Figure out what makes you unique in life… Looking at your childhood and being honest with yourself. At 22, it’s not really me. It’s what my parents want me to be interested in. It’s not really me. It’s what other peers think is cool right now. — Robert Greene, “People Learn This Too Late!”, Impact Theory podcast
My wife thought of me this morning. There were two left over bagels at her school from Jersey Mike’s Subs. Hey I have a bagel cream cheese. Maybe even 2! 2 bagels with cream cheese. Or 1.5. We’ll see but at least 1.5 - 2. If you want to come by and get them. If you’re out and about. That is my wife’s love language, a thoughtful use of her husband as a convenient garbage disposal! I made that joke with my wife. And she got it. It is our way to communicate. I could see the warm sense of closeness wash over her.
If one starts to pay attention to women at a young age, one will see that women are interested in stories and quips that click into the emotional tone of the other person. When one has been married for thirty years, one develops a second-hand intuition for one’s mate in life if one pays attention. Otherwise, one is destined for unhappiness.
I could not imagine life without my wife and children.
PART I
Today, I want to dive once again into our search for purpose and meaning in life. We come into the world, and if we were fortunate of a certain age and place and time, our guardrails come along with our homecoming from the hospital. Apple trees were important because they gave us apples and nourishment. Some of my deepest memories are of picking bushels of apples alongside Grandma. We lived in Grandma’s old Green House on Twyman Road and she claimed the apple trees/smile. When I fought my best friend, Kevin Robertson, by the blackberry bush, Grandma sternly defined my life course as an extension of family: We do not fight in our family! I took a candy bar from a grocery story on Petersburg Turnpike. I was with Mom. I must been around five or six years old. Mom saw the candy bar in my tiny hands and marched me back into the store. She may have made me pay for the candy bar. And she instilled the fear of God into me outside the store. My purpose in life was to never steal again!
I may give my mother-in-law a hard time at times. But truth be told, grandmothers should not be in the popularity business. The role of a grandmother should be to instill character, virtue, a sense of pietas. In this way, my mother-in-law, My Black American mother-in-law, has carried forth the torch of the grandmother well: Years ago, my mom-in-law…was named Brooklyn Chapter of the NACCP Woman of the Year. I am the privileged beneficiary of her wisdom as the mother of my wife, my partner for life, And the same goes for my children, who have grown up under the active and involved vision of a one-in-a-million grandmother. It doesn’t get better in life, and yet, we have lived in united purpose for our most precious cargo in life while at odds when it comes to race. Mom, there’s an old song I used to listen to in high school down in Chester, Virginia, a world away from Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn. And the Dave Mason song went, “There ain’t no good guy, there ain’t no bad guy. There’s only you and me and we just disagree.” Let’s leave race alone ‘cause we can’t see eye to eye. And together we usher in a higher love for the kids and our grandchildren’s grandchildren. Izabella might even use the term rapprochement. — Letters in Black and White: A New Correspondence on Race in America, p. 361
At an early age, I navigated the world in a positive way. I never perceived myself as having a scar of race. Before the fall of 1969, I never heard a racial slur. I was never called a racial name. I had no sense of race. When my Mom looked upon me, she saw a curious, smart little kid. Mom would have loved me anyway but I do think she saw part of herself in me and she vowed my life would be better than her life because I had more opportunity in life. That’s what Moms did in my little corner of the world. And Grandma modeled in innumerable ways the value of good character, church and faith. Outsiders would have assessed Grandma as traditional and progressive at the same time. She used the best of her past to propel her family forward in space and time.
One did not need to be in Jack and Jill, Alpha Kappa Alpha or the Links to leave a lasting legacy as a Grandma. As I type, I am looking upon a picture of Grandma in her backyard on Terminal Avenue. So many neural pathways for me were formed in her backyard.
My life is passing by fast these days. My youngest graduates from college next week. My oldest son graduates from business school in June. My younger son is a young man immersed in his graduate school program. I don’t understand the world of my children’s generation. And they don’t get my generation of ancient history. My daughter is always shocked that I am not bitter and resentful about my young life. Why would I be bitter and resentful when my known world was all family, neighbors and church congregants until the fall of 1969?
My dear daughter, introspection is a skill. One doesn’t learn introspection from Ethnic Studies but we knew that, right?
So, I feel a sense of urgency to jot down the things I have known before I pass away. If I don’t remember, no one else will remember with the written word.
So, when you were born, I liken it to a seed is planted. That seed is your uniqueness because (1) your DNA never existed in the history of the universe and never will exist again…, (2) your parents are not like another parents. They are going to raise you in a way that is different from any other parenting and couple in history, (3) You are going to have early experiences that are not like anyone else. — Robert Greene, “People Learn This Too Late!”, Impact Theory Podcast
I am watching A Raisin in the Sun (1959) as I type. Odd that one of the villains in A Raisin in the Sun and in my Twyman family are both black men named Willie. Coincidences are part of living.
“People like Willie Harris never get taken.” — Walter Younger, A Raisin in the Sun
“Son, I come from five generations of people that were slaves and sharecroppers. But ain’t nobody in my family never took no kind of money from nobody that was a way of telling us we weren’t fit to walk the earth. We ain’t never been that poor. We ain’t never been that dead inside.” — Momma Younger, A Raisin in the Sun
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What inspired this essay about uniqueness, purpose and meaning?
As my readers know, I do not like dogma or slogan words. Near the top of my persona non grata list would also be caricatures and stereotypes. So, let’s talk for a moment about caricatures. Caricatures are distortions of reality. Traits are exaggerated.
For example, someone heard my voice and concluded: “Oh. Wink’s gay!”
My time is short this morning, but a quick rejoinder to your observation --"Oh. Wink's gay!" Ahhh, nope. Caricatures and stereotypes will let us down every time. Presumably, you have a stereotype running in your mental software. I'm responding in a good spirit because I am guilty of the very..same...mental flaw. For example, there is this podcast series called Film Courage or something like that. I can never see the interviewer. She is always off camera. But her voice.. her voice. Her voice pulls me and unpacks life long memories. I hear the voice of a black woman, a middle/upper-middle class black woman raised in, say, Jack and Jill or Alpha Kappa Alpha (AKA). The interviewer is not black but my mind hears a black woman. It is the inflection, the tone, the laughter that signals blackness but my mind is creating a wrong perception.
We will surely error when we rely upon the voice of caricatures and stereotypes.
I am a highly sensitive guy who is introverted, intuitive, feeling and perceptive (INFP). I am emotionally intense like my daughter. A fair number of my closest friends are women. These traits are me but they are all independent of sexual orientation. I have a poetic disposition which comes out in my voice.
Creative men do not fit the profile of caricatured men. My voice is genetic and reflects my personality and upbringing. None of the above traits equal being gay. In my 62 years of living, only one other person (maybe two) has wrongly assumed I was gay. What people are thinking is irrelevant to me as I live my life from the inside out, not the outside in. That's the hallmark of an introvert.
I love women which should be evident in my essays. Can't claim the gay banner.
PART II
“March ‘em down the aisle,” Mrs. Sloane preached as she washed the dishes in the small kitchen, a kitchen that served double-duty as a study.
“And you saw girls marching down the aisle?” asked her son, Terry.
“Yes, I did,” said Mrs. Sloane, while removing dirty plates from the kitchen table, a layaway purchase from K-Mart. “If a young girl got pregnant without a husband, the minister would order the girl to march down the center of the aisle in church. He would make ‘em ask the lord for forgiveness.”
“Kind of like censure of a congressman, huh?” Terry asked.
“Well, I don’t know about all that. I suppose, if you say so,” Mrs. Sloane answered. Mrs. Sloane had dropped out of school in the tenth grade when her parents both died.
Terry’s mom continued her sermon. “Back in the country, everyone knew your business. You couldn’t run and hide like you can nowadays. And the girls, chil’, the girls cried and broke down and carried on. They know they done wrong.”
Terry, all of 14 years old and in the throes of wet dreams at night, listened while holding his fork. “Mom, that’ll never be me. I’ll never put a girl in that situation,” Terry vowed with handmade chocolate cake as his witness.
“I know you won’t,” said Mrs. Sloane.
Mrs. Sloane lived by the good book. The daughter of a Southern Baptist deacon, she grew up in the black church. At least four of her brothers were preachers, God-fearing, dark-skinned black men. These men did not smoke. These men did not drink alcohol. These men did not curse. They all worked with their hands for the White Man during the week. But on Sunday mornings, they ruled over their small black congregations with a mighty hand.
*****
“Mommy, where do babies come from?” asked the five-year-old Terry one Sunday morning. Mrs. Sloane looked at Mr. Sloane, a struggling barber. Mr. Sloane looked back at Mrs. Sloane, a hotel maid.
“Babies come from the stork. The stork brings babies to mommies and daddies,” Mrs. Sloane explained. Terry listened and filed away the moment in his memory.
During lunch one day, the nine-year-old Terry walked into the school library. He picked up the letter “S” encyclopedia and started to read. He read about “Salons.” He had won a gigantic Hershey’s candy bar for finding the word “Salon” in the newspaper the week before. Just reading the word “Salon” released endorphins. He read about the planet “Saturn,” one of his favorite planets because of its rings. He turned the pages one at a time. He read about “Saudi Arabia.” The desert pictures reminded him of the little drummer boy in the Christmas special.
When he came to “Sex,” his heart skipped a beat. He saw a picture of a naked man with his privates showing. And he saw a picture of a naked woman. He read the paragraphs, phrase by phrase and clause by clause, until he came to the answer. He jumped back. Stunned, his mind shifted into overdrive.
He looked around to see if anyone had seen him reading the “S” encyclopedia. No one had. With the stealth of a Sherlock Holmes, Terry replaced the volume back on the bookshelf.
Once at the bus stop, a kid who lived across the street said, “my mom talked to your mom and your mom made fun of your dad’s slowness.” The neighborhood kid paused for effect. “And your mom said your dad didn’t have it going on in bed.” Terry ignored the kid. But the embarrassment burned right through him. His face flushed. The heat radiated down his shoulders and back. Beads of sweat surfaced on his forehead. Terry never forgot.
*****
“I am going to run for Governor,” Terry declared on the school bus ride home. His junior high school modeled student government after the Virginia state system. Instead of a Presidency and a Vice-Presidency, the top offices consisted of Governor, Lieutenant Governor, and Attorney General.
“Who ever heard of a black Governor?” challenged a white kid from the trailer park. The white kid with bad teeth shot Terry a look that said Terry lacked common sense. The white kid ran his hand through his black hair flecked with dandruff.
“Whether I’m black or white doesn’t matter. What matters is that I am the best person for the job,” Terry explained. Terry’s school had a 96.26% white population. Terry had counted all of the black students in the yearbook, so he knew the racial percentages well.
“Well, can you name a black Governor? Can you?” challenged the white kid who had attended a Klan meeting or two down in Matoaca, the unofficial headquarters of the state Ku Klux Klan.
“It doesn’t matter,” began Terry. In truth, there had been one black Governor, P.B.S. Pinchback, who served as Acting Governor of Louisiana during Reconstruction. Terry didn’t know about Pinchback at the time, however. “I’m the best person for the job. I’m going to run. And I’m going to win!” vowed Terry as the bus arrived at his stop.
“Yeah, right,” threw out the trailer park kid as Terry stepped down the bus steps. “Yeah, right.”
*****
When Terry took the oath of office as Governor, he stared down the white kid with the bad teeth.
Terry attracted the interest of his teachers. The faculty awarded him the award for Best History Student in the 7th grade. And then he won the award for Best Overall Student in the 8th grade. By the time he became a 9th grader, he had earned a firm place among the ranks of the gifted and the talented. Even the Principal had once introduced Terry to the Superintendent of Schools.
*****
“My grandfather roots for the basketball team with the least blacks,” said James, a new transplant to Thomas Jefferson High School. James had moved to town the previous year from Savannah, Georgia. James’ father worked as an engineer for Du Pont, the largest employer in the Richmond, Virginia metropolitan area.
“He can’t stand n———,” James continued. Terry suffered through another tirade.
“In fact, he teaches us to hate blacks. At family reunions, he will pull out the latest Sears catalog. He gathers around the grandchildren and points out the blacks so they will know. ‘There’s a n——-. And there’s a n——-.’”
“Don’t you see how that’s wrong?” said Terry. “Your grandfather is teaching hate.”
“I’m just telling the truth. My grandfather hates n———,” James repeated with glee. The advanced placement class had one African-American, Terry.
“Do you hate blacks?” asked Terry.
“Well, I like you, Terry, but you’re different. You’re not like the other blacks,” replied James.
Terry launched into a long list of successful blacks—Thurgood Marshall, Andrew Young, W.E.B. DuBois, George Washington Carver, Berry Gordy—to show James that middle and upper-middle class blacks existed.
James remained silent. Terry noticed the same silence in his best friend, Josh, a white son of an executive, when Terry argued that America needed more black millionaires. Silence.
*****
“Would you like to go out to the play next week?” Terry asked.
“I have to ask my parents. I will let you know,” Julie said.
Julie flipped back her long blond hair. She tilted her head. A tinge of excitement ran up her spine. Terry, the Student Council President, had just asked her out on a date.
“That’s great,” Terry replied, expecting her to say yes.
Julie had caught Terry’s eye. She had long legs and a carefree spirit. She played for the high school basketball team, the only white girl on the squad. Terry didn’t know how the attraction had started. Perhaps, the first smile Julie had tossed Terry’s way drew Terry in. Or, maybe the model-like way Julie had of tossing her long hair to the side caught Terry’s eye.
When Terry saw Julie that weekend at the grocery story, he had already planned what clothes he would wear to the play. He would surprise her with roses. And maybe a box of chocolates. Could a kiss happen? Maybe.
“Terry, I can’t go with you to the play next week,” Julie began, looking down at the floor.
His heart died.
“Why not?” asked Terry.
“My dad says I can’t go with you because you’re black,” said Julie. She looked away.
“Look me in the eye. Tell me that you are not going out with me because I’m black. Be straight with me!” Terry yelled.
“Sshhh. Don’t make a scene,” Julie whispered as she looked around. All of the customers and employees standing around were white. “I want to. I like you. But I can’t go against my dad,” Julie said.
“Julie, you should tell your father no. Don’t you have the backbone to tell him that you will go out with whomever you please?” Terry said.
“No. I don’t,” Julie confessed.
She looked at him, for a moment, and then said she had to go.
She returned to the aisle where her father stood at the check out counter.
Terry glared at Julie’s father while packing his groceries.
*****
Josh, Terry’s best friend, planned to apply to the College of William and Mary. Other classmates were applying to the University of Virginia and Princeton. Terry mailed away for applications from these schools.
One Sunday after church service, his Aunt Charlotte took Terry aside. Aunt Charlotte ran a beauty shop in Richmond. Her husband worked as a truck driver.
“Your daddy said you wanted to go to college. Now, I think that John Tyler Community College is a wonderful school. John Tyler is close to home. And you can start out easy,” advised Aunt Charlotte.
“I’ve been thinking about the University of Virginia and William and Mary,” bragged Terry.
“You have to start small. Then work up to something bigger,” said Aunt Charlotte. Truth be told, Aunt Charlotte only knew of these schools as big, white schools.
“Thank you for your advice,” offered Terry. Terry planted a pleasant smile on his face.
That evening, Mr. Sloane took up the baton from his sister Charlotte.
“Why can’t you be average? No one from around here has ever gone to these schools. John Tyler is close to home. You can save your money” began Mr. Sloane.
“Dad, these are the same schools that my classmates will be attending. I’m just as smart as they are,” replied Terry.
“But they’re white. If you must go away to a school, why not Virginia State College? Virginia State is a black school. We should support our schools,” said Mr. Sloane.
“I haven’t given a thought to Virginia State. The real world is white. Why should I go to a black school if the real world is mostly white,” asked Terry.
“Boy, those white schools have messed up your mind. Our black schools are important. I heard Thurgood Marshall give a talk at Virginia State,” recalled Terry’s father.
“So? Times have changed. I should go to the best school that I can get into. That’s how we advance the race,” retorted Terry.
“You don’t even talk like a black person anymore,” accused Terry’s father. “You don’t even talk black.”
Terry stood his ground. Terry’s father shook his head.
*****
Terry had to fight through his anxieties when it came to girls. He imagined all sorts of deficiencies—his parents were not educated people, he didn’t like to dance, his lips were too big, he didn’t have money, he didn’t know how to kiss a girl. He wanted to find the right girl. But he didn’t know how.
One summer day, things came to a head with Janna. Terry knew Janna had a boyfriend. And he also knew that the boyfriend had a summer job back home in Hampton. “What are you going to do after graduation,” asked Janna, the light-skinned daughter of a Maryland lawyer. “I’m applying to law school,” Terry said. And to build himself up, he added, “My goal is to attend Harvard.” Janna held his hand. Her energy coursed from her hand through Terry’s body. He didn’t appreciate how the image of a Harvard lawyer had turned Janna on. Terry worried about his frayed cuffs.
“Do you want to kiss me?” she asked.
He wanted to kiss her but he didn’t know how. He turned towards her, slowly, preparing to jump off the cliff. He liked Janna in a college junior sort of way. Janna had cute lips that invited a kiss. She had the polish of her private school upbringing. Terry wanted what she had, but, the gap between them added to his insecurities around her. For the first time in his life, he tried to kiss a woman.
It sucked.
Terry saw a counselor the next day.
The next summer, he met his first love.
*****
As the partner walked Terry back to his office, Terry passed an open door and saw her for the first time. The sight of her grabbed his heart. With the ardor of a thirsty man on a hot Vegas day, he soaked in her figure, her silky, long hair, and her cheeks.
“Who is that woman in Valerie’s office?” Terry asked the partner.
“Oh, that’s Carmen. She’s David’s daughter,” the partner answered. David Foster happened to be a name partner at the firm, Bell, Foster and Stone, and the most powerful politician in Richmond. Did it matter to Terry that the shapely, elegant college student in the office next door called the most influential man in the city Daddy? No. At that moment, Terry lost his inhabitations. Carmen could have been the dogcatcher’s daughter. Terry would still have been smitten.
Terry did not know it but Carmen had been having the same conversation with Valerie, a lawyer, in the next office. “So, who is that handsome guy?” Carmen asked Valerie. “Oh, he’s a paralegal here for the summer. He’s starting Harvard Law School this fall,” said Valerie.
The partner urged Terry to introduce himself to Carmen. The old anxieties inside Terry returned but the force of new attraction gave Terry surprising nerve. He walked over to Valerie’s office and introduced himself to Carmen. When Carmen stood up, she came to his eye level. Terry surprised himself with his grace and charm. He complimented Carmen on her outfit. He talked like she was the only person in the world. Terry did not perspire. Carmen longed to know more about Terry. Terry seemed nice, an original guy not prone to stale pick up lines. She let her mind imagine holding his hand on a summer’s night. She looked at his smile and noticed that he didn’t have a mustache. Daddy had a mustache.
After asking Valerie for advice on a restaurant and wines, Terry asked Carmen out on a date. Carmen said, yes, and hurriedly hung up the phone. Never have so few words so thrilled a man. They dined at a small café, recommended by Valerie, in the Fan District in Richmond. Valerie obliged Terry with advice about how to chat Carmen up.
Terry held Carmen’s hand for the first time at the movie Trading Places.
“You should grow a mustache,” said Carmen as they walked hand in hand outside the movie theatre. “You are already good looking but a mustache would make you really handsome. You have the face for it.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Terry.
“I do,” and she squeezed his hand. That night, Terry began to grow a mustache.
Terry took Carmen up to Charlottesville for a personal tour of the University. They walked on air for most of that humid day. Not one August breeze blew through the valley. The normal ensemble of students and faculty had deserted Mr. Jefferson’s University, save for the Cavalier football team. As they came to the end of the Chemistry Building hallway, he turned to her. She looked into his eyes. She took in his face with the growing mustache. Terry mattered, not the humidity or the boisterous football players outside or the time of day. Terry alone mattered. She wanted to melt into him. Terry felt unknown forces drawing him towards her. He knew no hesitation. And when they kissed, they kissed with passion, with the force of a dam bursting. He stroked her long black hair. She placed her arms around his neck and lost herself to his touch.
*****
“Boy, you’re not going to Harvard!” roared Mr. Sloan with the cartoonish outburst of a severe introvert. Father and son shared shyness, a family name, and little else.
“Dad, going to Harvard Law School is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Most fathers would be thrilled to have a son go to Harvard,” Terry said.
“And are these people going to pay your bills? I don’t have the money for no Harvard. Now, if you were talking about Howard….”
Before his father could finish his sentence, Terry lectured that “you just have to sign this Financial Aid Form. The Financial Aid Office has already determined the parental contribution.”
“I don’t care!” said Mr. Sloane, raising his voice while jabbing the air. “Why can’t you be average? Going to those white schools has messed up your mind. You’re not white!!!” Mr. Sloane stomped the living room floor.
“Average?” Terry shot back. “Dad, the whole point is to be the best that you can be.”
Terry’s mother piped in. She turned towards her husband. “You’re threatened by his success. You don’t want your son to outshine you because then you have to explain yourself.” She had grown weary of Mr. Sloane’s rants against the White Man. “The White Man didn’t make you who you are. And the White Man didn’t make you turn down promotions,” Terry’s mom added. Mr. Sloane grumbled under his breath about his family ganging up on him.
“I’ve worked for this goal for the past three years. I have sacrificed. I have pushed myself to the limit night after night. I have worked two jobs during the summers. Why won’t you sign the financial aid papers?” Terry asked his father. Terry’s pleas fell on deaf ears.
“Mom, you will have to sign the papers,” Terry reasoned.
“No, if your father refuses to sign, then I’m not going to go against him,” said Mrs. Sloane. “I’m not going to go against him but I think he’s wrong,” as she sneered at her husband.
“I work two jobs. I’m not going to risk everything that I’ve got so that he can go to Harvard,” vented Terry’s father in the living room of his small brick home.
Mrs. Sloan prevailed in the end. Terry became a Harvard Law School student that fall. And father and son were forever estranged.
*****
On New Year’s Eve, Terry suggested that Carmen and Terry attend the New Year’s Day celebration in Georgetown. Terry had developed a fondness for Georgetown streets while a college student. For two hours on the bus ride up to D.C., they hugged and kissed one another.
By the time they checked into the hotel room, it was almost midnight. They never made it to Georgetown.
*****
The next day, Carmen took the bus home with Terry at 6:00 a.m. An afterglow enveloped the two. They clung to one another and become one, joined by lack of sleep, richness of intimacy, and blossoming love. After a passionate French kiss, Terry dropped Carmen off at her home. He offered to walk Carmen to her door but she said, no. If Terry had been more observant, he would have noticed a face peering out from behind the curtains.
At dinner that evening, Mrs. Foster explained the facts of life to Carmen. “Terry is a sweet, earnest young man. But he has no place in the world. He is a hard worker but he doesn’t come from the same background that we do. He doesn’t have roots.” Rosa, the family cook who had come with the house, removed plates from the dinner table.
“Mummy!” Carmen interjected. “We’re not that serious.” But Mummy had watched the two French kiss in the car. Mummy noticed the extra long shower that Carmen took before going to bed that morning. Mummy observed that Carmen didn’t wake up until 3:00 p.m. that New Year’s Day. Terry had called the house at least three times before dinner. And Carmen’s dreamy eyes and far away look confirmed Mummy’s suspicions.
“Will you be having dessert this evening, Mrs. Foster?” asked Rosa.
“No, Rosa. I am fine,” replied Mrs. Foster.
“And you, Ms. Foster?” asked Rosa.
“No thank you, Rosa,” said Carmen with a grin that seemed out of proportion to a dessert request. Rosa returned to the kitchen.
“I know you can’t be serious, dear, but you have to be careful,” spoke Mrs. Foster with the force of maternal instinct. “Your father and I were engaged for seven years before we got married.” Left unsaid were distasteful factors behind the long engagement, that Mrs. Foster’s parents had their hesitations about their daughter’s love. He came from a working class family, the son of a hotel waiter and maid. He had dark skin, a delicate reservation within polite black society. And while he had dreams of politics and law practice, suppose he failed? He had nothing to fall back upon. He had no roots.
Well, he did not fail.
David Foster became a star politician at Virginia Union University, a small black college. And he would graduate from Howard Law School and be recruited by the leading black law firm in town. He became the go to man in Richmond. He became the most powerful man in the former Capital of the Confederacy. He became Carmen’s father.
When Carmen looked at Terry’s smile and mustache and into his eyes, she saw her Daddy.
“Promise me that you will be careful,” Mrs. Foster demanded.
“I will, Mummy. I will be careful,” Carmen said to please her mother.
Terry returned to Harvard the next day.
“I am waiting for my visitor,” said Carmen over the phone. An earthier girl might have complained about a late period. “I can’t get pregnant,” she said, laughing so as not to weigh Terry down with her anxious thoughts. When he heard the words, Terry’s stomach dropped to the floor. He sat down with a thud in his dorm room seat. Sometimes, the possible is so unthinkable that the mind, to save itself, will engage in magical thinking.
“No one gets pregnant the first time. That doesn’t happen,” spoke the man who had been a virgin until two weeks ago. “How late are you?” he asked. His pulse increased under the strain of positive thinking.
“Just a few days,” Carmen said.
“You know, if anything happened, we would get married, right?” said Mrs. Sloane’s son. He would do the right thing. And as he offered those words of comfort, his insides churned. Fresh beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
A warm, inner glow filled Carmen. And the warmth inside gave birth to a smile. She tilted her head to the side and ran her brown fingers through her long, black hair.
“You know, Daddy is in the spotlight. Any little thing might set off a firestorm in the papers. The papers have never liked Daddy, a strong dark-skinned black man running the City. It wouldn’t take much for tongues to start wagging,” she said. She spoke from hard experience. Last year, she had gotten a traffic ticket. And her traffic ticket made the local news. If Daddy lived in the public eye, then every Foster lived under the microscope.
Terry listened. No one cared about the goings on of Mr. Sloan’s son, except for Terry’s own family. Neither Carmen nor Terry wanted to dwell on the unthinkable. Lovers never do. And so they talked about how much they loved each other and when they could see each other again. They talked into the night.
He needed to see her again. He could not wait until Spring Break in March. Carmen teased him that since he had had sex, Terry could not think about anything else. Terry did not appreciate the insight. She laughed, and the sound of her voice made him want her that much more.
And she did what all young lovers do at some point—she lied to be in his arms again. She told Daddy that she had a young leadership meeting in Charlottesville. She would be out of the loop for a few days. And, of course, she corralled her roommate to keep her secrets. She flew out of Byrd Airport and arrived that night at Logan Airport in Boston. When she saw him, her heart skipped a beat. They fell into each other and time stood still.
Where did time go? Time lost all meaning.
They stepped inside Terry’s dorm room (that would be 407 Story) and closed the door. She wanted to talk. He obliged her. She said she didn’t have any protection.
“I don’t want to be like Judge Winkfield’s daughter,” she began.
Judge Winkfield had broken the race barrier and become a black judge in Virginia. Terry knew of Judge Winkfield because the Richmond newspaper had run a color expose on the Winkfield mansion. Judge Winkfield also taught law at the College of William and Mary.
Carmen continued.
“One of the Winkfield girls got pregnant out of wedlock. Talk about scandal. People talked about it forever. People shunned her.” Terry listened with the perspective of a reporter, taking in every detail and marveling at the insular world of the Black Elite. “I don’t want to be like her,” Carmen concluded with the voice of someone who had always gotten her way.
“And you won’t,” Terry said with as much care and understanding as he could muster. He sat down beside her. Carmen nestled up to Terry and placed her head on his shoulders. No one spoke for a while.
She raised her head and looked into his eyes, his innocent eyes raised in suburban ways, ways of middle-class sensibility and upward aspiration. She saw her Daddy in Terry, a young law student with his best years ahead of him. They kissed. They kissed again, longer this time, with meaning. And before the night ended, they knew each other once again.
The next day, the two lovers floated on air around the Harvard campus. Terry showed Carmen the Pound Hall classroom where Professor Alan Dershowitz performed before his Civil Procedure class. And to call the good professor a performer hit the mark. They had pizza together at Regina’s Pizza House, a popular student haunt off of Harvard Square behind Au Bon Pain. Terry showed Carmen the Harvard Business School. Terry inhaled the aroma of Old Money that permeated the hallways and classrooms at the B-School. Carmen could not have cared less. She cared about Terry and how Terry treated her.
Intoxicated with her presence, Terry proposed that they dance together on the Charles River. For the past two weeks, the temperature had been below freezing, so the River had frozen solid. Mind you, Terry could not swim and, so, if the ice had cracked, that would have been the end of them. Crazy with love, he swept Carmen off her feet and onto the frozen ice. It did not break. It did not crack. And together, they danced the afternoon away on the River Charles, as Terry called it with affectation.
“Do you love me?” Carmen asked as her breath warmed Terry’s ear.
Terry stopped dancing on the frozen river. He held Carmen’s face and looked deep into her eyes. “I love you more than I love myself,” he whispered before pressing his lips against hers with hunger for her spirit. As they lost themselves in each other, the crisp air turned into snow.
Carmen returned home to Richmond and waited.
When she called Terry, she said she had good news. “I had a little visitor,” she said. “I knew it! I knew it!” yelled Terry. “No one gets pregnant the first time.” They talked a while longer, until Carmen said she had to go to class. “I love you,” Terry said with emotion mixed with relief. “I love you,” Carmen breathed.
And as Carmen hung up the phone, Mummy was there in Carmen’s dorm room.
To Be Continued
*************
“We need a ground swell of creativity that shows humanity endures. If humanity is the Achilles’ heel of Woke dogma, write your memoir. And use the truest sentences you are capable of. Draft a play and show audiences a real story of race and reconciliation across the color line, not hopeless division. Create a screenplay where character drives the plot, not race. Dream of a novel and create a vivid, continuous dream of two star-crossed lovers of different races in a world gone mad with race essentialism. Let Boris Pasternak and Dr. Zhivago be your guide.
Write a song about love, not dogma.” — The Touch of the Russian Novelist