covers her head, it’s just not the kind expected. Her thick, bushy hair looks just like mine except it is a few inches high and a golden brownish color. Absent the black and white habit surrounding her face, I strain to recognize her. And then I do.
Squinting, I shiver. I feel like I did when I stuck a bobby pin in an electrical socket.
It can’t be.
“Did you swallow your gum?” Donna asks, patting my back. She takes Sister’s glasses from my frozen hand.
What looks so familiar to me looks out of place on Sister Elizabeth’s scalp. It’s like seeing fur on a bird. Why does Sister have a small Afro? All of the dots connect and an “aha” moment so powerful hits me like a stinging slap to the face. Sister Elizabeth is Black. Like me. Just really fair like Mom’s side.
CHAPTER 27
Mom always said we can spot other Black people no matter how light or keen their features. Sometimes it’s the shape of the nose or the fullness of the lips or the not-quite-white complexion. Or the hair. That was often a dead giveaway, especially if bushy. Oh my God. Mind blown. Now her unusual coloring makes sense. She was mixed with her blue-eyed, high-yellow self. Didn’t matter. The one drop rule made her Black. Seeing her teeny-weeny Afro, which we jokingly call TWA for short, makes it as clear as cellophane. Mom would’ve known if she had seen her.
Mouths agape like the letter O, we gawk. No one scrutinizes her harder than me. Do the others know what they see? Of all days for Stephanie to be absent. I’m the only Black girl here.
This is the biggest scoop in the fifty-year history of our school.
In a flash, Sister stands, yanks Geoffrey up by his collar, shoves him against the wall, and beats the living crap out of him. We watch in petrified silence, fearful any one of us could be next. No doubt she took mercy on me big time when we fought in September.
Sister alternates slaps and punches, each more powerful than the previous one. She stops when his nose bleeds. Geoffrey drops in a heap on the stairwell, covering his face.
“Every last one of you better be out of my sight in two seconds,” Sister bellows. She grabs her veil off the floor. She’s so outraged her cheeks look burgundy.
We swarm out of the building as if it is the last day of school. Discombobulated, I bolt into the sunshine and stop next to the Blessed Virgin Mary statue. I just cracked a mystery I didn’t know needed solving. I feel otherworldly. And powerful.
Karma crowned me queen today. Talk about payback for not allowing me to enter the writing contest. I cannot wait to tell Bonnie, my parents, and every Black student about Sister Elizabeth’s secret, which explains so much.
Some classmates pass by, laughing about “Brillo pad” hair and the need for Sister to shave it off. I follow behind them to see what else they have to say.
“Was that the wildest thing ever?” asks Donna, running up behind me. She glances back to see if Sister followed us outside. Not yet. We quicken our pace.
“I can’t believe it. Her hair,” I say.
“I know! Me neither. You think she . . .” Donna whispers, “. . . has cancer? My aunt’s hair was just like that after she got sick.”
“That’s what you think?” I stop in my tracks.
“What are you waiting for?” Donna asks, glancing back. “Sister Elizabeth is on the warpath. She’ll be headed to the convent any second.”
I’m in shock and speechless. Just as I’m wrapping my brain around discovering a deep secret, Donna introduces something else. Doubt.
Donna blathers on about the need for everyone to treat Sister better in light of her impending death. She’s not joking, adding to my confusion. I keep my thoughts to myself. At the corner she heads home in one direction and I turn in the other.
I’m so deep into thought about Sister’s Afro I cross on a red light and step in front of an oncoming truck. Someone screams, “Watch out!” I jump back as the driver slows down, shakes his fist, then makes monkey noises out the window.
“Not cool,” shouts a Black male teen a few years older. He’s cute in a geeky way. We smile at each other as he disappears down a side street.
I turn my attention back to Sister as I pick up my step. My father once said some self-hating Black people light enough to pass for white go out their way to put Black people down. Maybe Sister was like that mulatto in the movie, Imitation of Life. No wonder she became enraged when I asked about her brother. Was he darker?
This is totally unreal. Sister Elizabeth is Black? My feelings flip-flop. I’m overwhelmed with confusion, disgust, bewilderment, and anger. She never said she was white. She just acted white.
If this is her secret, she’s still a mystery. A bigger one. What do her parents look like? Did race play a role for her not visiting her brother in the hospital?
Trying to figure it out will kill me. I nearly collide with a Volkswagen. The squeaking brakes of the yellow Beetle startles me. An old Black lady drowning in moles pokes her head out.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack. Get that hair out of your eyes.”
“Sorry,” I yell, breaking into a run.
I barge into the living room winded and gasping for air. I collapse on the couch.
“What are you running from?” Mom asks, getting up to peer out the front door.
“You are not,” I pull my knees up to my chest, huffing, “going to believe this.” Mom’s alarmed face makes me hold up both hands. “It’s not about me or Charles.”
“Oh, you scared me. Charles is at a program for prospective altar boys and Mr. Roberts hasn’t called to say when he’s dropping him off. I thought something happened.” She settles on the couch that now has a mystery stain since she removed the ripped-up plastic covers we detested.
Between ragged breaths, I tell Sister’s secret. To my disappointment, Mom fails to react in the way I imagined.
“Are you sure?” She flashes a skeptical smirk.
“Mom, cross my heart and I hope to die. I know what I saw.”
“You know I don’t like you saying that.” She frowns. “You’re too young to talk about dying, even in jest. Roberta, hair can be a tricky business. I had a white friend in college with thick hair who used to relax it with the same perm Black women use.” She shrugs then she reaches for our thick family photo album with her good hand.
I dart up and grab it for her. She opens it up to a grai
ny black-and-white photo of her as a little girl with her parents. As a child, I thought my mom and her parents were the whitest-looking Black people on the planet.
“You were little—you probably don’t remember meeting your grandfather before he died.”
We study the photo. “Didn’t he have blue eyes?”
Mom nods. “You can’t tell in this picture, but yes. You know Black people have blue eyes, green eyes, blonde hair.”
“And noses like yours that are so pointy they can harpoon a shark,” I say, repeating Dad’s joke.
Mom pokes me good-naturedly with her elbow. “If Sister really is Black—” she pauses off the look I give her. “Okay, let’s say she is. That’s her cross to bear.”
“Really? That’s all you have to say?”
“Yes, and you don’t need to be going on and on about it. You’ve been doing so well lately, avoiding trouble in school. No need to open that can of worms.”
“But, Mom, it explains so much. Why she treats me the way she does. She says I have too much pride because she has none!”
“I hear you. Just feel sorry for her. If she is living a lie . . .” Mom’s nose turns pink. “Sometimes truth has consequences we are not ready for,” she nearly whispers.
I lean back against the couch feeling wobbly. Between Sister Elizabeth’s fakery and what Mom is and isn’t saying, I will have a field day with my diary tonight. Mom looks as uneasy as I feel.
“Charles should be here any minute now.” Mom glances at her watch. “I highly suggest you don’t mention this to him. You know how fast rumors spread in a school. And speaking of rumors, you know as well as I do that Bonnie has a big mouth.” Mom gives me a knowing grin.
“Awww, man! She’s my best friend. How can I keep this front-page news from her?”
Mom gives me her you-know-better-stare.
I throw up my hands. “Okay, I’ll wait until after graduation, deal?”
Mom chuckles and nods.
“I have the biggest story ever, and I can’t tell it,” I wail. I punch a sofa cushion then put my chin on the back of my hand like the Thinker.
“It has happened more than you know,” Mom says.
“Mom, I heard of Black people passing. Do white people ever pass for Black?”
Mom stiffens. Weird. With difficulty, she removes the old photo of her with her parents from the sticky album and hands it to me. I hold onto the white border of the photo to keep it free of fingerprints.
“How old were you here?” I ask, smiling at my Mom younger than I am now.
“Judging by the dress—and I didn’t have many—I’d say about ten.” Mom pauses, then looks me in the eyes. “My father was so poor growing up in Culpeper, Virginia, that Black people helped them out from time to time. White folks looked down on them. Called them trash. So when he left to come to Philly and met your grandmother, he never said he was Black. But he never said he was white either.”
“Wait, what? You mean, he was white? You are half-white?” I ask, mouth gaping like a goldfish out of water. “My mom is a mulatto?”
“You know the one drop rule. I am Black. My husband is Black and my children are Black. I know who and what I am. You don’t be confused about who you are.”
Mom heads into the kitchen as my head whirls like Charles’s spinning top.
I follow her into the kitchen, flabbergasted and feeling less Black and beautiful. “Mom, this is huge! You didn’t just tell me what we’re having for dinner. You dropped a bomb. You could have told us before now.”
“Now you know. So what? What does it change? Do you feel differently about me or your grandfather who you barely knew? Most Black families have white relatives in the family tree. You go back far enough, you’ll find more of us related than anyone wants to talk about. Heck, my mother always said there’s a bunch of red-haired, light-skinned Black people in Culpepper all related to your favorite person.”
“Who?” I contort my face in confusion.
“Thomas Jefferson.”
“Ugh.” I toss my hand up. I’m already dealing with enough. “Mom, I always thought you were the Blackest light-skinned person I know. You are always quick to let people know you’re Black and—” I pause as something profound registers. “Now I know why you can’t wear an Afro.”
Mom snort-laughs so hard, she can barely catch her breath. Her gut-belly laughter forces me to join in. I fall to the kitchen floor buckled with laugh pain. Mom drops in a chair and slaps the table, squealing.
“I guess I sounded kind of dumb making the hair comment,” I say, clutching my stomach.
“Kind of,” Mom says chuckling. She rises and places a pot of water on the stove. “Get me that box of rice.”
I rise off the floor and search for the rice in the crowded cabinet all the while thinking about how Mom is right. She is Black even if she is mixed, although now I have to question what being a Black person really means. Or being a white person.
The phone rings, and Mom gets lost in conversation. She motions for me to add the rice and then leaves the room. When she goes upstairs to talk, it’s top secret.
Waiting for the water to boil, my mind reels. There’s so much to ask Mom. Maybe I’ll start with what’s bugging me right now. It’s a weird two-way tie. What happens to Sister Elizabeth when word gets out? And why in the world do I care? Good thing I have the weekend to think about it all.
CHAPTER 28
The next day, I lay across Mom’s bed removing her pink toenail polish. Mom reads information about evening college programs. I eye balls of colorful yarn in a basket in the corner.
“Mom, when your hand feels stronger, will you teach me how to knit and purl?”
Her eyes glimmer. “Of course. Someone just told me that yarn is on sale up the avenue. We’re losing another store. The Knit Palace is going out of business. We’ll go pick out some colors you like. Oh, get the bag of books your father brought to my job. There’s one for you,” Mom says.
I open the plastic bag on her dresser and spot a brand-new copy of The Autobiography of Malcolm X and two other paperbacks for Mom. I squeal. “Awww, I’m ready to read it all over again, especially the last part. I guess I have your permission.”
We laugh. I open the book and inhale its new smell. I place it next to me as I paint her toenails.
“Malcolm’s mom was half-white, which explains his reddish complexion,” Mom says.
I glance up, ready to discuss her bombshell since she fell asleep early last night. Malcolm hated the red hair he inherited from his white grandfather. I don’t look like my Mom or her father. If I did, would I feel differently? I stare at Mom’s profile. She could compete and win in any kind of beauty pageant, white or Black, with her wash-and-go hair, perfect skin and dewy almond shaped eyes. Her looks are a gift from her parents, who she couldn’t choose. I don’t hate any part of her or my white grandfather. He clearly loved my Black grandmother, although now I wonder about her DNA.
“Is it possible Grandmom is mixed, too? She’s about your complexion, although her hair is thick like mine.”
“I’ll never know since she was adopted.”
“Growing up as a mixed girl, did you ever feel like a racial lone ranger?”
Mom cackles. “No, silly. Again, I’m not confused. I am Black. Do you feel differently knowing you are part white?” She looks amused.
“Nope, because I look Black.” I hold my toasted beige hand against Mom’s pale leg. “Come on,” I tease, “were you ever tempted to try and pass?”
Mom sighs and leans against her headboard. “What I wanted more than anything then—hell, now too—is for skin color not to matter so much. Our people sometimes are the worst with this light-skinned versus dark-skinned nonsense. I hope our Black Is Beautiful movement truly changes our own screwy attitudes about color. Charlie has done a number on us.”
Mom’s nickname for white people always cracks me up. Thumbing through my Malcolm X book, I recall how it helped me make sense of this school year. Hi
s light skin was a non-issue. I cup my chin.
Mom’s eyes light up at me in the Thinker’s pose.
“Frederick Douglas was half-white and so were some of our other great leaders,” I say. “Do you think mixed or really light-skinned Black people feel they have to work harder to prove their Blackness?”
Mom sets aside a brochure from Temple University. “Depends. Some people swear by the one drop rule, but that’s because of laws, which were created to benefit slave owners, who fathered biracial children but wanted to profit off them. A lot of that went on, which is why we’re so many different complexions. As for me, I don’t feel the need to prove anything. But yes, I know light folks who need to be the most revolutionary person around to solidify their Black card. The bottom line? People define themselves how they want. What matters is how they treat others.”
“I’ve been thinking about this,” I say. “Race, like truth, is really complicated. It’s not just Black or white.”
Mom nods and grins. “I’m impressed you think about these issues and ask such insightful questions. Keep your grades up, and go after your dreams. This is a terrific time to be a Black student with a good head on your shoulders. All kinds of opportunities exist. That’s why I’m so hard on you.”
I study her smooth face. “Mom, you’re still kind of young.” This tickles her. I pause as she covers her mouth, filtering girlish laughter that fills the bedroom. “I wasn’t trying to be funny when I said that. What are your dreams?”
Mom takes a deep breath and stares at something I cannot see. “My dreams are for my children to be happy and successful. To defy the odds of a broken home.”
Her words sting. Both of us. I’m poker faced while her eyes dim and her lips flatten. I change the subject.
“Wouldn’t it be cool if I became a famous writer like Judy Blume or Alex Haley? Or maybe a journalist? If I could write for my job, then it’d be like getting paid for a hobby, right?”
