by Omar Tyree
“Hi, how are you?” she asked.
Troy immediately recognized her Caribbean accent.
“Are you Jamaican?” he quizzed.
She smiled, then nodded. “My father is, but my mother is American,” she answered. “Are you going into the science field?”
“Yeah. Premed.”
She nodded again. “That’s good. Most of us Blacks are going into business. The real money is in the science fields. You’ll always have work.”
“I know,” Troy agreed with a grin. “What’s your major, though?”
“Well, I’m leaning toward physical therapy. But I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
Clay walked into the class unexpectedly.
“Yo Clay, what’s up, man!” Troy shouted from his seat, surprised to see him. Clay smiled and went straight to the back of the auditorium. Troy thought he was going to sit with him, three rows from the front. But Clay suspected that Troy was trying to collect the sister’s phone number. He didn’t want to intervene.
Troy realized it might be rude to just leave. But after a few minutes, one of the Jamaican’s girlfriends came to sit beside them, giving him an opportunity to join Clay in the back without feeling guilty about leaving her alone in a room full of White students. He had experienced what that felt like during his freshman year, and it wasn’t good.
Their first lecture was shorter than expected. Troy ended up alone after Clay rushed to his Marsh County job. He then hung out right across the street from the biology building on the northwest side of campus, where his two o’clock Black literature class would be held inside the cultural studies building.
Black studies was an essential. However, Troy wanted to be involved in the literary section of Black studies as opposed to the historical section. He wanted to hear about Black people from the words of Black men and Black women. He had become skeptical of books written by Whites. They’ll have you saying things like “Brown Caucasian,” he thought.
When it was near two o’clock, Troy walked into his Black literature class and was shocked to see as many White students as Blacks. He thought maybe he was in the wrong room, yet the young blond male next to him confirmed it.
A balding White man about fifty entered the class and began to pass out the course syllabus. It was impossible! A White man was going to teach a literary course on Black authors!
“Well, hello, class. My name is John Jameson, and I know some of you are wondering why I elected to teach this course,” he assumed, hitting on a question that most of the Black students were definitely wondering.
Professor Jameson cleared his throat and smiled. “Well, to begin with, I was an English teacher many years ago. At that time I realized that the only Black work which I had come across was Richard Wright’sNative Son.
“The book intrigued me to the point where I started to fish for other powerful Black authors. Well, as it turned out, I ended up reading hundreds of Black works and began to include them in my American literature courses, which covered mostly White male authors.
“I began to include writers like Zora Neale Hurston, some of James Baldwin’s works, Toni Morrison, Ralph Ellison, Frederick Douglass, and Jean Toomer.”
He began to rub his hands together in excitement while pacing in front of the blackboard. “Eventually, it got to the point where I said there were too many good Black authors being missed. So in nineteen eighty-two, I proposed that we set up a course dedicated to Black authors. I also proposed the women’s literature course now at the university,” Professor Jameson added. Troy was impressed and feeling more at ease.
“When I taught the first course, I only had a few students. But if you just look around the room, you can all see how much interest has grown.”
The students all clapped (Black, White, and Asian) after he finished his opening remarks. He had taken great initiative.
“Well, obviously, we can’t include all of the works, but I have selected a few major ones,” he continued. “Now before we begin, I would like to know exactly how much you all know about slavery.”
After a hushed silence, Troy became the first to speak. “Well, all I know is what I’ve seen in the movieRoots. ’Cause it’s not like our parents are going to teach us about slavery. Many of them don’t know,” he said, garnering immediate attention in the class. Of course, Troy knew a lot more than Alex Haley’sRoots ; he was simply curious to see where his comment would lead.
“Yeah, that’s the same way with me,” a spirited, smooth-faced woman added. “My parents didn’t say anything to me about it. So I figured it was over, and that you might as well forget about it.” She sat to the right of Troy, wearing an African kente cloth wrapped around her head.
“That’s because most textbooks don’t seem to want us to remember. Blacks only cover about two paragraphs in the present history books. It’s like we were brought here, enslaved, and then Lincoln freed us,” a bearded, lightskinned guy interjected from the back of the class. He possessed a strong, deep voice that demanded respected.
Professor Jameson nodded. “It is narrow-minded to suggest that Blacks contributed so little to the shaping of this country. In fact, we are going to find that a lot of history is only told in Black-authored books. We are also going to discuss the religious aspects of the Black experience.
“Does anyone know why the Black churches were so important during slavery?” he challenged.
Troy was alert and ready to learn. He had read a few things.
“The church became the stronghold of the Black community because Whites didn’t let them enter their churches,” Troy commented. “They told slaves and freedmen that the Lord is the way to a good life. The church was also the only thing that Blacks owned, along with barbershops and funeral homes. No White person wanted to cut their hair or bury their dead. But as the Black preachers began to get more power through the church, White priests began to fear them.”
“He’s right,” Professor Jameson eagerly agreed. “The White congregations also used a piece of white wood and a fine comb; only Blacks who had pale skin and straight hair could enter. Therefore, it separated the Black race as far as complexions were concerned. Of course, when the Black preachers began to talk about slavery, many White preachers told them to stick to the scripture of sin and the devil. In fact, in many instances, White preachers took over Black congregations specifically for that purpose.”
“Religion was used as a pacifier for Black people. It subdued them into a nonviolent lifestyle, which in turn would keep them delusioned and stop revolt,” the deep-voiced brother in the back responded. He called himself Mike X, and was a writer of nationalistic poetry.
“That’s the same way I thought of it,” the kentewearing sister added. Her name was Nia Imani, and she was a history major. “Religion was used to trap Black people into believing that everything would be all right, and that you would go to heaven when you die. I don’t see that as a way out for Black people’s problems. We have to understand that we must solve things while we’re living.”
Troy had no further comments. He felt the tension stirring. He had realized that religion was not something to discredit among Blacks, who seemed to be dedicated followers of faith. An older Black woman shook her head with a grimace of concern. “I think that that is entirely false. Through the churches, Blacks were able to teach and have power in their community. The church kept Blacks together as a people during a time when they needed it, and it is still the Black stronghold today. Whatever motive Whites initially had does not matter at this point, because the church has brought us this far and it will continue to strengthen us,” she stated with authority. Her name was Rose Perry and she was in her forties. She had come back to school specifically for African-American culture courses.
Professor Jameson added to her comment. “The Black church also held the community together through spirituals and work songs to keep them going in times of despair,” he said. “Later on in the course, I will bring in some of the gospel songs that I have col
lected.” The White students sat with nothing to say as Troy raised his hand and headed the discussion in a new direction.
“What I still can’t understand is how millions of Africans were enslaved by a few White men. It couldn’t have been nearly as many White men as there were slaves. So I don’t see why they didn’t just bum rush ’em.”
Troy’s classmates began to chuckle.
Professor Jameson smiled and nodded. “Many of the slaves were sold into bondage by African chiefs who had no idea of what kind of slavery it was going to be,” he answered. “The African tribes had slaves from tribal wars. But these slaves were treated as regular workers and could even marry into the tribe. They thought American slavery would be similar.”
“Also, the White man brought material goods and made deals with Africans to capture other Blacks and sell them off as slaves,” Mike X added. “You’re also forgetting that they had guns and cannons that the Africans couldn’t fight against. So there were many things that contributed to the slave trade. It wasn’t like the White people just went to Africa and rounded up a bunch of people. That could never have happened.”
Troy could sense that Mike X was very knowledgeable. His voice seemed to shake the class whenever he spoke; he was only twenty-one. Dude is a young soldier, Troy thought.
He left that first class feeling overjoyed. It was soothing and educational just to talk about the Black experience. Troy was also pleased with the amount of enthusiasm with which he had led the class discussions. He hustled straight to the the bookstore to buy his books for class. Black literature was the only subject on his mind. He began to read theNarrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass on his first night back.
Next morning, Troy rose at six-thirty for his first lab class of the new school year. He imagined the lab, filled with White students, as he rode the elevator down to his dorm’s cafeteria level for breakfast. Three tall and thin White students stood in front of him getting their food trays.
“Ah, yes. I’ll have the, ah, scrambled eggs and bacon, please, and just a wee bit of potatoes. Thank you very much, madam,” the first student said, moving along.
“Hello. How are you doing today? I would love to have the exact same thing as my partner, please,” the second friend said.
“Yes, and I’ll just have the, ah, bacon and French toast, please,” said the third friend. They seemed to take all day to order.
Troy moved behind them, disgusted by their sluggishness. “Three French toast with eggs,” he ordered bluntly. He then proceeded to fill his cups at the juice machine, where one of the White friends turned, unexpectedly, and knocked his food out of his hands.
“Damn, you’s a stupid White boy!” Troy yelled at him. “How come y’all never watch where y’all goin’?”
“I didn’t see you.”
“Why not? I was right the hell in front of you!”
“Well, you don’t have to get like that about it.”
Troy shook his head, feeling an increasing sense of agitation. “White boy, I swear to God, if you say something else, I’m ’bout to punch the hell out of you!” he exclaimed.
The one Black security guard strolled in from outside of the cafeteria. “What the problem here?” he asked.
“He’s making such a big fuss because I accidentally knocked his plate over,” the White lad informed him, beating Troy to it.
“Yeah, well if you watched where you was goin’, it wouldn’t have happened. And I feel like punchin’ you in your mouth.”
The heavyset guard stood in front of Troy and warned him with a stern face. “You’re not going to punch anybody. If you want to take it to that, you’ll end up making a run downtown.”
Troy realized he was struggling in a losing battle. He decided to let it slide.
Troy felt relieved, seeing two other Black students in his organic chemistry lab. He immediately sat next to one of the Black students and started a conversation with him.
“Ay’, what’s up, man? I’m glad to see a brother in the class,” he said, extending his hand for a shake.
“What was that?” the student responded.
Troy hesitated. His friend wore no socks with his docksider shoes. His pants were ripped and raggedlooking. His hair was uncombed and mangled, not a typically Black fashion statement. “Oh, never mind,” Troy said, continuing to observe. Maybe he ain’t down with being Black, he thought.
A red-haired White student walked in. Troy’s friend responded to him instantly. “Hey, Bob, did you guys go to that happenin’ party on Henry Road last night, guy?” he asked.
“No, but was it really hot?” Redhead queried. He went and sat on the other side of the room. Troy’s friend gathered his things and followed him. But before Troy received a chance to ponder the incident, the lab instructor decided to begin the class with a little joke.
“Did anyone see that guy on the news last night who overdosed on cocaine? Now, how stupid can you get?” the young macho instructor asked, filled with mockery. “They showed a desk full of the stuff. I guess the guy had watched too manyScarface movies, hunh, guys? I thought everyone would have learned their lesson after Richard Pryor fried himself. I mean, what kind of stupid people buy and sell drugs? I guess all I would have to do is sell some lab chemicals on a corner and I’d get rich in no time.”
The White students laughed along with him, finding his comments amusing.
“I can’t understand why people take drugs,” a blond-haired girl added. “They’re getting locked up every day for selling ’em. I mean, it’s really stupid.”
Troy hated the class already. The man they spoke about on the news was Black, Richard Pryor was Black, and most of the drug dealers that the newscasters featured were Black. Troy had several friends who sold drugs, including Raheem, and he knew many Blacks who were on drugs.
When the students separated for the lab experiments, Troy was once again the only Black. However, his group had an Asian instructor, whom the White students continuously questioned. They were not the best of listeners, quick to ask the Asian instructor to repeat himself again and again, until finally they decided he was inept. They then ventured down the hall to ask the White instructor with the cocaine jokes to further explain the lab procedures for the day.
Troy shook his head and remained inside the lab room with the Asian instructor. He felt sorry for the man. He was also beginning to despise the White students. They were getting on every nerve in his body.
During his first week of classes, Troy felt an increasing sense of of isolation. He was starting to realize that maybe he didn’t belong at State University.
It was Friday night, and Doc was in Troy’s room getting his hair trimmed.
“Ay’, Troy, hurry up with this part, man! I’m trying to go meet this girl on the ave. before the party,” Doc explained.
“You should let me give you a whole haircut,” Troy suggested.
“Naw, man, that’s aw’ight. I got a professional cutting my hair now.”
“What, I messed you up before, or something?” Troy quizzed.
“No, but I don’t wanna take any more chances with you. You may have lost your touch when you went back home,” Doc said jokingly.
Troy frowned while working his clippers around the front and sides of Doc’s head “It’s like that now?”
Doc smiled, feeling a touch of guilt. “I mean, Troy, you my boy and all, but I’m not tryin’ to take chances. I got so many honeys on me this year. We sophomores now.”
“Oh, so you gon’ get new since you got all of the ladies, hunh? Aw’ight, that’s cool. You gonna sell me out.”
Doc left, and Troy later joined up with Bruce to attend the first Black party of the new school year. They were hanging out more often together for the first three days since returning to school. Troy had still not seen James or Matthew. He was almost certain that they would show up at the party. He felt guilty about cheating the Black-fraternity-and-sorority-sponsored parties out of their entrance fees, so he and Bruce plann
ed to pay their $3 for a change.
When they arrived at the Student Activity Center, three White men checked their identification cards prior to entry. The money collector was White, the security guards and the stage crew were White.
Freshman year, Troy had gone to at least fifteen parties, but only as a sophomore did he recognize all of the White faces. The Black fraternities and sororities had to pay the campus to use their facilities for five hours at a time. White students had free parties and beer at their campus-surrounding clubs, and frat houses on Henry Road. Their parties would last all night. Blacks averaged two parties a month, where they danced inside a small hall for a mere three hours. No one ever came on time, so the first couple of hours were always wasted.
Troy daydreamed. He had lost his interest in partying. He began to remember how, at the football games, Blacks chose to sit at the side of the end zone. He had always dragged Bruce with him to watch from the fifty-yard line with all the White fraternities. At the basketball games, Blacks chose to sit behind the end line instead of at midcourt, where the White students had the best view of the game. Whites students always had something to do and somewhere to go. Most of the campus events were created by and geared to them. Yet and still, White students managed to integrate all of the Black functions.
Troy looked around and eyed the White girls who had joined Black sororities. They were having a better time at the party than he was. One was in her last year of nursing school, the second had finished her first year of medical school, and a third was a computer science major. Many of the sisters who headed the sororities struggled to make up their minds as to what it was they all wanted to do.
The party was no longer entertaining. Troy didn’t feel like dancing, picking up dates, or even walking around. He just sat on a chair, situated in a corner, and watched everyone. He had become inactive, observing everyone else’s life as the focus on his own faded.
“Yo, homes, I ain’t seen you since I’ve been up here,” his friend James announced. He had walked up and taken a seat next to Troy in his daze.
