Excuse Me While I Ugly Cry

by Joya Goffney

A “real Black guy,” as I’ve heard it put around the halls of our predominantly white private school, which makes me wonder about the authenticity of my own Blackness. I’ve never heard anyone call me a “real Black girl.” In fact, I’ve only ever heard the opposite.

Not materialistic, like the other boys at our school. He couldn’t care less about brand names. If it still works, it’s good enough for him. I like that. I consider myself pretty low-maintenance too.

Wow, this is way too intact to be mine. He’ll search for his own journal, realize the mistake, and finally read my message.

But if my appearance inspires him to be a little nicer to me, who am I to complain?

I couldn’t sleep for pondering why. He couldn’t have possibly read my journal, right? He wouldn’t blatantly invade my privacy like that. But what if he did?

“Listen, guys, I need to warn you about my mom.” Carter immediately asks, “Does she not like Black people?”

Auden shakes his head. “No, she loves Black people.” We both raise our eyebrows at him. “I mean, she doesn’t love—she loves Black people the same amount that she loves other races.”

I figure inviting more people might act as a buffer between me and Olivia. And I don’t want him to feel like he’s doing all the work for our group. So far, Carter and I have been nothing but unhelpful.

“Like what?” he presses. “I wanna help you, but I need to know why this journal’s so important.” I don’t answer him. And just as I think he’s about to press me again, he says, “Please, tell me.”

It’s not what I expect from him—to ask nicely, to be so curious in the first place.

“Wait. You keep a log of all your moments with Matt?” He draws back. “Damn, you’ve really got it bad for him. That’s stalker-level shit.”

“I have a list of all the days I’ve ugly cried.”

He looks at me with his face scrunched up. “You keep a list of all the days you cry? That’s depressing as shit.” “Ugly cry. There’s a difference.”

“Would you have started a list about me?” If he had my journal, he’d know that I already have a list about him. “Probably,” I say. “About how much you hate me?” “About how much I don’t trust you.”

I do not like him. Sure, he’s fine as hell, but that’s it. I’ve already established that his mind is ugly and so are his words.

“I know you’re moving to New York in a few months, but while you’re still here, I need you to respect our rules. Now come eat. Your food’s getting cold.”

“He’s letting you retake that quiz tomorrow morning, but you better understand that you won’t get many chances like this, especially not with skin as dark as ours. You have to work twice as hard as everyone else.”

“Do you know how hard I still have to work for people to take me seriously as an attorney?” I nod.

“Figure out what you want to do in life, Quinn. Pick a major. Pick an apartment. This undecided mess is just”—she waves her hand dismissively—“a luxury only rich white boys can afford. You are not that. Y...

You made a Black boy feel unsafe in our home. My skin is as black as his, so I can’t be sure what you think of me. Am I a criminal too?

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.

“Your relationship with your daughter shouldn’t be long-distance when you live in the same house.”

“Dad.” I roll my eyes. He doesn’t get to wake up one morning, decide to see me off to school for the first time in months, and then try to tell me how to dress.

And the cycle begins again. Dad will come home right after work, as will Mom. They’ll do what they do together. But tonight, or maybe tomorrow, depending on the strength of this love spell, their old fights will resurface.

Dad will leave and not come back. They’ll ignore each other until the tension rises. The fighting will end in a huge blowup like last night. And somewhere amid the anger, they’ll fall into each other again. 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.

“I’m just saying it’s a little hard to change when you have a journal telling you who to be.”

When the bell on the door chimes, fifty percent of their eyes fall on us. My skin crawls. I’m not used to being surrounded by people with my skin color. It makes me feel like they can see how other I am. But they can’t, right? I could blend in if I tried. I could embrace the country in my accent. I could say ain’t and y’all and the N-word and they wouldn’t know a thing.

I stand close to Carter because, if I’m being honest, I am scared. It feels like they can see the other in me. But I mean, I look just like them. I should feel safer here than in my neighborhood. White people used to lynch people who look like me, so why on earth would I feel safer around them? I take a deep breath and pull my head up.

My face slacks. I look down at the dirt. So I’m not crazy for thinking my dad might hate being Black. Carter thinks so too.

They’re listening to Tyrese low. They only put him on when things are good. I guess that’s why he’s my favorite.

“No, Dad, I’m scared that when I move out, you’re moving out too.”

“It feels like the only thing you guys have in common is your interest in me. What happens to this family when I leave?”

They both paused and looked at my hair. Gia said, “Um, well,

this is a brand-new straightener.” And I didn’t understand what she meant, so she clarified, “I don’t want to get it dirty.” My throat clogged. I felt embarrassed and sick to my stomach. Destany walked over, and she ran her fingers through my hair. “It is pretty greasy, Quinn. Maybe if you washed it first.”

“I know from experience that there are places where that word is still used hatefully.” I scrunch my eyebrows. “What do you mean you know from experience?” “My parents are from a tiny town in East Texas. The backwoods.” He looks down to his hands in his lap. “When we visit, I have to sit through my family’s racism.” He looks back up. “It was particularly bad when Obama was president.” I flick my eyebrows up. “I bet.”

“I don’t think white people should say the ‘friendly’ version of that word, knowing that somewhere, someone is still using it as hate speech. Doesn’t seem fair to Black people that every time they hear it, they have to figure out whether or not they’re being insulted.” I look at Auden and nearly cry. “Wow, Auden.”

I’m not crying. I’m ugly crying. I’ve never ugly cried in front of anyone. I doubt he’ll be able to see me as “beautiful” after this.

After a while I say, “It’s just hard watching a person you love deteriorate before your eyes.”

“Yep.” He laughs. “You already know where this is going. He said that everyone was invited, but I noticed I was the only Black person on the guest list. I asked him why, and guess what he said.” “Tell me.”

“He said, ‘I figured none of them would come.’ He was like, ‘Because Black people can’t swim, and doesn’t it mess up y’all’s hair or something?’”

healthy relationship. Spread rumor that