College Boy : A Novel (9781416586500) (21 page)

“No, because we had to keep the image that we were the good guys,” the first friend refuted.

“Aw, ta hell with that good guy stuff. We should have dropped a few more bombs on 'em,” the second argued.

“Yeah! No one messes with the U.S.!”

 

Troy left for class before they did. He walked past the bus stop on Madison Avenue and began to focus on some of the Marsh County citizens: a Black teenager with a greasy Jheri curl; another with a slicked-back wet-set, as if she had recently jumped out of the shower, stirred his embarrassment.

Inside class, Troy sat in the first seat available, next to a White girl. She moved to join one of her friends and was replaced by a much larger football player, who wanted to sit next to a girl one seat away from Troy. The big, brown-haired bruiser squeezed by and was too large for comfort. He stood six-three and 240. Troy then decided to find himself another seat.

As he searched for another empty space, a girl walked in and caught his eye. One shade darker than yellow, she strutted up the aisle with much self-assurance.

Troy watched her sit by herself, half expecting it. After class, he approached her.

Troy's heart beat wildly, fearing rejection. But he was no coward, especially not when approaching the opposite sex.

“Hi, how you doin'?” he asked her.

“I'm fine,” she said, pacing ahead to her next destination.

He walked beside her. “Are you from another country?” he asked, assuming from her obvious ethnic appearance.

“Yes,” she answered flatly.

Troy sensed that she was unwilling to talk, yet he pressed on. “Well, what country are you from?”

“Kenya,” she responded, finally looking at him.

Troy smiled, feeling a sudden connection to her.

“You from Africa, hunh?” he repeated, intrigued. She didn't resemble a Kenyan or an African person to him. But nevertheless, she was
from
Africa!

“What's your name?” he continued.

Kenya sighed with bother. “You know, you're asking a lot of questions.”

Troy's ego was slammed as they continued to walk. He wasn't planning to let her get away with it. “You know what, you're extremely rude to say some shit to me like that! I bet if I was White I could ask you a thousand fuckin' questions!” He was about to call her a bitch, but refrained.

“You don't have to get all angry about it,” she told him. She then crossed Madison Avenue's five-lane street toward the freshmen dorms. Troy felt more discontent. He was losing his cool. Race politics controlled his mind, making him too defensive to be charming.

 

Matthew was already sitting inside the main cafeteria as Troy walked over with his tray to join him.

“What's goin' on, Mat?” he asked. “What did you do all summer?”

“Yo, what's up, troop?” Matthew responded, shaking Troy's hand. A week and a half had gone by before they had caught up with each other. “Yo, I had a job at the movies,” he answered.

Troy grinned. “At the movies, hunh? What position did you have?”

“I was an usher.”

Troy nodded and started to chuckle. “Yup, I knew it. They always make us Blacks the ushers.”

“Naw, man, there's Blacks in every position,” Matthew said.

“Yeah, but you live in Harlem. Your movie is in an all-Black neighborhood, so of course. But I'm talkin' 'bout a movie where you're with White employees, too. Then it would be different,” Troy assumed.

Matthew frowned, unconvinced. “You figure, how many different jobs can a guy do at the movies? The girls are all behind the counters,” he mentioned.

“Damn! You're right. Aw'ight, then, forget that,” Troy said, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Ay', man, I was in New York this summer,” he added through a mouthful.

“Word. What part?” Matthew asked him.

“We went to see the Statue of Liberty.”

His New York boy grinned. “That ain't really New York.”

“But we went to Forty-second Street, too,” Troy added.

“Man, it be a lot of White people down there, with money. Don't no niggas live down there,” Matthew told him with a smirk.

“Well, I saw many Puerto Ricans when we were there.”

Matthew nodded. “You must have been on the east side. That's where the Puerto Ricans live in Manhattan, in them broken-down buildings.”

“Oh yeah. Well, it was this White lady who was forcing everybody around on that trip, Mat. She acted like she owned slaves or somethin',” Troy alluded.

Matthew smiled lightheartedly. “Yo, man, that was just her job.”

Troy insisted. “Naw, cuz, I think she was old and racist.”

“I wouldn't say she's racist. Maybe she's just like that. Maybe she just shouts and yells a lot,” his friend calmly suggested.

Troy gazed around the cafeteria, watching the Black lunch women cleaning up tables. “You ever notice that all the workers in here are Black, besides that one retarded lady and that mean-ass immigrant?” he asked.

Matthew fell out of his seat in laughter. He laughed for two minutes before he responded. “Maybe they like their jobs. Money is money,” he said, once he calmed down and took his seat back.

Troy snapped. “What, are you crazy, cuz? Who the hell is gon' like a job cleaning up and serving college students every day?” Troy said harshly.

Matthew didn't answer.

Troy noticed his sensitivity and decided to change the subject. “Did you hear about Jay joining the army?”

“Naw. He joined the army?” Matthew was as surprised as Troy.

Troy nodded. “Yup, cuz. He just sold himself to the White people.”

“Hey, Mat, buddy! Are you gonna study with us again tonight?” a tall and husky White guy asked. He was surrounded by a group of three others.

Matthew was startled momentarily. “Oh, I don't know, man. I have to see what I have to do tonight,” he answered, feeling the immediate tension from his Philly friend. “Yeah, Troy, you have organic chemistry, right?”

“Yeah, and the lab, too,” Troy answered. He didn't care to comment on the White students Matthew was supposed to study with. Nevertheless, he was beginning to suspect that Matthew was crossing over. He had always seemed to defend White people. No matter what they did, Matthew seemed to have an explanation for them.

 

Later, Troy found himself inside the C.M.P. offices shooting the breeze with the counselors. He had finished all of his classes for the day.

Paul was grinning and holding Troy's hand for a firm shake. “So, what's been going on?”

Troy frowned. “Nothin' at all,” he responded glumly. “Did Max really leave?”

“Yup, he left aw'ight. He got a job as a substitute teacher with the city,” Paul answered. He released his handshake and sat behind his cluttered desk. “How come you ain't left yet?” Troy asked curiously.

“Well, once you get used to something, it's kind of hard to go away. Max had been talking about leaving for three years. Now he finally did it. But did you hear about your boy Mat getting a four-point-oh?” Paul asked cheerfully.

Troy raised his brow, confused. “Naw. Mat got a four-point-oh? I was just with him. He didn't tell me.”

Paul nodded. “He probably don't want people thinking he's a nerd. He's a real tenderhearted guy, you know.”

Troy sat in the student chair opposite Paul's desk to think.

Paul looked over his student roster. “Yup, Troy, we didn't get as many freshmen as we got last year with you guys,” he alluded.

“Why not?” Troy asked, barely interested. He was still wondering why Matthew didn't tell him about the 4.0.

“Well, for one, the college isn't kickin' out the money to get Blacks anymore. The cost to go to school keeps rising,” Paul informed him.

Troy chuckled and shook his head. “Dag, that's terrible. So that means it's going to be more drug dealers in Black neighborhoods,” he joked, still really thinking about Matthew.

Paul smiled. “The White man ain't makin' it no easier for Black students. Not at all,” he said.

Troy left C.M.P. with Matthew's secrecy remaining on his mind. He thought they were good friends. But suddenly he felt excluded. So far, his sophomore year was filling him with despair.

 

Peter walked into Troy's room with two new friends. “Ay', Troy, I got some freshmen who need haircuts.” Troy looked them over. He had noticed them before, and they both had been hanging out with White students. He suspected that they were Oreos, and he was planning to give them the third degree. “Hey, you guys live out in the suburbs, do ya?” Troy asked mockingly.

The freshman giggled as the shorter, stocky one, wearing glasses, answered. “Yeah, I live in the burbs of New Jersey. But there are other Blacks who live there. So it's not like my family is the only one.”

“Oh, what, it's, like, three other Black families?” Troy jibed.

“Yeah, around that.”

Troy nodded and grinned. “Unh-hunh. I thought so.”

The freshman took a seat in Troy's empty desk chair to get his haircut. “So what are you trying to say?”

“Oh, I ain't sayin' nothin'. What's your name?”

“Roy,” the stocky freshman answered proudly. He reminded Troy of a young Paul or a young Max.

“Yeah, like Roy Rogers, hunh?” Troy responded, giggling again. “So what is your major, Roy?”

“Well, I'm thinking about becoming a technical engineer.”

“Are you in C.M.P.?”

“C.M.P.? What is that?”

“Yeah, I am,” the second freshman interjected. He sat in the sofa next to Troy's desk. He appeared to be the same size as Troy.

Peter leaned on the wall next to the door, smiling. He was enjoying the stir of social chemistry.

“I'm on a scholarship in the honors program,” Roy informed him.

“You're smart as hell, then,” Troy quipped.

“Well, I wouldn't say that. I just work real hard.”

The second freshman, Scott, was from a neighborhood called Logan in Philadelphia. He was undecided about a career. He mentioned that he had tagged along with his White roommate the first couple days of school until he made some Black friends.

In the course of the next few days, Troy spoke with the two freshmen on several occasions. He found that Scott knew a lot about world history, yet his schoolwork was lacking. He reasoned that the undecided freshman should go into teaching. Scott, however, said he was after big money. He was looking into business, like so many other Black students on campus.

 

In biology, just the second week of the new semester, the White professor used the term “slave master” to describe his teaching technique to the class. He was a Southerner, wearing large brown-rimmed glasses. He wore his brown hair long, and he spoke loudly.

Clay was late for class, therefore Troy had no one to share his tension with. They then found a nice comfortable spot in the back of the class once Clay had arrived.

The long haired Southerner went on to use the contrast between black and white to make a point about the human immunity system. “We don't know which things are good for the body and which things are bad. But we do know that the bad guys wear the black hats, and the good guys wear the white hats. So we must get rid of the bad guys,” he explained.

As the story went on, the loud instructor began to slip up. “So we get rid of the bad black guys, and keep the good white guys,” he said, forgetting about the hats. Clay's and Troy's hearts jumped, beating faster by the minute. They were both in shock.

“Did you hear that, Troy?” Clay asked. “I mean, why does ‘Black' always have to be bad?” He sighed and shook his head, offended. “Man, I feel like running down to the front and socking the dude.” “I dont even want to talk about it,” Troy re sponded. His legs were wobbling underneath his chair and his hands were shaking against the armrests. The shock of an open gesture of racism was overwhelming. But the White students laughed at it. They thought that it was humorous. They were the “good white guys.”

T
HREE TIMES A WEEK, THE THREE
W
HITE FRIENDS CONTINUED
to haunt Troy in the cafeteria before his early-morning classes.

“Down South still has some of the most racist people in the world,” the first friend was saying.

“I still think that their problem is not as bad as they say it is,” the second friend suggested.

“I know. They're always complaining. But I don't see where they're trying to better themselves by violence,” the third friend added.

The first friend nodded. “Yeah. That will only make the situation worse.”

Once they spotted Troy seated two tables away and listening to them, they quieted down to a whisper. Every other day, they spoke as if they were at a concert. Obviously, a race-discussion audience of a fiery native son was not something that they desired.

During the biology lecture that morning, Clay went storming through the doors as if he owned the place. He marched up the auditorium stairs and headed straight to the back, where Troy waited for him. Clay seemed to always make a scene.

Troy grinned at his arrival. “What's wrong with you, man?”

Clay hunched his shoulders and smiled. “I'on know. I think I just want some attention. But these mugs don't even notice me.” He looked around the class at all the White students as he adjusted himself in the seat next to Troy. “Man, I wonder if they ever think about us. I mean, they don't even act like we exist.”

Troy frowned and shook his head. “They don't care shit about us. They don't have to see one of us in life, but we can't live without dealin' with them. I hate these White people, man,” he said aloud.

Clay looked around to see if any White students would react. Once no one did, he turned back to Troy, smiling. “You don't care nothin' 'bout these mugs, hunh?”

Troy thought for a moment. “Man, I just wish they had left us alone in Africa.” Then he got excited. “Oh, Clay, I forgot to ask you. Why the hell do you sit all the way back here?”

“Because I feel comfortable back here.”

They continued to copy notes from the huge mile-away blackboard as they talked.

“You feel comfortable back here?” Troy repeated. “Man, me and Peter used to sit up front every day in psychology class last year. Matter of fact, I sit up front in all of my classes.”

“Well, that's you. I only sit up front when it's a small class,” Clay said.

“Why? Because then you feel comfortable in a smaller crowd of people?”

“Yup, you got it. That's when I participate.”

“So you're sayin' that every time you're in a crowded place, you're going to sit in the back. What if you have a job with a lot of people? Are you gon' go to the back there too, and get the least amount of pay, talkin' 'bout you feel comfortable back there?” Troy quizzed sarcastically. He thought Clay's explanation was humorous. Clay must be crazy out his mind! he mused.

Clay chuckled. “Naw, man. I ain't sayin' that. But that's just how I feel right now.”

 

Troy went to his Black literature class, where they discussed the status of Black Americans.

“Blacks own nothing in their own communities, and they got Japanese starting to build their own schools in New York because they don't think the public schools are good enough. The Italians own everything in their communities, as well as the Jews and Koreans do. But we own nothing. That don't make any sense,” Mike X was saying.

“I know, and every time that one Black steps out, the White people point their fingers and say, ‘There goes your progress.' But only individuals are making it, not the masses of Black people,” Nia added.

“The way I see it, the White media doesn't want any strong-minded Blacks to have the spotlight. They would rather give people like Michael Jackson, whom I like musically but not as a representation of my people, the spotlight for all of us.

“Every time someone says something about Malcolm X, who was a strong Black man that I loved with all of my heart and soul, it's like a curse word. But yet everyone wants to treasure Martin Luther King,” Rose Perry said.

“I think that's because not enough people know much about Malcolm X. I only heard his name one-time when I was younger, and the teachers said that he had gotten shot. So I thought he was in a gang or something,” Troy commented. He, Mike X, Nia Imani, and Rose Perry headed their discussions every class period. They were the outspoken students.

“That's because Black people were scared to follow a Black man of heart and soul. You can get a bunch of people to march to the White House and sing church songs, but it's totally different when you ask them to support a Black economic movement. Blacks are too dependent upon Whites when it comes down to what really makes the world go round, and it's not sitting in White-owned coffee shops,” Mike X said.

Professor Jameson nodded. “I agree. Malcolm X was a strong political figure in the history of African-Americans. I would also agree that his cry for economic parity would scare the establishment a lot more than King's talk of integration.”

 

After dinner, Bruce and Troy rode the elevator. It was crowded with a horde of White students who spoke loudly, as usual.

“How are you, Carol? How were your classes today?”

“Fine. Everything is peachy. What did you do this weekend?”

“I went to this party, and it was really nice because they had everything set up beautifully and everyone showed up on time and it was just grand. I mean, the total occasion was gorgeous.”

Troy got off at the sixth floor on his way to Bruce's room. “Do you hear how they talk, man? They make me sick with that shit. It don't even seem like they listen to each other,” he said disgustedly to Bruce. “You know what? I'm gon' call 'em plastic people.”

They entered Bruce's room, which was crowded with accessories. “You gon' call 'em plastic people?” Bruce asked with raised brows.

“Yeah, man, 'cause they're not real. I can't stand White people now. I don't see how they took over the world in the first place. They're stupid as hell.

“
Damn, cuz!
I feel like just beating some White people up!” Troy shouted. Bruce laughed as his friend continued raving. “Imagine slave days, Bruce, when big dudes like you were owned by a White master who was, like, five-foot-three. And you be talkin' like a big pussy. ‘Oh, sure. Yes, massa. Right away, sir. Anything for you, massa.'”

“Damn!”
Troy raged again.

Bruce fell out with laughter. “You funny as hell, man. But I hate them old movies like that,” he said. “I used to hate when
Roots
came on. I used to go in my room and put my head under my pillow when that show came on.”

Troy contorted his face as if reacting to a pungent smell. “Damn, Bruce, man! I should have never come to this White-ass school! I should have gone to a Black university like my Mom told me. But naw, I wanted to play Division 1 basketball. Most of the athletes don't know what the hell they goin' to do if they don't make the pros!” he shouted.

“Dig, mayn, 'cause I'm in that boat right now. I ain't seen no time yet,” Bruce said glumly.

Brrrloop brrrloop.

“Hello … Yeah, what's up, girl?” Bruce asked, answering his telephone.

“Who's that?” Troy asked.

Bruce covered the phone with his massive right hand. “She's bad as
hell.

“Yeah, well, I didn't get that assignment,” he said to her.

“Does she live here, Bruce?” Troy asked.

Bruce nodded, and Troy headed for the door.

“Yo, where you goin', mayn?” Bruce asked him.

“To my room.”

“Aw'ight, then. I'll catch you later on.”

 

Troy went to his room and began to study, only to be interrupted by Scott, one of the freshman students he had met. His door was unlocked, so Scott walked right in after knocking softly.

“Hey, historian,” Troy called him.

“You always studying, hunh, Troy?” Scott asked.

“Yeah, that's why I always get good grades.”

“That's good, man. I wish that I could do that,” Scott said before dropping his head.

“What, you're not doing too well?”

“Nope. I'm failing these C.M.P. classess. They're supposed to be easy.”

“Ay', man, a lot of y'all gotta learn to discipline yourselves to study.”

“I know,” Scott responded.

“But to tell you the truth, every day I think about quittin' and just droppin' out of school,” Troy revealed.

Scott was stunned. Why would
you
want to drop out of school? he asked himself about Troy. “Aw, man, you can't be serious. You're on the honor roll, and you got a scholarship,” he said.

“It all doesn't matter, man. It's what makes you happy that matters. I'm unhappy here. I just want to be a part of the world again,” Troy explained. “It feels like we in a different place while we're in college, like, we don't fit in anymore, especially in this White school. It just seems like the entire world is made for them White students.”

Scott nodded, understanding Troy perfectly. The feeling was not at all alien to him. “I know, man, that's the same way I feel about it. It seems like we're going to be educated slaves for the White people. And they're damn sure going to be the ones doing the hiring when the money time comes.”

“Yeah, man, and that's the kind of shit that makes me wanna say,
‘Fuck college!'
It means nothing in the end. You're just another nigga with a job,” Troy snapped. “Most niggas don't even get a chance to travel.”

“My father did,” Scott interjected. “He traveled a lot. He served in the Vietnam War, too. He said that it was many Blacks in the war, getting killed, and now only a few get any benefits for it. But he's been to many places around the world. He told me that the women were tryin' to marry Americans to come back here to live.”

The freshman suddenly stopped and began to giggle. “My pop told me that he got some drawers everyplace he went. Women in other countries just throw themselves at U.S. military men.”

Troy shook his head with a grin. “See, man, that's the kind of shit the White people started. They've prostituted the world. Them women are tired of being poor, just like the rest of us.”

“But you know what, Troy? I've been to L.A. myself, man, and Blacks are living a lot better than us over there. They still have slums and all, but they're nice slums compared to ours. And over there, the Mexicans are treated worse than Blacks.

“It was pitiful when I was over there and saw that Mexicans were going through what we have already been through. They're just living any way that they can. And Orientals don't live as well on the West Coast as they do on the East Coast, either,” Scott mentioned. He amazed Troy with the things he knew as a freshman. Troy remembered that he knew a little bit, but not a lot until the past summer, when he had become race conscious.

“Damn, it's that bad for Mexicans?” he asked.

“Well, not for all of 'em,” Scott answered. “Those one-hundred-percent Spanish are the ones that own Mexican restaurants and stuff like that. And my pop told me that in Brazil, where people are all mixed up and stuff, that if you're White you can get a job easier. They're tryin' to keep that European look in public places down there. And if you're Black in Brazil, or mixed up, like, with Indian blood, you can only get those physical, behind-the-scene jobs.”

“Yeah,” Troy responded, still listening.

“Yup, man. But the people down there think it's OK. The Portuguese tricked them into believing that all people are equal regardless of color.

“That's bullshit, basically, but you have to be an outsider to see it. But you know, the United States is the most racist country in the world, besides Great Britain and South Africa. My father said that when he went to Germany and France, the women didn't care that he was Black, he was just another person.”

Troy had no comment.

Scott went on. “Take a place like Haiti; it's the Blackest country on this side of the world, and it's also the poorest. My grandmother is from Haiti.”

Troy began to examine Scott's darker complexion.

“And my pop told me that Jamaica is basically run by the White people with money, and light-skinned Blacks. That's why all the darker ones come here. They're the ones who have more to gain. Most Jamaicans won't tell you that, though. They try to argue about it.”

Troy looked at his clock, to see that it was getting late. “Ay', man, I better get back to studying,” he said.

“All right then, scholar,” Scott called him.

Troy smiled. “Aw'ight, professor,” he said in response. “Ay', are you going to the discussion tomorrow?” he asked Scott before he left.

“About light-skinned and dark-skinned Blacks?”

“Yeah.”

“Naw, man. I saw the poster, but I got a lot of work to do,” Scott answered. He closed Troy's door as he left.