“shame of being alive” was in fact the shame of being black and having a mere ten minutes to untangle your hair in the locker room after swimming. And some days she heard his voice saying: “Meanwhile, some kids in West Philly don’t have books. Shit don’t make sense.”
Back in her other life Kenya’s parents had even argued over whether they should allow Kenya to participate in the Mentally Gifted program at Lea School. The principal had been a parchment-colored snob who was so excited about the twenty white students who went there that all of them, even an excitable boy named Benjamin, whose knuckles practically dragged on the floor, were in MG. Johnbrown, who had originally talked about homeschooling her until it became clear that he would have to be the teacher, thought MG would make Kenya “an elitist.”
“You’re being a fanatic,” Sheila had said. “But I’m not drinking your Kool-Aid. It’s not like we’re talking about private school.”
“And we never would, Sheila, we never would.”
“Well, with only one of us working, we could never afford it.”
“Oh, is that why? Because I didn’t know that was the reason. I thought the reason was we were raising a black child who wouldn’t hate herself any more than this sick society already wants her to.”
“Don’t you dare give me one of your speeches, Johnbrown.”
Sheila’s winning the battle over Mentally Gifted meant mainly that Kenya got to go to movies and plays where the characters had British accents. (“Satisfied?” her father asked her mother, rolling his eyes when Kenya missed an entire day of school to go to a local production of A Christmas Carol .)
“How is the Barrett School for Girls?” her mother would ask now, every evening at their sad dinners at the kitchen counter in the Ardmore Arms. Sheila cooked on the same schedule as before, but now everything was drier. She had started going to Weight Watchers, which surprised Kenya, who’d never thought about her mother’s weight.
Most nights Kenya said that school was “fine,” which, she supposed, it was. But one night, struggling to swallow baked ziti without enough sauce, she said, “Remember that fight you and Baba had about private school? He never wanted me to go.”
“Well, I didn’t either.”
Kenya blurted, “What do you think he’d say if he knew about Barrett?”
“He wouldn’t care,” Sheila said in a brassy voice.
Kenya felt the hit in her chest.
“I shouldn’t put it that way,” said her mother, more softly. “The truth is he’s got his own problems.”
What Kenya knew was that Johnbrown was doing okay somewhere in America. A few months after she and her mother moved into the Ardmore Arms, the first postcard arrived. Kenya had looked without seeing it, an ugly picture of St. Louis, which she put in the mail pile. Sheila had an old library school friend who lived in San Francisco and traveled a lot. No matter where she went, Houston, Bermuda, or Mexico, she sent a faded-looking postcard. That afternoon, Kenya looked up to see her mother in the doorway of Kenya’s room, holding this one.
“Your father sent this,” she said.
“I thought it was Aunt Sandy.”
“Nope.”
The postcard was written in block letters. Thinking of you every day , it said. Every day, thinking of you. All my love. B.B.
“How do you know this is from him?” Kenya asked.
Sheila wrinkled her nose at Kenya’s unmade bed and started making it up. She spoke as she moved. “We used to talk sometimes at Seven Days meetings about if one of us had to run.”
“Run from what?” If they’d had this conversation more than once, she hadn’t heard it.
“It was just talk as far as we were concerned. But you know back in the day a lot of movement people wound up on the wrong side of the law. Anyway, sometimes those people would run because they knew they wouldn’t get a fair trial. And if they had to leave family behind, they would send cards sometimes, but not
Back in her other life Kenya’s parents had even argued over whether they should allow Kenya to participate in the Mentally Gifted program at Lea School. The principal had been a parchment-colored snob who was so excited about the twenty white students who went there that all of them, even an excitable boy named Benjamin, whose knuckles practically dragged on the floor, were in MG. Johnbrown, who had originally talked about homeschooling her until it became clear that he would have to be the teacher, thought MG would make Kenya “an elitist.”
“You’re being a fanatic,” Sheila had said. “But I’m not drinking your Kool-Aid. It’s not like we’re talking about private school.”
“And we never would, Sheila, we never would.”
“Well, with only one of us working, we could never afford it.”
“Oh, is that why? Because I didn’t know that was the reason. I thought the reason was we were raising a black child who wouldn’t hate herself any more than this sick society already wants her to.”
“Don’t you dare give me one of your speeches, Johnbrown.”
Sheila’s winning the battle over Mentally Gifted meant mainly that Kenya got to go to movies and plays where the characters had British accents. (“Satisfied?” her father asked her mother, rolling his eyes when Kenya missed an entire day of school to go to a local production of A Christmas Carol .)
“How is the Barrett School for Girls?” her mother would ask now, every evening at their sad dinners at the kitchen counter in the Ardmore Arms. Sheila cooked on the same schedule as before, but now everything was drier. She had started going to Weight Watchers, which surprised Kenya, who’d never thought about her mother’s weight.
Most nights Kenya said that school was “fine,” which, she supposed, it was. But one night, struggling to swallow baked ziti without enough sauce, she said, “Remember that fight you and Baba had about private school? He never wanted me to go.”
“Well, I didn’t either.”
Kenya blurted, “What do you think he’d say if he knew about Barrett?”
“He wouldn’t care,” Sheila said in a brassy voice.
Kenya felt the hit in her chest.
“I shouldn’t put it that way,” said her mother, more softly. “The truth is he’s got his own problems.”
What Kenya knew was that Johnbrown was doing okay somewhere in America. A few months after she and her mother moved into the Ardmore Arms, the first postcard arrived. Kenya had looked without seeing it, an ugly picture of St. Louis, which she put in the mail pile. Sheila had an old library school friend who lived in San Francisco and traveled a lot. No matter where she went, Houston, Bermuda, or Mexico, she sent a faded-looking postcard. That afternoon, Kenya looked up to see her mother in the doorway of Kenya’s room, holding this one.
“Your father sent this,” she said.
“I thought it was Aunt Sandy.”
“Nope.”
The postcard was written in block letters. Thinking of you every day , it said. Every day, thinking of you. All my love. B.B.
“How do you know this is from him?” Kenya asked.
Sheila wrinkled her nose at Kenya’s unmade bed and started making it up. She spoke as she moved. “We used to talk sometimes at Seven Days meetings about if one of us had to run.”
“Run from what?” If they’d had this conversation more than once, she hadn’t heard it.
“It was just talk as far as we were concerned. But you know back in the day a lot of movement people wound up on the wrong side of the law. Anyway, sometimes those people would run because they knew they wouldn’t get a fair trial. And if they had to leave family behind, they would send cards sometimes, but not
Similar Books
