Culture Clash (3 page)

“Because we didn’t create ourselves. And not only that, every element in the Earth can be found inside of our bodies. We are mostly water, so is the Earth.” Before I can continue, Charlotte interrupts my flow.

“Because we are part of the evolutionary process doesn’t mean that nature controls our thoughts. That’s such a primitive idea.” Both the rude interruption and the insult warrant a beat-down.

“Excuse me?” I say, my attitude moving into my neck. “Did you just call me primitive?” Mama still doesn’t shop at Ikea to this day because they described one of their kente prints as primitive. Not African, but primitive, like they couldn’t find any other word in the entire English language to accurately describe the West African pattern.

“I called your thought process primitive; simplistic, passé, ancient,” Charlotte says, angering me more with every synonym for the offensive word that slips from her tongue. I envision slapping the taste out of her mouth, spit flying everywhere, and wiping that smug smile clear off her face.

“Sometimes simple is more complex than we give it credit for.” I know Mrs. Malone thinks she’s helping me, but now I feel even more offended.

“Nothing about nature is simple, dreaming included.” The steadiness in my voice stills the excited room and scares me a little, too. I’m so sick of defending myself against these white folks up here. It’s both mentally and spiritually exhausting. And what’s even more annoying is that they don’t get how ingrained their racism is.

“Whatever, Jayd. Some of us read and educate ourselves without just shooting off our opinions. I can recommend a few valid references if you’d like to study the topic in depth.” I look at Charlotte and imagine her head blowing up, her red hair flying all over the spacious classroom. Noting the heat rising to my cheeks, Mrs. Malone takes the topic over and shifts gears.

“Okay, girls, back to your corners,” Mrs. Malone says, focusing her attention on the handout. She may be joking, but that’s exactly how I feel every day on this campus: I’m in a boxing ring fighting an opponent I’ll never be allowed to defeat.

“As you can see, your next paper’s topic will be chosen from the short story ‘A & P’ by John Updike, thus this morning’s quote. Please turn to page two hundred in your textbooks.” We dutifully open our books and read in silence.

I can barely concentrate on the text, I’m so heated from our previous discussion. I manage to get through the few pages with the rest of the class. Once everyone’s finished, Mrs. Malone opens the floor for discussion.

“So, what do you think of Queenie? Was she judged accurately or was he too hard on her?”

“I think attitude says a lot about a person’s character.” Charlotte thinks she’s slick, but I know she’s talking about me. “But I think he’s more envious than anything, like most jealous people.” Now I know this bitch is tripping. With her around it’s impossible to get through a discussion without bringing race into it.

“And then some people think that they’re all that, when they’re not,” I respond. “I think that’s Queenie and her wannabe crew. Society has allowed Queenie to think she’s better than some people simply because of her station in life, which she hasn’t even earned. The wealth belongs to Queenie’s parents. In essence she has nothing,” I say, impressing Mrs. Malone with my reasoning. “Some of us have to actually work for a living and earn our cocky attitudes,” I say, thoroughly pissing Charlotte off.

“And some of us have been blessed with good fortune from our parents’ hard work.” Charlotte and I stare each other down, each ready to pounce if given the chance.

The bell sounds, interrupting our heated discussion just in time. One more minute and Miss Charlotte would’ve been picking her smart-ass self up from the floor.

“Please reread the text thoroughly. I look forward to receiving your abstracts and outlines on Friday.” Before I can gather all of my things, Mrs. Malone takes a seat in the chair next to mine.

“What’s up, Mrs. Malone?” I ask, ready to jet. We only have twenty minutes for break and I’m starving. The last thing I want to deal with is another lecture from a teacher about my bad attitude.

“You can’t let her get to you, Jayd. In life, you will always meet opposition. And if you walk around with a chip on your shoulder, there will always be someone willing to knock it off.”

“I hear you, Mrs. Malone.” I don’t want to spend any more time in here than I have to. And if agreeing with everything she says will get me out of here faster, I’ll do just that.

“Now, I want you to think hard about how you want to approach this paper. Updike has a lot to offer through his writings, even if he is an old white man,” Mrs. Malone says, taking the unspoken words right out of my mouth. “I’m looking forward to hearing your thoughts in class tomorrow.” Yeah, I’m sure. Mrs. Malone loves probing the mind of the colored girl in the room. I wonder if she treats her Native American husband the same way when they’re having a conversation at home.

“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?

“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.”