Keisha raised her hand. “Can I ask you something? I thought this was ’sposed to be a Black school.”
“Indeed, Miss Evans, this is an institution of higher learning for African Americans, though we have been an equal opportunity college since our founding. All are welcome here.”
“But if this is a Black school, how come most of those folks in the library pictures look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like they white people.”
The bourgie section gasped.
“Well, they are not white people, Miss Evans. You can be assured that those students are African American.”
“Well, they way too light for me.”
“That is a very rude thing to say. Now let me get back—”
I raised my hand. Roz poked me, but I leaned away from her.
“Why’s it rude? She’s only being honest.”
Dean Walters put the chalk in the board’s tray. “Your mother and father are both alumni, Miss Garfield. I believe that they were in the class of 1966. That is correct, is it not?”
From around the chapel, there were whispers.
I shifted in my chair. “Yes, sir.”
“And both of your parents are African American. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And each of your four grandparents are African American. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I would bet that the members of your family come in many different shades. Correct?” He perched so high on the toes of his wing tips I expected a plié. “Miss Garfield, I have met your father, and I was taught by Dr. Freeman Hargrace, your great-great-uncle. Would you want someone saying either of them was too light when God made him this way? No, you would not. Further, this kind of discussion creates discord within our African American ranks. And we don’t want that, do we?”
Dean Walters picked up the chalk and returned to the timeline of campus buildings.
Keisha placed her hand on my arm. She gave me a tender squeeze.
By the following afternoon, the campus gossips had anointed my roommates and me with a new nickname. They called us “The Too-Light Crew.”
Liberté, égalité, Fraternité, Goddamnit
From the time I was born, my parents had put aside money for my college, the same as they’d saved for my sisters. But my regular eavesdropping had informed me they hadn’t counted on Coco being a genius and requiring expensive private school, and then equally expensive Ivy League college and medical school. Nana had helped them with my tuition at Braithwaite Friends, but the cost that had hit them the hardest was Lydia’s rehab. They had been too proud to ask Nana for help. My parents hadn’t counted on spending so much money for my sister to recover in a safe environment.
In my last year of high school, I’d no idea what I’d study in college—now that Coco was in school to be a doctor, I thought I’d be off the hook for carrying on that particular family legacy. I’d been mostly concerned with earning high grades so I wouldn’t let those white kids I went to school with think they were smarter than me. I did know that whatever I finally chose as my profession, I wanted to spend time with books. Many, many books, but during a rare Saturday at Nana’s house, after my mother plied me with guilt to visit the woman, my grandmother hinted about my parents’ financial worries. What a shame. Truly, so sad, and these days, college wasn’t enough. Postgraduate studies were necessary in this new economy, but why borrow thousands in student loans when she would be happy to help? However, there was one caveat: I was required to attend medical school to secure her financial support. She wouldn’t be paying for my studies in any other field. And we needed to spend more time together, too, so that we could talk about my future plans in the medical profession.
Nana had taken a sip of Earl Grey and shifted the subject: There was a new Van Gogh exhibit at the City High Museum. She’d been wanting to see it for a week. She would call a taxi for us. Even though I didn’t want to be anywhere around her, I made a choice: I needed Nana’s money to pay for my education, or at least some of it. I couldn’t let my parents try to bear that burden alone.
I was exhausted my first semester at Routledge taking classes on the premed track. Physics, biology, biochemistry, calculus. Showing up for those everyday labs that somehow only earned me one hour of credit. I attacked my studies with vigor, but whenever Nana wrote me, congratulating me on my chosen profession, I didn’t write back. I’d open her letter, pull out the twenty-five-dollar check she’d included, and drop the letter in a shoe box under my bed. Whenever the box filled, I’d throw the letters in the trash can on my dorm floor.