College Boy : A Novel (9781416586500) (22 page)

Troy had been to every Black function so far his sophomore year. He was becoming quite knowledgeable, bringing up good points at each meeting he attended. All of the events were positive, but he felt that none developed any plans to solve Black people's problems.

The rooms, again, were rented from campus administration. White staff members would set up microphones and the stage set. Sometimes they would go as far as providing food and refreshments.

The discussion on light-and-dark conflicts was being held by the Delta Sorority. Troy had noticed that the Deltas sponsored a lot of progressive functions.

All of the Black sororities and fraternities had to alternate dates for their events and parties. There were simply not enough Black college students to go around. And none of them owned or even rented houses. The Alphas
had
a house near Charleston Street. It was closed years ago when a student was shot and killed during a party.

More Black students showed up for the discussion on light-dark conflicts as compared to the weak turnouts at a lot of the other functions. Everyone had something to say.

“I never really thought that we still had a problem as far as light and dark skin is concerned. From what my mother told me, we have come a long way,” a tall, dark brown sister commented.

“I never thought that I was better than anybody else, but I had always gotten more attention from the guys. And I guess dark-skinned girls were jealous. So they started callin' me vanilla ice cream, banana girl, and stuff like that, which only made me call them smokeys and tar-babies, you know,” a cream-colored sister said.

“I think we have to talk about Blacks who don't have their identity intact, because I feel that's also tearing us apart. It's not like they are really accepted by White people; they're just taking more resources and strength from the Black race,” an onyx-skinned brother added.

“That is counterproductive. I know this girl who had a baby with a White guy, and the kid is going to school now in a White neighborhood. Now she's having problems acceptin' herself as Black, because she's real light,” a sister sitting next to Troy brought up.

“I'm always hearing how Blacks from the suburbs don't have their identity, but Blacks from the inner city seem to have more problems than we do,” a petite suburban sister challenged.

“Yeah, but y'all gotta know where you stand in the world, and you ain't gonna get it out in the suburbs,” a reddish brown brother answered.

“OK, maybe that's true. But it's a White world, so you might as well learn to deal with White people. And I feel that I'm better suited to do so than most of you, since I grew up with 'em,” the suburbanite rebutted.

“She does have a point, because you do have to speak and act a different way for White people. If you expect to be hired for a job, you do have to dress presentably and wear a civilized hairstyle, too,” a light brown sister responded.

The room began to stir with energy.

A light-skinned sister with light brown hair and matching eyes spoke up from the front. “Wait a minute, now, what do you mean by a ‘civilized hairstyle'?” She wore her hair in a short bush, neatly trimmed on the sides.

“Oh, I mean, your hair is OK, but when girls are walkin' around with statues and whatnot on their heads, the White people are not going to hire them.”

“Well, why is it that we gotta change everything about ourselves to please them? That's a trip, 'cause they don't have to change a damn thing for us. If you Black, then you should be allowed to look Black,” a sister in braids responded.

Troy noticed a cute brown sister sitting right next to the speaker in the front row. She had a beautiful smile and small eyes. Her hair was cut short and curly. He made a quick decision that he would try and talk to her after the function.

“You know, I'm sick and tired of us calling ourselves Black Americans anyway,” a light brown brother stood up to say. He was wearing a blue-and-gold kente outfit. “We have the Italian-Americans, the Polish-Americans, and the Irish-Americans. And everyone takes themselves back to a place. Now what are we going to say, we come from ‘Blacka'? No. We come from Africa, so we should start to call ourselves African-Americans. That's where a lot of this stuff starts. 'Cause none of us is
black
any damn way.”

Troy had drifted off, staring at the sister he was attracted to. He paid little attention to the rest of the comments. He felt he had nothing to add. He had come only to see how others were being affected. The cute brown sister had distracted him anyway. So he waited patiently for a chance to talk to her. Fortunately, she walked in his direction after the last comment.

“Hey, what's your name?” he asked bluntly, snatching her attention.

She looked at him and recognized his face. “Karen Lopez.”

He smiled and held her hand. “I wanna talk to you.”

“Ay', Karen, come on, girl,” her friend called.

Troy pressed, losing a grip on himself and on her small, warm hand. “Well, can I talk to you?”

“Hold up, let me see what she wants first,” Karen responded.

Troy snapped, disappointed. “Oh, you gotta follow her around. Aw'ight, then.” He thought that he had been turned down again. He had lost all of his touch with women.

“No, I don't need to follow her,” Karen responded, to his surprise. She smiled, looking straight into his eyes.

“Well, are you gonna talk to me?” Troy persisted. He still felt shaky about his confidence.

Karen's friend began to exit as she gave him her full attention. “Yeah, I guess so,” she said, smiling a beautiful smile. She wore a kente outfit herself, green and gold. Troy wore his usual jeans-and-shirt combination, with Nikes.

“What do you mean, you ‘guess so'?” he quizzed. He started to grin, back in control of himself. “Either we gonna talk or we not,” he told her, beaming like a five-year-old.

“Where you from?” she asked, still smiling herself.

“Why?” he answered with a smirk.

“'Cause I know you're not from here. You have an accent. Are you from New York?”

“Naw. I'm from Philly.”

“Yup, I knew it was one of 'em. Y'all got them rough voices. Y'all sound like you about to beat somebody up.”

Troy shook his head. “Naw. Do you go here?” he asked in a more pleasant manner. He was beginning to feel secure with Karen.

“No, I was just visiting my girlfriend.”

“You would have been a freshman this year?”

“Yup.”

“Are you gonna come here next year?” he hinted.

“Nope, I'm going to a Black college. I wouldn't be able to stand being around all these White people. What's your name, anyway?” she finally asked him.

“Troy Potter,” he said.

Karen got out a piece of paper to write his name down. “What's your phone number?” she asked. After giving her his number, Troy said he would get hers when she called him, happy to know her already. Karen had a pleasant personality, and he just loved the fact that she didn't seem the least bit shy.

 

Bloomp bloomp bloomp.

“Yo, come in!” Troy shouted through his door.

“Ay', what's up, my brother?” Peter said, entering.

“OK, here's Holy Man,” Troy responded, chuckling. He was in a good mood after meeting Karen.

“Well, how was the thing?” Peter asked, ignoring Troy's crack.

“It was the same old shit, man. All they really talked about was how we have to dress for the White man, how we have to talk for the White man, how we supposed to act; you know, stuff like that.”

Peter nodded. “Yeah, I remember when my mother used to get phone calls from the White lady on her job. I'd answer the phone and say it was a White lady, and she'd get mad at me for saying it,” he commented. “I didn't really understand why she would act and talk all different. But me? I don't think I'm going to go too far to please a person for a job.”

“Yeah, yeah. You were scared to tell them White punks to stop having parties at your crib last year. So how you gonna keep yourself from doing what they want you to do on a job?” Troy challenged.

“Look, Troy, there is a certain line that I draw when it comes to what I'm going to accept. Now, what happened last year was solved when I left for my own room. So there was no need for a bunch of hassles.”

“Yeah, OK, Holy Man. What chew gonna do when it's nobody to let you off the hook? Are you gonna call on the Lord for strength?”

Peter headed for the door. “I can see that you in one of those moods where you want to talk crazy.”

“Yo, hold up, man. Let me tell you 'bout this girl I met.”

“You met a girl? So what? That ain't nothing new.”

“Man, look, this girl is different. She's cute as hell. She's my complexion, too.”

Peter looked intrigued. “What? Troy didn't talk to another light-skinned sister?”

Troy smiled sheepishly. “Yup, man, 'cause when I went home I realized that shit. So now I'm changed about what I consider pretty. But shut up and let me finish, though.”

Peter took a seat on Troy's dresser.

“She got a skinny nose and naturally curly hair,” Troy began.

Peter burst out laughing. “I thought you said you changed, my brother. Why are you still worried about her nose and hair?”

“Shut up, man. I'm just describing how she looks.”

“So, the White man has got to you, then,” Peter said, chuckling. He ignored his friend's explanation.

“What, I can't have a preference? Everybody has a preference. We just supposed to grow up and marry anybody, just 'cause we Black? They have different codes of beauty all around the world.” Troy stopped and shook his head before continuing. Peter never failed to destroy the flow of his stories.

“Yeah, well anyway, she's bad as hell, cuz. I think I might make her my girl. Her name is Karen Lopez.”

“Lopez? That sounds like a Spanish name,” Peter mentioned.

Troy nodded to him. “Yeah, Lopez is a Spanish name. But hell, Black people all over Latin America got Spanish names.”

“Maybe she got some Indian blood, hunh?” Peter assumed.

“That's Native American blood, and I got some, too. I got it from my father.” Troy then snuck a quick look in his dresser mirror.

“Yeah, I got Indian blood, too,” Peter added sarcastically. He was annoying his friend as usual. “OK, Mr. Politically Correct. My grandfather was a full-blooded Native American. As a matter of fact, I'm the only one who didn't get the good hair. My brothers and sister got it.”

Troy frowned. “That's another thing. We gotta stop sayin' that good hair/bad hair shit. That's more White brainwashing. And that ‘politically correct' term is White stuff too. It should be the moral thing to call a person by their correct name, not just a political thing. But that's White people for you, just like that stupid right-wing and left-wing bullshit. I mean, it's messed up how White people have just changed everybody's names.”

Peter agreed and leaped off Troy's dresser. “Well, I got some studying to do, my brother, so I'll see you tomorrow,” he said as he left.

 

The next day before dinner, Troy, Bruce, Clay, and Doc went to Demetrius's room. Demetrius, Doc's friend, lived on Troy's floor. They sat around and talked about various inventions.

Demetrius was returning to college after a year in the “real world.” He was roughly six-one, and athletic-looking. He appeared to be a weight lifter, with one of those health-nut looks. His VCR-equipped room was becoming a popular hang-out.

“You know what, man? How did White people make all of this stuff? They got TVs, satellites, space shuttles, bombs, missiles, Walkman radios, and all kinds of shit,” Demetrius was wondering while sitting on his bed.

“I'on know, cuz. And I mean, it's like they pick stuff up easier than everybody else,” Clay responded, taking a seat on Demetrius's dresser. “I got this White boy in my one class, and he reads all the chapters right before the test and gets A's.”

“Yeah, man, it's this White girl in my class that does that, too,” Doc added, standing in the middle of the room. “That shit makes me mad as hell. I study all the time and still come out with C's.”

Troy was leaning up against the door looking at how light Doc was. He began to wonder if he was mixed, like many other Blacks in Marsh County.

“It's like White people wrote them books in their own special code, and they're the only ones that really know how to pick it up,” Bruce said, setting in Demetrius's small sofa. “Something is strange about it, cuz. I just can't put my finger on it.”

“Aw, man, White people don't have any special abilities. They got y'all sittin' around believing that dumb shit,” Troy angrily refuted. “You see what happens to your mind when we come to these White schools. They lie all the time. They probably study every day, but y'all in here believing that cramming shit works. Most of 'em had this same stuff in high school, so of course they can pick it up easier.”

Demetrius agreed with him. “Dig, man, 'cause they don't know anything, for real. They say that we came from apes. That's crazy if you think about it. I mean, how come the rest of the apes didn't change?”

They laughed as Demetrius continued.

“I wonder where we did come from,” he pondered. “I remember I used to wake up when I was a kid and just wonder.”

Everyone added to the discussion as Troy thought about a dream he had had as a kid.

“Yeah, cuz, I thought about that, too,” Clay said.

“Me too,” said Doc.

“Hell yeah, cuz,” Bruce responded as everyone chattered on.

Troy told them his dream. “Did y'all ever have a dream where you woke up and asked, ‘Why am I Black, and how come I'm in America?' I did, and that shit was crazy. It kind of felt like I was in a glass jar, looking out at the rest of the world.”