Boaz Brown (33 page)

“About the heart?” he asked.

I jumped. “Yes—the heart. How did you know?”

“When I spoke to you on Monday, I forgot to tell you that you always start with your key players in an internal investigation. You examine their motives, their strengths and weaknesses, and so on. All of those factors should be taken into consideration. People have their own agendas.

“In our case, we were sued by a former employee for revenues earned by an invention he crafted while working at Brown-Cooper. Through the experience, we learned to express the distinction between company-owned inventions and the intellectual property of our employees. He had his agenda, and we had ours. So,” he pushed me, “what is it about the heart that struck you tonight?”

“Look, I know what you’re getting at. Actually, the Holy Spirit and I already talked about this. I know that the bottom line with me is and always has been race.” I took a long sip of tea. “The hard part is knowing where to draw the line, Stelson. How do I keep my old self and gain this new self? Which one is better? Should I have to choose between being black and being like Jesus?”

“You were His before you were black, LaShondra.”

He’s right.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself before I was black—when God was ordering the steps of my life. Maybe back when He was piecing together my genealogy. He made me black for a reason, I was sure. But that blackness was never meant to override the calling He’d placed on my life.

Still, there were issues.

“The fact remains, Stelson, I don’t like the way the white teachers treat black students at our school.”

“What have you done about it so far?” he asked.

I sighed and plopped my arms down on the table. “I guess I’ve been subconsciously playing the role of the great equalizer, you know?”

He gave an understanding nod.

“It’s not so much the specifics of any one student’s case as it is the attitude I take in handling discipline procedures. I always come at it like it’s a race thing—and maybe it is, in some cases. I don’t know, Stelson. I am not going to enforce harsh punishments for stupid, silly stuff.

“Problem is, white teachers and I rarely agree on what’s stupid and what’s serious.”

“Why do you think that’s so?”

“Number one, I think they’re scared of black kids. Maybe because of what they read or see on television—who knows?

“Number two, they don’t understand our culture. They think that every time a black child gets loud, it’s disrespectful, but that’s not necessarily the case.

“And number three, I think some of the stuff white kids do is just as bad but goes unreported because it’s not a big culture shock to them when a white kid cheats on a test. To me, cheating on a test is worse than carrying a pick in your back pocket. And to me, constantly bullying someone is worse than having a fight.”

“Which brings us to the heart of the matter—that sometimes truth is relative,” he said.

“Relative to what?” I asked.

“Relative to perspective. Intentions. Interpretations.”

“Therein lies the problem.”

“What do you think can be done about the difference in perspective?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Stelson. I guess we all have to learn to negotiate differences instead of making judgments about them.” I smiled. “I think I got it.”

The look in Stelson’s eyes had gone from professional to personal. He smiled, now, nodding as though I were still talking.

“What?” I asked him.

“You
are so wonderful,” he said.

“Stelson, I am not trying to hear that right now.” I sat back in my chair and folded my arms.

“No, really.” He shook his head. “It takes a lot of courage to look at yourself in the mirror and evaluate your beliefs against God’s criteria. That’s challenging for anybody, no matter what their race or sex. It’s hard work, LaShondra. But you’ve submitted yourself to it.”

“You are so positive, you know that?” I pursed my lips. “I bet you pop out of bed every morning like a Pop-Tart, don’t you?”

I gave his hands a little squeeze, and to my surprise, he squeezed mine back. My heart rate flew up a notch with his unexpected gesture. Suddenly, my focus switched from my problems to the man in front of me. My eyes zeroed in on his lips as they came closer to me. I met him halfway, closed my eyes, and we kissed. The buzz was exhilarating.

I’m gonna have to tell my parents about Stelson.

I spent the next two and a half weeks in a crash course on love. Aside from tutoring on Wednesday nights with Stelson, and children’s church on Sunday, I pretty much stayed home undergoing this metamorphosis.

I bought several books on humanity, prejudice, and God’s love. I also prayed and fasted a few days as I felt the Holy Spirit birthing me into this new level of love and consciousness.

Stelson remained prayerful but gave me the space I needed to go through. We talked every day, even when he went to Michigan for a trade convention.

Sometimes he’d call me in the middle of the day just to check on me. “I’m fine,” I’d say. It was nice to have somebody looking out for me.

Dr. Hunt called me exactly three weeks after our initial meeting to schedule our second conference. In the meanwhile, I had a chance to talk with Beth Lang again. She told me that I needed to be ready to discuss the findings, and be willing to undergo some type of diversity or sensitivity training.

Because the Holy Spirit had prepared me for their findings, the second conference was actually anticlimactic. I conceded that the statistical data was troubling and I needed to be more aware of how I handled discipline, including having conferences with teachers when there was a difference in interpretation of a student’s actions.

“Dr. Hunt, do you think that maybe our campus could use some additional training in diversity?” I suggested.

She seemed pleased with my approach to solving the problem. “In speaking with your colleagues and reviewing your files, it became clear to me that this was simply a matter of miscommunication, perhaps deeply rooted in cultural differences.” Without placing blame, we settled on an amicable solution. I agreed to enroll in a sensitivity class at the local university, and she would get with the staff development coordinators to ensure that our entire campus staff received adequate training as well.

It had been a tough but productive hiatus.
Thank You, Lord, far bringing me out on top.
I went back to work with a renewed sense of commitment to my students and staff. Miss Jan hugged me when I got into the office. I hadn’t been expecting it, but I welcomed it.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said, “we are so glad to have you back. I know it must have been hard—it was certainly hard on me. But I did what I know you would have told me to do. I prayed for you, Miss Smith.”

“Thank you, Miss Jan. I certainly needed it.”

I did my best to steer clear of Mr. Butler, but he found me in the main foyer during the lunch hour. I smiled at him, intent on keeping our conversation civil. “Good afternoon, Mr. Butler.”

He shot me a sly grin. “Did you enjoy your little vacation?”

Vacation? How do I tell this man off and still stay in the Spirit?
“It was a very blessed three weeks,” I answered truthfully.

When I got back from cafeteria duty, I found a huge gift basket of chocolates attached to balloons on my desk. “Oh, when did this get here?” I asked Miss Jan.

“A few minutes ago.” She rushed into my office. “Open the card! Open it! It’s from Stelson, isn’t it?

The card read,
Happy Work-Day.

Miss Jan was right. It was from Stelson.

Chapter 16

The paternal side of my family was religious on holidays. They were C.M.E. members—Christmas, Mother’s Day, and Easter. They believed in God and Jesus but, for the most part, they were not spiritually active until necessary. Aside from the holidays, thunderstorms were the only other occasion I saw Grandmomma Smith would pull out a Bible.

“Y’all cut off those TVs! Open some windows! Git off that phone! Everybody sit your butts down and shut up!” Her three- hundred -pound frame shook the floor as she walked the perimeter, settling the whole house down.

We scrambled to the main room, obeying her orders with fear and trembling. Jonathan and I sat Indian-style on the oval rope carpet.

“Wh.
. .
why we got to stop playin’?” Jonathan stuttered.

“Cause God is doin’ His work right now, chile, that’s why. Now, you shut your mouth and don’t ask you Grandmomma Smith no more questions. Children ain’t supposed to ask no questions. Just do as you’re told,” she grumbled while gently cracking her Bible open to a place she had marked with a red ribbon.

I thought for sure she was gonna get struck down for talking to us so mean while holding the Holy Bible. We sat quietly as the storm passed over. She rocked back and forth, humming a generic gospel hymn.

The good thing about Grandmomma Smith (which I didn’t come to appreciate until I was an adult) was her ability to teach me things—things you could not learn by reading a book. I never asked her to teach me anything; she’d just see that I didn’t know how to do something and then insist I learn it before I left her house.

“Shondra, you mean to tell me you can’t blow a bubble with bubble gum?” she asked me one day while we were outside sharing the candy we’d gotten from the ice-cream man.

“No, ma’am.” Was I in trouble?

“That’s a shame. Seven-year-old girl don’t know how to blow a bubble. Your daddy says you got straight A’s, but let me tell you somethin’—white folks can teach you a lot of stuff in them books, but they can’t teach you common sense, they can’t teach you how to survive, and they can’t make people like you.

“Come here, gal. I’mo teach you how to blow a bubble. That’s somethin’ every little girl oughta know.”

Somewhere in her impromptu lesson, she’d cuss and command me to pay closer attention, to watch her every move and catch on. That’s how it always was. When she taught me to tie my shoes, she pushed me until I could do it in ten seconds flat.

“One of these days you’re gonna have to do it fast and do it right the first time. Now, untie ‘em and do it again! And don’t start that cryin’, ‘fore I give you somethin’ to cry about for real!”

She stayed on me until I learned how to perform these life skills right—quickly, the first time. These things, she said, I would take and use for the rest of my life: on my job, in my marriage, with my children.

I was afraid to go to Grandmomma Smith’s house, because she was quick to cuss anybody out—man, woman, or child. She wasn’t your everyday grinnin’, bakin’, let-you-get-away-with- murder kind of grandmother. Grandmomma Smith was raw. She was intense and curt, but she never whipped us. She didn’t have to.

* * * * *

Stelson had been right about the
fact
that I would, at some point, become immune to the staring. It still bugged me. But spending time with him, being in his company, was worth the buzz in public.

When I was with Peaches, I was somewhat guarded. She told me I was being too sensitive. I told her she was being insensitive. We agreed to disagree and moved on. It was nice to have her reality checks every once in a while. Fortunately or unfortunately, Peaches was too busy with Quinn to pay much attention to what went on between Stelson and me. Apart from our singles Bible study class, I rarely saw her.

When I was with my parents, it was as though Stelson didn’t exist. Momma made known her suspicions about my dating someone, but she didn’t press me much. She’d heard through the COGIC grapevine that I had brought a white man to church. I wasn’t sure if she’d put two and two together yet—or maybe she had, but was hoping that the relationship would play out with little incident.