“Seth, honey, what are Daddy and Grandpa talking about?”
“Oh, I told Daddy that Grandpa said I’m gonna be a negro when I go to pre-kindergarten,” he informed in a most innocent tone.
“A what?”
“A negro. Black. And I gotta be real smart, Grandpa said. And he showed me a big, big chapter book with a lot of words. It had pictures with black people in them, and they were really, really black from a long time ago. But I told him I’m not gonna be black,” Seth continued. “And I’m already really smart.”
Though there were still a thousand questions to be answered—like how he and my father had gotten into this conversation in the first place—I wanted to chase the color-rabbit in Seth’s head. “What’s wrong with being black?”
“I’m not black,” he said.
“Well…you kind of are,” I said. “I mean…I’m black. And I’m your Mommy…”
“You’re not black, you’re brown,” Seth corrected me. “We’re all Brown because of our last name, so we’re not black.”
“I see. Go ahead and get your seatbelt on.”
This was not the kind of conversation I wanted to have with Seth without Stelson. And it certainly wasn’t the conversation my father should have had with Seth, ever.
If it wasn’t so hot outside, I would have pulled the brake, lowered the windows, taken the keys and gone inside for a minute to diffuse things. Leaving the kids alone in the car without air, however, wasn’t an option. Dragging them inside wasn’t an option, either.
I tapped the horn.
Stelson emerged from the house, stomping toward the car as my father yelled from the porch, “I only told the boy the truth!”
“Ooh,” Seth gasped as his father descended the driveway. “We should change Daddy’s last name to Red.”
Chapter 5
With Seth in the car, Stelson and I had to wait until we got home to discuss my father’s unauthorized history lesson. Stelson put Seth in the tub. I took care of Zoe’s last bottle and her kitchen-sink bath. My husband held it together long enough for me to read them a story. Then, he uttered a quick family prayer before we put the kids in bed.
And then I followed him to our bedroom to get the full story. “What happened?”
He helped me prop up my foot on two pillows before he answered. “Seth can’t go over there anymore. Not until we come to an understanding.”
“He has to go over there. Daddy picks him up on Tuesdays and takes him to piano lessons at Mrs. Gambrell’s, remember?”
He probably didn’t. I could barely keep up with the taxi schedule and I was the driver. “Besides, Daddy really could use the company.”
“He may have to go to a senior center or something. Hang with people who want to hear his philosophy.”
I ignored the not-gonna-happen suggestion. “What, exactly, was said?”
Stelson chewed on his bottom lip for a second. “Basically, he told Seth that because he’s black, he’ll have to work harder and be smarter than the white kids in his class in order to be successful.”
Honestly, I thought Stelson would be more upset about the whole ‘negro’ thing. “Well…,” I proceeded with caution, “I mean, my dad was out of place for having the black talk with him before we did. But it’s not like he told Seth a lie.”
“It is a lie,” Stelson stressed. “And there’s no such thing as having the black talk.”
“Yes. There. Is.” I raised off the headboard. “Granted, you probably never heard it. But Seth is biracial, which makes him a minority. Historically and racially speaking, he is at a disadvantage. He will have to be at the top of his game in order to compete with his counterparts, assuming his skin will darken over time. I don’t think he should hear this talk at four years old, but it is necessary.”
Stelson hissed, “I can’t believe you’re saying this. On what grounds do you agree with your dad?”
His words stung me as his wife and as my father’s daughter. “What planet are you on? Seth is black. And even if he never looks black, Zoe sure will. You’ve got to see things for what they are. America will label them black. And that label comes with the black talk. You have one in elementary school. Have another one when their hormones kick in, especially for boys. Another one when they go off to college, the military or wherever.”
I contained my wincing as Stelson sat down near my foot, causing the bed to bounce slightly. This certainly wasn’t our first disagreement about the kids. I believed in swatting Seth’s bottom any time he disobeyed. Stelson was more on the “save spankings for major infractions” page, use “time out” for everything else.
He thought I bought the kids way too many clothes. I said our kids represented our family and should be well-dressed.
I believed in lavish Christmases with a ton of gifts under the tree. The joy of watching Seth open them filled my heart. Stelson believed kids should only get a few toys for Christmas because it’s a celebration of Christ, not us.
Hands down, Stelson was better at listening to my arguments. Or at least he’d pretend to listen. In the end, if he didn’t change his mind, we usually defaulted to his leading since he was the one who had to report to God on behalf of our family (I learned that in a Titus 2 class at church).
Anyway, that night was no different. He stopped churning through his anger and disbelief and genuinely asked me, “What is the black talk anyway?”
“It’s where we sit them down and tell them about our history in Africa and America. Then we tell them there are still some people who will look down on them because they’re black. We let them know that when people see black kids, they’re prejudged. We teach about Emmett Till and Rodney King and Treyvon Martin. Teach them not to run from police officers or be disrespectful because cops will shoot first and ask questions later,” I filled Stelson in.
“Being disrespectful and running from cops is a bad move for anybody, not just black people.”
He wasn’t getting it.
“Shondra, when and if Seth faces discrimination, after pointing to Christ, I’m going to refer to President Obama so my son will know that if a man with the same racial makeup can become the President of the United States of America, there’s absolutely no reason why Seth can’t achieve his goals as well.”
Stelson’s brow drew into a knot. “Is this what black people are telling their kids?”
“Society will tell them if we don’t.” I rubbed my husband’s strong, muscular arm. My heart ached for him and I could only imagine how his heart must have been breaking with the news that he would have to prepare his children for a future he couldn’t imagine.
But instead of agreeing with me, Stelson shook his head. “No. I’m not going to pour the fear of man into Seth and Zoe.”
“We have to prepare them for real life,” I said.
“Life in Christ is real life,” he argued. “I don’t want Seth and Zoe to think that the promises of God end where their skin color begins.”
“But the world is not in Christ,” I reasoned.
“Since when does the world determine anything? I mean, do you think when God declared ‘I know the plans I have for you’, He forgot to say that the plans are only valid if you’re not black?”
My entire schema as an African American and as a believer clashed almost as much as when I’d found myself falling in love with Stelson. There I was again, deciding which side to lean on: my blackness or my faith.
“I can’t do this tonight.” I gave up as Stelson’s new philosophy coursed through my head, all the way down to my throbbing foot.
“Let’s pray,” he offered.
He kneeled on my side of the bed, his bald crown reflecting the light from our ceiling fan. My poor husband had tried to hold on to the sides and front, but he finally had to let them go when someone told him he looked like George Costanza from Seinfeld.
He was still sensitive about his hair loss, so I refrained from stroking his head. Instead, I rested a hand on his shoulder, touching in agreement.<
br />
“Father, we come before You today thanking You for Your grace. Thanking You for the blessing of health in Christ. I speak healing into my wife’s foot. I thank You for sustaining her, strengthening her to be a great wife and mother and assistant principal. I pray that we would both be obedient to the plans You have for us. Finally, God, as You have done so many times before, I pray that You will bring us to an understanding about how to raise the precious children You have given us, Zoe and Seth. Give us wisdom to know how much of the world’s system to expose them to. Like Christ told the disciples, we want them to be wise as serpents, but innocent as doves. Teach us the balance. Teach us…”
That’s about all I heard before I dozed off on my husband’s prayer.
I figured I’d give my father a few days to calm down before I went over there after work to have a certain discussion. “Daddy, you cannot take it upon yourself to teach Seth how to be a black man.”
“Stelson sure can’t do it, and you can’t either. So who does that leave?”
My father took another bite of his syrup sandwich and chewed it as though it were a T-bone steak. His face thin, eyes sunken, skin dry. It was hard to tell whether old age, poor eating habits, or sorrow was eating away at my father.
Sidetracked by his meal, I asked, “Why aren’t you eating the frozen dinners I brought you last week?”
“I don’t want no freezer food. Too many preservatives. This here,” he held the slices of bread in the air, “is good, fresh eatin’. Back when I was growing up in Ellerson, Momma used to pack these for our lunches every day, and other kids was jealous because we actually had two slices, and something in between ‘em.”
To increase my aggravation, he stuffed a super-sized bite into his mouth, almost causing himself to gag.
Lord, how did my mother put up with this ornery man for almost fifty years? I loved my daddy, but he was a bonafide grouch who had gotten even worse since Momma passed away. Now there was no one to counter his negative spiels or tell him to turn off CNN because he was getting too riled up about all the bad news reports.
Get back to the business, LaShondra. “Like I was saying. Stelson and I would really appreciate it if you would let us decide when and how much to tell Seth about growing up African American. Can you respect that?”
He poked out his bottom lip. “Well tell me this, then. What exactly do you and Stelson plan on tellin’ Seth about being a black man in America?”
I still wasn’t completely sold on Stelson’s plan enough to articulate it well. And I realized that I didn’t owe my father an explanation. But the sincerity in his deeply set eyes reminded me that if my brother, Jonathan, didn’t settle down soon, Seth might be the only grandson my father would ever meet. “We’re going to raise Seth to have more faith in God than fear of man.”
Daddy pushed his back against the chair. “So, y’all gonna let him live in fantasy-land, basically, where he won’t know anything about his history, how white people destroyed his ancestors? You gonna make him think he’s white?”
“Seth is half-white as much as he is half-black,” I reminded my father. “Do you want him to hate half of himself?”
My father tapped his index finger on the kitchen table. “It’s not hate. It’s education. He needs to understand why every time he looks up, there’s a black man being arrested on TV. Media manipulation.” My father’s voice rose. “He needs to know why there’s hardly any black kids in the books he reads. Oppression and discrimination. If he knows what’s really going on, he won’t internalize all the hidden messages.” By this point, spittle was collecting in the corners of my father’s mouth as a product of his passionate plea.
I couldn’t even argue with him because he had a point. Seth didn’t know he was half-black or half-white. Seth really didn’t care. Stelson and I hadn’t planned on making a big deal out of race with our kids. And yet, children are observant. As sure as the little black girls preferred white dolls in the Drs. Kenneth and Mamie Clark black/white doll experiments in the 1940s, Seth and Zoe would leave their impressionable childhoods with concepts in place.
Pressing my fingertips over my eyelids, I gave my father his due. “I hear you, Daddy. I do. Stelson and I will figure this out. Just don’t go black-history-month on him again without running it by us, okay?”
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
I sat up straight, let my hands fall to the table. “What do you mean?”
Daddy raised his chin. He looked down his nose at me, examining my face. “You look tired.”
“I am tired. I’ve got a six month old, a four year old, and a demanding job. What do you expect?”
“I expect Stelson ought not make my daughter work like a Hebrew slave,” Daddy said as he lowered his glare.
“Stelson doesn’t make me work,” I clarified. “I work because I enjoy it.”
“If you say so,” my father gave his two cents. He backed away from the table and walked toward the trashcan to throw his napkin away.
The garbage was overflowing, as was the pile of plates in the sink. Momma never went to bed with a dirty dish in the sink. A part of me wanted to fuss at Daddy, but after reflecting on my own housekeeping flaws, I decided to keep my mouth shut. “I’ve gotta go pick up Zoe. Daycare closes at 6:30. Would you wake up Seth and send him to the car for me?”
“You know he’s gonna want to spend the night,” my father snickered.
“He’s crazy about you.”
“I know,” my father agreed proudly as he stood.
“Give Zoe a kiss for me,” he requested.
“I will.”
“You take care of yourself, Shondra. You can always move back here if you need to. All bills paid.”
Are you kidding me?
He gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. In that moment, I decided not to take offense. Instead of asking him why on earth he would suggest that I leave my husband, I took Daddy’s offer for how he meant it: a father reminding his daughter that she would always be his baby.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
Of course, my father’s gesture put me in a sentimental mood as I drove to pick up Zoe. He loved me. He wanted me taken care of. And the more I thought about my father’s love for me, I couldn’t help but think of my heavenly Father’s abounding love. He wanted exactly what Daddy wanted for me: Peace. Well-being. All this exhaustion, this lack of focus, this scattered attention couldn’t be His plan for me. And the bad thing was, I couldn’t even take time that evening to pray about the situation because I had a portfolio full of teacher performance data to review before another staffing meeting in the morning.
Not to mention Seth’s new weekly read-to-me requirement. His teacher had done a good job of putting the fear of God in them about getting an adult to sign off on the reading log. If anyone should have been “on it” about getting a child to read, it should have been me. An educator. A principal, no less. But I was so busy making sure other people’s kids got an education, my own son went to pre-k not knowing how to read which, in Plainview, was not a good start.
Note to self: Get Daddy to do some time with Seth’s reading log.
After securing Zoe in her car seat, I rattled my brain for a dinner plan. Didn’t hear one. Besides, cooking and cleaning up would add another hour to my evening agenda. I was already in the red, time-wise. McDonald’s to the rescue.
I limped through the house with sacks in one hand, Zoe on a hip, my purse and laptop bag handles in the other hand. Evidence of the morning’s mayhem still sat where we’d left it: bowls in the sink, Seth’s night clothes on the couch, Zoe’s comb and brush on the coffee table. Conviction all over the place.
Nothing like coming home to a messy house.
Maybe He had graced some women to do many things well. Maybe some women had to be a jack-of-all-trades because they didn’t have husbands, for whatever reason. But as for me, LaShondra Denise Smith Brown, I was clearly not capable nor was I anointed to run this many races at once.
Someth
ing had to give, but I wasn’t ready to figure out who or what.
Chapter 6
I called Peaches first because she knew all the ins and outs of human resources. “What do I say?”
“You tell them you’re taking the rest of your family medical leave. Don’t say ‘I’d like to’ or ‘I need to’. This isn’t a request, it’s a legal right. You can take up to a year off work to care for your baby.”
“But I went back to work already,” I said. “Doesn’t that count against me?”
“Technically, yes, but you’re in Texas, which is an employment-at-will state. No reputable employer wants to force anyone to work somewhere they don’t actually want to work, especially not in your field,” she explained.
“I so wish you were here, Peaches.”
“Well if you get a phone upgrade, we can FaceTime,” she badgered again.
“I don’t have the mental capacity to learn another operating system right now,” I pushed her suggestion aside. “Now, what if they don’t want to let me go?”
“If your H-R person tries to act funny about it, you might have to wiggle through some of the loopholes in the law. I can send you some stuff if it comes to that.”
I pushed the gear into park as I finished the free consultation with my resident expert. A quick survey of my surroundings put my mind at ease. There were no other co-workers present to overhear our conversation through the car’s speakers. Stelson had rigged up the hands-free system to make the car safer for me and the kids.
“Anything else I need to know?” I probed. “It can’t be this simple. How can I just walk in one day right before the start of school and say ‘I don’t want to work right now’?”
“What if you won the lottery and you resigned the next day?” she posed. “You think it would be any different?”
“I don’t play the lottery.”
“How about, God forbid, if you got hurt and you had to take off to care for yourself?”
“That would be different.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” she explained. “Right now, your family is hurting and you have to go take care of the family unit.”
No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown) Page 4
