The Better Half(52)
“He’s also always saying ‘you people.’ White people are so clueless,” Xandra insists, staring right at me on that one, trying to regain some righteous footing. “Like, ‘You people need to come in here ready to work hard.’ Or, ‘You people think this is your best effort, I don’t see any effort at all.’”
“Sounds like ‘you people’ are teenagers and ‘you people’ are being lazy. I’m not paying for you to be lazy,” I jump in, unable to not see dollar signs when it comes to Xandra wasting time at school. The look I get back from my bald-headed baby is cold. Ice cold.
“Maybe you people do need to work harder. Has that crossed your mind?” Dad follows the line I’ve laid down. I’ve never heard Dad go toe to toe with Xandra like this, and I love him for not leaving me alone in this fight.
“I just don’t think when you spend your whole life in service of privileged White people you can understand what I’m going through. You may not want to have a backbone and acknowledge racism when it’s staring you in the face, but I do.” Oh no she didn’t is all I can think. If this were a horror movie, I’d be covering my eyes.
“Xandra, you got the brittlest backbone of the three of us. One injury to your resolve, one misunderstood sentence spoken from your teacher, and you fall apart. Make sure you hear me, now. Your generation are the lucky ones. You have never been the only Black anything or received undeserved treatment at school solely based on the color of your skin. There are more Black students at your school, in your grade, than there are spots in the Pemberley show. ‘THE ONLY’ is a title reserved for older Black generations.”
“That’s not true, Grandpa, look at Mama. She had it ‘easy,’ too, at Spence and then at Wellesley.” I cringe. Xandra put air quotes around easy. Air quotes are like nails on a chalkboard to my father.
Dad rises slowly from his chair, pressing his slacks with both hands. He walks to the head of the table so he’s opposite Xandra, looking at her head-on. I’m so grateful to have a real coparent in this moment, even if it’s a grandparent, because the things that need to be said to Xandra right now are best not said by Mom. Though I’m focused on the unified front my dad and I have formed, I can’t help but wonder how Leo will be in these types of tense moments, from toddler tantrums to teenage ones. I pray he dads like Fitzroy, because I am one lucky daughter.
“Xandra, you hear me loud and you hear me clear, ’cause this is the one and only time we are going to have this conversation. YOU have had the privilege your whole life of NOT seeing hardship and struggle. Your mother has lived her whole life being the lone polka dot in a sea of white. For Nina, going to Spence was lonely. No kids of color in her class until eighth grade. The girls were interested in her hair, her speech, why she took multiple buses to school when the other children came by cab or driver, but they were not interested in her friendship. Celia and I thanked God every day for your aunt Marisol.” I never knew my mom and dad realized all that and still continued to wake me up every morning and ship me off to Spence.
“There were no birthday parties. No sleepovers. And then there was that blasted outdoor program. I mean good Lord, what in the world is GORE-TEX and was there any way we could find it at Goodwill? It never crossed anyone’s mind at Spence that we might have no money and no knowledge of how to dress for winter conditions coming from the Caribbean. When you’re poor and Black, dressing in layers is not something you’ve heard of. You’re happy to have one layer!”
I remember my trip to the Adirondacks in fifth grade when I slept in a cabin with Ms. Trenton. She claimed it was in case I got scared because I had never slept away from home before, but I knew it was because none of the girls wanted to share a cabin with me. They were all scared my Black might rub off on them.
“Nina’s equipment was abysmal, and in those days the brand of your backpack mattered. You, Xandra? When it was time for you to go to Joshua Tree with your class, your mother made sure you were suited and styled. You came home with long underwear that still had tags on them.”
I throw Xandra a side glance. Her gaze has dropped from meeting Dad’s directly, to focused on her feet.
“And your mother endured all that with parents who stuck out like sore thumbs attending school events in our work uniforms because we had jobs that if you left early or missed, you were fired. You, Xandra, your mother has always been by your side meeting your every need.” My daughter doesn’t look like she’s buying it.
“You’ve been given a top education and now you have a teacher pushing you, expecting you to step up and be the best you can be. Racist, you don’t know racist. There’s no excuse to go wasting the opportunity and privilege that you have at your fingertips. That’s what Mr. Petrov is telling you; no more, no less. You think you’re so woke, Xandra Clarke. Please, you’re not woke, you’re Sleeping Beauty.” Dad shakes his head and walks out of the kitchen, marking the end of this family conversation, the scent of disappointment lingering in the air.
“But you were never replaced by a newer, shinier, WHITER model,” Xandra says to me when her grandfather’s left the kitchen.
I knew I was right. Down deep what’s bugging Xandra is not just that she thinks her drama teacher’s a racist; it’s that she also thinks her mother’s a sellout.