Culture Clash (4 page)

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.

I
didn’t get to chill with my girls yesterday at all because I had to meet with Mrs. Malone about my English paper topic. And being that it was a regular short Tuesday yesterday for teacher’s meetings, I had no time to do anything but get to class and sit in my mandatory AP meetings during lunch and break, which are now on Tuesdays and Thursdays until the AP exams are over.

With the AP exams less than two months away, teachers and students alike are feeling the pressure. This is my first year on the AP track, and so far it hasn’t been too different from the honors classes I took last year, except for the meetings. Being a sophomore was bliss compared to my junior year. If it weren’t for my friends, school would be unbearable, especially now that I have to deal with Mrs. Bennett twice a week. I’m just glad that Mr. Adewale is here full-time now, to balance out the evil Mrs. B’s presence in my life.

Speaking of bitches, I talked to Rah briefly about his and his ex Sandy’s living situation, and it was less than favorable for me. I’m not sure what to do about loving Rah, and I know he’s just trying to do the right thing, but I’m convinced that living with Sandy is not it. How can I get him to understand where I’m coming from without sounding like a jealous hater? Until she’s out of his house I can’t be in his life the way he wants me to be. In his mind, he and I, along with his daughter, Rahima, could be the perfect teenage family. I don’t know what dream world he’s living in, but I could never be down with that arrangement as long as Sandy’s receiving mail at his address.

I didn’t share with Mama this latest development in my soap opera with Rah, but I did tell her about my school drama during her regularly scheduled hair appointment at Netta’s shop yesterday afternoon. She and Netta, Mama’s best home girl, gave me advice on how to deal with racial injustice on a spiritual level, and also assigned me spirit homework to accompany the verbal lesson. As if I didn’t already have enough work to do. Mr. Adewale taking over my Spanish class has been a mixed blessing indeed. I have more studying in that class now than ever before. But luckily most of our homework for debate class is writing responses to the topics discussed in class. There’s also some reading, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.

Now that me and my crew have fourth period together and we’re friends again, it’s fun being in class with them. And with the topics that Mr. Adewale chooses, there’s always plenty for us to argue about. And from the look of the topic on the board, today’s no exception.

As soon as we’re all settled in our seats, class begins with a bang.

“So, our debate topic for the day deals with race in society. Is America truly a melting pot and, if it is, does race still matter?” Mr. Adewale’s good at choosing insightful topics to discuss. It’s also interesting being in a general education class, where most of the black students are. I’ve never been in a class at South Bay where the white students are the minority. It feels empowering to free up a bit and not be the only black student.

“Hell no, it ain’t no melting pot. This ain’t nacho cheese,” Del says, starting the debate off with a bang.

“It won’t become one because you all won’t let it,” Candace, one of the few white girls in the class, states. She sounds like she could be friends with Jeremy, who looks at her and smiles. Jeremy sits all the way back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, ready to watch the sparks fly.

“I don’t understand,” Emilio says. He sounds so sexy with his Spanish accent. I know most of the females in here would love an opportunity to hear him say their names over and over again.

“We know you don’t,” KJ says, making him and his boys laugh.

“That’s enough, KJ. I told you no disrespect would be allowed in this class at all,” Mr. Adewale says, checking KJ once and for all.

“What I mean to say is that I’m curious as to why America would want to melt away the uniqueness of each culture. There’s very little individuality in this country, if you ask me.”

“Good point, Emilio,” Mr. A says proudly. He loves it when his students think before they speak, as he states all the time. “Any counters?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a counter,” Jeremy says, sitting his tall frame erect in his seat, ready to give my new crush a run for his money. “This is one country with one constitution and one people, thus one culture. We can honor the various customs of the people within our society. But America is one melting pot.”

“And the people living here should either accept that or roll out.” Matt has been pissed with me since our discussion at the drama club meeting the other day. And I see he’s chosen our debate class as the perfect forum to vent his frustration.

“But some of the people who are here didn’t exactly have a choice in coming to this land, so we should be able to live our culture freely. Isn’t that also a part of our constitution?” Emilio looks across the room at me and smiles. Mr. A also smiles at my statement; obviously proud that at least one of us is speaking the truth. Other than Ms. Toni, everyone else in the administration would shudder at my words.

“Oh, here we go with slavery again. It’s the end of Black History Month, we know. Can we please move on from the past?” Candace says, sounding like the privileged white girl she is.

“Candace, it’s not in the past. That’s the point. The racism from times of captivity may have been more blatant, but the institutionalized racism is worse, because everyone can’t see it and some people actually choose to be blind,” I say, turning my focus to Jeremy. This is an argument we’ve had many times before and will continue to have as long as he thinks with a stick up his ass about the subject.

“Why are y’all always so angry?” Candace asks, silencing every black student in the previously bustling room. If we weren’t afraid of suffering the consequences, I think we would all be down for locking the door and giving her a proper ass-whipping right here and now. But we’ll have to settle this battle with our words instead.

“Because we’re always referred to as ‘y’all,’” I say. For the moment it doesn’t matter that Misty, KJ, and I don’t get along. Mickey and Shae even look at each other, ready to jump the white girl together if need be. Instantly, all the black students are unified against the others in the room. And they know it. Like my very first week at South Bay High as a sophomore, when a notorious skinhead wore a racist shirt on campus and promptly got his ass beat, we join forces when need be.

“That’s why we need a black history class, because y’all fools up here don’t know shit about being black,” KJ says heatedly. I don’t usually have anything nice to say about my pompous ex-boyfriend. But today I’m proud of him.

“We need our own club,” I say, speaking the first idea in my head. Mr. Adewale looks at me, his hazel eyes sparkling as if I said exactly what was on his mind, too. The bell rings, momentarily saving the white people in the room from having to discuss the subject any further.

“Good class today, and don’t forget to read the next chapter in your textbooks and have a valid response ready for tomorrow’s class,” Mr. Adewale says, rising from his desk and walking over to where I’m seated, still hot from the conversation. I don’t know why I always let these people up here get on my nerves. It’s not like the administration would ever teach true tolerance and respect, because they don’t have to. According to them, anyone who’s not white is the minority in every way, damned with how unjust their melting pot is.

“Jayd, if you’re serious about forming your own group, I’ll be happy to consider being your adviser.”

“I’m very serious,” I say, finally putting my textbook in my backpack and rising from my seat, ready to enjoy a relaxing lunch period. I need to cool off, and Jeremy inviting me out for Mexican food is all the chill I need. “It’s long overdue.” I’m so glad we have another black teacher to join Ms. Toni that I could shout it from the rooftop of the main office. If this were a plantation, the office would definitely be the big house, the classrooms the slave quarters, and the vast majority of the teachers would be the overseers. The problem is that most of these teachers don’t see themselves as being racist, and those are the worst kinds of bigots.

“Good,” Mr. A says, his eyes still aglow. If I knew suggesting a black club was all it would take to make him look at me like this I would’ve done it months ago. “Let’s all meet during lunch to discuss the idea further,” he says, addressing the students still in the room—including Jeremy, who’s now making his escape. I guess we won’t be having lunch together after all. “We’re going to have to be at our best to get approval from the administration to make our club valid. I can even pull in Ms. Toni as a co-adviser if she has time. I’m sure she’d be interested.”

“Now?” KJ asks, his fire already dwindling at the mention of sacrificing any of his free time, no matter the cause. And from the heavy sighing from the rest of his crew, I’d say they’re feeling just like their leader.

“Yes, now.” Mr. A’s serious about his shit and so am I. If I can unwillingly give my time to AP, I can certainly give it to my people. “It’s my lunch period, too, and I’m willing to give it up if you are.” At the risk of sounding like a punk, KJ agrees and we all split to get our food. I know half of the South Central clique won’t be in attendance for our first meeting, no matter what KJ decides to do. I can feel him not wanting to join another club, especially with basketball and track practice. But this is necessary, and will do him more good than harm.

“Wish we could, but Mickey and I have a meeting with the administration about her staying on the main campus, baby and all,” Nigel says. He sounds like he’s dreading it, as well he should. Athlete or not, dealing with the office is never a fun experience.

“Okay. I’m sure your friends will fill you in. Everyone else, let’s meet back here in ten minutes,” Mr. A says, gathering the homework papers from the empty desks and stacking them neatly on his desk. I follow my friends out to retrieve our lunches and get back here. I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m looking forward to this meeting.

Once we’re all settled with our lunches in tow, we immediately get down to business. With only thirty minutes left in the lunch period, there’s no time to waste. Nigel enters the classroom with a sullen look on his face, and Mickey is nowhere in sight. That can’t be good.

“Nigel, what happened to the meeting?” I ask, settling back into my seat, ready to get this meeting underway. I open my bag of Hot Cheetos and begin the smacking fest. I don’t know what it is about me and these chips lately, but whatever it is has got me sprung.

“Man, they only let me state my case and then told me to bounce. They’ll talk to me about my role in Mickey’s pregnancy later.” Sounds like some typical divide and conquer bull to me. The last time Mickey and Nigel were in the office together during the ditching investigation, they were tighter than Beyoncé and Jay-Z. But now Nigel’s here and my girl’s not. Something’s definitely wrong with this picture.

“How did Mickey feel about you deserting her?” I ask as Mr. A reclaims his post on the corner of his desk. The rest of the group files in, readjusting themselves in the warm room, ready to reengage in the creation of our new club. I wipe my red fingers on my napkin, take a drink from my water bottle, and continue my smacking. There’s a lot of ground to cover, but I’m still going to get my grub on like everyone else. Just as I anticipated, the majority of the class isn’t present, but much to my surprise KJ and his crew are here.

“I didn’t desert her,” Nigel whispers. “And Mickey said she could handle it and that she’ll meet us back here when she gets out of the meeting.” Nigel won’t admit it, but he’s scared for our girl. I am, too, especially considering that I’ve already witnessed what will happen if Mickey leaves the main campus to attend the continuation school on the other side of the football field. She was jealous, paranoid, and made my and Nigel’s lives a living hell. I’ll be damned if I go there again with her.

“There’s power in identification,” Mr. Adewale says, his baritone voice silencing our chatter and officially beginning the meeting. “So, what’s our group’s name?” he asks, taking a drink of his bottled water. He already inhaled his sandwich and apple like it was going out of style. Now he’s downing the water so fast it doesn’t even look like he’s swallowing. I wonder if eating fast comes with being from a long lineage of Ogun priests? Having a warrior as his head orisha or personal path of the creator who is also a great ancestor, must be very different from having a sweet orisha like Oshune crowning your head. Like Mr. A said, it’s all in the name.

“Black People United,” Money says. I’m actually impressed with his forethought in coming up with the name, especially considering he’s always renaming himself something silly. Just last month his name was CMoney. Now he only goes by Money. Next thing I know he’ll be calling himself Dime or something else like that. I wonder if he feels more powerful with each incarnation?

“That’s a good suggestion,” Mr. A. says, writing on the legal pad in front of him. His honey brown skin flexes with each stroke of the pen, making me wish I was the yellow-lined paper in his hands. “Any other suggestions?” he asks, snapping me out of my wishful thoughts.

“How about ‘AHP’?” Shae suggests. “It stands for ‘Authentic Hood People.’” She gets a good laugh from her South Central crew. Even her quiet man, Tony, lets out a giggle at that name. They’re not taking the club seriously. But, unlike me, Mr. Adewale still has hope for them.

“Okay, I’ll write that down,” Mr. A says, smiling as he scribes. I guess you’ve got to love our people no matter how ghetto they can be sometimes. “Let’s have one more suggestion,” he says, looking around the packed room. Half of the black students in the debate class are here. Chance, Emilio, and Alia are also present, solidifying their being down for equality, I assume. Fifteen members is a good start. It’s also fewer people to argue with, and that’s always a good thing.

“How about ‘The African Student Union,’” I add. “Just like the groups on college campuses.” KJ automatically rolls his eyes at my suggestion, but Mr. A seems to like it. KJ’s probably mad he didn’t come up with it himself.