It was the green eyes that gave her away. They were the same as Vivica’s. Just older and sadder.
“Are you Vivica’s mother?” I asked.
She nodded while smoothing the front of her dress, a way to keep her hands busy.
“She’s not here right now.” I said bitterly. She was at the poetry competition, probably getting a standing ovation, while I was sitting on hard steps that were making my butt hurt.
“Oh, okay. Um, I’ll just come back. I didn’t think she’d be home. I, uh…it’s not necessary to leave a message. I’ll just come back. Yes, I’ll just come back at another time.”
Just like that, Vivica’s mother, the woman she hadn’t seen in five years, scurried away like a mouse in daylight.
And just like that, anger spoke to me. It told me to run like a track star to the bus stop. It told me to board the first one that came.
It bounced words around in my head like musical notes.
Jeffrey Black Not enough Thug White boy White girl Biracial Insecure Sabotage Real Fake Down Race Racist Interracial Frontin’ Betrayal Trust Friendship Green Eyes Vivica
It told me to take out my notebook and scribble them down. And without my realizing it, a poem came. Anger aided and abetted my creativity.
It told me to hop off the bus and run into school. It told me to frown at Vivica when she smiled at me.
It told me to get onstage after Sister Souljah performed.
I was sweating. Panting. I caught my breath and wiped my face with the sleeve of my Rainhaven T-shirt.
Anger told me to dedicate my poem to one of the realest fake girls I ever met. It told me to shout-out Vivica.
Then anger dripped from my mouth and cascaded into a puddle on the stage as I performed:
What’s the deal, mami?
What’s really real?
Your green eyes
That you use to despise
Everything not black enough
Made a fuss about
The way I talk
But hear this
Miss Black or should I call you Ms. White?
’Cause your mommy who’s
The color of Bush’s house
Stopped by looking
For her Spanish-looking
Daughter with the green eyes
That she uses to despise
Everything not black enough
She gave me, the foolish black-white girl,
A message
To give to you
Let me recite it
Your white mommy
Loves you
When will you start
Loving yourself
Made me feel bad
About being me
Because you hate you
Is this poem
Hard enough
For you
Is it the real
you seek
the real you
claim to be?
’Cause your eyes
They…will…always…be…green
When I finished, relief hit me first. I was no longer angry. Then, as I looked at the silent crowd, I was unsure how I felt. I felt nothing. When Vivica ran out of the auditorium, I watched her. I watched her run and didn’t run after her. Sheena and Nessa got up to follow her and shot me daggers of disgust as they walked out.
But the audience, the audience roared. They loved it. They loved that I’d dissed the hell out of Vivica. They loved that the poem was hardcore. They felt it. They felt me.
At that moment, I hated myself. I walked slowly offstage and looked up to see Jeffrey staring at me. I looked away because I needed a rainbow and he wasn’t smiling.
I became a different person on that stage. I let anger occupy me and navigate me to a place that I shouldn’t have gone.
CHAPTER 24
When I got home, I confessed to A&I what I had done. The guilt wrapped tight around my neck and threatened to strangle me.
Their faces screamed disappointment but I deserved it. I actually craved their disapproval.
“It wasn’t your place to tell the world about Vivica’s background.” My mother was furious but she didn’t raise her voice. “If she didn’t feel comfortable broadcasting it, you should have respected that, even if you felt that she was being a hypocrite.” She was right. I knew she was right.
“Nina, you’ve just been taken away from everything that you know and thrown into everything that you don’t know,” my mother said as she smoothed my smooth hair. “But you have to remember that throughout it all, you are still Nina. Naturally you’re going to grow as a person, but at the core, you’ll always be Nina and no one can take that away from you.”
“But who am I? I’m black. But I’m not black,” I shot back.
“James Baldwin once wrote, ‘I don’t like people who like me because I’m a Negro.’ Do you know what he meant by that, Nina?” my father asked.
My head was now in my hands on the kitchen table.
“He meant that he wanted people to like him for who he is. The person inside. Being black isn’t easy. It’s especially not easy when you push past stereotypes and embrace individualism.” My father motioned for me to come to him. He hugged me the way only a father can.
“We want to apologize to you for trying to pin our insecurities on you,” he said. “Because sometimes we aren’t accepted by our race, we wanted to protect you from that, by making sure you engaged with black people.” My father exhaled.
“You already had a good head on your shoulders,” my mother continued. “You weren’t consumed by race like us. And we should have prepared you more, without sacrificing who you are.” We were all crying for acceptance.
That night I washed my hair, and in the water, I searched for Nina.
CHAPTER 25
The next day at school was triple more miserable than the first one. I saw the Big Three. I saw Jeffrey. I was alone, again.
Even Ms. Jimu looked at me with a mixture of pity and disappointment during homeroom. Sister Souljah congratulated me for exposing a fake sista. Jay told me that he didn’t think I had it in me to “bring the ruckus.” I wanted to see Vivica’s green eyes but she never looked at me.
“You received quite a response to your poem yesterday,” Ms. Jimu said after homeroom. I wondered if I was the only kid that she showed concern for. Was I really that pitiful?
“Yeah, I brought the hotness,” I said. The sarcasm came easy.
“I wish I could have persuaded you not to do the poem,” she said sadly.
“At that moment, the way I was feeling, I don’t think anyone could have dissuaded me. But I realize what I did was wrong, and I am going to try to make things better.”
“I’m sure you will,” Ms. Jimu said. I could tell she believed in me.
It took me a few days to decide how I would apologize to Jeffrey. I ended up composing a letter because I couldn’t face him and explain myself at the same time. I gave him the letter after school. He asked me what it was and I couldn’t look into his eyes. I stared at the cracked concrete and asked him to please read it. I felt him nod as he walked past.
It said:
Dear Jeffrey,
You were like a breath of fresh air on my first day of school. Just the fact that you talked to me made my day easier. But you didn’t just talk to me, you talked with me. I could tell that you were different and you saw in me an individual light and I will always thank you for that. Somehow between that first day of school and when we went out, I got confused about who I was. I tried to be someone else to please everyone but myself. You were right when you told me to just be me and I’d be fine. I wish I would have taken your advice.
I am truly embarrassed by my behavior in the past week. While there is no truth in Vivica’s claims (I wasn’t looking for a thug), that doesn’t excuse my actions. Please believe me when I s
ay that I just wanted to get to know you. And for you to get to know me. It’s unfortunate that we didn’t get that opportunity. But if you are ever interested in giving me a second chance to be your friend, I’d welcome it with open arms. Also, I hope you can make the final round of the poetry competition. I hope to redeem myself. The real me.
Sincerely,
Nina
I stood in front of Vivica’s door several minutes before actually knocking.
When I finally did, Mr. Lamont opened the door wearing a blue T-shirt and matching sweats. The clothes made him look different. Younger. His eyes went straight to the ground as he waited for me to speak.
“Is Vivica home?” My voice was heavy with guilt.
He shook his head and let me in without speaking. I told him I was there to try to make things right and apologize.
“That’s very mature of you. I appreciate that.” He knocked on Vivica’s door and talked with her in her room before telling me it was okay to go in.
Vivica was lying on her bed looking at an old photo album. She had on pink children’s pajamas and a scarf on her head.
“I would show you a picture of my mother, but you already know what she looks like,” Vivica said without looking up. Tissues were strewn across her bed. Her nose was red and puffy.
“Remember when I asked you how your friend Jill felt to be black and white?”
“Yes,” I answered softly.
“I wanted to know if she felt like I felt.”
I went over to her bed and sat down.
“Do you know why my mother left?”
She didn’t wait for me to respond. She didn’t want me to.
“Because her family disowned her. I’ve never met my grandmother, uncles, aunts, no one. They never wanted me to be born. Can you believe that? In the nineties people still felt that way?” She laughed, but not because it was funny.
“How does it feel to be me? Black kids don’t want to hang with me because they think I’m not black enough. Black girls think I’m too light-skinned and hate on me. White kids just look at me as another black girl. I spent the majority of my childhood alone.” She flipped through the pages of the album, not concentrating on any one image.
“After my mother left and my father and I moved to Baltimore, I made a decision. I was going to be black.” She looked up and pointed her finger in the air for emphasis. “I was going to erase the white parts of me like chalk. I was going to be the blackest black girl I could be. And it was working for a while. I finally made some friends. But I always felt incomplete. Then you came, and you didn’t try to be anything but yourself. You openly admitted to having white friends and a white boyfriend. I was jealous that you seemed to be comfortable in your skin. You made me realize that I didn’t know how to be black because I didn’t know how to be myself. And I hated you for it.”
I couldn’t say anything. I just listened.
“I deserved to be exposed, to be put on blast. I’d become a terrible person who didn’t even like to look in the mirror anymore.”
“No, you didn’t deserve it,” I said.
“No, I did. The only problem is now that I can be myself, I have no idea how to.”
That’s when she pulled out a notebook and flipped to a page that read at the top, “How to Be Myself.”
CHAPTER 26
“This is the final judging round to determine who will be on Maplewood’s inaugural poetry team. We have fifteen contenders and eight slots, so I don’t have to tell you that the competition is steep. I will make the decision after the last poet performs.” Ms. Jimu wished everyone luck before leaving the stage.
The auditorium was filled to capacity, like this was a mandatory assembly. Word spread like rumors around the school about the personal battles raging at the competition.
I sat alone, although I would have been welcome to sit with the Big Three. I needed time out. Ever since that day at Vivica’s house, she and I had become closer, even though we hadn’t spoken much since then. She needed time out as well.
After Jay and Nessa recited poems that guaranteed them spots on the team, Vivica and I were the last to perform. This must have been strategic placement by Ms. Jimu to either avoid drama during the middle of the competition or to keep the audience in suspense to the end.
The last time I was onstage, I was driven by anger. This time, I was driven by purpose. I stepped up to the microphone and could tell that the audience wanted the hotness. So I brought it.
You tryin’ to be down?
Peep this
Well you goin’ need
10 cups of hotness
Don’t mix it
Just keep it
On you at all times
Make sure you know who rhymes
Best not to miss an episode
Of 106 and Park
Whether you light or dark
Keep yo’ appearance tight
But everything else
Bottled inside
If you soft
Try to hide it
And when the teacher asks a question
Remain silent
’Cause that’s what’s up
And being smart
Ain’t
Paint a mug on your face
’Cause fake is real
And real is disrespected
If it ain’t reflected
In the streets
Where you from
Oh the streets
You know the mean ones
Of Rainhaven
Jerzee
Where we bus’
Pens
Yeah I’ve gotten
Good at pretendin’
Only to forget
How to be me
And now I’m
Lost ’cause I tossed
Me aside to be
Down
’Cause that’s what’s up
But oh wait
Here’s the remix
To your single mindedness
Accept me for me
Accent, bushy hair and ripped jeans
And I’ll do the same
Let’s change the game
And stop worryin’ how to be down
And start loving to be ourselves
I didn’t concentrate on the applause, although it sounded like an explosion. As I walked back to my seat, Nessa looked like a proud mother and Sheena gave me a go-girl snap. I looked down a few rows and Jeffrey flashed me a rainbow after the storm.
Vivica was already onstage with the microphone in her hand when the audience settled down. Her green eyes were closed as she began:
Sometimes I don’t
Recognize my own face
This is how it feels to be invisible me
If race was erased
I’d be invisibly free
From your judgment
Tough luck
Negro girl you can’t eat here
But miss you’re okay
because of those green eyes
I don’t say anything, I pass
but lies, little or big
Eventually become
Rattlesnakes
Cobras
Boas
Disrupting
Choking
Poisoning
Me
Lies
Short or tall
Eventually
Become
Racism
Genocide
self-hatred
Destroying
Killing
Eradicating
What is left of
Me
So you see
I’m conflicted
Too light to be down so I fake it
Too dark to pass so I just kick it
In purgatory
But I’m in control of this story
Tired of perpetrating a slicker version of me
So I’m stripping down to my essence
Like my name was Cinnamon
Releasing the tons of pressure
On my shoulders
Taking bolder steps
Towards me, myself, and I
And in time I’ll smile
At how it feels to be me
The biracial prize
With the big, beautiful green eyes
I wasn’t the first one to stand when Vivica was done. Eventually, the entire auditorium was on its feet. Not because it was hardcore, but because it was honest. Refreshing. Bold. I was proud to call her my friend.
After she exited the stage, Vivica walked up to me with a tear in her eye. She tried to give me a pound, but I messed it up. Then she gave me a hug. And I got that right. The audience erupted again.
DOUBLE ACT
Debbie Rigaud
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
In loving memory of my Mummy, Viviane Rigaud
and my Dada, Madone Nicaisse.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Thank you to Adrienne Ingrum for this exciting opportunity. It’s been great working with you. Me daw’ase, Bernard, for your love, support and inspiration. To Golda, my twin spirit. You understand. Shirley, Judy and Jerry—you guys are the best. And sweet thanks to Ana, Isaiah, Julia, Derek, Gregory, Xavier and Zora for teaching me more than they will ever know. Thanks, Pappy, for your musical kinship. Mummum (Lamercie)—your strength, love and humor are legendary. Jessica (Seca), I appreciate you always being my junior reporter. Merci, Grace, for being my muse. Thank you, Yvy, a gifted educator, for letting me speak to your students. And thanks to East Orange, New Jersey, for being the perfect setting in my personal life story.
CHAPTER 1
I studied both jump ropes as they turned. The cable ropes slapped the scuffed gym floor one at a time. Their hastening one-two, one-two rhythm kept pace with my heartbeat. Loose hair strands from my tucked ponytail swayed from the draft that the speedy rope motion spurred. The turners led the double ropes into an egg-beating frenzy. I stood alongside them and prepared to hop in when signaled.