Читать книгу Drama High: Culture Clash - L. Divine - Страница 11

“Light skin, dark skin, my Asian persuasion/

I got them all, that’s why these girls out here hatin’.”

—JANET JACKSON

For once, it’s good to be back at school. Stepping out of my car, I notice the air feels new this morning. I guess it’s because all of the bad things Misty did were undone when I took back my dreams, including me snatching her weaved head up, which resulted in me going to counseling even though it won’t go on my school record because no one remembers. It’s nice to have received the benefits of the mandatory week of anger management counseling I had to endure without suffering the consequences. It’s also nice that Nellie, Mickey, and I are speaking again. I need my girls to make it through the long days at South Bay High.

“What’s up, bitch?” Nellie asks as I approach my girls in the main hall. Now that I’m driving myself instead of taking the bus, I’m managing mornings better, so I don’t arrive on campus so early. And Nellie’s back to getting a ride with Mickey, as it should be.

“Who you calling a bitch?” I ask, looking around for someone else. I know she’s not talking to me or Mickey, because those are definitely fighting words where we come from.

“You, bitch.” If it weren’t for the smile on Nellie’s face I would think she was serious.

“We don’t do that,” Mickey says, correcting our girl. She rolls her eyes at me and smiles, knowing how bougie Nellie can be.

“But Laura and her girls say that to each other all the time.” I wish we could have stopped Nellie from associating with the ASB clique, but that happened before Misty lost her damn mind. “It’s a term of endearment.”

“Not for us it’s not,” I say, walking with my girls from Mickey’s locker to mine. The warning bell for first period rings in the buzzing hall, putting the fear of detention in everyone present, especially me. With Mr. Adewale as my new first period teacher, my days of excused tardies from my former Spanish teacher/football coach are over. Mr. A is serious about his shit, and I’m serious about staying on his good side.

“What’s so bad about calling your homegirl a bitch if it’s said with the utmost love and respect?” Nellie asks. Mickey and I look at our girl and shake our heads in disbelief. Nellie’s clueless on certain subjects, and the black girl code of etiquette is one of them.

“Look at Laura and her girls and then look at us,” I say, gesturing to the bitch crew entering the hall from the main office. “Now you tell me what’s the difference.” I open my backpack and switch out my books. I need to clean my locker, but I’m afraid of throwing anything away, especially after what happened last time. Misty went through my trash and found a note, trying to help incriminate me for forging an excuse for Mickey and Nigel when they ditched school, which is what got us into trouble in the first place. I’m glad that’s all behind us, but I’m not putting anything past Misty after what we just went through.

“They’re rich and we’re not. Well, y’all aren’t, but you feel me,” Nellie says, flipping her straight hair over her right shoulder.

“You ain’t balling either, Miss Thang,” Mickey says, checking Nellie. I’m so glad we’re back to “us” I don’t know what to do. Dealing with them one-on-one was too much for a sistah to handle.

“We’re black, Nellie, and they are not. We don’t go around calling each other bitches, hoes, or any other derogatory term, because of the history attached to the words for us and our ancestors.” I slam my locker door shut and begin speed-walking toward my first period, with my girls in tow. They can afford to stroll into their class late, unlike me.

“Jayd, you really should let go of all of that negativity. History’s in the past. Leave it there.” I stop in my tracks and stare at my girl. Mickey laughs at my reaction, but I know she feels part of what I’m saying. My ancestors are probably crying right now, they’re so mad.

“Nellie, have you ever heard us refer to each other as bitches and then hug afterwards?” I’m liable to smack a female instead of embrace her if she calls me out of my name.

“Hell to the no,” Mickey says, taking a pack of Skittles out of her purse and eating them. Mickey looks at Nellie with a dare in her eyes and Nellie returns the stare. My girls are crazy. I’m just glad we’re all on the same side again. As small as the black population is on this campus, we can’t afford to be at odds with each other. It’s bad enough the three of us don’t get along with the South Central clique, where the other twenty-plus black students chill. Without each other, Nellie, Mickey, and I would truly be lost. I remember that feeling, even if my girls don’t, and it was a lonely existence.

“Y’all are too sensitive. It’s not that big a deal,” Nellie says as we exit the main hall. The morning air feels different with spring approaching. I love this time of year and not just because my birthday’s next month. Something about warm seasons makes school—and life in general—more pleasant.

“Good morning, ladies,” Nigel says, greeting us all as we walk across the courtyard. He puts his arm across Mickey’s shoulders and falls in step with us.

“Good morning,” we say in unison. Even with the semester change, the three of them still share most of the same classes. At first I wasn’t sure about having a general ed class, but it hasn’t been that bad, with the exception of having to deal with Misty and KJ. Now that our crew is solid, I know it’ll be live in fourth period for the remainder of the semester.

“What up, dog?” Chance says, greeting Nigel before saying hi to us. He kisses Nellie on the lips and then big ups Mickey and me. “Good session this weekend, man.”

“Yes, it was,” Nigel says, reminding me of the last conversation I had with Rah on Saturday. I haven’t talked to him since I found out his baby-mama is his new roommate. He’s called and texted me a million times since then, and he can keep on blowing my cell up. Mama says if I don’t have anything nice to say I shouldn’t say anything at all. And whatever comes out of my mouth won’t be good for Rah, so I’m going to avoid cussing him out for as long as I possibly can.

“Bye, bitches,” Nellie says, running toward their first period class ahead of Mickey and Nigel, with Chance right behind her. She thinks she’s funny but she’s not. Calling one another bitches is something Nellie needs to reserve for her white friends. We black girls are not feeling that shit in the least.

“That’s your friend,” Mickey says. Nigel laughs at his girl, and I can’t help but do the same.

“But you’ve known her longer,” I add. We make it to my Spanish class, where the door is wide open. Mr. Adewale doesn’t count you as present unless you’re sitting at your desk when the bell stops ringing. We have about a minute to go before the final bell rings, officially starting the school day.

Mr. A looks up at me from the stack of papers on his desk. His smile is reserved, but I feel more caution in his eyes than usual. Maybe Ms. Toni had the same conversation she had with me about him and me associating with each other on a friendly basis. I think she’s overreacting, but what can I say? I know how these folks up here are, and with them being the only two teachers of color on the lily-white faculty, I can’t say that I blame her. I just wish she had a little more faith in me.

“Don’t remind me,” Mickey says. As she takes her backpack off of her shoulders and passes it to Nigel to carry, I notice a new picture keychain hanging with our old photo from homecoming.

“What’s this?” I ask, taking a look at the photo. It’s a picture of Mickey, Nigel, Chance, Nellie, Rah, and me from the Valentine’s Day dance last Friday.

“What do you mean? You have the same one, remember?” she says, fingering the same set of photos hanging from my backpack. I’m glad there’s a picture to prove we were all in attendance at the dance because I don’t remember any of it—another side effect from the dream sharing thanks to Misty. And from the smiles on our faces it looks like we had a good time.

“My bad, girl. You know I’m sleep deprived.” Luckily I’m not anymore, but I have to blame my memory loss on something, and that’s part of the truth.

“We’ll see you in third period, Jayd. We have a meeting with the principal at break,” Nigel says as the final bell rings. I glance at Mr. A, who has his pencil and attendance sheet ready to mark the latecomers.

“Holla,” Mickey says as she and her man casually stroll toward their first-period class. I missed Mickey being on the main campus briefly before I went back and changed the past, including Mickey deciding to take the principal’s suggestion for her to attend the continuation school across the football field. She talked with Nigel about the administration bullying her, and they’ve decided to stand up to the powers that be, together. I’m glad she decided to stay and fight. We have to stick together in this wilderness. Otherwise, they will pluck us out one by one, with us girls being the first on their exit list. I’m not leaving this campus until I have a diploma in my hand, and I hope Mickey feels the same way.

First period’s not as chill as it used to be with Mr. Donald, but with Mr. Adewale we’re actually learning Spanish. Even the new kid on the block, Emilio, is impressed by Mr. Adewale’s command of the foreign language. I don’t know why Emilio’s in Spanish class since he can speak his first tongue fluently. But I enjoy the attention he gives me.

Emilio and I didn’t get to talk much in first period because Mr. A decided it would be fun to have a pop quiz on Chapter One, which he told us to study thoroughly last week. It was a challenge, but I think I did okay. I can’t speak for the rest of the class. But when we walked out a few moments ago, I heard other students calling Mr. A everything but a child of God.

“Miss Jackson, please pass these out for me when you get settled,” Mrs. Malone says as I walk into my second-period class, pointing to a stack of papers at the corner of her desk. I hang my backpack on the corner of my chair and claim the papers while the rest of the class files in before the bell rings.

“What’s this?” Alia, my favorite English classmate, asks. “Damn, another paper already? The semester just started a couple of weeks ago.” I agree. But there’s no rest for the weary and we are definitely worn out on our AP track. After the AP exams in a few weeks, everything will hopefully calm down.

“Oh, Miss Cole,” Mrs. Malone says to Alia. “You’re a very talented writer. You shouldn’t have any complaints.” She rises from her seat as the bell rings and props herself up on the corner of her desk, ready to begin class. I place the last handout on my desk and sit down next to Alia, who’s already started copying the daily notes from the board.

“Good morning, class. Today’s quote is from one of my favorite writers, John Updike. Charlotte, would you mind reciting it, please?” The bland-looking white girl puts on her glasses and reads from the whiteboard. Out of all the students in this class, she’s my least favorite.

“‘Dreams come true; without that possibility, nature would not incite us to have them.’” The class continues copying the words from the board while reflecting on what was just said. Mrs. Malone has a peaceful order to her class that I look forward to on a daily basis. After a few moments of silence, everyone puts their pens down and waits for our teacher to speak.

“Do you think this quote is true, that dreams really do come true?” After the question lingers in the air for a moment, I take the initiative and answer, since everyone else is apparently still asleep this morning.

“Yes, I do. But not because he said it.” I already know from our reading of some of his short stories that Updike is some old white man. And most of the ideas he has aren’t really that original. Mrs. Malone looks at me knowingly, ready to challenge my opinions. That’s why I like her. For a middle-aged white woman, she’s pretty cool when it comes to literary stuff.

“Dig deeper, Jayd,” she says, repeating her mantra. If I had a dime for every time she said that I’d be a rich woman by now.

“Well, take for example the dream of becoming the first black president. If Obama hadn’t had the thought, he wouldn’t have been able to picture it as his reality,” I say, causing most eyes to roll. It’s Black History Month, but you wouldn’t know it at this school until the end of the month. Every year they hold a voluntary assembly during lunch, merging the announcement of the Cultural Awareness Festival with the end of Black History Month. Works my nerves every year. Out of protest, I usually don’t attend.

“Good, Jayd, but go even further than that. And take race out of it, because I know that’s what you’re thinking.” Easy for her to say. I hate when Mrs. Malone pretends she can read our minds, even if she’s right. Who does she think she is, Mama?

“I don’t agree with Updike,” Charlotte says. “First off, I think he’s wrong to say that nature incites us to have dreams. I think it’s our daily experiences that make us dream. Nature has nothing to do with that.” I marvel at Charlotte’s ignorance. Some people are so clueless.

“How can nature have nothing to with that, if it’s a daily experience? Nature is in everything, including our daily lives.” The rest of the class watch Charlotte and me go back and forth in a tennis match of words. For them, it’s nothing new. Charlotte and I are the most vocal participants on our AP track.

“Jayd, please. You think nature really gives a damn whether or not you dream?” She can cuss in class all day. And as long as she doesn’t go too far with it, Mrs. Malone won’t check her. Now let me say some shit like that and I’ll automatically be reprimanded for being the angry black girl in the room, fo sho.

“Here we go,” Alia whispers to me, making me smile. If it weren’t for her comic relief, I’d probably tolerate Charlotte’s ass much less than I already do.

“Nature controls grass and trees and whatnot, not our psyches. My daddy says that dreams are merely an indication that we have achieved deep sleep—rapid eye movement—nothing more.” Charlotte’s father is some pseudo shrink who’s famous for his books on the power of the mind to help you get rich. She thinks she’s hot shit. I can’t stand her ass on a good day.

“Well, your daddy’s wrong,” I say, making the class laugh—all except for Charlotte, of course. “Nature’s in all things. We can’t be separate from creation because we are a part of it, including our minds.”

“That’s a very interesting perspective, Jayd. Why do you think we are a part of nature?” Mrs. Malone asks, looking at me curiously like I’m about to say something profound.

“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.”

The teachers are the ones I should be mad at, not the dumb-ass students I have to put up with. Unfortunately, no matter how hot I get, there’s really no use in fighting the administration up here. Mrs. Bennett’s the only teacher-bitch I can deal with, and she has made the biased rules apparent enough for me. But no matter what, I refuse to allow this school to make me forget who I am and where I come from. And willingly playing the role of a slave is unacceptable to me when I know my ancestors and elders taught me better than that.