Culture Clash

by L. Divine

  “Okay. See you in the morning,” I say, quickly leaving the classroom. That was five minutes of my personal time wasted. I need to eat now, and get something to snack on for later. We have a drama club meeting at lunch and I want to be in attendance for the entire thing. This semester I intend to take the lead in initiating our performance choices, starting with the Cultural Festival scene we’re performing. It’s about time we did something with a little more flavor, and I’ve got just the thing. I’ve just got to make it through the next two classes without cussing somebody out so I can get to the meeting, for real.

  With the spring play auditions around the corner, all of the thespians, including myself, are in rare form preparing monologues for auditions. I’ve chosen a monologue from Fences to showcase my acting talents. I’m also offering it as a play suggestion, even if I know it’s asking a lot from the majority white club to even consider performing a black play. But I’m still going to put it out there, just to shake things up a bit. This is our first meeting for the new semester and the main topic on the agenda is the performance for the festival next month, something else I’m auditioning for.

  “I move to perform a short scene from The Crucible. It was a winner for the Orange County drama festival last year,” Seth says, overly hyped about his suggestion. The hell I’m performing another scene as a slave girl.

  “I move that we perform a play written by a nonwhite playwright,” I say, ready to throw my hat in the ring. “How about Fences by August Wilson?” They all look at me, shell-shocked.

  “I love that play,” Chance says, having my back as usual. It’s nice to have an ally in the club who also happens to be our best male lead actor. “I think that’s a great idea.”

  “Jayd, there are no parts for us in that script,” Seth says. At least he knows the play. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.

  “There are never any parts for me in any of the scripts that we perform around here on the regular, but that doesn’t stop me from performing,” I say. And it’s true. The vast majority of the plays we perform have a traditionally white cast, but that never stops me from auditioning.

  “That’s not true. We chose The Crucible specifically with you in mind.” I thumb through the script Seth hands me, already knowing the plot. I’ve read the damned play so many times on my own that I could recite Tituba’s lines verbatim.

  “Yeah, I noticed,” I say, throwing the script down on the floor in front of me. If it were Maryse Condé’s version of what happened to one of my early ancestors, I might consider the role. But there’s no way in hell that I’m accepting this part. “I’m not playing a slave.” Matthew, Seth, and Chance look at me, their pale faces turning crimson as they choose how to react to my claim. I know Chance doesn’t agree with them about their scene choice, but he still wants me in the play. We work well together and everyone knows it.

  “And I’m not playing a black man,” Seth says. “What do you want me to do, wear blackface and speak Ebonics?” Seth has gone too far now; that was definitely the wrong thing for him to say.

  “Seth, that statement is so ignorant I don’t know where to begin. If I wasn’t afraid of going to jail I’d beat the hell out of you right where you stand,” I say, trying to calm myself down—but it’s not going to be easy. I already had to defend myself in English class this morning and now I’m back on the stand, still the only black girl in the crew. Where are my peers when I need them?

  “Okay, let’s all calm down. No need for beating anyone’s ass,” Chance says, trying to lighten the mood. But it’s too late for that. The bigot is out of the bag and running free all around the drama room. Alia and two other members of the thespian club, Ella and Cameron, walk into the miniature theater and feel the heat.

  “Yeah, Jayd, relax. It’s just a play,” Seth says. I know he’s not still talking after that racist remark. It’s just a play, my ass.

  “How would you feel if every play we chose always had a degrading gay character in it who you were automatically chosen to play because we all know that you’re a homosexual?” Seth thinks about what I’ve said, but still sides with his folks. After all, no one would know he was gay if he didn’t open his mouth. He’s white first, and we all know the drill.

  That’s why I’m not really down for the gay rights activists using the Civil Rights Movement as an example for their struggles. I agree we should all be able to live as we see fit, but some of us are freer in society than others because of race first, sexual orientation second.

  “What’s going on here?” Alia asks, making herself comfortable in one of the seats across the room with the other two girls sitting near by.

  “Jayd’s pissed because we want to do The Crucible for our spring play and perform a scene from it for the Cultural Festival, too,” Matt says, throwing his pen down on the floor in front of him, he’s so frustrated with the topic at hand. Like Jeremy, he’s not the confrontational type. Maybe it’s all the water in their ears from surfing that usually keeps them so mellow.

  “Oh, that’s a great idea. I love Arthur Miller’s writing.” Cameron would love it. She’s as much a puritan as any of the characters in the play.

  “So what’s the problem?” Ella asks, already bored with the conversation. She takes a mirror out of her Dooney & Bourke purse and perfects her flawless makeup. The diva of the club, Ella rarely comes to meetings, or class for that matter. Apparently her agent keeps her busy with auditions during the day. She’s a proud card–carrying SAG member, and most of the drama hams around here want to be just like her.

  “The problem is that Jayd doesn’t want to play Tituba, so who will?” Seth asks, as if the play is now ruined because the token black girl refuses to play the only black role. Oh well.

  “Why can’t I audition like everyone else and play one of the other parts? There are more female roles than just the slave,” I offer, just to further goad them into another racist confession. I have no intention of playing a Puritan, anymore than they have of playing a slave.

  “Oh, Jayd, please. You’re always complaining about something or other. Can’t you just be happy that you always have a part, especially when there’s a black female role? It’s yours, hands down,” Ella says, never looking up from the compact mirror she’s primping in.

  “Did you really just say that shit to me?” I ask, rising from my seat, ready to march over and confront her head-on. Before I can, the door to our small room opens, cutting the tension in the air like a knife.

  “Hey, what’s going on in here? We can hear all of you on the stage,” Mrs. Sinclair says, coming in from the main theater to break up our growing disagreement. I thought the drama club was the one clique I could be a part of, and lose myself in a character on a regular basis. But it’s times like these I see I’ll always be the odd girl out.

  “What’s going on is that there are some serious racists up in this place and I can’t take it anymore,” I say, opening my bag of Hot Cheetos in my lap and stuffing my mouth with a handful of the spicy snack. They probably won’t help me calm down, but they will momentarily slow me down from talking smack in front of Mrs. Sinclair.

  “Oh, Jayd, calm down. You’re always so overdramatic about things. I’m sure it’s not all that bad,” she says, automatically taking their side. I keep eating and they keep talking.

  “Well, actually, Mrs. Sinclair, Jayd’s got a point,” Chance says, coming to my defense. He’s my boy even if he’s unaware that he should be offended, too because his birth mother is half black according to one of my dreams. “We do tend to choose plays that favor the majority. How about we try something different?”

  “Chance, I can’t talk about this now,” Mrs. Sinclair says, her hands waving above her frizzy head. Talk about overdramatic. She’s the one teaching me a thing or two. “Whatever you vote for is what we’re going to perform, end of discussion,” she says, taking the final word back to the stage with her. Seth and Matt look relieved and victorious, knowing the vote is unnecessary. Why do I even try?
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br />   “Excuse me. I need some air,” I say, rising from my seat and taking my chips with me. Chance follows me out the door as the bell for fifth period rings, ending our meeting anyway.

  “Jayd, I’m sorry about those jerks,” he says, putting his hands on my shoulders and rubbing them softly. He gives great massages, or used to. Ever since I started dating Jeremy and he and Nellie hooked up, we don’t spend much time alone together anymore. I miss my friend. “I wouldn’t want to play a witch either.”

  “She’s not a witch. She’s a priestess,” I say, repeating the same rationale to Chance as I argued with Jeremy this past weekend.

  “Okay, priestess,” he says, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “But still, I would take more offense at playing that part of the role than being a slave. History is history.”

  “But it’s a biased view of history, Chance. And by the way, it’s captive, not slave,” I say. The late bell rings, signaling it’s time to get back inside.

  “Okay, Jayd, now you’re just getting too sensitive about this. I don’t know what you want me to say, but I’ve got your back either way it goes,” Chance says, going back into the crowded room ahead of me. Maybe he has a point. How can I get upset at the students when the adults are the ones enforcing the bull that they learn? Mrs. Sinclair didn’t even entertain my idea, and she dismissed my disapproval of Seth’s suggestion as another case of “black girl rage.”

  The teachers are the ones I should be mad at, not the dumb-ass students I have to put up with. Unfortunately, no matter how hot I get, there’s really no use in fighting the administration up here. Mrs. Bennett’s the only teacher-bitch I can deal with, and she has made the biased rules apparent enough for me. But no matter what, I refuse to allow this school to make me forget who I am and where I come from. And willingly playing the role of a slave is unacceptable to me when I know my ancestors and elders taught me better than that.

  2

  The Administration

  “They schools ain’t teachin’ us what we need to know to survive/

  They schools don’t educate, all they teach the people is lies.”

  —DEAD PREZ

  I didn’t get to chill with my girls yesterday at all because I had to meet with Mrs. Malone about my English paper topic. And being that it was a regular short Tuesday yesterday for teacher’s meetings, I had no time to do anything but get to class and sit in my mandatory AP meetings during lunch and break, which are now on Tuesdays and Thursdays until the AP exams are over.

  With the AP exams less than two months away, teachers and students alike are feeling the pressure. This is my first year on the AP track, and so far it hasn’t been too different from the honors classes I took last year, except for the meetings. Being a sophomore was bliss compared to my junior year. If it weren’t for my friends, school would be unbearable, especially now that I have to deal with Mrs. Bennett twice a week. I’m just glad that Mr. Adewale is here full-time now, to balance out the evil Mrs. B’s presence in my life.

  Speaking of bitches, I talked to Rah briefly about his and his ex Sandy’s living situation, and it was less than favorable for me. I’m not sure what to do about loving Rah, and I know he’s just trying to do the right thing, but I’m convinced that living with Sandy is not it. How can I get him to understand where I’m coming from without sounding like a jealous hater? Until she’s out of his house I can’t be in his life the way he wants me to be. In his mind, he and I, along with his daughter, Rahima, could be the perfect teenage family. I don’t know what dream world he’s living in, but I could never be down with that arrangement as long as Sandy’s receiving mail at his address.

  I didn’t share with Mama this latest development in my soap opera with Rah, but I did tell her about my school drama during her regularly scheduled hair appointment at Netta’s shop yesterday afternoon. She and Netta, Mama’s best home girl, gave me advice on how to deal with racial injustice on a spiritual level, and also assigned me spirit homework to accompany the verbal lesson. As if I didn’t already have enough work to do. Mr. Adewale taking over my Spanish class has been a mixed blessing indeed. I have more studying in that class now than ever before. But luckily most of our homework for debate class is writing responses to the topics discussed in class. There’s also some reading, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.

  Now that me and my crew have fourth period together and we’re friends again, it’s fun being in class with them. And with the topics that Mr. Adewale chooses, there’s always plenty for us to argue about. And from the look of the topic on the board, today’s no exception.

  As soon as we’re all settled in our seats, class begins with a bang.

  “So, our debate topic for the day deals with race in society. Is America truly a melting pot and, if it is, does race still matter?” Mr. Adewale’s good at choosing insightful topics to discuss. It’s also interesting being in a general education class, where most of the black students are. I’ve never been in a class at South Bay where the white students are the minority. It feels empowering to free up a bit and not be the only black student.

  “Hell no, it ain’t no melting pot. This ain’t nacho cheese,” Del says, starting the debate off with a bang.

  “It won’t become one because you all won’t let it,” Candace, one of the few white girls in the class, states. She sounds like she could be friends with Jeremy, who looks at her and smiles. Jeremy sits all the way back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, ready to watch the sparks fly.

  “I don’t understand,” Emilio says. He sounds so sexy with his Spanish accent. I know most of the females in here would love an opportunity to hear him say their names over and over again.

  “We know you don’t,” KJ says, making him and his boys laugh.

  “That’s enough, KJ. I told you no disrespect would be allowed in this class at all,” Mr. Adewale says, checking KJ once and for all.

  “What I mean to say is that I’m curious as to why America would want to melt away the uniqueness of each culture. There’s very little individuality in this country, if you ask me.”

  “Good point, Emilio,” Mr. A says proudly. He loves it when his students think before they speak, as he states all the time. “Any counters?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a counter,” Jeremy says, sitting his tall frame erect in his seat, ready to give my new crush a run for his money. “This is one country with one constitution and one people, thus one culture. We can honor the various customs of the people within our society. But America is one melting pot.”

  “And the people living here should either accept that or roll out.” Matt has been pissed with me since our discussion at the drama club meeting the other day. And I see he’s chosen our debate class as the perfect forum to vent his frustration.

  “But some of the people who are here didn’t exactly have a choice in coming to this land, so we should be able to live our culture freely. Isn’t that also a part of our constitution?” Emilio looks across the room at me and smiles. Mr. A also smiles at my statement; obviously proud that at least one of us is speaking the truth. Other than Ms. Toni, everyone else in the administration would shudder at my words.

  “Oh, here we go with slavery again. It’s the end of Black History Month, we know. Can we please move on from the past?” Candace says, sounding like the privileged white girl she is.

  “Candace, it’s not in the past. That’s the point. The racism from times of captivity may have been more blatant, but the institutionalized racism is worse, because everyone can’t see it and some people actually choose to be blind,” I say, turning my focus to Jeremy. This is an argument we’ve had many times before and will continue to have as long as he thinks with a stick up his ass about the subject.

  “Why are y’all always so angry?” Candace asks, silencing every black student in the previously bustling room. If we weren’t afraid of suffering the consequences, I think we would all be down for locking the door and giving her a proper ass-whipping right here and
now. But we’ll have to settle this battle with our words instead.

  “Because we’re always referred to as ‘y’all,’” I say. For the moment it doesn’t matter that Misty, KJ, and I don’t get along. Mickey and Shae even look at each other, ready to jump the white girl together if need be. Instantly, all the black students are unified against the others in the room. And they know it. Like my very first week at South Bay High as a sophomore, when a notorious skinhead wore a racist shirt on campus and promptly got his ass beat, we join forces when need be.

  “That’s why we need a black history class, because y’all fools up here don’t know shit about being black,” KJ says heatedly. I don’t usually have anything nice to say about my pompous ex-boyfriend. But today I’m proud of him.

  “We need our own club,” I say, speaking the first idea in my head. Mr. Adewale looks at me, his hazel eyes sparkling as if I said exactly what was on his mind, too. The bell rings, momentarily saving the white people in the room from having to discuss the subject any further.

  “Good class today, and don’t forget to read the next chapter in your textbooks and have a valid response ready for tomorrow’s class,” Mr. Adewale says, rising from his desk and walking over to where I’m seated, still hot from the conversation. I don’t know why I always let these people up here get on my nerves. It’s not like the administration would ever teach true tolerance and respect, because they don’t have to. According to them, anyone who’s not white is the minority in every way, damned with how unjust their melting pot is.

  “Jayd, if you’re serious about forming your own group, I’ll be happy to consider being your adviser.”

  “I’m very serious,” I say, finally putting my textbook in my backpack and rising from my seat, ready to enjoy a relaxing lunch period. I need to cool off, and Jeremy inviting me out for Mexican food is all the chill I need. “It’s long overdue.” I’m so glad we have another black teacher to join Ms. Toni that I could shout it from the rooftop of the main office. If this were a plantation, the office would definitely be the big house, the classrooms the slave quarters, and the vast majority of the teachers would be the overseers. The problem is that most of these teachers don’t see themselves as being racist, and those are the worst kinds of bigots.