No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown) (5 page)

With Seth in the car, Stelson
and I had to wait until we got home to discuss my father’s unauthorized history
lesson. Stelson put Seth in the tub. I took care of Zoe’s last bottle and her
kitchen-sink bath. My husband held it together long enough for me to read them
a story. Then, he uttered a quick family prayer before we put the kids in bed.

And then I followed him to
our bedroom to get the full story. “What happened?”

He helped me prop up my foot
on two pillows before he answered. “Seth can’t go over there anymore. Not until
we come to an understanding.”

“He has to go over there.
Daddy picks him up on Tuesdays and takes him to piano lessons at Mrs.
Gambrell’s, remember?”

He probably didn’t. I could
barely keep up with the taxi schedule and I was the driver. “Besides, Daddy
really could use the company.”

“He may have to go to a
senior center or something. Hang with people who want to hear his philosophy.”

I ignored the
not-gonna-happen suggestion. “What, exactly, was said?”

Stelson chewed on his bottom
lip for a second. “Basically, he told Seth that because he’s black, he’ll have
to work harder and be smarter than the white kids in his class in order to be
successful.”

Honestly, I thought Stelson
would be more upset about the whole ‘negro’ thing. “Well…,” I proceeded with
caution, “I mean, my dad was out of place for having
the black talk
with
him before we did. But it’s not like he told Seth a lie.”

“It
is
a lie,” Stelson
stressed. “And there’s no such thing as having
the
black
talk
.”

“Yes. There. Is.” I raised
off the headboard. “Granted, you probably never heard it. But Seth is biracial,
which makes him a minority. Historically and racially speaking, he
is
at
a disadvantage. He
will
have to be at the top of his game in order to
compete with his counterparts, assuming his skin will darken over time. I don’t
think he should hear this talk at four years old, but it is necessary.”

Stelson hissed, “I can’t
believe you’re saying this. On what grounds do you agree with your dad?”

His words stung me as his
wife and as my father’s daughter. “What planet are you on? Seth is black. And
even if he never looks black, Zoe sure will. You’ve got to see things for what
they are. America will label them black. And that label comes with
the
black
talk
. You have one in elementary school. Have another one when their
hormones kick in, especially for boys. Another one when they go off to college,
the military or wherever.”

I contained my wincing as
Stelson sat down near my foot, causing the bed to bounce slightly. This
certainly wasn’t our first disagreement about the kids. I believed in swatting
Seth’s bottom any time he disobeyed. Stelson was more on the “save spankings
for major infractions” page, use “time out” for everything else.

He thought I bought the kids
way too many clothes. I said our kids represented our family and should be
well-dressed.

I believed in lavish
Christmases with a ton of gifts under the tree. The joy of watching Seth open
them filled my heart. Stelson believed kids should only get a few toys for
Christmas because it’s a celebration of Christ, not us.

Hands down, Stelson was
better at listening to my arguments. Or at least he’d pretend to listen. In the
end, if he didn’t change his mind, we usually defaulted to his leading since he
was the one who had to report to God on behalf of our family (I learned that in
a Titus 2 class at church).

Anyway, that night was no
different. He stopped churning through his anger and disbelief and genuinely
asked me, “What
is
the black talk anyway?”

“It’s where we sit them down
and tell them about our history in Africa and America. Then we tell them there
are still some people who will look down on them because they’re black. We let
them know that when people see black kids, they’re prejudged. We teach about
Emmett Till and Rodney King and Treyvon Martin. Teach them not to run from
police officers or be disrespectful because cops will shoot first and ask
questions later,” I filled Stelson in.

“Being disrespectful and
running from cops is a bad move for
anybody
, not just black people.”

He wasn’t getting it.

“Shondra, when and if Seth
faces discrimination, after pointing to Christ, I’m going to refer to President
Obama so my son will know that if a man with the same racial makeup can become
the President of the United States of America, there’s absolutely no reason why
Seth can’t achieve his goals as well.”

Stelson’s brow drew into a
knot. “Is this what black people are telling their kids?”

“Society will tell them if we
don’t.” I rubbed my husband’s strong, muscular arm. My heart ached for him and
I could only imagine how his heart must have been breaking with the news that
he would have to prepare his children for a future he couldn’t imagine.

But instead of agreeing with
me, Stelson shook his head. “No. I’m not going to pour the fear of man into
Seth and Zoe.”

“We have to prepare them for
real
life
,” I said.

“Life in Christ
is
real life,” he argued. “I don’t want Seth and Zoe to think that the promises of
God end where their skin color begins.”

“But the
world
is not
in Christ,” I reasoned.

“Since when does the world
determine anything? I mean, do you think when God declared ‘I know the plans I
have for you’, He forgot to say that the plans are only valid if you’re not
black?”

My entire schema as an
African American and as a believer clashed almost as much as when I’d found
myself falling in love with Stelson. There I was again, deciding which side to
lean on: my blackness or my faith.

“I can’t do this tonight.” I
gave up as Stelson’s new philosophy coursed through my head, all the way down
to my throbbing foot.

“Let’s pray,” he offered.

He kneeled on my side of the
bed, his bald crown reflecting the light from our ceiling fan. My poor husband
had tried to hold on to the sides and front, but he finally had to let them go
when someone told him he looked like George Costanza from Seinfeld.

He was still sensitive about
his hair loss, so I refrained from stroking his head. Instead, I rested a hand
on his shoulder, touching in agreement.

“Father, we come before You
today thanking You for Your grace. Thanking You for the blessing of health in
Christ. I speak healing into my wife’s foot. I thank You for sustaining her,
strengthening her to be a great wife and mother and assistant principal. I pray
that we would both be obedient to the plans You have for us. Finally, God, as You
have done so many times before, I pray that You will bring us to an
understanding about how to raise the precious children You have given us, Zoe
and Seth. Give us wisdom to know how much of the world’s system to expose them
to. Like Christ told the disciples, we want them to be wise as serpents, but
innocent as doves. Teach us the balance. Teach us…”

That’s about all I heard
before I dozed off on my husband’s prayer.

I figured I’d give my father
a few days to calm down before I went over there after work to have a certain
discussion. “Daddy, you cannot take it upon yourself to teach Seth how to be a
black man.”

“Stelson sure can’t do it,
and you can’t either. So who does that leave?”

My father took another bite
of his syrup sandwich and chewed it as though it were a T-bone steak. His face
thin, eyes sunken, skin dry. It was hard to tell whether old age, poor eating
habits, or sorrow was eating away at my father.

Sidetracked by his meal, I
asked, “Why aren’t you eating the frozen dinners I brought you last week?”

“I don’t want no freezer
food. Too many preservatives. This here,” he held the slices of bread in the
air, “is good, fresh eatin’. Back when I was growing up in Ellerson, Momma used
to pack these for our lunches every day, and other kids was jealous because we
actually had two slices,
and
something in between ‘em.”

To increase my aggravation,
he stuffed a super-sized bite into his mouth, almost causing himself to gag.

Lord, how did my mother
put up with this ornery man for almost fifty years?
I loved my daddy, but he was a bonafide
grouch who had gotten even worse since Momma passed away. Now there was no one
to counter his negative spiels or tell him to turn off CNN because he was
getting too riled up about all the bad news reports.

Get back to the business,
LaShondra
. “Like I was
saying. Stelson and I would really appreciate it if you would let us decide
when and how much to tell Seth about growing up African American. Can you
respect that?”

He poked out his bottom lip.
“Well tell me this, then. What exactly do you and Stelson plan on tellin’ Seth
about being a black man in America?”

I still wasn’t completely
sold on Stelson’s plan enough to articulate it well. And I realized that I
didn’t owe my father an explanation. But the sincerity in his deeply set eyes
reminded me that if my brother, Jonathan, didn’t settle down soon, Seth might
be the only grandson my father would ever meet. “We’re going to raise Seth to
have more faith in God than fear of man.”

Daddy pushed his back against
the chair. “So, y’all gonna let him live in fantasy-land, basically, where he
won’t know anything about his history, how white people destroyed his
ancestors? You gonna make him think he’s white?”

“Seth
is
half-white as
much as he is half-black,” I reminded my father. “Do you want him to hate half
of himself?”

My father tapped his index
finger on the kitchen table. “It’s not
hate
. It’s
education
. He
needs to understand why every time he looks up, there’s a black man being
arrested on TV. Media manipulation.” My father’s voice rose. “He needs to know
why there’s hardly any black kids in the books he reads. Oppression and
discrimination. If he knows what’s really going on, he won’t internalize all
the hidden messages.” By this point, spittle was collecting in the corners of
my father’s mouth as a product of his passionate plea.

I couldn’t even argue with
him because he had a point. Seth didn’t know he was half-black or half-white. Seth
really didn’t care. Stelson and I hadn’t planned on making a big deal out of
race with our kids. And yet, children are observant. As sure as the little
black girls preferred white dolls in the Drs. Kenneth and Mamie Clark
black/white doll experiments in the 1940s, Seth and Zoe would leave their
impressionable childhoods with concepts in place.

Pressing my fingertips over
my eyelids, I gave my father his due. “I hear you, Daddy. I do. Stelson and I
will figure this out. Just don’t go black-history-month on him again without
running it by us, okay?”

“What’s wrong with you?” he
asked.

I sat up straight, let my
hands fall to the table. “What do you mean?”

Daddy raised his chin. He
looked down his nose at me, examining my face. “You look tired.”

“I
am
tired. I’ve got
a six month old, a four year old, and a demanding job. What do you expect?”

“I expect Stelson ought not
make my daughter work like a Hebrew slave,” Daddy said as he lowered his glare.

“Stelson doesn’t
make
me work,” I clarified. “I work because I enjoy it.”

“If you say so,” my father
gave his two cents. He backed away from the table and walked toward the trashcan
to throw his napkin away.

The garbage was overflowing,
as was the pile of plates in the sink. Momma never went to bed with a dirty
dish in the sink. A part of me wanted to fuss at Daddy, but after reflecting on
my own housekeeping flaws, I decided to keep my mouth shut. “I’ve gotta go pick
up Zoe. Daycare closes at 6:30. Would you wake up Seth and send him to the car
for me?”

“You know he’s gonna want to
spend the night,” my father snickered.

“He’s crazy about you.”

“I know,” my father agreed
proudly as he stood.

“Give Zoe a kiss for me,” he
requested.

“I will.”

“You take care of yourself,
Shondra. You can always move back here if you need to. All bills paid.”

Are you kidding me?

He gave my arm a reassuring
squeeze. In that moment, I decided not to take offense. Instead of asking him
why on earth he would suggest that I leave my husband, I took Daddy’s offer for
how he meant it: a father reminding his daughter that she would always be his
baby.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

Of course, my father’s
gesture put me in a sentimental mood as I drove to pick up Zoe. He loved me. He
wanted me taken care of. And the more I thought about my father’s love for me,
I couldn’t help but think of my heavenly Father’s abounding love. He wanted
exactly what Daddy wanted for me: Peace. Well-being. All this exhaustion, this
lack of focus, this scattered attention couldn’t be His plan for me. And the
bad thing was, I couldn’t even take time that evening to pray about the
situation because I had a portfolio full of teacher performance data to review
before another staffing meeting in the morning.