Dr. Oludara spoke softly, but close to the microphone. Honoring Uncle Root, who’d never let his students forget the task before them. He’d remained at the college for over four decades, and for thirty of those years, he’d taught Freshman Orientation.
“Who remembers this?” She raised her index finger, and there were knowing chuckles from my mother and other, older people in the audience. She cleared her throat, deepening her voice into a high-toned drawl. “‘My children, we are a distinguished race, although some would say otherwise. Our people depend on us. Our white brethren need the Negro, though they are unaware of it, for without the Negro, who would toil in his fields, or let the white man think himself divine? Every God needs an Adam to cast out of the Garden. And without the educated men of his race, the Negro would lose himself in the desert of the unlettered, the surest path to salvation. But without the sacrifices of the Negro woman’”—and here Dr. Oludara smiled broadly—“‘without her struggles, who would my brother be? Unaided, unsupported, brutish—a heathen! My children, the Negro woman is the best our race has to offer. Cherish her. Love her. Never leave her behind.’” She bowed her head a few seconds, in reverence. Then: “Honored guests and alumni, I give you Dr. Jason Freeman Hargrace, class of 1926!”
There was a standing ovation, and the old man extended his hands to me, and I pulled him from his seat. At the podium, Dr. Oludara embraced the two of us, then swept her arm: the podium belonged to Uncle Root.
“I will not make a long speech, as I’m very old and I need to save what little time I have left.” There was laughter. “I wish to thank you, President Oludara, and all the alumni. I am greatly humbled, and I accept this honor in the memories of my beloved mother, Maybelline Freeman, Dr. Terrence Carter Holmes, my professor, colleague, and friend, and my dear wife, Dr. Olivia Ellen Hargrace. And I pass my torch as the tender of the history of this college to my niece who stands beside me on this stage, Ailey Pearl Garfield, Routledge College, class of 1995.”
He nodded his head in thanks as the crowd refused to be silent. For an entire minute, they kept clapping, and he pulled out his handkerchief. He wiped away tears.
At the reception in the faculty dining room, there were several of my old classmates. Though Abdul wasn’t there, Tiffany stood in line with her husband, a Gamma who had graduated in my freshman year; she didn’t wave or even acknowledge that she saw me. Keisha wasn’t there, but Roz was, slender, her hair cut to the shoulders and colored auburn. Like me, she was single. She bragged that she was making too much money as a corporate lawyer to be tied down to somebody and pushing out his babies. She had dismissed Curt Waymon several years before.
After the buffet lunch was served and dishes cleared away, the Gamma brothers circled the old man and serenaded him with their fraternity song. When they broke apart, there was Patrick Lindsay. He was balding, his remaining curls cut low and surrounding a freckled scalp, but that same warmth beamed. He introduced himself to David, then embraced me, his arms hugging around my waist. We stood that way, facing each other, mere inches between us, until David had a coughing fit.
“Girl, you are fine as ever!” Pat said. “The glasses suit you.”
“You’re so sweet.” I touched his face. “You’re looking great yourself.”
He’d wanted his wife to come, but she was breastfeeding, and it made her tired. They both taught at the University of Arkansas in the department of world languages. She was tenure-track, and he was visiting faculty but was hoping for a spousal hire. They’d met at Georgia, where they had been the only two Blacks in their program. He pulled out his billfold to show me her picture: a slender woman garbed in a sleeveless, loose linen dress. Her natural hair was shaved close to her skull. The fat baby in her arms had his mother’s mahogany color and his father’s brown-blond curls.
I leaned over the image, fighting emotion. Roz had told me that he was married, but somehow, I’d imagined him single, preserved in amber. Always available to me, if I ever got myself together.
“She’s, like, a Vogue supermodel. She’s so gorgeous. Look at those cheekbones. And your baby is so adorable! What’s his name?”
“Léopold Aimé Lindsay.”
“After your favorite Negritudes.”
“Aw, girl, you remembered! Yeah, I guess he is kinda cute, even though he took all my hair. And my wife’s a real good woman. The best woman a man could ask for.” He put an arm around my shoulder, and then an arm around David’s shoulder. He closed our circle. Pat directed his words to my escort but kept his eyes on me. “Let me tell you something. This girl, right here? I was in love with this girl! She had my nose so wide open I couldn’t think about nobody else but Ailey Pearl Garfield. Then she stomped my heart in the dirt, and don’t you know, I still don’t know why? For years, I wondered if she’d take me back. Maybe I should call her and beg her, one more time. But then, finally, I had to move on.”