Читать книгу Black Card - Chris L Terry - Страница 21

THREE

Save for a couple of suburbanites, the black kids at my grade school arrived early in a bus from the city, and left together on that same bus, a submarine that dunked into the ocean beyond the Beltway every morning. The busing program was called EDCO and, at school, EDCO meant black. When my white classmates saw my dad they’d ask if I was an EDCO kid, forgetting that, unlike the kids who were bused out, I played in the soccer league with them, went to their birthday parties, and walked home from school.

In fifth grade, we did a heritage unit and the first assignment was to find out what countries our ancestors came from. I asked my parents at the dinner table and my mom said, “Ireland,” and my dad said, “Umm . . .”

“Africa?” Mom asked.

“That’s a continent,” I said.

“Probably Africa,” Dad said.

I showed up the next day to find orange slips of paper hanging on the board by the classroom door. Each one had the name of a European country, with lines for kids’ names underneath. On the far right, next to Russia, was one that said Africa. We went around the room and each kid read off their countries. Germany and Ireland filled up fast, trailed closely by Italy and France, and then two kids’ names under Africa, Naima and Anthony, EDCO kids.

My white classmates said, “Huh?” and “Why is your name on Africa?” as our teacher added my name.

“Because my dad’s from there.”

I started sitting with Naima and Anthony. Naima was taller than me, with glasses and big twisted pigtails. During group projects, she’d tell me what I’d missed on In Living Color, the raunchy black comedy show that my mom wouldn’t let me watch anymore, using its new later airtime as an excuse. Naima had a laid-back older-sister personality, while Anthony was a sly instigator with a slanting Bobby Brown Gumby haircut and a pinkie-length braided rattail.

Once a week, our class would join another and their homeroom teacher would darken the room and read a novel about the Revolutionary War to us in a monotone. I was dreading it the second time we went in, and was happy to see an empty seat near the door, by Naima and Anthony. When nothing but sunshine lit the room, and the teacher had started droning on about muskets, Anthony poked my rib and pointed to the classroom door, which he’d nudged open with the toe of his sneaker. I was just old enough to want to climb through holes in fences, and followed without worrying, crawling out of the classroom and finding Naima and Anthony pressed up against the wall in the hall outside the door.

We ran down four flights of stairs to this big, rarely used bathroom by the gym in the basement. Sneakiness was the main thrill. Being away from class with my friends. Having it not be a big deal that a girl was in the boys’ room. Stifling our laughs and footsteps so they didn’t echo off the high ceiling. We took turns standing on a toilet and climbing onto this ledge behind the stalls, to peek out a window to the street.