College Boy : A Novel (9781416586500) (19 page)

“You mean if I
beg
for one, I can get one,” Troy insisted. “See, White people want you to get hungry to the point where you'll do anything for a job. Then they throw you some sorry, low-paying gig. Or better yet, a temporary job,” he said sarcastically. He stopped himself short. He didn't want to slip and tell his aunt about the job he had walked out on. He knew that money was money. Judy would have been upset to hear that he turned down anything. But not his mother. Charlotte had always taught Troy to reach for the sky. And he always did.

Judy asked, reading his mind, “Did you see your mother last night?”

“Naw. But I know she wants to see me.”

“Yeah, well it's already nine o'clock, and this neighborhood ain't no good at night. So you watch yourself if you decide to leave,” Judy warned him.

 

Troy called home to his mother. He waited for a bus while holding a bag of clothing and accessories. The bus was running late. He grew nervous when he spotted six rowdy youths crossing the street in his direction. Never in his life did he shake and watch his back so much.

He arrived at the downtown subway, however, unharmed. He waited for a train inside the Broad Street station, watching three homeless Black men cuddling up in separate corners to find shelter for the night.

People watched and ignored.

“Ay', yo, homey. You got a dollar on you, man?” a dingy-looking teenager asked him. Troy had an extra dollar but he wanted it for himself.

“Naw, man,” he answered.

The dingy teen grimaced. “What chew think I'm stupid or something, man? I know you got some money on you.” He stepped closer. Troy prepared himself for action. He clutched his fist and stood sideways to get off a good solid punch. But the taller teen walked away. He wasn't after a fight.

Safety was the key to getting to his mother that night. Security was better than trust. What if the dude was really planning to rob me when I pulled out my wallet? Troy thought. Then again, maybe he just needed a dollar to get home. Nevertheless, safety was safety.

 

“Hey, Mom, are you home?” Troy yelled, barging inside of the Potter family home. He ran up the stairs to find his mother in bed.

“Yeah, boy, I'm here. But I'm tired. I'll talk to you in the morning,” she said, drowsily. She barely peeked her head over the lightweight quilt. It was close to midnight. Charlotte had been busy working at AT&T's downtown office. She had been employed as a telephone operator for twelve years.

“Aw'ight, I'll see you in the morning,” Troy said, leaving her room. He sprinted to Scooter's house. Blue and Raheem were there, watching a movie on cable.

“Yo, the whole crew is here, hunh?” Troy said inside Scooter's basement.

Scooter's eyes lit up. “Ay', man, we was just talkin' about you. I told them that you don't believe in God.”

“I don't.”

Blue stared Troy down from his usual seat on the couch. “Yo, man, there is a God. You better stop that shit, cuz.”

“I told him, man,” Scooter said, grinning.

“Everybody got their own opinions,” Raheem injected.

“Yeah, well his shit is wrong. There has to be a God. White people don't really know where we came from,” Scooter argued. “Troy been up in college listening to that scientific stuff too long. But you're right about Black people, though. 'Cause we are nuts.”

Raheem looked at Troy quizzically. “You said that Black people are nuts?”

Scooter filled him in. “Yeah, we was talkin' about all the stupid shit we do. Like, how black-ass Blue hates himself, chasing after light-skinned girls all the time,” Scooter said through laughter.

“Yeah, aw'ight, cuz. That's why I got a girl. You be in here jerking off every night,” Blue responded.

“I mean, she only, like, fifteen years old. You twenty now. That don't make no sense,” Scooter refuted. “And you got that girl pregnant, talkin' 'bout y'all gon' get married. Where the hell y'all gon' live at, in your Mom's crib? I mean, face it, we nuts,” Scooter insisted.

“She's only fifteen?” Troy asked Blue.

“Naw, she's sixteen,” Blue said before giggling.

Scooter burst out laughing. “He gon' say she sixteen, like it's a big difference. He still robbed the cradle, just to try and get something close to a White girl.”

“Hold up, cuz, she ain't no White girl. She'll get mad as hell if she hear you say that shit about her,” Blue said defensively.

“What race is she, then? She looks White to me. The only thing that ain't White about her is her body and them pointy eyes. Otherwise, she's White with a tan,” Scooter argued. “And if you wanna get technical about it, us and Puerto Ricans don't have a race, for real. What should we call ourselves and shit? The White man fucked all of us.”

“Man, I got a race. I'm Black. Your light-ass ain't got no race, you half-breed motherfucker,” Blue snapped. “I ain't got
no
white blood in me.”

Scooter sucked his teeth while Raheem and Troy listened on for entertainment. “Man, shut the hell up. 'Cause you know you hate yourself,” Scooter said to Blue. “I remember when Blue used to tell me every day that he wished he could be as light as me.”

Blue stood up, shaking his head violently. “
Get the fuck outta here!
I ain't never said no shit like that!”

Raheem frowned, right after he had stopped laughing. “You know what, y'all all nuts, for real,” he declared. “Them White people got y'all messed up in the head. And Troy, man, I've never known you to say anything bad about your race. You was proud as hell to be Black. I remember you used to stay out in the sun all day, just to see how dark you could get. Now you up here listening to Scooter.

“Scooter always been ashamed to be Black, cuz. That's why he stay in the house all the time, to avoid the sun,” Raheem said with a smirk.

Troy looked depressed as Scooter responded. “Who is you to talk? You don't even know what that shit around your neck means. You a nut, too, running around wearin' African symbols on you neck without knowing what it means!” Scooter shouted. Raheem smiled, unprovoked. “Troy, don't listen to him, man. Scooter really wants to be White.”

“
What?
Aw man, if you so smart, Raheem, then tell us what that shit around your neck means!” Scooter challenged.

Raheem let out a tired sigh. “Scooter, if I'm correct, the green is for the hope and the land, the red is for the blood we shed, and black is for the pride of the people,” he calmly said. “See, y'all don't understand why White people really took us from Africa. Black people were like gold, man. We were the strongest. That's why we made the best slaves.

“Everybody wanted some of that
black gold, from Africa.
That's why they could sell us all around the world, 'cause
we
were the most valuable thing on earth. Y'all don't understand that White people want to trick y'all into believing that everything which is white is beautiful, good and pure. But
black is the beauty of all colors.
Matter of fact, White people came from us, and they don't want us to know that. So they keep us down and
miseducated.

“Y'all been fooled into thinking that
black is ugly and evil.
But White people knew that
black was supreme, all along.
Blacks had something powerful, so White people took it. And that's why they will
never let us go back
, to reclaim
Africa.
”

The basement got quiet as Raheem took center stage. He emphasized various points like a Black Muslim.

“
We
are a rich people, and
White people
are jealous of
us.
That's why they
hate us
so much. We never did anything to them. They kicked our ass for
four hundred years.
It gots to be 'cause they're jealous. But y'all don't even see it 'cause y'all too busy
hating yourselves.
It's
diamonds
in
Africa.
We're like diamonds. And no matter what they do to us,
we will never die
.”

 

Troy fell asleep that night amazed at what Raheem had said. He felt proud that he even knew Raheem. That's why White people give us scholarships, to capture that
black gold
to keep for themselves. They take us right away from our race. And that's why White people are on top, Troy pondered. Whites have been taking the best-trained Blacks for all these years and leaving the rest of the Black race helpless, to rip one another apart.

He realized that the inner-city Blacks were becoming the gold of the White universities. They used them to further White people. Blacks were the golden entertainers of the world, outclassing everyone. Blacks won the basketball championships and the football championships, bringing money and prestige to White schools all across the country. It was the Blacks that won the gold medals for the United States in the Olympic competitions. It was the black gold that kept America shining. The black gold had built America. And that black gold shined the greatest in Africa.

“Troy, Troy, Troy, come here! Quick!” Charlotte shouted from the front door that morning. “They finally sent your financial aid report,” she said, ruffling through his university mail. “And they said that your grades qualify you for a full academic scholarship.

“Oh, baby! I'm so happy for you! They're going to pay your way to college!
You're on a scholarship now!
”

E
VEN WITH THE STRENUOUS SCHEDULE OF PREMED REQUISITES
, Troy had set a goal to trace his people's accomplishments and history. The summer back home had proven to be more than just another hot, sunny vacation. It had expanded his curiosity.

However, he had forgotten that he attended a White university, which would teach him practically nothing about the attributes of Black people. As far as the history books were concerned, Blacks contributed very little to the building of America or to civilization itself. There was research to be done.

Troy moved into his single-room dormitory on the campus's southwest side, the fourth floor of Walton Hall. He gave it a good, hard look. The door was missing its lock piece. He went to get that fixed. The mirror was broken. He had that repaired. Next to his door was broken wall plaster. It would break even more every time he went in or out. The water in his sink didn't work right either. The former resident had placed rubber bands on the water valve to keep it from sprinkling all over the room. Troy took the rubber bands off, only to be splashed with a chestful of water. He later discovered that his aged window was jammed. He would have to get that fixed the following morning.

 

“Excuse me. Last night I found that my window wouldn't open, and I wanted to fill out a report to get it fixed,” Troy explained to the gray-haired Black woman working at the front desk of his dormitory.

She turned to the gray-haired White woman standing right behind her. “Ah, Margaret. He wants to file for a room repair.”

“What kind of damage is it?” Margaret asked her.

“His window is stuck.”

Margaret nodded. “We can have that fixed right away.” She gave him a blank three-by-five card. “Fill out your name and room number and the maintenance man will get to you as soon as he can.”

Troy nodded back. He wondered what the Black woman's job was. Other students came and asked her questions that she got her White coworker to answer for them, too. Maybe she's newly hired, Troy thought.

 

Lunch was being served, and Troy was fortunate to be in a dorm that had its own cafeteria. Everyone else had to travel back to the freshman dorms to eat (four blocks away and on the east side of Madison Avenue).

Troy sat alone with his plate and was immediately joined by his big college friend from Atlanta, Georgia.

“Hey, Troy, what's up, cuz?” Bruce asked, excited. He leaned over and hugged Troy's shoulders. “I missed you, mayn. What chew do all summer?”

Troy smiled. “Nothing at all, man. I sat in front of the TV and changed the channels all summer. Then I turned into a bookworm.”

Bruce laughed louder than was necessary. “You still funny as hell,” he said. “But I worked for my uncle as a gas monitor this summer. My uncle is, like, the manager. All I had to do was say his name and I had the job.”

Troy nodded and looked around, noticing the joyous attitudes that White students were returning to school with. He averted his eyes as he ate, not wanting to see them hugging and squeezing one another. It was a heartwarming sight for them, maybe, but it was making him sick to his stomach. He always thought they went overboard with their affection. They were just too happy to be real. But so was Bruce.

“What chew thinking about?” Bruce asked him.

“Nothin', cuz. Nothin' at all,” Troy lied.

Two sisters sitting at the next table drew their attention to them. “How y'all doin'?” the bolder sister asked. Bruce answered and got up to sit with them before Troy could open his mouth.

“Well, how are you two?” Bruce said, taking a seat in an extra chair. Troy no longer bothered to speak, since Bruce had obviously taken control of the situation. “Did you two have a nice summer vacation?” Bruce asked.

Troy began to snicker.

“What chew laughin' at, Troy?” Bruce challenged.

Troy shook his head with a mouthful of grilled cheese. “Nothin', man. You just sound funny,” he mumbled through a smile.

Bruce cracked a grin himself. “Yeah, I always talk like this to the honeys. It makes 'em feel good to hear that sweet, baby voice. You know?”

“Yeah, well it ain't workin',” the bold sister said jokingly.

Peter appeared from nowhere to take a seat next to Troy. He was beaming like a spoiled child on Christmas morning.

“What are you smilin' about?” Troy asked him.

“Oh, it's just good to be back, my brother. Everybody seems to have made it back in one piece. And it's just a bright and sunny day.”

“So what did you do all summer?”

“I worked at my church's day care center.”

“You got paid for that?”

“Yeah,” Peter answered. “It was a job, and I worked in the church with the kids. Troy, it's amazing how happy kids can be, that is, until they get out into the real world and find all of these problems that grown-ups go through.”

“Hey, what's goin' on, religious boy?” Bruce said, returning to the guys' table.

“Religious
man
,” Peter corrected with a smile.

“Naw, I'm just joking, cuz. But what did you do all summer?” Bruce asked him seriously.

“I was just telling my brother Troy that I had a job at my church,” Peter repeated. He had changed his major again after not doing so well in his previous courses. Bruce was finally a member of the football team after coming back to school in late August to begin team workouts. Their friend Doc had gotten a job painting with his cousins. Clay had no problems ever with getting jobs either, since his cousin was a councilman.

Everyone looked the same, except for Peter's low haircut and Bruce's high one. All five of them lived in Walton for their sophomore year. Troy had not spoken to James or Matthew yet. They were the only guys in their freshman group that lived outside their dorm.

 

Troy had not yet bought any posters for his room. He didn't want to spend any money. He had managed to save only a few dollars from cutting hair all summer.

His first class was a biology lecture to the north of his dorm. It quickly became evident that he was back at the predominantly White university. He was nearly overrun by more broken Mack trucks of White students while on his way to the auditorium. But his sophomore year he was ready to stand his ground instead of moving.

Entering his first biology lecture, Troy decided to sit next to a Black woman. She had braided hair and was wearing a green neon T-shirt.

“Hi, how are you?” she asked.

Troy immediately recognized her Caribbean accent.

“Are you Jamaican?” he quizzed.

She smiled, then nodded. “My father is, but my mother is American,” she answered. “Are you going into the science field?”

“Yeah. Premed.”

She nodded again. “That's good. Most of us Blacks are going into business. The real money is in the science fields. You'll always have work.”

“I know,” Troy agreed with a grin. “What's your major, though?”

“Well, I'm leaning toward physical therapy. But I haven't made up my mind yet.”

Clay walked into the class unexpectedly.

“Yo Clay, what's up, man!” Troy shouted from his seat, surprised to see him. Clay smiled and went straight to the back of the auditorium. Troy thought he was going to sit with him, three rows from the front. But Clay suspected that Troy was trying to collect the sister's phone number. He didn't want to intervene.

Troy realized it might be rude to just leave. But after a few minutes, one of the Jamaican's girlfriends came to sit beside them, giving him an opportunity to join Clay in the back without feeling guilty about leaving her alone in a room full of White students. He had experienced what that felt like during his freshman year, and it wasn't good.

Their first lecture was shorter than expected. Troy ended up alone after Clay rushed to his Marsh County job. He then hung out right across the street from the biology building on the northwest side of campus, where his two o'clock Black literature class would be held inside the cultural studies building.

Black studies was an essential. However, Troy wanted to be involved in the literary section of Black studies as opposed to the historical section. He wanted to hear about Black people from the words of Black men and Black women. He had become skeptical of books written by Whites. They'll have you saying things like “Brown Caucasian,” he thought.

When it was near two o'clock, Troy walked into his Black literature class and was shocked to see as many White students as Blacks. He thought maybe he was in the wrong room, yet the young blond male next to him confirmed it.

A balding White man about fifty entered the class and began to pass out the course syllabus. It was impossible! A White man was going to teach a literary course on Black authors!

“Well, hello, class. My name is John Jameson, and I know some of you are wondering why I elected to teach this course,” he assumed, hitting on a question that most of the Black students were definitely wondering.

Professor Jameson cleared his throat and smiled. “Well, to begin with, I was an English teacher many years ago. At that time I realized that the only Black work which I had come across was Richard Wright's
Native Son.

“The book intrigued me to the point where I started to fish for other powerful Black authors. Well, as it turned out, I ended up reading hundreds of Black works and began to include them in my American literature courses, which covered mostly White male authors.

“I began to include writers like Zora Neale Hurston, some of James Baldwin's works, Toni Morrison, Ralph Ellison, Frederick Douglass, and Jean Toomer.”

He began to rub his hands together in excitement while pacing in front of the blackboard. “Eventually, it got to the point where I said there were too many good Black authors being missed. So in nineteen eighty-two, I proposed that we set up a course dedicated to Black authors. I also proposed the women's literature course now at the university,” Professor Jameson added. Troy was impressed and feeling more at ease.

“When I taught the first course, I only had a few students. But if you just look around the room, you can all see how much interest has grown.”

The students all clapped (Black, White, and Asian) after he finished his opening remarks. He had taken great initiative.

“Well, obviously, we can't include all of the works, but I have selected a few major ones,” he continued. “Now before we begin, I would like to know exactly how much you all know about slavery.”

After a hushed silence, Troy became the first to speak. “Well, all I know is what I've seen in the movie
Roots.
'Cause it's not like our parents are going to teach us about slavery. Many of them don't know,” he said, garnering immediate attention in the class. Of course, Troy knew a lot more than Alex Haley's
Roots
; he was simply curious to see where his comment would lead.

“Yeah, that's the same way with me,” a spirited, smooth-faced woman added. “My parents didn't say anything to me about it. So I figured it was over, and that you might as well forget about it.” She sat to the right of Troy, wearing an African kente cloth wrapped around her head.

“That's because most textbooks don't seem to want us to remember. Blacks only cover about two paragraphs in the present history books. It's like we were brought here, enslaved, and then Lincoln freed us,” a bearded, lightskinned guy interjected from the back of the class. He possessed a strong, deep voice that demanded respected.

Professor Jameson nodded. “It is narrow-minded to suggest that Blacks contributed so little to the shaping of this country. In fact, we are going to find that a lot of history is only told in Black-authored books. We are also going to discuss the religious aspects of the Black experience.

“Does anyone know why the Black churches were so important during slavery?” he challenged.

Troy was alert and ready to learn. He had read a few things.

“The church became the stronghold of the Black community because Whites didn't let them enter their churches,” Troy commented. “They told slaves and freedmen that the Lord is the way to a good life. The church was also the only thing that Blacks owned, along with barbershops and funeral homes. No White person wanted to cut their hair or bury their dead. But as the Black preachers began to get more power through the church, White priests began to fear them.”

“He's right,” Professor Jameson eagerly agreed. “The White congregations also used a piece of white wood and a fine comb; only Blacks who had pale skin and straight hair could enter. Therefore, it separated the Black race as far as complexions were concerned. Of course, when the Black preachers began to talk about slavery, many White preachers told them to stick to the scripture of sin and the devil. In fact, in many instances, White preachers took over Black congregations specifically for that purpose.”

“Religion was used as a pacifier for Black people. It subdued them into a nonviolent lifestyle, which in turn would keep them delusioned and stop revolt,” the deep-voiced brother in the back responded. He called himself Mike X, and was a writer of nationalistic poetry.

“That's the same way I thought of it,” the kentewearing sister added. Her name was Nia Imani, and she was a history major. “Religion was used to trap Black people into believing that everything would be all right, and that you would go to heaven when you die. I don't see that as a way out for Black people's problems. We have to understand that we must solve things while we're living.”

Troy had no further comments. He felt the tension stirring. He had realized that religion was not something to discredit among Blacks, who seemed to be dedicated followers of faith. An older Black woman shook her head with a grimace of concern. “I think that that is entirely false. Through the churches, Blacks were able to teach and have power in their community. The church kept Blacks together as a people during a time when they needed it, and it is still the Black stronghold today. Whatever motive Whites initially had does not matter at this point, because the church has brought us this far and it will continue to strengthen us,” she stated with authority. Her name was Rose Perry and she was in her forties. She had come back to school specifically for African-American culture courses.