I was a certified, bona fide, flag-waving geek. I assumed it was generally accepted common knowledge. Giving him his smile right back, I left the office feeling a little sad for this man who so obviously didn’t know Whom He Was Dealing With.
Growing up with Maya Angelou and Malcolm X, Sweet Honey in the Rock, Black History Month every month of the year in my home, and a rainbow coalition of friends and family meant that I knew who I was. (I knew who Zora Neale Hurston was, too.) And where I should apply to college.
I waited for the acceptance letters to roll in.
And they did. For all of us. We wore our status like the alligators emblazoned on our shirts. We were academic superstars, remember?
Apparently, not everyone did. At least, not many of our counterparts remembered that we were the same people who sat next to them in AP classes, occasionally gave homework help, and assisted in decoding the poetic genius of hip-hop’s pioneers. When the news spread about our acceptances, all of that didn’t matter anymore.
We lost one of our labels just like that.
Suddenly, we were no longer part of the school’s elite geekarati.
We were only very, very Black.
“It’s just . . . so wrong,” sputtered my Don’t Free South Africa acquaintance on the phone, who was now more well versed in the nature of injustice. “It’s not fair. Someone like E., who’s worked so hard and is so smart, gets rejected from Harvard, but all of these Black people get into Ivy League schools.”
Excuse me?
“People like me, you mean?” I said sweetly, ever polite. My mom taught me manners, even in the face of extreme jackassishness.
There followed much stammering and blustering, and assurances that, of course, he hadn’t meant me.
I realized then and there that the same people who’d asked for my notes were always going to see me as more C– than A+, no matter what the report cards said or how good my notes were. And their parents, grumbling about affirmative action and lowered standards in the same breath, probably fed them those thoughts at the dinner table. And some of the wonderful teachers who quietly but fiercely looked out for us let us know that some of their colleagues felt that way, too.
It broke my heart.
I thought I knew the face of racism. In second grade, a classmate who knew a lot of bad words and very little about personal space followed me daily murmuring “Niggerniggernigger” in my ear. Yeah, that was A Year to Remember. And then there was the way our community welcomed an interracial couple — with a cross-burning. Thankfully, a number of neighbors had led a march and vigil in objection to that heartbreaking display of ignorance.
Now I looked around our school and wondered, “Are you like those cross-burning, epithet-spitting people?”
My teachers and classmates knew me. And still the answer to my question wasn’t clear.
It. Broke. My. Heart.
But it didn’t take long to open my eyes and see the truth: It was their problem.
If they didn’t get it; well, that was too bad.
I wasn’t going to try talking to them first.
I’d gotten into the colleges of my choice because I’d worked every multidimensional bone in my body to get there.
I didn’t need to be in AP Bio to know how wrong it is to be reduced and flattened to a color (but I was). I wave my identity flag high and wide, marching-band style (yep, did that, too — polyester uniform and all).
I’m Black. I’m a geek.
And nobody can divide that beautiful partnership.
Berlin is like a theme park.
You got your Nazi Land —
with its huge war monuments,
stone eagles staring you down,
and gold bricks in the ground
telling you how many Jewish folks
from your building died in the war.
You have your Commie World,
all gray and rectangle blocks
of boring buildings,
old Karl Marx statues,
and leftover parts of the Berlin Wall
standing next to a Starbucks.
Then you got Futurama,
where you can ride around on those weird
Segway people movers,
zipping past gleaming towers
and lit-up pyramids
(like Las Vegas but more classy),
all built in the empty space
where the Wall came down.
It’s all interesting, I guess.
We’re only here
a year for Daddy’s work,
so I can put up with anything —
even starting high school
in a place that never heard of
homecoming.
What makes it okay is the food.
There are these amazing gelato stands
(only eighty cents a scoop!),
bakeries on every corner with sweets
you wouldn’t believe,
and the currywurst —
that’s bratwurst with curry ketchup —
man, I could eat that forever.
I’m thinking of opening
a chain of my own
when we get back to the States.
It’s that good.
But there are things that suck, too.
German is hard,
and nobody ever smiles and says,
Hey, wassup, girl?
When it’s cold,
everybody seems grumpy —
I guess complaining about winter
must be like a national sport here.
And then there’re the subways. . . .
Me and my family head down
the subway stairs
past the stone eagles
and homeless musicians,
past the currywurst stand
where we usually get a snack.
No stopping today,
it’s wall-to-wall
people —
all Germans —
tall and pale,
towering over me
like Euro-gods with tiny glasses.
“Why can’t we take a taxi?” I ask.
“You all gonna pay for it, Reina?” asks Daddy,
his southern twang
more out of place
than we are.
We move slowly across the platform,
pushing into the overcrowded train car.
“Sure, I’ll pay,
just as soon as I start my own
currywurst stand.”
I can still smell it from here.
My brother, Oscar, laughs. “Yeah, right.”
I stare at his pudgy face,
trying not to get squished
by the rush-hour stampede.
“What’s so funny?” I say.
Oscar laughs again.
“A black American girl
servin’ up German sausage?
Sure, that’s not funny
at all.”
“I’m not black,” I say.
An old punk rocker,
all leather and tattoos,
laughs when I say that.
I shoot him a look.
My dad is black,
in a real southern way.
But Mom is a light-skinned Hispanic
from Puerto Rico,
so I’m as black as Obama, I guess,
which is only half.
My bro rolls his eyes. “Sorry.
I meant ‘mixed American.’”
His eyes light up —
“Or how about ‘mixed-UP American’?”
Mom makes a face.
“That doesn’t even make sense, Papito.”
Oscar shrugs, like she ain’t
hip enough to get it.
The doors start to close,
so I give Oscar one last shove
’cause we still sticking out
the train door a bit.
We make it in
as the doors seal shut,
but now he’s squas
hed up
against a pole,
looking like he wished
he didn’t have a sister.
“You should thank me
for saving your butt,” I say.
“You coulda got cut in two
by them doors.
I heard it happened once.”
He’s thinking of a comeback.
“I pretty sure your big butt
woulda stopped those doors
from closing,” he mutters.
I laugh in his face. “Dude,
so weak. Move on
before you embarrass yourself.
Oops, sorry, too late.”
Then we ignore each other,
standing like sardines
in a tin can with windows.
Mom’s feet ache.
So do mine.
Too much walking here,
not like in the States.
Guess that’s why
they ain’t all fat here.
All they do is walk
and take the subway,
or the U-bahn, as they call it.
I wish we had a car,
but Daddy says the subway
is a good way to
“mingle with the people.”
That’s the only way
to get into a strange culture,
he says — dive in,
headfirst.
So we ride them,
morning
to night.
No taxis for this familia.
The subway’s kinda like
watching reality TV —
you see all kinds.
I’ve seen the clothes change
from season to season since we got here:
shorts and porkpie hats and flip-flops
in summer
become heavy coats and fur caps and boots
by winter.
There’s funny-looking people:
hipster artist types trying to act all Euro-cool,
workers reading big ol’ novels,
students bopping to their iPods,
tourists looking lost and confused.
But most of all,
old people.
Lots of ’em.
I don’t think I ever seen
so many old people before.
Daddy says they ain’t that old —
they just look it.
Ex-Communists
who lost their way of life
when the Wall came down.
You’d think they’d be happy,
but the older ones aren’t.
They like making your life
miserable
’cause they can’t have it their way
anymore.
Daddy says, Just kill ’em
with kindness.
But they never smile
or give us the time of day.
Daddy looks around for a place
to park our butts.
The train is jam-packed —
no place to go.
But he smiles,
winks at me,
and nods toward
two older women,
all uptight with little glasses
and what they think passes
for style: beige pants, beige jackets,
colorful scarves,
and poofy colored hair.
To me, it seems
they all dress the same,
like they in the same old people’s club
or something.
There is one empty seat
between them.
Or at least
Daddy thinks there is.
It’s more like a small gap,
but it’ll do.
“Honey, it’s on,” he says,
pointing to their row.
“Not funny, Papi,” Mom says,
frowning.
I look at the old ladies,
especially the one
with a bright-red mop of Lola hair
who holds a small dog
as sour as she is.
I laugh. “Good luck with that.”
Daddy shrugs. “I didn’t invent the rules.
I just play the game.”
“Some role model,” Oscar pipes in,
taking Mom’s side.
“Mama’s boy,” I say.
“Daddy’s girl,” he says, all cutesy
’cause he knows I hate that.
Daddy puts his hands
on our heads.
“Y’all missed
the freedom-bus protests,
so you have no idea,” he says.
Mom clears her throat.
“Papi, you were two years old back then,”
she says, blowing his cover.
Daddy gives her a look and shrugs.
“Just sayin’. Now, let your man
go to work.”
He adjusts his tie,
smooths down his goatee,
and heads toward the two old ladies,
all smiles and southern charm.
He tips his invisible hat
and says in his best Alabama-German,
“How y’all doin’, fraw-lines?”
then motions to the empty spot.
They grimace,
like they just swallowed
something bad.
“Dan-ka, ma’ams,” he says politely,
not waiting for an answer.
He wiggles between them,
clears his throat,
and waits
for the next move. . . .
I try to make eye contact
to see if I can make him
laugh.
But he doesn’t.
He has on
his most saintly face,
like he just got baptized
by the pope.
The ladies are
squirming on either side of him.
Even the dog
is jumpy.
It’s like Daddy has a disease
or something.
They’re looking around,
trying not to be too obvious
about their discomfort,
but he can’t help but rub shoulders
with them.
My guess is they watch
American TV and think
if you sit next to a black man,
it’s only a matter of time
before he robs you.
Even if he’s wearing a suit,
he could still be one of those
Malcolm X brothers.
Ach, mein Gott!
It’s like watching popcorn
pop —
sooner or later
they’re gonna blow.
I look at my watch.
Thirty seconds.
Mom catches my eye,
frowning at our game.
I ignore her like I don’t know
what she’s on about.
It used to bother me
when we first arrived in Berlin.
I mean us getting on the subway.
I know these folks
can’t quite figure us out.
Mom’s light tan.
Oscar looks like a white boy.
But me, I look like an overcooked
mini Jennifer Lopez with nappy hair.
Back home, we ain’t no big thing.
But here, they don’t know
what to think.
I think Daddy made up
this game,
to show us not to sweat it —
it’s all a big joke.
We’re doing
social experiments is all.
“See, America’s an immigrant country,”
he told us when we first got here.
“We’re used to rubbing shoulders
with all kinds.
But here,
they never had immigrants
until recently.
They’re just now learning. . . .”
Not so well,
as far as I can see.
When the Germans brought the Turks
over to do all the manual labor jobs
fifty years ago,
they probably didn’t think
Berlin would turn into
the third-largest Turkish city
in the world!
Seems they’re sorry
they opened that door now.
“Hey, pup, what’s your name?”
Daddy’s trying to make nice
with the little mutt
in the red-haired lady’s lap.
It growls back.
The lady shushes it,
but when Daddy tries to pet it,
she pulls her dog away
and looks up at the announcement board,
like her stop is coming.
She struggles to get to her feet,
then makes her way
to the door,
out of Daddy’s sight.
But I keep my eyes on her.
When she thinks
he can’t see her anymore,
she spots an empty seat
and slides in next to a nice-looking
German couple.
Daddy spreads out a little more,
his elbow almost touching
the other lady.
He makes eye contact
with me.
I stick my tongue out,
thinking just one
don’t count.
If you can’t clear out seats
for all of us, then —
Suddenly, the other lady
takes out her cell phone
and acts like it just rang.
Pretends
she can’t hear
and has to get up
to walk to another part
of the train for better reception.
But I happen to know
the phones don’t work
down here.
Least mine don’t.
Still, she gets points
for her acting.
Daddy smiles
and waves us quickly over.
Mom disapproves
but is too tired to argue.
He stands as we squeeze in,
grateful to be sitting
after all that walking.
“Under a minute —
that’s pretty good,” he says, leaning over,
waiting for my concession speech.
It ain’t coming.
“That last one
should become an actor —
she got mad skills,” I say instead.
Me and him crack up,
even as a couple across from us
listens in.
I know they know what we’re saying,
but I’m just gonna pretend
they don’t.
“People here
sure like to move about,
don’t they? These seats
must be bad
or something.”
I fiddle with mine,
like it’s broken.