by Jayne Allen
We sat still for a moment after that, both of us contemplating her words. It was some time before she spoke again. “I never thought to ask it of anyone, not even your dad, whose whole life I watched. Yours too. I guess I thought I understood from observation. And it never occurred to me how silly that might be not to ask, until just now. I recon I should ask you, Two, what’s it feel like to be black? Do you consider yourself black?”
I laughed a bit in answering. “I don’t think I have much of a choice, Granny Tab,” I said with a smile. “To consider myself black or not black, I mean. Society just looks at me, and sees a black woman no matter what I have to say about it.”
“I suppose you’re right, Two,” Granny Tab said pensively.
“How does it feel?” I continued, trying to think and still talk. I’d honestly never considered the question before, not while living it. “I can tell you that your thought, about it being exhausting, that sounds about right sometimes. A lot of times it does feel exhausting. Because everything bad in society is about you, but when it comes to the good, nothing is for you. I feel like I’m not enough and too much, all at the same time. And then, other times, being black feels exhilarating—because every good thing that happens feels like a victory, even the small things. Because you’re constantly reminded that you’re an other, so you know whatever good happened in spite of. So there’s celebration, there’s some joy.” I paused, just to think. It felt so complicated. I pushed myself to find more, in the deeper parts, hidden in the folds of my spirit—the secrets. “And emptiness is there too—a different kind from what you described though. A need for…validation, maybe to be seen, approved of, to matter as an individual, not just a monolith. And a desire to know that if I do follow all the rules, that I get the promise on the other side, just like anyone else. And by anyone else, I mean anyone else who is white.”
“It hurts my heart to think about it sometimes,” Granny Tab said softly. “When your dad was just a little baby, I held him in my arms and I felt so powerless. I loved him so much and wanted the World to love him too, ‘why wouldn’t they,’ I thought. I was naïve back then.” She turned away pensively, letting the weight of a lifetime of memories press her shoulders into a slouch. She turned back to me with tears in her eyes. “I couldn’t always protect him.”
I wanted to move to hug her, but I had the hot tea on my lap. She quickly wiped the tears away. “Could you get me a tissue, Two?” She asked me before I could move toward her. “It seems that there’s something in my eye.”
I returned with the tissue in hand, gave it to her and sat back down. The moment had allowed her to re-compose herself. To think of it, the only time I had ever seen Granny Tab cry herself was when I left for college. She said the same thing then, “I guess I must have something in my eye.” I smiled at the memory.
“Granny Tab,” I said. “Can I ask you another question?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
“If you could,” I began, thinking while speaking strange tasting words, “would you choose to be black, like me and my dad?” I asked. Granny Tab took another deep breath, so deep this time that I could see her aged diaphragm struggle to expand that far, staggering her inhale at the end of it. She paused for a moment longer before beginning to speak.
“I don’t suppose I would,” she said. “I’m sure I wouldn’t have lasted this long if I were.” She paused to smile at me. “There’s a world on the inside that I don’t pretend to understand. I just remember drying tears and feeling the panic of wanting to protect those that I loved from a World who decided on hating them. I remember the fear, thinking I would be separated from your grandfather when it mattered most- when he was all that your dad and I had. That was hard. But I didn’t have to wear it everyday. I can’t say that I could have,” she said, searching my face. Her denim-colored eyes looked like tiny oceans, as they filled with water. She dabbed them with another tissue, and only then did I even notice that she had taken my hand. “Two, you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but I suppose I’ll ask it all the same,” she said, squeezing my hand. “If you could…have the choice to be white, to have the world see you as white, would you want that?” she asked.
As I thought about it, images flashed through my mind, of Officer Mallory, of Chris, of Diane, my mom, my dad, of Scott Stone and Lisa at work, of Marc and even Todd, and then Laila, Alexis and my godson Lexington with his huge doe eyes. I took a moment to consider my next words. I spoke to my grandmother as much as to myself. “Somehow, being black is not who I am, at least, not all that I am. But I know, at least in some way, it’s made me who I am. So, I wouldn’t trade, Granny Tab. I’d wanna stay who I am.” Granny Tab smiled and squeezed my hand again. My grandmother smiled her biggest smile. I smiled back at her. I didn’t say it, but she’d made me who I was as well.
“You know Tabby, I wanted to tell you. Gretchen, God bless her, she’s always got something to say. I wish I had some of her spunk when I was younger.” I smiled again to think of a young Granny Tab. Granny Tab met me with a look of seriousness that made me stiffen a bit in anticipation of what she was preparing to say. “But I need to tell you, I disagree with Gretchen about Marc. It’s sometimes too easy to throw a person away, Tabby. Sometimes his fumbling around through bad decisions can make you forget that a man has his whole future ahead of him. People can change. Well, if he keeps trying. And that’s the rare type Two, not the guy who’s got it all figured out, but the one who keeps trying to sort out his mess.”
“But, Granny Tab, don’t you think he’s wasting my time? He said he doesn’t want to get married, or have kids!” I whined back.
“Seems like he said he doesn’t know yet,” Granny Tab said. “I’m not saying that you should wait around. Maybe you’re doing the right thing by moving on. Maybe you just need to date someone else for a while. Sometimes a man has to sit in his stink long enough, and you don’t need to be there for that. Live your life Two, but just give him the chance to come back around. That’s all I’m saying. Your Marc seems like he could be the rare type.”
“I’ll think about it Granny Tab, I really will,” I said.
“Your dad is the rare type.” Her words took me by surprise. My dad?
“I don’t think so Granny Tab,” I said. “He’s seemed pretty consistent to me.”
“That’s because you haven’t given him a chance to show you,” Granny Tab said. “Why don’t you ever show up for dinner?”
“You know weekends were always my days with Marc,” I said, more defensively that I would have liked to. “I couldn’t,” I said weakly.
“You can now,” Granny Tab stressed. “Go tonight, for me.” I thought about it. Normally I would do anything for my grandmother. This was asking a lot. But she never asked me for anything, and she was right, I could. I guess I also wanted to talk to my dad and get his perspective on what Chris said. I’d have to deal with Diane, but the advice could be worth the pain and suffering this time.
“Ok,” I told Granny Tab. “You’re right—tonight I can. I’ll go. Just for you.” Granny Tab leaned forward and used both of her arms to wrap me in a hug. “Do you want to ride with me to Calabasas?” I asked. Granny Tab’s face fell.
“I wish I could go tonight, sweetheart. I would just love to see all my babies together in the same place. But, I promised Gretchen that I’d have dinner with her and watch Netflix.”
“Granny, you and Ms. Gretchen are gonna Netflix and chill?” I asked with a light giggle.
“What’s that?” Granny Tab asked.
“Nevermind.” I said smiling. “Nevermind.”
Chapter 24
The robotic voice of my navigation app announced that the exit to my dad’s Calabasas home was coming up in half a mile. The warm feeling of this being a good idea had already faded about 15 miles back. Sheer dread had crept its way into my car, and was now firmly strapped into the passenger seat for the
time that remained with its clammy hand wrapped in a squeeze around my insides. I reached the guard house situated in front of gigantic gates walling off the entrance to the community. After this long of a drive, and the cost of living in this part of the LA suburbs, I couldn’t imagine whom the gates were actually keeping out. Who really needed a security gate was me, around my downtown condo building.
“Hi there,” I said to the guard, rolling down my window. “I’m heading to the Walker residence.”
“Your name please?” He asked me politely, holding a clipboard.
“Tabitha Walker.”
“Oh. Can you pass me your ID?” he asked. I handed it to him and he compared it against the white sheet of paper on his clipboard.
“Just one second. I need to check a different list.” He turned back into the little tan-colored Spanish-tile houselette, and started flipping through a stack of notecard sized papers in a box, sitting on the desk. He must not have found what he was looking for because he flipped through twice and then walked back over to my window and handed me back my ID. “I’m sorry ma’am, I’m going to have to call up to the house and get an OK from the Walkers. I don’t have you on the pre-cleared list or the family list.” Of course you don’t, I guess that figures.
I told him that was fine and waited patiently while he dialed my father’s house as I sat in my car studying the closed gates, and their ornate wrought iron detailing painted the same bisque color as the guard house. I overheard the faint sound of Diane’s voice floating out of the space between the phone and his ear. Finally he said that he was planning to send me right through, just before the fancy iron gates opened their mouth to swallow me in.
Driving up to my father’s house, I realized that I had forgotten how nice it was, and how nice his neighborhood was in general. Or, maybe, I had just pushed it out of my mind. Expensive European sports cars served as mobile graffiti sitting outside of the homes of their respective owners. My dad and Diane bought their house at the end of the cul de sac just before Dixie, their youngest daughter, was born. My little sister. Technically, Dixie was my little sister, as was Danielle, the older of the two. It was Danielle who opened the door for me. She was 13 and almost as tall as me. I had her by less than a half an inch. She had the same long, flat and lean figure that I’d had at her age and looking in her face, she could almost be my hazel-eyed Hispanic twin. Danielle looked much more ethnic than Dixie, who bounded down the steps into the foyer just as Danielle shouted, “Dad! Tabby’s here!” Danielle looked back to me standing in the doorway. “Are you coming in?” she asked with the usual teenage sarcasm of thinking you’re smarter than everyone, including your idiot big sister. Big sister. I’m these girls’ big sister. “Dad’s in his study. Mom is in the kitchen.” Danielle said as she turned to walk across the marble toward the back part of the house.
“Hi Tabby!” Dixie called out as she bounded down the stairs toward me. Except for our nose, that we shared with our grandmother, absolutely no one would think that Dixie and I were even related, let alone half-sisters. In her, all of the Caucasian genes from both sides converged into a bright-blue eyed straight haired sun-kissed brunette who wouldn’t have even been questioned if she tried to go to Granny Tab’s local University back in the day. She ran up to me, seemingly oblivious to the fact that we were almost strangers, with almost a year since we had last seen each other, and wrapped her gangly arms around me at my waist. Hugging her back, I pushed away a small pang of regret for not knowing her better. Diane’s fault, my mind gave me as the perfect exit from that thinking.
“Hey Dixie!” I said, hugging her back. “How are you? How’s school?” It occurred to me that I knew less of what to ask her than I would Rob Jr. or Lexington, who actually weren’t that far off in age. Thankfully, my dad took me off the hook from having to come up with conversation with my little nine-year-old alien, filling the entryway with his booming voice.
“Tabby! I’m so glad you made it!” He seemed genuinely excited walking toward me from the direction of his study with his arms already extended to give me a big hug. “I’m so happy to see you Babygirl!” My dad squeezed me like I might change my mind at any moment and run back to my own comforts of downtown LA.
“Hey Dad!” I said. “Good to see you.” It was nice to not have to say things I didn’t mean. Even if I didn’t exactly want to admit it, it was good to see him.
“It’s great to see you!” he said with the ebullience of a master politician. “Come on, let’s head back. Diane is in the kitchen.” Ugh, Diane. As we walked back following the same path Danielle took earlier, I tried to imagine my dad’s neat head of dime-sized curls and receding hairline embodied as an afro-attempt, propped up by Aqua-Net. I had to stifle my laughter. “What?” he asked, turning to look at me.
“Nothing…well, just that Granny Tab told me that you might have had an afro once,” I told him.
“Oh lord, not that disaster. I can’t believe she told you that!”
“Dad, you had an afro?” Dixie said, looking up at him.
“That was a long time ago Dixie—in college.”
“Could I have an afro too Dad?” asked Dixie, innocently. My dad and I both shared a laugh between wiser adults. I waited to see how he was going to answer this question.
“Probably not Dix,” my dad said. “Your hair’s not curly enough.”
“Well, what if I want one?” Dixie said.
“You’ll have to ask your mother,” my dad bunted. “I don’t know anything about styling women’s hair.” He took his hand and placed it on top of her head, messing up the top of her thick layers hanging down her back.
“Mom! Dixie yelled out, skipping ahead of us. “How do I get my hair in an afro?” My dad and I laughed.
“Oh boy,” he said. “Now I’m going to have to rescue Diane.”
We made it into the expansive kitchen and Diane was moving frenetically between the center island and the stovetop, setting things into serving trays and clanking, clacking, and shuffling in all manner of ways.
“Girls!” she said to Danielle and Dixie, “Go wash your hands and then come get the table set up.” She wiped her hands on her apron and looked up at me, smiling wider than I remember being accustomed to. “Tabby! Hi! I’m so glad to see you! I heard that you might make it for dinner this time!” She came in for a hug. I hugged her back feebly, wondering briefly if all this time, she just had Tourette’s, rather than self-centered ass-hole syndrome.
“Hi Diane, yes, I’m glad I could make it too. It’s been very busy at work…and stuff…” I said, searching my mind for better excuses.
“I understand. I heard you got a promotion! Congratulations! We’re all so proud of you.” She was beaming. News traveled fast amongst the Walkers. I imagined my mother in this moment, what she would say. I’m sure she’d tell Diane that she could save her pride for her own children. The thought made me smile a bit.
“Thanks Diane. It was definitely a relief to finally find out.” I was trying my best to be polite. She smiled, and then looked past me to my dad.
“Paul!” she said, “Can you help here? I need to get some of this stuff from the stove to the island for dinner to serve it.”
“Whoa there Baby,” my dad said. “I did my part—I’ve got the carne asada just right out there on the grill. How about I bring that in, and maybe Tabby can give you a hand with the oven,” said my dad, the master of creating both awkward moments and awkward childhoods.
“Tabby, do you mind?” Diane asked.
“No, not at all,” I said, heading over to help. At least she asked nicely. Soon enough we had all of the food set out and everyone circled the island heaping a Mexican-inspired feast onto our plates.
Around the table conversation was polite but mostly empty. We didn’t come near any of the subjects that my friends and I normally discussed like politics, or work or relationship issues. Most of the topics were br
ought up by the girls or had to do with the girls—what they were doing in school this week, when was their next sports game and where they were thinking about going for a family vacation. I was just hoping for it all to wrap up soon enough, so that I could get to my real reason for coming—I needed to talk to my dad. As we all got up to clear the table, I maneuvered to his side, trying to create privacy in a room full of other people.
“Dad, could I talk to you for a minute? Alone?” I asked.
He looked around surprised, and then to me. “Sure, Tabby. Let’s go to my study.” He called out, “Girls, Tabby and I are gonna to go to my study and chat for a bit. We’ll be back.”
“Can I come?” Dixie called out.
“You can come in in 30 minutes, Dix!” my dad said after she came up giving him the doe-eyed treatment.
“But I want to talk to Tabby too!” Dixie said walking away. Her words surprised me. She wants to talk to me? I was confused. I hadn’t spent much time with the girls, even after Diane tried to guilt me while I was in college for not coming to see them, aka, babysit. That guilting continued until it was time to go to grad school, and in part I was glad to be going out of state for two years of relief from the constant pressure of Diane’s exigencies, communicated through my dad. They started extending the invitations to the weekend dinners a few years ago. Granny Tab would come almost every week, while I would make a few a year. It wasn’t the girls’ fault how their parents’ relationship started. Then again, it wasn’t mine either. But, still, we all had no choice but to be a part of living out the consequences.
My dad closed the door behind us in his dark mahogany wood-accented study and motioned that we would both sit on the brown distressed leather sofa.
