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And apparently no one told Mrs. Hill that we don’t talk about slavery anymore, because she goes on like she’s proud to know her ancestors were picking cotton.
He winks at me. Again. To be real with you, one of Dad’s winks is worth putting up with him calling me Chubby Cheeks.
I’m feeling pretty good because: #1. A dark girl stood up for me. Solidarity! #2. That’s never ever happened before. #3. The jerk actually shuts up. #4. No one’s paying me any attention. #5. No one’s paying him any attention. #6. Yvette gets me.
Even though Dad got the promotion, Mama’s still annoyed that he came home drunk last night. And, I’m still annoyed about his teasing. And because he’s not here, we only have each other to let out puffs of madness to.
I want to ask how they got the land in the first place, ’cause in social studies we’re only taught that Blacks weren’t allowed to own property—and then the lesson jumps all the way to Rosa Parks not getting off that bus.
“Why’d he get mad at ’em? I mean, somebody had to sharecrop, right? Why’d they be dumb for that?” Grandma looks stumped for a beat, then says, “I’m not saying they were dumb, I’m saying they weren’t… motivated. There were better jobs.”
“Understand that my grandpapa was a forward thinker. Our lineage is full of doctors and professors and successful businessmen. It’s not luck, Genesis.” It is luck, my entire insides are screaming. Luck to be born the right color, the right shade of light. Luck to be able to shove a bag next to someone’s head, knowing no one will ever shove one next to yours. Luck to only use lemons for spots on your hands and not your entire body. Grandma’s luck. Great-grandpa’s luck. But me? Dad?
“Well, anyway, I hope you consider auditioning. Believe it or not, you have quite a gift.” “Thanks,” I say, and scoot off. On the way to my locker, I tumble Mrs. Hill’s words over in my mind. Me? Audition? Gift? Mrs. Hill is a certified music teacher. She would know if I could really sing… but still… me?
“I hate you,” I say to the Crown Royal, with its fancy crown-shaped bottle, so much fancier than any place we’ve ever stayed besides this one. Fancier than the off-priced food boxes. Way fancier for sure than my clothes. I take another sniff. I gag and close it fast.
“Here’s the thing, Sophe, I’m not really down for putting myself out there like that. I just feel like, I don’t know, I’ll get ripped apart or something.” She nods. “Yeah, like when I played softball. If the team lost, there was someone always wanting to point a finger. I wish those fingers didn’t bother me,”
I recall every bad memory, every negative word, because when I sing, I’m gonna conjure the loneliness of Billie Holiday, the joy of Ella Fitzgerald, the soul and longing of Etta James. I’ll sing for every girl who feels like… feels like me.
