intended to sit in that bed all night with my ice cream and television. âI wonât have any fun, and Iâll end up sitting alone looking stupid.â
âKerry, please. You know those brothers can never get enough of you. You just act so funny theyâre afraid to ask you to dance. They think youâre stuck-up.â
âWell, I am stuck-up,â I said, hoping this wouldnât be a repeat of all of the other dances where men would ask me to dance and then take me back to my seat when it was clear I wasnât about to let them gyrate on my backside.
âI guess you have a point. You can be a little stuck-up,â Marcy said. âBut if youâre ever going to meet the right man, youâre going to have to unstick yourself. So, he can stick you.â She forced her left index finger through a tight hole she created with her other hand to symbolize my virginity. Marcy always said that because I was waiting to save myself for Mr. Right, she was sure Iâd lose my mind the minute I finally lost my virginity.
âWhatever,â I said, laughing. âIâll go with you to the dance, but if some pervert tries to grope me, heâs going to get my âgo to hellâ stare.â
We both stopped and gave each other the icy, top-to-bottom stare we gave to random men whoâd found themselves wandering around campus in search of female company. When theyâd start moseying in our direction, weâd pause, step back, and give them the âgo to hellâ stare. It was a guaranteed deterrent.
Those college dances were all the same. Ill-placed balloons and unfortunate streamers combined with poor lighting and cheap refreshments. One year I was actually served nacho chips. Better still, it seemed as if no one even wanted to be there. The dejected or distracted professors and administrators either looked sad that it was no longer their turn to be on the dance floor, or as if theyâd rather stayed locked up in their offices to drink whiskey and remember days gone by. And the students looked anxious at first, but as soon as they realized the DJ wasnât going to be allowed to play any of the nasty, sexually explicit music they were used to hearing on the radio and no strippers were going to come shooting out of the ceiling, they seemed to wish they were old enough to go to a real club and ditch this glorified high school scene altogetherâwhich the older ones usually did.
For these reasons, the balloon-and-streamer dance became more of a whoâs who at Spelman College competition than a dance. While there were a few couples and soon-to-be couples on the dance floor at the beginning of the night, most of the attention was on who was walking into the room with what date and what they were wearing. At the top of this list were the Greeks and rich kids. While I never felt a desire to pledge (as a legacy of pink and green, this was against my motherâs best wishes, of course), I fell into the latter category, and every time I entered a campus function, it was as if the Red Sea was dividing in the form of tasteless red, chiffon dresses and crimson sequin gowns as people pretended not to stare, but couldnât help but whisper to their neighbors that once again, Black Barbie was alone.
As Marcy and I struggled up the steps in our heels and shared a few fake, forced hellos with her sorority sisters who were outside posing on the front steps as they awaited their grand entrance, I prayed things would be different this year. I hadnât shared it with Marcy, but part of the reason I hadnât wanted to go was because of all of the pressure I felt at the dances. It was OK . . . even easy . . . for me to put on my perfect exterior around campus and at other functions where a date wasnât necessarily required. There I was the Kerry they all expected. I was together and full of smiles. But at the dances they expected more from a senior whoâd had years to
âKerry, please. You know those brothers can never get enough of you. You just act so funny theyâre afraid to ask you to dance. They think youâre stuck-up.â
âWell, I am stuck-up,â I said, hoping this wouldnât be a repeat of all of the other dances where men would ask me to dance and then take me back to my seat when it was clear I wasnât about to let them gyrate on my backside.
âI guess you have a point. You can be a little stuck-up,â Marcy said. âBut if youâre ever going to meet the right man, youâre going to have to unstick yourself. So, he can stick you.â She forced her left index finger through a tight hole she created with her other hand to symbolize my virginity. Marcy always said that because I was waiting to save myself for Mr. Right, she was sure Iâd lose my mind the minute I finally lost my virginity.
âWhatever,â I said, laughing. âIâll go with you to the dance, but if some pervert tries to grope me, heâs going to get my âgo to hellâ stare.â
We both stopped and gave each other the icy, top-to-bottom stare we gave to random men whoâd found themselves wandering around campus in search of female company. When theyâd start moseying in our direction, weâd pause, step back, and give them the âgo to hellâ stare. It was a guaranteed deterrent.
Those college dances were all the same. Ill-placed balloons and unfortunate streamers combined with poor lighting and cheap refreshments. One year I was actually served nacho chips. Better still, it seemed as if no one even wanted to be there. The dejected or distracted professors and administrators either looked sad that it was no longer their turn to be on the dance floor, or as if theyâd rather stayed locked up in their offices to drink whiskey and remember days gone by. And the students looked anxious at first, but as soon as they realized the DJ wasnât going to be allowed to play any of the nasty, sexually explicit music they were used to hearing on the radio and no strippers were going to come shooting out of the ceiling, they seemed to wish they were old enough to go to a real club and ditch this glorified high school scene altogetherâwhich the older ones usually did.
For these reasons, the balloon-and-streamer dance became more of a whoâs who at Spelman College competition than a dance. While there were a few couples and soon-to-be couples on the dance floor at the beginning of the night, most of the attention was on who was walking into the room with what date and what they were wearing. At the top of this list were the Greeks and rich kids. While I never felt a desire to pledge (as a legacy of pink and green, this was against my motherâs best wishes, of course), I fell into the latter category, and every time I entered a campus function, it was as if the Red Sea was dividing in the form of tasteless red, chiffon dresses and crimson sequin gowns as people pretended not to stare, but couldnât help but whisper to their neighbors that once again, Black Barbie was alone.
As Marcy and I struggled up the steps in our heels and shared a few fake, forced hellos with her sorority sisters who were outside posing on the front steps as they awaited their grand entrance, I prayed things would be different this year. I hadnât shared it with Marcy, but part of the reason I hadnât wanted to go was because of all of the pressure I felt at the dances. It was OK . . . even easy . . . for me to put on my perfect exterior around campus and at other functions where a date wasnât necessarily required. There I was the Kerry they all expected. I was together and full of smiles. But at the dances they expected more from a senior whoâd had years to
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