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.
“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.