Oasis

A long time ago and just yesterday I received a gift that has grown in value over the years. It is a monument of hope that I harken back to in times of particular need. I used to think that there was just one hero, but there were two.

Each morning we would walk to school in our clump, a band of brown in the midst of a sea of pinky-beige. We’d pass by some of our classmates’ mamas who were holding signs, some puffing on cigarettes as they gave me and my like-hued cohorts disdainful looks. Under this scornful perusal, I wondered if they knew that I got good grades, if they could see that my clothes were clean and neat. That I had good home training, saying, “Excuse me” when I passed near them, even as their hate-filled eyes bored into me.

Maybe if they saw how polite and smart I was, they would realize that the signs were wrong. The quality of the school wouldn’t go down with my mere presence, nor would the other atrocities apparently associated with deep melanin come to pass.

I could breathe easier when I finally made it to class where there were no mothers. It was just the everyday learning among students who had gotten used to one another. We knew that there was no boogeyman in our midst. It was a welcome respite – at least for a little while. During lunch the menacing mamas would make their stand, sitting on the stage of the cafeteria/auditorium. They were allowed to lounge there drinking coffee and smoking with their signs propped to clearly display their sentiments against my skin.

I took furtive glances at them hoping that they wouldn’t notice me, and if they did, they would see that my elbows were not on the table. When we lined up to deposit our lunch trays after eating, we had to march right by the now dreaded stage. I tried not to look, afraid of what I might see in their eyes. I looked forward to being back in the classroom where I could rest in the indifference of most, and the friendship of some.

Except one day, it wasn’t so restful. The Mamas had planned a walk-out protest. They wanted the (white) students to walk out at 2 pm (school let out at 3:15) to protest against the awfulness of having to sit and do class work beside children who were a different color than them. That was bad enough; the worst part was that it made its way into the sanctuary of the classroom.

Phil Ballard (not his real name) began after lunch to wax on about how he was going to walk out. His explanations and illogic was like he was wearing his daddy’s shoes which were too big, and he had to keep stuffing in paper, socks, and other nonsense to make them fit. It was puzzling because Phil was one of my safe friends.

My best friend and fellow student of color broke into his ill-fitting tirade. “Phil,” she said with hurt and sadness making her voice small, “we thought you liked us.”

Emboldened, I spoke up on the tail of that. “We thought you were our friend.”

Phil frowned, perhaps considering the impact of his words on real people. “I do like y’all and I am y’all’s friend.” His southern twanged words were full of sincerity and confusion.

“Then why are you walking out?” my friend asked.

Phil had nothing to say, but the expressions chasing across his face were testifying to an inner dialogue. The entire class had been quiet as they attended the conversation. The great thing about that is that our teacher, Mrs. Wade – her real name – allowed the conversation to take place. We were supposed to be doing world history, but she gave us space to use our voices.

Phil didn’t leave at 2.

The next day my friend and I asked him what happened at home. Phil didn’t tell us no matter how we pried. I had the feeling that it didn’t go well for him. I’m pretty sure of it. We dropped the inquiry at his unspoken request and picked up the cords of our friendship which was once again, an oasis.