The Better Half(51)

“Seriously? The planet’s imploding, but there’s a protest over an architect that builds life-size dioramas for a living. Should the architect be African American, or does he have to be born in Africa, Black or White will do? Or real deal African with a click in his mother tongue and all?” Not the conversation opener I was planning, my emotions are already too hot and starting the conversation off with Dash at the center is making me fume.

“You should be happy you’re home in Pasadena, your bed has a blanket, the light bill is paid, and the icebox has milk. If you’re bored, the garage needs to be swept out, or you can put some elbow grease to those windows,” Dad claps back at Xandra. Okay now, clearly we’re both on board to tell Xandra what’s what. Dad just took two verbal steps over his grandbaby to join my side.

“Sit down and get comfortable, because we’re going to get into it, and no one is getting out of this family meeting without some clarity about what’s going on with you, Xandra,” I say, pausing to take a breath to let the mission of this conversation settle in with the three of us. Before I can speak, Dad, usually the reserved one with his words, pounces.

“It’s time to get down to the nitty-gritty, baby girl, and we’re going to start at the top. What did you do to your crown? Hair is power. Did all those nights of me lulling you to sleep with the story of Samson and Delilah go in one ear and out the other?” Dad asks, running his big bus-driving hands over Xandra’s bleached skull. I can think back on a hundred times when Dad would praise me for straightening Xandra’s hair, making sure it laid flat like all the other girls at Royal-Hawkins. The more Xandra and I blended in with the dominant American culture, the more it pleased Dad that we could walk through the world without inviting trouble, and he could rest easy. Dad’s not resting easy now.

“And those piercings, I can’t imagine what germy, dirty hands touched your ears. I’m surprised one hasn’t swollen up, crusted over, and fallen off.” Dad is now pulling on Xandra’s right ear, inspecting it for either cleanliness or crud. At this point, I’ve decided to sit back and let him work over Xandra. He’s killin’ it.

“Dash took me to the place where her cousin got her piercings. It was in a mall, so it was cheaper than doing it at a tattoo parlor. Those places are hella expensive,” Xandra informs, proud that she did her due diligence and got the equivalent of a teenage Yelp review.

“You relied on someone you don’t even know to tell you where to get minor surgery on your body?” Now I’m grabbing Xandra’s other ear. “Apparently four times! I know you don’t have the extra money at school to get a piercing done right one time, let alone four!” I step back to examine Xandra, and I don’t see my little girl anymore. I don’t see the girl whose hair I braided, barretted, and bunned day after day, year after year. I see a young woman attempting to assert her independence. And based on her current lack of style, she’s doing it badly.

I realize we need to get off the superficial and get into the content of Mr. Petrov’s concerns. I hand Xandra the letter. “Some Christmas cheer from your drama teacher to me. Minus the cheer.”

Steeled to hear Xandra’s side of the story I ask, “So, what do you think?”

“In rehearsals a few of us were joking around and talking during our five-minute break,” she begins, and I see my dad wince at her admission of goofing off at school. “We didn’t hear Mr. Petrov call out that break was over. When we didn’t stop talking, he marched over, looked right at me, not at the other girls, but at me and said, ‘As long as you’re part of this program, I own your time and I own your attention.’”

I look at my dad and then back at Xandra. The two of us lean in for more, but Xandra doesn’t continue.

“And?”

“And, what?” Xandra asks, schlumping down in her chair, eyes fixated on the fringe of the place mat that she’s been twirling. Xandra’s defeated body language tells me there isn’t any more to this lame story than she’s claiming.

“And what else? What am I missing here? You disrespected your teacher, and he called you on it. And from what I’ve heard from both your father and you, this has been a pattern all fall.” Disappointment is written all over my face and I don’t care.

Xandra’s eyes grow huge, and a sneer indicates that she thinks her mother’s a complete idiot. “He said he owns me. Owns me, owns me, like a slave. He literally said it in front of the whole class THAT HE OWNS ME. I can’t believe you didn’t pick up on that. Dash went ballistic too. Couldn’t believe a teacher at Pemberley would say something like that to a Black student. We’ve been coordinating how we’re going to call attention to the lack of cultural competency among the faculty. It’s offensive, and you don’t even see it, probably because you’ve lost your Blackness since you landed yourself a White baby daddy.”

I knew Leo was going to come up eventually, but not my Blackness. I’m stunned. Thankfully, Fitzroy doesn’t miss a beat.

My dad starts right back in. “Baby girl, you and your generation think you’re the wokest people to have lived. That you’re going to reveal a truth that other generations have been too blind to see. Please, you aren’t even the wokest person in this house. I haven’t slept a wink since I got to the US in 1974.” Dad waves his hand in front of Xandra’s face like she’s spewing petty nonsense. When Fitzroy launches into the topic of wokeness, I know he’s channeling Celia from up above, and my job has now shifted to cleaning up the carnage he’s about to make of Xandra’s unearned ego.