Culture Clash (19 page)

“I respect my husband’s path, the way he hears God talk to him. I just wish he felt the same way about my path. And until he does that, I can’t fix a damned thing,” Mama says, forlornly staring out the window toward a memory I can’t see. I think that’s the first time this year I’ve heard Mama call Daddy her husband. “But enough about that,” Mama says, taking the sock she was waving at Daddy from her dress pocket and tossing it into the kitchen sink. “We’ll clean up my issues later. Let’s fix your drama now, so we can get this club up and running. Our ancestors are waiting.”

“I wish Misty would stop trying to ruin everything I touch,” I say, putting salt into my bowl before pouring the cornmeal in the sifter, ready to repeat Mama’s steps.

“Misty, Misty, Misty,” Mama says. “Don’t you get tired of saying that girl’s name? Because I sure do get tired of hearing it.” She pushes her batter aside to concentrate on mine. She takes six dried red chile peppers from a small bowl on the counter behind the table and crushes them in her hands. She then pours the peppers into my bowl.

“Of course I do. But she’s always making trouble for me. I know she’s behind Mrs. Bennett coming to our meeting last week and suddenly wanting to be our adviser. But I can’t let that happen and I want to make sure the club is up and running so we can represent properly during the festival.”

“Jayd, you’re not a monkey in the circus. You don’t have to jump through anyone’s hoops for their culture day, or whatever it’s called.” Mama pours cayenne pepper into the batter as I get the hot water off the stove and slowly pour it into the mix. The heat from the peppers and the water is clearing my sinuses.

“I know you’re right, but I don’t want to let them win,” I say, thinking of KJ, Reid, Misty, Laura, and the rest of the haters in my debate class who would love to see us fail.

“It’s not a competition, baby.” Mama puts her hand up for me to stop pouring and I replace the kettle on the stove.

“Then why does it feel like I’m constantly at war?” I look at Mama expertly eye the cornbread’s texture. She takes the jar of honey on the table and pours a drop into the batter before blending.

“Because you keep fighting on their playing field instead of forcing them onto your own turf. Remember your dreams, Jayd. When you fought your enemies with your ancestors’ sight you brought them to their knees. You can do the same here. Just believe in your power and it’ll all work out, without you having to fight too hard. Trust me,” she says, eyeing my batter. “When you’re at school this week, ignore the drama around you and focus on your end result. I’m always telling you the same thing, young lady. When are you going to listen?”

Mama’s right. If she can focus on her clients’ issues and my shit while still dealing with all of the bull she and Daddy go through on the regular, I know I can, too. This will prove to be a powerful week if I can make it to Friday without going after Misty and her crew. But if being calm is what will help Mr. Adewale win over the administration, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Finally, the Cultural Awareness Festival is here. To start the special day off there’s an assembly at the end of first period to explain the history behind the day, and that’s where the performances will take place. All of our hard work is finally going to pay off. Chance and I have been rehearsing all week, with Nellie and Jeremy our eager audience. Who knew being in a club could be so much work and fun at the same time?

The most challenging part of starting the African Student Union was the opposition from the administration. Reid being up in arms about anything he didn’t think of is nothing new. But Mrs. Bennett and her allies made it pretty clear that they didn’t trust the motives of the club. Ain’t that some bull? When Mr. Adewale found out about that, I made sure he ate an entire batch of Mama’s cornbread, and I didn’t even have to tell him they were from Mama. He already knew what was up since I was bringing him something to eat from home. And, as usual, it worked.

When Ms. Toni—who sits on several club committees and is the chair of ASB—said she never recalled the administration asking any of the other clubs what their motives were, Mrs. Bennett’s white complexion turned crimson and so did her colleagues’ faces. The only reason they had a problem with ASU is because it is by, about, and for the black students on this campus—a population they don’t want riled up. But we’re here and we’re not going anywhere. And after a subtle threat from Mr. Adewale to take the issue public, they backed down and let us officially have our club.

Between the scene from
Fences
Chance and I are performing and the great menu at the festival this afternoon, the African Student Union’s first outing should be a success—no thanks to most of the so-called members. At the end of the day, most of the work was done by our advisers, me, Nigel, and Chance. Even Emilio started to slack off after he realized he does not and will never have a chance with me. He’s fine, but not my type, and it has nothing to do with race or culture. We just roll very differently and I can respect that. I hope that eventually Emilio can, too.

“How’s my leading Lady J this morning?” Chance asks, giving me a hug as we exit the main parking lot in the front of the school. It’s an exciting day and everyone’s in a good mood. The overcast weather should burn off in time for the festival. I can’t wait to get my multicultural grub on this afternoon. Last year every table had a spread worth sampling and plates are only three dollars—the maximum the school will allow for clubs to charge for food at campus fundraisers.

“Cute, real cute,” I say, looking over my shoulder at Chance’s Nova. Now that I’ve felt her horsepower I want to get behind the wheel again as soon as possible. I’m with my mom on this one: I’m only young once. Besides, I could’ve found much worse things to become addicted to. Gambling on races and all that ain’t for me. But driving around on a clear night in a sweet hot rod is definitely part of my stylo now. “I’m good. How’s my car?”

“Your car? I know you’re not talking about my wife,” he says, nudging me playfully as we make our way through the main gate. ASB members are running around like chickens with their heads cut off, throwing up red and white streamers everywhere as well as performing other last-minute busy tasks I hope I never have to do as a member of ASU. We’re more of an intellectual club rather than a social butterfly type of network, and I for one hope it stays that way.

“Your wife, my car; same difference.” I need to go to my locker before heading to Spanish class. Mr. Adewale couldn’t care less about Cultural Awareness Day. In his class, Friday quizzes will still go down. “I’ll see you in the auditorium.”

“Alright, later Rose. I mean Jayd,” Chance says, calling me by my character’s name.

“Bye, Troy,” I say, returning the love. How he’s going to go in and out of character as first a Puritan slave owner, then a misunderstood black man, I don’t know. But if anyone can do it, it’s my boy. And it’s a part of his destiny anyway. Chance smiles at me as he attempts to walk to his first class, but he’s abruptly stopped by KJ, Del, and Money.

“We were talking about it and we’ve decided that we can’t let you play a black man,” KJ says, crossing his arms confidently across his Lakers jersey. Tonight must be game night. He always wears the basketball jersey for whatever team he’s rooting for on the day of the game.

“He’s more black than y’all will ever be,” I say, defending my mixed friend, even if he doesn’t know yet that he’s got a little black in his blood. But this has gone far enough.

“What do you mean by that, Jayd? I know I’m white and I’m proud of it,” Chance says. I wish I could tell him the truth, but it’s not my place.

“Exactly. So now you understand our problem. Thank you and good day to you, sir,” Del says, being the smart-ass he usually is.

“No, I don’t understand. It’s a play. No, actually it’s one scene from a play and it’s one of my favorites. I know this part like the back of my hand,” Chance says, holding up his pale fist.

“And not one of you wanted the part. You have no right to harass Chance because he stepped up when you didn’t.” KJ looks down at me, snarling with his toothpick dangling from the side of his mouth. That’s always been one of his most annoying habits, that and his cocky attitude.

“He’s still not black, Jayd. But I don’t think you’d know a black man if he was standing right in front of your face.” KJ thinks he’s funny but he’s not.

“Whatever, KJ. You and I both know the truth about what a real black man is, don’t we?” I say, causing oohs and ahhs to ripple through the audience that has gathered, getting a preview of our show to come. The scene Chance and I are performing is highly emotional and will no doubt captivate the crowd, just like we’re doing now. KJ probably would have made a good Troy, but he’s the one who messed that up, not Chance.

“Really? Aren’t you the same Jayd who’s dating the white boy? Oh no, wait, I think it’s the Spanish dude this week,” KJ says. Money gives him dap as they get a good laugh in.

“I don’t need his shit,” Chance says, giving up and walking back toward the parking lot. Oh no, he’s not running away. The show must go on, and it can’t without Chance.

“Chance, don’t listen to them,” I say, catching up with him and pulling his arm hard, forcing him to look at me. If my eyes can work to get what I want any other time, why not now? I stare into Chance’s light brown eyes and begin to melt away the anger and frustration I can feel in them. “You can do this, Chance. You have every right to play this part. It’s in your blood,” I say, convincing him without admitting all that I know.

“You’re right. I can do this,” he says, now seeing things my way. Mama’s right—if I focus on my own powers, I can master them like my ancestors did with theirs. “Let’s do this.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” I say, hugging my boy and leading the way to class. I look back at KJ, Del, and Money, feeling for their bruised egos. They should’ve stepped up in the first place. Then they wouldn’t be so hot about losing not only another sistah to a white boy—as they would put it—but also an opportunity to show what our people can do onstage. Most of the brothas I know consider theater acting a gay or white thing, and that’s their bad. Me and Chance are going to honor August Wilson whether they like it or not.

Sometimes it’s a black thing; sometimes it’s a white thing. Then sometimes it’s just about doing the right thing. And I’m convinced that this is the right thing for me and my crew to do. Everyone else will have to worry about dealing with their culture shock on their own time, because we’re about to do our thing.

F
riday’s events went off without another kink and because the scene went so well and the food was slamming, we raised enough money for our club so that we now need a bank account. The election of officers and other official club business will take place in the next week or so. This weekend is all about enjoying our victory, and that we did. My celebrating was cut short by my work schedule, as usual, but I still enjoyed hanging with my friends this weekend. Jeremy and I have been in a really good place lately and I’m looking forward to seeing just how far we take this love of ours.

I’m enjoying this Sunday afternoon by myself, eating my favorite food. I love chicken flavored Top Ramen with broccoli. The key is not cooking it too long. The noodles taste better with a little backbone in them. I’m also catching up on my television shows, including the new
90210,
even though I do get sick of those white girls complaining about life when they have the choice to chill. I’m saying, these broads have money, a nice crib, and their own rooms. They don’t have to work and when they do, it’s a plush job with hookups. When shit goes wrong in their lives it’s all self-made.

“Jayd, it’s me, Jeremy,” my boo says through my mom’s front door. Here he goes, popping up again, but this time I don’t mind. I’m actually glad he came by.

“I’m coming,” I say, hopping off the couch and opening the door. I’m wearing my boy shorts and a tank top—not too cute, but it’ll do. At least I’ve already showered this morning, unlike the last time he came by.

“I just wanted to say hi before the weekend is completely gone,” he says, kissing me on the cheek and coming in. “Cute shorts.”

“Thank you.” I reach up and kiss Jeremy sweetly on the lips and then fall into his warm embrace. “What’s this?” I say, taking the small bag from his hand and looking inside. It’s a voodoo doll. I look up at Jeremy, who’s smiling. I’m not sure how to react.

“It’s supposed to be a peace offering, Miss Priestess. I just want you to know that I dig you, however you get down. I admit I was shocked when I found out, but I love you for all that you are, voodoo priestess and all.”

“Jeremy, I don’t know what to say.” He treats me like the queen I am all the time, even when I’m not expecting it.

“Jayd, I want you back in my life, only you and only me. Why do you keep fighting us?” Jeremy asks, bending down and nibbling on my right ear. His soft lips send chills down my spine. Instinctively, I return the affection, kissing him on his neck. The faint scent of his cologne only attracts me more to his tender spot. Jeremy shakes at the contact of my tongue on his flesh. This fire between Jeremy and me is what always gets us caught up.

“Jeremy, we’re just not right for each other,” I say, but there’s no use my protesting. He’s got me right where he wants me and I’m enjoying the surrender. I’ll only let him go so far before stopping our session.

“From where I’m standing, we’re perfect for each other,” Jeremy says, kissing me passionately, forcing me to lie back on the couch to support the force. He’s never been this fiery before. I guess seeing me with two guys this week was more than he could take. Men always want what they can’t have. And maybe—just maybe—this time I’ll give in to our mutual desire.

Drama High, Volume 10:

CULTURE CLASH

L. Divine

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DRAMA HIGH: CULTURE CLASH
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