family background was no different from that of the kids at the private bilingual school I had attended in Westchester. As soon as I entered the large room, I spotted two tables where the black students sat and spent the rest of the evening thinking about my plan to sit with them.
The next morning, I told my roommate that it was okay to leave for breakfast without me. Later, filled with anticipation, I entered the cafeteria and walked to where the black students were sitting. Standing behind an empty chair, I asked the students, who were chatting and laughing, if I could join them. The looks on their faces made me feel like I had said something foolish. As I was thinking about walking away, welcoming voices uttered “Of course” and “Sure.”
“So, how does it feel to be a college freshman?” one of the girls asked.
Again I became nervous, thinking that because of my awkwardness, she knew I was a freshman. I mumbled something that I don’t recall. Felicia Thompson introduced herself and the other students at the table. She must have sensed my uneasiness because she went on to say, “There are just a handful of us here and we all know each other. You look too young to be a transfer student, so you’ve got to be a freshman.” Her unpainted lips were well-lined, and the roundness of her cheeks suggested kindness.
I relaxed a bit and was trying to think of something to say when Felicia told me I should get my breakfast because they would stop serving soon. When I returned to the table, she engaged me in conversation. I learned that she was from California and majoring in anthropology.
“No kidding,” I said. “That’s my major.”
“Is that right? I’ll have to tell you who’s who in that department. But right now I’ve got to run. Be sure to come to the Black Students League party this evening.”
On my way back to my room, I thought about the few dances I had attended in middle school. The girls usually danced together and the boys ran around playing games that we thought were silly. When Cynthia and the girls I hung around with in high school started dating, I stopped going. A few times they had tried to find a date for me, but that never worked; not even with the boy I liked who was in most of my classes.
Walking to the Frederick Douglass lounge, where the Black Students League held its social events, I thought about the dance steps I had learned while watching Soul Train. I was eager to practice them at a real party, instead of at home in front of the television. The song, “Play That Funky Music” was blasting. No one was dancing. A handful of people sat or stood in the corners of the room under neon lights. When Felicia waved, I walked over to her. She was talking to a guy who was about six feet tall. A huge Afro crowned his head, and he wore an African-print dashiki over faded jeans and a silver bracelet.
“This is Jamal, the BSL president.”
“How you doing, sistah?”
“Fine,” I said. He had a nice smile.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” he said. “I got to get this party started.”
The room soon filled up, and it seemed that people had arrived all at once. The Ohio Players’ new hit “Fire” blared through the speakers. Everyone moved to the center of the room as if under a spell of urgency.
Two hours later, the energy died out and most people left. On my way out Jamal came up to me and asked if I’d had a good time.
“Better than I expected.”
A girl with a pierced nose and a gypsy skirt crept up behind him, wrapped her arm around his waist, and whispered, “Ready to go, baby?”
* * *
Weeks later, after a committee meeting for the upcoming Black Parents Weekend, Jamal said to me, “Sistah, I can’t wait to see you dance. I know it’s going to be good.”
“How do you know that?” I replied, staring at the raised black fist on his white T-shirt that read, Power to the People.
“I just have a feeling!”
That evening, I thought about Mom and Dad coming to the Black Parents Weekend and called home, hoping to find a way to ask them to send Latham instead.
“How are things?” greeted Mom.
“I’m fine.”
“Keeping up with your classes?”
“Of course.”
“I’m glad. Did Cynthia call you?”
“Not today. I just got back to my room.”
“She was admitted to Johns Hopkins medical school.”
“That’s great. I’ll call her later.”
“Your dad and I received our invitation to Parents Weekend.”
“Actually, it’s Black Parents Weekend.”
“I see. Anyway, your dad and I will be there.”
Silence.
“You do want us to come, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I lied.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
As I placed the phone back in its cradle, it occurred to me that I shouldn’t care what the black students and their black parents thought about my white parents.
* * *
I was getting out of my leotard and tights while chatting with the other dancers after the piece I had choreographed when Wanda, Jamal’s girlfriend, stormed into the dressing room. She stood arms akimbo, demanding to know what those white people were doing in our lounge.
“You must be talking about my parents,” I said in a calm voice.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room, and I walked toward Mom and Dad, holding my head high, ignoring the stares and indiscreet whispers.
That night when darkness and silence covered my room, I thought of Jamal’s militancy, his leadership, and his artistic talent. Hours ago, listening to him read his poem about black solidarity and the greatness of men like Marcus Garvey, Toussaint Louverture, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr., Shaka Zulu, Kwame Nkrumah, and Frederick Douglass was inspiring and uplifting. His soft-spoken voice had the cadence of a conch shell that had gathered the lamented voices of Haitian revolutionary slaves. The poem ended with a plea to our generation to carry on the dreams of Pan-Africanism and to valorize the greatness of our race.
I thought about it hard and long, and decided if I were a poet, I would write a poem about my adopted parents. The incident with Wanda prompted me to realize they had always accepted me for who I was and never had an issue with my race. I considered myself lucky to have had them in my life and concluded that my love for them would not have been any different if they, too, were black.
* * *
During late hours the library was a desolate place. It was just minutes before closing, and I was trying to finish a paper that was due
