“Well, I’m not,” my mother said quietly.
“Well, it’s not your life,” I said, and again everything came to a sudden halt. “It’s mine. And I’m the one who has to live it. I’m the one who has to deal with it.”
Tears welled in my mother’s eyes. I knew it hurt. Reality could be painful to acknowledge, but there came a point when we all realized we weren’t going to walk on the moon, star in a Hollywood movie, or be president of the United States. We’d be who we were, and we could either come to grips with this fact and like the person we’d become, or live with regret and disappointment. My reality was that I was not going to live some extraordinary life, as my mother so fervently believed, and prayed for.
Life’s a bitch, kid. And then you die.
My mother turned as if to grab something from the counter, wiping at her eyes with a dish towel. My father gave me a subtle nod, not of approval but of understanding. This was another of those rite-of-passage moments. “Then we’ll respect your wishes, Sam. Maddy,” he said, calling her back to the table. “Why don’t we eat, and after dinner we can call the Cantwells to congratulate Ernie.”
But that also wouldn’t be necessary. As we washed and dried the dishes, the front doorbell rang, and when I went to answer it, I discovered Ernie and his parents standing on the porch. His mother carried a box with her, but none of them looked happy.
“Hey, Sam,” Ernie said, sheepish.
“Hey, Ernie.”
My parents walked into the entry, and after an awkward greeting, the silence was palpable. My mother finally invited us all into the living room. She offered to make coffee or tea, but everyone declined.
“Ernie has something he’d like to say,” Mr. Cantwell said.
Ernie looked to me. “I’m going to turn it down.”
“What?”
“The class valedictorian. I’m going to turn it down.”
“Ernie, you can’t do that,” my father said. “This is a great honor.”
“It isn’t right,” Mrs. Cantwell said. “Sam finished first in his class. This is his honor. He deserves it.”
I shook my head. “They’re not going to let me do it,” I said. “Let’s face it. They don’t want a kid with red eyes representing the whole school in front of the archbishop and all the parents. If I can’t do it, I’d just as soon it be Ernie.”
“Well I’m not doing it, either, then,” Ernie said.
“Ernie, you should do it,” my mother said, though I still detected the disappointment in her voice.
“They chose me because I’m black.”
“What?” I asked.
“They’ve never had a black valedictorian. I’d be the first. They think it would look good for the school, for recruiting people of color.”
“People who can play sports,” Mr. Cantwell said.
In my self-pity, I had been too busy thinking of the reason why the school had not chosen me. I hadn’t stopped to consider why they would have chosen Ernie over the other eight candidates. Ernie was certainly the best known among us, in large part thanks to my coverage of his exploits on the athletic fields, but his grade point average was nowhere near the top of the class.
“They told you that?” I said.
“Of course not,” he said. “They can’t come right out and say it, just like they can’t come right out and say why they didn’t choose you.” I heard anger in his voice.
“They didn’t have to tell us,” Mr. Cantwell said. “They roll Ernie out to talk to every black athlete who visits the school. And I have a friend who’s a trustee on the board. He told me it wasn’t expressed verbally, but the intimation was loud and clear. Discrimination is difficult, because in its worst form, it is not overt. It is subtle. We feel the same as Ernie. The honor belongs to Samuel. If they won’t honor him, Ernie will not stand in his place.”