Culture Clash Page 4

  “Good,” Mr. A says, his eyes still aglow. If I knew suggesting a black club was all it would take to make him look at me like this I would’ve done it months ago. “Let’s all meet during lunch to discuss the idea further,” he says, addressing the students still in the room—including Jeremy, who’s now making his escape. I guess we won’t be having lunch together after all. “We’re going to have to be at our best to get approval from the administration to make our club valid. I can even pull in Ms. Toni as a co-adviser if she has time. I’m sure she’d be interested.”

  “Now?” KJ asks, his fire already dwindling at the mention of sacrificing any of his free time, no matter the cause. And from the heavy sighing from the rest of his crew, I’d say they’re feeling just like their leader.

  “Yes, now.” Mr. A’s serious about his shit and so am I. If I can unwillingly give my time to AP, I can certainly give it to my people. “It’s my lunch period, too, and I’m willing to give it up if you are.” At the risk of sounding like a punk, KJ agrees and we all split to get our food. I know half of the South Central clique won’t be in attendance for our first meeting, no matter what KJ decides to do. I can feel him not wanting to join another club, especially with basketball and track practice. But this is necessary, and will do him more good than harm.

  “Wish we could, but Mickey and I have a meeting with the administration about her staying on the main campus, baby and all,” Nigel says. He sounds like he’s dreading it, as well he should. Athlete or not, dealing with the office is never a fun experience.

  “Okay. I’m sure your friends will fill you in. Everyone else, let’s meet back here in ten minutes,” Mr. A says, gathering the homework papers from the empty desks and stacking them neatly on his desk. I follow my friends out to retrieve our lunches and get back here. I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m looking forward to this meeting.

  Once we’re all settled with our lunches in tow, we immediately get down to business. With only thirty minutes left in the lunch period, there’s no time to waste. Nigel enters the classroom with a sullen look on his face, and Mickey is nowhere in sight. That can’t be good.

  “Nigel, what happened to the meeting?” I ask, settling back into my seat, ready to get this meeting underway. I open my bag of Hot Cheetos and begin the smacking fest. I don’t know what it is about me and these chips lately, but whatever it is has got me sprung.

  “Man, they only let me state my case and then told me to bounce. They’ll talk to me about my role in Mickey’s pregnancy later.” Sounds like some typical divide and conquer bull to me. The last time Mickey and Nigel were in the office together during the ditching investigation, they were tighter than Beyoncé and Jay-Z. But now Nigel’s here and my girl’s not. Something’s definitely wrong with this picture.

  “How did Mickey feel about you deserting her?” I ask as Mr. A reclaims his post on the corner of his desk. The rest of the group files in, readjusting themselves in the warm room, ready to reengage in the creation of our new club. I wipe my red fingers on my napkin, take a drink from my water bottle, and continue my smacking. There’s a lot of ground to cover, but I’m still going to get my grub on like everyone else. Just as I anticipated, the majority of the class isn’t present, but much to my surprise KJ and his crew are here.

  “I didn’t desert her,” Nigel whispers. “And Mickey said she could handle it and that she’ll meet us back here when she gets out of the meeting.” Nigel won’t admit it, but he’s scared for our girl. I am, too, especially considering that I’ve already witnessed what will happen if Mickey leaves the main campus to attend the continuation school on the other side of the football field. She was jealous, paranoid, and made my and Nigel’s lives a living hell. I’ll be damned if I go there again with her.

  “There’s power in identification,” Mr. Adewale says, his baritone voice silencing our chatter and officially beginning the meeting. “So, what’s our group’s name?” he asks, taking a drink of his bottled water. He already inhaled his sandwich and apple like it was going out of style. Now he’s downing the water so fast it doesn’t even look like he’s swallowing. I wonder if eating fast comes with being from a long lineage of Ogun priests? Having a warrior as his head orisha or personal path of the creator who is also a great ancestor, must be very different from having a sweet orisha like Oshune crowning your head. Like Mr. A said, it’s all in the name.

  “Black People United,” Money says. I’m actually impressed with his forethought in coming up with the name, especially considering he’s always renaming himself something silly. Just last month his name was CMoney. Now he only goes by Money. Next thing I know he’ll be calling himself Dime or something else like that. I wonder if he feels more powerful with each incarnation?

  “That’s a good suggestion,” Mr. A. says, writing on the legal pad in front of him. His honey brown skin flexes with each stroke of the pen, making me wish I was the yellow-lined paper in his hands. “Any other suggestions?” he asks, snapping me out of my wishful thoughts.

  “How about ‘AHP’?” Shae suggests. “It stands for ‘Authentic Hood People.’” She gets a good laugh from her South Central crew. Even her quiet man, Tony, lets out a giggle at that name. They’re not taking the club seriously. But, unlike me, Mr. Adewale still has hope for them.

  “Okay, I’ll write that down,” Mr. A says, smiling as he scribes. I guess you’ve got to love our people no matter how ghetto they can be sometimes. “Let’s have one more suggestion,” he says, looking around the packed room. Half of the black students in the debate class are here. Chance, Emilio, and Alia are also present, solidifying their being down for equality, I assume. Fifteen members is a good start. It’s also fewer people to argue with, and that’s always a good thing.

  “How about ‘The African Student Union,’” I add. “Just like the groups on college campuses.” KJ automatically rolls his eyes at my suggestion, but Mr. A seems to like it. KJ’s probably mad he didn’t come up with it himself.

  “I think that’s a good idea, linking our group to the ones at most universities. There’s power in unity,” Mr. Adewale says. KJ and his crew eye me like I’m the teacher’s pet and that’s just fine with me. I’ll happily wear that crown.

  “I agree,” Emilio says, winking at me from across the room. “It’s also more inclusive of other African cultures that may not identify themselves as black, and that’s important.”

  “Man, what would you know about being African? Mexico is south of the border, nowhere near Africa last time I looked at a map.” Del thinks he’s so slick, no matter how dumb he may sound. KJ and Money give their boy dap while Mr. A shakes his head, embarrassed at their behavior.

  “I am from Venezuela and I’ve never been to Mexico,” Emilio says, leaning back in his chair and smiling coyly. He’s so sexy in a self-assured sort of way. “But I do know there’s African blood present in Mexican culture as well.” Emilio wears his intelligence for everyone to see, which makes it hard to believe he’s only a sophomore. “We are a part of the African diaspora. Maybe you should look more closely at the map next time.” The veins in Del’s neck are really popping now. If his brown skin weren’t a shade darker than my mother’s, we’d all be able to see how red-hot he really is. I finish off the last of my lunch, waiting for the next move.

  “And maybe you should learn to speak English so that other people understand what you’re saying before trying to act black, man,” KJ says, coming to his boy’s defense—but it’s no use. They’ve been punked by Emilio and we all know it.

  “We’ll talk about acting black at the next meeting. By the way, everyone needs to think of one good day a week to meet. We’ll vote on that next time,” Mr. Adewale says, glancing at the wall clock. We only have a few minutes left in our lunch period and we should be able to agree on at least one thing before our first meeting is adjourned. “Let’s vote on the name before we go any further. Write down your choice on a piece of paper and put it in here.” Mr. Adewale takes an empty cof
fee mug off his desk and passes it around the room. When everyone’s submitted their ballots he counts them and announces the winner.

  “The African Student Union,” he announces, obviously pleased with the result. I’m surprised they voted for my suggestion, but glad they had enough sense to choose the right one. Money’s suggestion was good, too, but I’m with Emilio. We need to include all of the African diaspora in the group’s identity, not just people from the hood as we know it.

  “Now that we have a name, let’s define what the goals are,” Mr. Adewale suggests, forcing us to think seriously about what we want to accomplish on our lunch break. He puts the mug back in its place and reclaims the legal pad I’m still quietly envying.

  “I think it should center around surviving this place. South Bay is nothing like Westingle, man, for real.” Nigel’s right about that. His old school is very diverse. Rah still attends that school and receives most of the same educational and social perks that we do, while being closer to home. The students are bougie as all get out, but black is black and it’s nice to be around our people on the regular.

  “What do you mean by that?” Mr. Adewale asks, tapping his pen against the notepad in his hand.

  “What I mean is that I can walk around my old campus and find us anywhere. Here, unless in the South Central clique, it’s like we don’t exist. And we never read black books in class either. My teachers at Westingle always taught with an Afrocentric twist.”

  “Well then, that’s the first goal: to read more about black culture,” Mr. A says, writing down the bullet points on the board. We all take notes like we’re in class. Mr. Adewale inspires us to work when any other teacher would get the gas face for assigning more work outside of our required class reading. Ms. Toni walks into our meeting, ready to add some points of her own. I smile at my school mama, even though I think she’s not pleased with me at the moment. It’s admirable that she’s taking on yet another club, with her already busy work schedule.

  “Yeah, and black music should be on that goal list too, man. That shit’s for real,” KJ says, throwing his own spice into the mix. That’s actually a good suggestion. If we keep the club up, we all might actually learn something.

  “Okay, KJ, but can we hear suggestions without the profanity, please? There’s a time and place for everything,” Ms. Toni says, adding the mother balance we need to do this thing right. “We’ll need to suggest officer appointments before taking our club request to the principal,” she says, taking a seat at an empty desk next to Mr. A’s.

  “I think Jayd should be president, since it was her idea,” Mickey says as she enters the meeting. My girl’s right on time, and she’s got my back without even knowing the full discussion. I wasn’t going to say it, but that shit should be automatic. Nellie and Chance nod in agreement with Mickey and Nigel. Alia and Emilio also follow suit. Besides, I think I’d make a great president, but everyone doesn’t seem to agree. I can already see opposition in my haters’ faces.

  “Uhm, no, I don’t think so,” Misty says, leading the hater coup. “This is a democratic society last time I checked, and we should vote about it like any other club.” KJ strokes Misty’s hand as she looks victoriously at our advisers. What kind of magic is she working on my former boyfriend?

  “Can you even spell democratic?” Chance asks, making everyone laugh, except for Misty. Even KJ’s whipped ass got a kick out of that one, but he quickly straightens up with a single disapproving look from Misty. Then she returns her attention to Chance.

  “Can you spell black? Because if you could, you wouldn’t be here right now.” Everyone falls silent at the obvious truth: Chance and Alia are the only two white people present. Should I tell him that according to one of my dreams, he has just as much right to be here as anyone else? Maybe he already knows but is hiding it for some reason.

  “This group is for anyone who wants to learn about black culture, not just students of African descent,” Ms. Toni says. She’s all about racial tolerance and preaches it every chance she gets.

  “African descent? Who said anything about Africans?” Mickey asks. Like Nellie, she’s clueless when it comes to our history and chooses to stay that way. For people like them, ignorance is bliss. I, on the other hand, have never had a choice about my knowledge. My ancestors made sure of that.

  “We are from Africa, whether we claim it or not. Let’s all agree on that fact right now, so that we never have to have this discussion again.” With that one statement, Mr. Adewale sets the tone for the rest of the meeting.

  “Now, back to business. We want to study black books, culture, and what else?” Ms. Toni asks, eyeing Mr. A’s notes.

  “The way we talk,” Del adds. “And why ain’t nobody as fresh as we is as Bow Wow would say.” His crew laughs, more out of obligation than sincerity. It really wasn’t that funny, and that song is so yesterday’s news.

  “And only Bow Wow can pull that line off and sound sexy,” Mickey says. She loves her some Bow Wow. “You just sound ignorant when you say it,” she adds, voicing my sentiments exactly.

  “You’re such a hater, Mickey,” Misty says. Why is she talking when we both know she can’t ever talk about anyone hating. It’s her chosen career to be a professional hater. Hell, if hating was a sport, she’d be on the all-star team.

  “Okay, back to the point,” Ms. Toni says, her patience wearing thin. “Are there any other goals of the club we need to outline in our bylaws?”

  “Man, why does it have to be so official? We’re black. Can’t we just have a chill club without all the rules and whatnot?” Money says. And by the grunts and nods in the room, I’d say he’s voicing most of the other students’ sentiments, but not mine.

  “The reason it needs to be all official and whatnot is because we are black and our voices will never be heard if we don’t go through the proper channels first,” Mr. A says, looking at Ms. Toni, who vigorously nods in approval. As much as she’s had to fight with these white folks up here over one thing or another, I know she’s feeling the importance of this club.

  “Exactly,” Ms. Toni says. “And we want to be able to participate as a group in the next Cultural Awareness Festival since it’s already the end of Black History Month. And in order to do that, we have to be on paper.”

  “Yeah, I agree,” Emilio states. I don’t know if he said that because he really feels that way or if it’s because he’s feeling me and wants me to be impressed with his little sophomore self. Either way it’s working, because I’m feeling him more and more every day I see him.

  “Nobody asked you. And what are you even doing here? You and the white boy,” KJ says. And just like that, my pride in him has shifted to pure disdain.

  “Okay, there’s the bell for fifth period,” Mr. Adewale says, rising from his desk. “We’ll reconvene next week. Same time, same place.” The other students say their good-byes and prepare for the last two periods of the day. Mickey, Nigel, and I step aside to quickly catch up, while Mr. A and Ms. Toni step outside to have a word before the next class arrives.

  “So, what’s the good word?” I ask my girl. Nigel steps behind his girlfriend and puts his arms around Mickey’s growing waistline, holding her close for support. She doesn’t seem too upset, so it can’t be all that bad.

  “Them fools said that I’m on academic probation or some shit, for the rest of the semester, saying my already marginal grades have fallen in the last few months.” Mickey and Nigel rub her belly, loving their unborn child, and I’m glad for it because little Miss Thang can hear and feel everything in there. Those are part of the perks of being a caul baby like myself.

  “I’m sorry, Mickey,” I say, hugging her tightly and causing her to back up. I forget she’s not one for affection unless it’s coming from her man.

  “Okay, shawty. It ain’t that serious,” she says, patting me on the shoulder like I’m a mere acquaintance and not one of her best friends.

  “The hell it ain’t,” Nigel says, backing up from Mickey and l
ooking at her over her shoulder. “If they kicked you out and made you go to the continuation school I would go crazy up in this place.”

  “Yeah, and the administration would love it if their star quarterback did some stupid shit like that,” I say, laughing at my boy. But I know he’s not joking.

  “Well, I still have to bring my grades up by the end of the semester and keep a good attendance record if I want to stay at South Bay High School,” she says, throwing her hands up and mocking a cheerleader.

  “Then that’s just what we’re going to do, baby. From now on, you and I are study buddies.” I don’t know about that one. Nigel’s serious about his education, but Mickey thinks of school as more of an annoyance than something she should take seriously.

  “That sounds like a great idea,” Mr. A says, interrupting our conversation. “But you’re all going to be late if you don’t sprint to class right now,” he says, pointing at the wall clock. Ms. Toni walks in after him with a smile on her face.

  “Ah, man, I can’t get another tardy in math or my teacher’s going to put me in detention,” Nigel says, letting go of Mickey to grab his backpack and run for the door. As usual, Mickey couldn’t care less about the time, and I’m not too worried because I’m heading to drama class. As long as I’m there within five minutes of the late bell, Mrs. Sinclair won’t mark me tardy.

  “Here’s a hall pass just in case. But don’t make it a habit,” Mr. A says, passing us each a yellow slip with his signature on it. What a cool-ass teacher. Now I can take my time and go to the bathroom while I’m at it.