Excuse Me While I Ugly Cry

by Joya Goffney

I’m so mad. And when I get this mad, I cry. And if I let it get too far, I ugly cry. It’s truly, truly unfortunate.

I think to myself, If I can still move, what I’m gon’ be still for? Maybe because I’m too scared to move. Because if I move, people might see me. Because staying still is easier.

The mention of race makes him uncomfortable.

He doesn’t get it. None of that matters. My dad can be proud that he’s the first Black chief surgeon, but that doesn’t mean he’s proud to be Black.

It’s like they can’t love each other without anger as a precursor. It’s confusing and frightening, because their relationship feels like a ticking time bomb, and I don’t want to be the one to set it off.

That’s what college is for—forgetting the horrors of high school.

Ironically, Auden, the only white one of us, is late.

He looks comfortable staring at me.

I smile. It’s not the alcohol. I’m simply weak in the knees.

There are enough closed doors and glass ceilings in the world. My comfort zone shouldn’t be one of them.

My pulse quickens. Call? As in talk with our voices? With pauses and awkward silences and breathing and voices? My skin crawls with anticipation.

I should not feel this giddy. I should not already miss him. I should not pick up my phone and text him: Only panties. But I do.

“He’s racist. She’s racist. They’re perfect for each other.”

White rice in the morning.

“Home is not a place. Home is in here.” She pats her hand over her heart. She says, “Don’t you fear, I’m right here.”

I wasted so much time living in fear that I thought I was comfortable, but I was writhing in a cage that I didn’t know existed, making lists of all my worries with no intent to do anything about them.

Making lists of all my fears kept me from ever facing them.

She doesn’t understand that she can’t talk about Black people without talking about me too. She doesn’t understand that using the N-word in any context is never a joke. Not for me, it isn’t.

Maybe the only thing I need to remember is my name, who I love, and what I love about life. That’s all Hattie remembers. Maybe that’s all that matters.

“I want you to be able to celebrate our differences. I need you to be aware that our differences will get us different outcomes in life. And I need you to know that just because I don’t fit into your stereotypes, that doesn’t mean I’m any less Black.”

Kissing Carter feels like I’m right where I need to be. Like everything happened just so that I could end up here, free of lies and fear and guilt, with friends who understand and respect me, and a boy who isn’t perfect, but who’s patient and whose light shines over all my darkness. Like finally.