by Jahn, Amalie
There’s a brief pause as I consider changing the subject to the state of our farms. Part of me wants to know what’s been going on out of sheer curiosity and the desire to hold on to whatever thread of commonality we might still claim to share, but the other part would prefer to be left blissfully unaware. Because do I want to know if my herd was divided piecemeal to the highest bidders or if some of the older cows were sent to slaughter? Cows like Sunshine and Bella. If he never tells me, I can continue to live with my current memories of how I left the farm—exactly the way it was my entire life. Exactly the way it had always been with Zander.
*
The farm, to include all the livestock, people, and buildings it encompassed, served as the backdrop of our friendship from the beginning. It was the third amigo to what, from afar, most would have considered merely a duo. The farm made our friendship what it was. Had we grown up in a skyscrapered city or even some sprawling suburb with street lights and sidewalks and carefully manicured lawns, we would have been different. Our friendship would have been different. But we didn’t. We grew up amongst the cornfields and the tractors and the silos.
The silos were always something of a forbidden fruit, looming over the rest of the farm like great sentinels, and although we had access to most other areas of the farm, the silos were a place we were prohibited from venturing. Which is, of course, what made them all the more alluring, especially to Zander.
After Sunshine’s birthing tragedy, I became a vigilant midwife, terrified of allowing another calf to die during my watch, which is how Zander and I came to find ourselves in the dairy barn after school one afternoon in the spring of our sixth-grade year, tending to one of the pregnant cows. I’d been unaware, as I checked Daisy’s cervix for signs of dilation, that Zander had been eyeing the rickety, metal ladder which led from the base of the silo to the very top.
“You dare me to make it all the way up there?” he’d asked.
“No,” I told him, without a moment’s hesitation. “We’re not allowed to climb the silo.”
“Yeah, but the view’s gotta be amazing,” he said. “I bet I could see all the way to Landon’s farm on the other side of town. Heck, I bet I could see all the way to Hutchins.”
Hutchins was the next town over, and although I doubted he’d be able to see that far, I still couldn’t help but wonder how the world might look from up there.
“It’s not safe,” I told him flatly, as I felt the calf’s hooves poking into Daisy’s extended midsection, trying to assess if the baby was in the proper birthing position.
“Yeah, but our dads do it all the time,” he said, lifting himself from where he’d been resting on the ground, brushing the dirt off the seat of his jeans, “and nothing ever happens to them. I bet they wanna keep the view to themselves.”
“They don’t go up there to admire the views, just to check the…” I began to say, but the words weren’t even out of my mouth before Zander was halfway to the silo.
I was torn then, between calling after him to get him to stop, and knowing if I did, it would surely attract my dad’s attention. I watched him clamber up the first set of rungs, amd my voice caught in my throat, not knowing whether to remain silent or rat him out. Indecision became my decision, and I kept quiet as he climbed higher and higher, scaling the side of the silo like some rogue Spiderman. My dad’s words from months before, about his intention to replace the standard, open ladder with a safer, enclosed one, came back to me, and as he reached just above the halfway point, I cried out.
“Zander! Please come back down.”
But he didn’t reverse course. He didn’t even stop or look back. Instead, he scrambled higher until I could no longer make out the logo on the back of his John Deere t-shirt. Then the unthinkable happened. Four rungs from the top, his foot slipped.
I watched in horrified silence as he fell, plummeting to the ground at an alarming speed. The thud of him hitting the earth crushed my soul, and I didn’t realize I was screaming until the shock of my dad racing past jolted me out of my daze. I followed him to where Zander landed, atop a filthy pile of straw recently mucked from the barn. His body was crumpled into an unnatural position, with his hips twisted to the right and his shoulders curled to the left. He was unconscious, and there was a deep laceration on his right arm where he’d grabbed for the ladder on his way down. There was another gash on his face, across his temple, where he’d hit his head. For some reason, that injury, more than any of the others, caused my knees to buckle. His perfect face was irreparably marred.
Dad was bent over him, checking for a pulse, and when he gazed up at me, shielding his eyes with blood-covered hands, there was no mistaking the desperation in his eyes. “Go call 911. Tell them what happened. Tell them he has a heartbeat but his breathing is shallow. Tell them our address. Tell them to hurry.”
*
Remembering Zander’s brush with death and the days I spent sitting vigil by his bedside at the hospital, weeping over him, begging him not to leave me, my heart aches with the depth and breadth of our friendship. I want to ask if he misses me. If he’s lonely. If he thinks about me as often as I think of him.
“How’s the chess club?” I ask instead, unable to broach such a personal line of questioning for fear of the unfavorable response such an inquisition might elicit.
“Claire and Bruster finally finished their game,” he says.
“Claire won, didn’t she?”
“No surprise,” he says. “I honestly thought she was going to let him win last week because she has a thing for Will now and was sick of spending her mornings tied to Bruster, but darned if she didn’t stick it out to the end and beat that sad sack.”
“Will? Seriously?” Although it’s no surprise Claire beat Bruster, I can’t believe she’s interested in Will, the same guy who still picked his nose and ate it well into the eighth grade.
“Love sees no faults.”
“He ate his boogers, Zander.”
A screen door slams on Zander’s end of the line, and his dad bellows for him to come outside to the barn. “I gotta go,” he says, scrambling across the kitchen. “I promised I’d change the oil in the tractor this afternoon.” He pauses and I can tell he doesn’t want to hang up. “And I’m a man of my word, as you well know.”
I pick at my cuticle. I’d been fine, all those days, all those weeks, all those hours since leaving Iowa. Or at least reasonably fine. But now, having to say goodbye again, if only over the phone and if only until next time, feels like peeling a scab before the wound beneath is fully healed.
“I know. A man of your word.” I repeat. I want to say goodbye but can’t let him go without knowing there’s definitely going to be another conversation in our near future. I need something specific to look forward to. “Hey. As long as it wouldn’t be too Gabby-ish, what if we call each other around this time every Sunday afternoon to catch up?” I ask. “Since things are so busy for both of us during the week and all.”
“Definitely not too Gabby-ish,” he says. “And that’s actually a really good idea.”
Relief washes over me as his dad calls again for him to get off the phone. “I guess we should say goodbye now before you get in trouble. But I’ll call you next Sunday, and you can tell me more about Claire and Will and the boogers.”
He laughs and my heart leaps. How many years I took his laugh for granted. The ease of it. The way it makes me feel safe and connected. But now…
“Okay,” he says. “It’s a date. I’ll be home, here, waiting by the phone.”
“Okay,” I say.
There’s a beat of silence as both of us wait for the other to end the call. Finally, I say goodbye.
“Bye,” he says, and before I can even catch my breath, the line disconnects and he’s gone.
chapter 12
Blond Hair, Blue Eyes
Tuesday, February 12
By the time I skid around the corner into Mrs. Alexander’s room like some ridiculous cartoon character, the rest
of the literature circle is already seated, books on their laps, deep in conversation. They’re used to my late arrival, since I always check in with Mr. Wilson about our math assignment at the end of the day, but they greet me warmly with nods and hellos as if I’m an old friend instead of a recent interloper.
Like the cafeteria, which serves as a representative microcosm of student life, most of the extracurriculars at Hopkins are as segregated as the lunch tables, each of the races keeping very much to themselves. Lit circle, however, is different, and I’m certain Mrs. Alexander’s commitment to mutual acceptance and understanding is the reason for its diversity, both in its members and its reading selections.
Our reading lists in Iowa were comprised of the classics I assumed were the staples of every American high school: Jane Eyre, The Scarlet Letter, The Great Gatsby, Catcher in the Rye, and Death of a Salesman. Only now, after spending time with the members of Mrs. Alexander’s lit circle, have I become aware of how sheltered my existence has been, realizing the works I’ve been exposed to are primarily representative of white American literature, not the least bit indicative of the breadth and scope of what our country’s diversity of authors has to offer.
As I slip silently into the last open seat beside Leonetta, the group is already mired in a deeply philosophical discussion on the final chapters of The Bluest Eye, by Toni Morrison, a title I’d never heard of before moving here. With no point of reference from which to contribute, I’ve spent every session listening, enthralled by the group’s analysis of the main character, Pecola Breedlove, a young black girl who believes having blond hair and blue eyes will make her pretty, and beauty will ensure perfection in every aspect of her life.
Lashanda, a senior with a sharp tongue but a soft heart, smacks her novel on her leg as she glares across the circle of chairs at Rashida. “You’re telling me you never thought once about straightening your hair or using makeup to contour your nose?”
Rashida shrugs. “I’m a proud, black woman,” she says, tossing the long dreadlocks she keeps tied with a frayed length of fabric behind her back. “I don’t need to conform to white beauty standards.”
“That’s one of the points Morrison is trying to make,” Mrs. Alexander interjects. “That you see yourself in opposition to traditional white beauty justifies her point, Rashida. She believes it’s a travesty there are any conventional definitions of beauty in our society. But we continue to be bombarded by them, maybe even more today than when this was written. So, who maintains these standards?”
“White people do,” Leonetta chimes in. “Because white people control the media and powerful corporations. They control what we see and how we see it. They tell us what’s pretty and what’s not. They decide what constitutes regular shampoo and what ends up on a special aisle labeled ethnic.”
I hold my breath. It’s the first time I’ve heard Leonetta use the word ‘they’ in an ‘us against them’ sort of way. I hate imagining us on opposing teams. The black team versus the white team. I want us to be on the same team. But I have to admit she’s right. Our entire country was established on a foundation of racial hierarchy and the media is just one of many systems perpetuating it to this day.
Looking around the circle, I’m painfully aware that although I’m not the only white person in the group, I am the only one with blond hair and blue eyes. This makes me want to speak up. To defend myself against any presumed alliance with the media. Because after all, aren’t they the ones shoving images of unattainable, idealistic beauty down everyone’s throats? And it’s not my fault I was born with blond hair and blue eyes any more than it’s their fault they were born with black hair and brown eyes. But listening to the continuing dialogue between Leonetta and the others, it occurs to me I’m in no position to take offense. This part of the conversation isn’t about me.
And maybe some discussions are best left to the people they most concern.
“So, Leonetta, you would argue in parts of tribal Africa, where the western world hasn’t infiltrated with its biased, lofty opinion of blond hair and blue eyes, those traits aren’t valued there? Do natural curls and fuller figures epitomize their definition of beauty?”
“Yeah. They probably do,” she says. “They learn to appreciate the black features they’re exposed to. Not hate them, like we’re taught.”
The group nods in agreement. “I tend to concur with you, Leonetta,” Mrs. Alexander says, “but I’d like to ask you all again—if you believe the definition of beauty is influenced primarily by white, western culture in our society, who is ultimately responsible for maintaining that definition? What do you think, Tess?”
I swallow hard to clear my throat, wishing she hadn’t called on me. “We all are,” I venture, my voice barely above a whisper. “We let the media in as little kids. We let them tell us what’s pretty and what’s not. And we believe them. We believe their advertisements and their television shows and their movies. And even though I happen to be white, with the blond hair and blue eyes Pecola dreamed of, I’m not unaffected by the media. I believe what they say about needing to be tan to be beautiful, even though my mom’s had dozens of cancerous lesions cut off her skin. I believe them when they tell me I need bigger boobs and a smaller waist. None of us are immune to the media’s constraining definition of beauty. We’re all on the same side in this, and we’re all losers in their commercialized game against us. Ms. Morrison is speaking for the black community through Pecola’s story, but I think in some ways, she’s speaking for all of us. For anyone who’s ever felt less than.”
Roy, the SGA sophomore class president, turns to me, shaking his head. “No way, Tess. Morrison wrote this book about racial self-loathing, so you don’t get to play the ‘we’re all in this together’ card because I can almost guarantee you’ve never hated yourself for being born white. You can’t even compare our situations. When you’re white, you don’t need to think about race, and you don’t need to overcome negative racial stereotypes. People don’t assume things about you simply because of the color of your skin. Like, you don’t have to worry about whether people think you’re a thug even if you’re not. I gotta work hard to prove I’m smart and honest and reliable. When was the last time you had to prove anything about yourself to anyone?”
By the tone of his voice, I expect to see hatred or anger in his eyes, like the characters of Maureen and Geraldine from the novel, but instead, there’s only despondency; the pain associated with constantly having to prove his worth.
“You’re right,” I tell him. “You’re absolutely right. I don’t agonize about any of that stuff or face those sorts of prejudices. The truth is, before moving here, I didn’t know much about what it means to be black. There weren’t any black kids at my old school and the only exposure I had to black culture was media-driven stereotypical nonsense. Now, though, thanks to you all and our discussions here, I’m beginning to see the truth.” I swallow hard, willing myself to go on. “At the same time, because everyone’s personal experiences are different, none of us can truly understand what it’s like to be another person, no matter how hard we try. And that’s okay. Because we don’t need to live other people’s lives or walk around in their shoes to respect and love them, do we? We just need to try to understand. And I think, with the help of this group, I’m starting to.”
I see a few timid smiles around the circle before my gaze returns to Roy. He isn’t smiling. He actually looks a little sick.
“You know, Tess, that’s the same crap I hear all the time. We’re all the same. Everyone has their own struggles, blah, blah, blah. But the differences matter. There are still a lot of people in this country who believe all races are treated fairly and given the same opportunities. That sort of ideology gives them a free pass to ignore the systemic injustice that’s plagued our country for hundreds of years. But in some of the most mundane, daily ways, my life as a black man is inherently harder than a lot of white people’s simply because of the color of my skin. And I’m not asking for any special
treatment because of it. But I would like to be judged on my character instead of my race.” He sighs heavily and closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he opens them again, I can see his profound exhaustion. “Life can be hard if you’re white. There’s no denying that. But it won’t be hard because you’re white.”
A lump rises in my throat, and I blink back the tears threatening to spill over. I probably have no right to feel hurt by what Roy’s said, but I do because I’m human and no one likes being confronted. He’s right, of course, and it occurs to me I still have a lot to learn about what it means to be black. I have a lot to learn about my place in the world. And so maybe in order to understand more fully, I need to keep listening.
The group is silent, still contemplating our exchange before Mrs. Alexander finally speaks up. “Both Roy and Tess might be on to something here. Roy would argue Pecola is bound to her blackness through no fault of her own. It’s an issue for her specifically as it relates to whiteness, and there’s an implicit bias for her in this which causes her great pain. On the other hand, wouldn’t you also agree the general themes of love and acceptance were pervasive throughout the book? That all any of the main characters wanted was to be loved for who they were, regardless of their appearance or past, as Tess suggests?”
“I guess,” a guy named Will says tentatively. “But what happened to Pecola, the tragedy of her life, stemmed from her blind subscription to the image and values of white culture. She never questioned it which ultimately led to her undoing.”
“It wasn’t just Pecola,” Leonetta points out. “All the characters were victims of their circumstances, in one way or another. But knowing where they came from, their backstory, it helped me, as a reader, to understand why they did the things they did.” She closes her book and her eyes before going on. “We need to make sure we understand other people’s backstories before making judgments about their lives. Know where they come from. Where their heads are. Try and appreciate their motivations.”
