Boaz Brown (11 page)

Once at the church, I made a few copies in the front office and set up my classroom. I turned the lights on, listened to the buzz, and waited for the lights to pop on, one square at a time. It was my classroom, my canvas, the place
 
I
 
could paint perfect.

Since becoming a vice principal, I didn’t have the opportunity to stand before children and watch them discover and learn and love life the way I did when I was a classroom teacher. Tutoring on Wednesday nights was productive, but there’s also something blessed about presenting an actual lesson, looking down at tiny little brown faces and telling them how much they are loved. Teaching children’s church on Sunday mornings gave me the opportunity to use my gift as an educator for God’s glory.

As I filled the plastic cups with crayons and scissors for the project we’d be creating, I turned on the intercom and listened to the service going forth in the main room. The praise team was singing a medley of “Jesus Is Mine,” “You Don’t Know Like I Know,” and “Victory Is Mine.”

I had a surprise that morning when the children filed into the classroom. A little white girl visited our class. Maybe at another church, a white child wouldn’t stand out. But in our African-American southern Church of God in Christ, having a white face among the crowd was not a regular occurrence.
 
I
 
never really stopped to ask myself why, because I rather enjoyed being “at home” in church. As far as I was concerned, the less
 
I
 
saw of white people, the more I could be myself.

The little girl’s name was Emily, and she told us that she was visiting with her mother. Her pale face was sprinkled with outstanding brown freckles, which were upstaged only by her bright, contagious smile. Something about children—perhaps the innocence of their beliefs, the blindness of their love—made me
 
stand
 
in awe of how close they are to ideal.

Emily participated in the discussion and drew an awesome depiction of
 
herself
 
praying. When we finished class, I made my usual call for students who wanted to accept Christ in their lives. Emily came forward with a few others. We all clapped for them and asked them to repeat the prayer of faith. Then we hugged them and officially welcomed them to the body of Christ. Deep down inside, I had enough sense to know that everybody needed Jesus, regardless of their skin color.

After serving the snacks, the ushers assisted me in getting the children to their parents. A few of my former students, now in the junior class, helped clean up the room, and then we all went back into the sanctuary.

The Spirit was high, and Pastor Williams was whooping—preaching hard and catching his breath between the organ’s hits. The crowd was on its feet, giving him the impetus he needed to go higher and higher. I stood and joined in, catching on to the last part of his sermon and praising God right along with the congregation.

“I stopped by to tell you this
 
morning.
 
. . that God is able. . . to deliver you. . .
 
mmm
 
hmmm. . . from whatever is stopping you.. .
 
from
 
receiving the fullness. . . of His blessing!”

“Yeah!”
 
The Mothers on the front row cheered him on.

The older sisters waving their white linen handkerchiefs. “Go ‘head!

“Preach, Pastor!” The Pastor’s mother, too ill to stand, sat with her hands in her lap but showed her involvement by poking
 
out
 
her lips and tossing her head left to right with such fervor that her whole body swayed. Pastor preached so intensely, even some of the deacons got up off their bench, crossed their arms, and nodded. Folks shouted for a good ten minutes before someone calmed us all down with the one-word song that wound us all down—“yes.”

After the altar call and prayer line, we were all in a good, peaceful mood to be dismissed. Pastor made his usual comments about our minds turning toward food and football, and the congregation laughed.

Finally, he asked the head usher to come again and recognize the first-time visitors as well as those who invited them. I saw a white woman, unmistakably the only visitor left in the crowd, and obviously Emily’s mother. I’d catch her after service, I figured, to tell her what a wonderful student Emily was and invite her to come again.
 

Sister Wilson, dressed far too stylishly to be an usher, smoothed out her white gloves and spoke from behind the white veil poking out of her hat. “Pastor, this is Shannon Potter. She is a guest of Brother Paul Pruitt.”

The congregation clapped as Shannon pushed herself up and nodded graciously. Paul stood up next to her—I hadn’t even noticed that he was on her pew. He closed in the space between them with his body and smiled broadly.

“Would you like to have words?” Sister Wilson asked Emily’s mother.

Shannon smiled and flipped her blond hair in that irritating white-girl fashion as she spoke. “My name is Shannon Potter, and this is my daughter, Emily. We’re members at First Methodist of Dallas. I have really enjoyed myself today. My daughter and I are guests of Paul Pruitt.” She smiled up at Paul.

“Old Pruitt,” Pastor teased. “You finally brought you a woman to church!” Brother Paul gave a sheepish grin, consistent with his low-key manner.

People laughed, but I knew there had to be a good majority of us who felt exactly the way I did:
 
I know he didn’t!
 
If
 
ever
 
there was anything that could get my blood to boiling, it was to see a black man with a white woman. Well, let me qualify that. When I saw what appeared to be a kind, decent-looking, gainfully employed brother hooked up with a bologna-fryin’, no-shoes-in-the-grocery-storewearin’,
 
wanna-be-black-actin’, Ebonics-fakin’, nose-upturnin’ white girl,
 
that
burned me up.

Now, if he was broke and busted, I didn’t mind him being all hugged up with a white girl. Nine times out of ten, a broke brother had tried to get with a sister but got kicked to the curb. And if she was a really pretty white girl, I could almost see it—but only on the grounds that the brother was disillusioned by the media, white-actin’ himself, and/or carrying out some secret taboo passed down to him through slavery. In either case, a sister really wouldn’t want a brother like that. The white girls could have him.

True, I didn’t want Paul for myself, but there had to be a sister out there somewhere who would jump at the chance to be Mrs. Pruitt. This Shannon, with the hair flips and high-squeaking voice, seemed like the kind of white woman who just wanted to get with a brother and find out if all the rumors she’d heard from her girlfriends about black men were true. She was one of those kinds of white girls that spelled nothing but trouble for a black man. Any brother with half a brain should have been able to check that from the beginning.
 

Why, Brother Pruitt?
 

He seemed like a
 
real
 
brother; mentoring the young men of our church and playing on the church’s basketball team when he got the chance. He didn’t fit the bill for the white-girl type of brother. You
 
know,
 
the brothers that jog outside in the heat of the day. No, Paul was solid. What kind of message was he sending to
 
our
 
boys now that he’d trampled up in the church with this white woman?

It was well past time to dismiss church, as far as I was concerned. My spirit was messed up after seeing that junk. Yes, Lord, the button had been pushed.

After church, I went back to my classroom to make sure I hadn’t left anything; Emily caught up with me and gave me a big hug.

“Are you Sister Smith?” Shannon asked me, walking up behind Emily.

I put on my best white folks smile and said, “Yes. You must be Emily’s mother.”

She nodded, and we shook hands.
 
Blue eyes.
 
Pale skin— no tan to speak
 
of
.
 
Dark brown roots peeking out from under her limp, bleached-blond hair. “Yes, I’m Shannon Potter. Emily really enjoyed your class today. I don’t know what it is about you, but she just loves you to death.”

I accepted the compliment, since it had come from an innocent child. I relaxed the corners of my mouth a bit and settled into an authentic grin. Emily hugged me tighter and looked up, flashing a big
 
snaggle-toothed smile. “I had fun!”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that you had such a great time.” I returned her hug.

“Emily accepted Christ today,” I told Shannon. “Did she tell you?”

“Oh, girl, I think Emily accepts Christ every day.” Shannon laughed. “She’s a Christian at heart.”

Did she just call me
 
girl?
 

“Oh, just call me Sister Smith. And I agree,
 
Emily’s got a heart of gold.”

I turned from Shannon because I didn’t know exactly what my face was saying. “Emily, I hope to see you again
 
soon.’,

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be here again. Paul and I are alternating between churches,” she informed me. “We’re not sure exactly where we’re going to end up. I think we both enjoy each other’s churches so much.”

See, here she goes with too much information. Did I ask her where she and Paul were going to church?

Just then Brother Pruitt walked up behind Shannon in his dark three-piece suit and crisp white shirt. He placed his left hand on her shoulder and offered his other hand to me, greeting me with a smile, looking like a big, sorry something.

I shook his hand, but I didn’t want to. What was his problem, standing there with his arm around Shannon’s shoulder like somebody
 
really wanted
 
that white woman?

Emily released herself from my side and pushed her body into the side of Paul’s leg. He picked her up and kissed her on the forehead, then placed her down beside her mother. “Are you ready?” he asked Shannon.

“Yes,” she said to him. “It was so nice meeting you, Sister Smith. We’ll be seeing you again.”

“Great.” I smiled at Emily. It was the only thing I could do to try to hide the anger welling up inside me. “I’ll see you next time, Emily.”

And then the three of them turned and walked away. Emily’s ruffled, pink dress bounced with every step she took between her mother and Paul. Halfway down the hall, Paul took hold of Shannon’s hand. His deep ebony skin seemed to clash with her milky- white complexion. As though she knew I was still watching them, Shannon turned back and gave me one last smile, swinging her chin just above her shoulder. I gave her the finger wave: fingers fluttering, palm motionless.

On my way out of the church, I stopped to relieve myself in the ladies’ room. I’d been holding it all morning, it seemed, but the heaviness in my bladder had taken a backseat to my anger following Shannon’s introduction.

The church’s restroom was small and only semiprivate, with one stall, which had a shower curtain rather than an actual door. With two older women inside, the room was already crowded, but I stayed put because I didn’t know if my bladder would tolerate much movement. I tapped my heel, ever so slightly, as I waited.