Boaz Brown (24 page)

“His name is Stelson Brown, okay?” I answered. “The people at my job can give you a good description of him, and I will leave his business card on my refrigerator—so if I’m not at the house by three tomorrow, you come look on my refrigerator, okay?”

“That’s much better,” she said. “You’re a single woman in a big city. I don’t care how tough or how smart you think you are, you need to let somebody know where you are. You ain’t got to be afraid of the devil, but you do need to know how to beat him at his own games.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Shondra,” she said, “have a nice time tonight.”

“Thank you, Momma. I will.”

Stelson’s church was probably thirty miles on the other side of Dallas. The long ride over in his champagne Toyota Sequoia was pleasant. The lights from the dashboard cast a cozy glow across our faces as we talked and listened to smooth jazz on the radio.

We skipped the small talk and landed right in the middle of an authentic conversation about college life. I told him about my experiences pledging Delta Sigma Theta. He told me about his experiences as a tutor, which had obviously prepared him for the challenge of tutoring the students at True Way.

We took seats on the third row of Stelson’s church. The building was spacious, with towering ceilings and wide aisles. Individual chairs instead of pews. It reminded me of a gymnasium more than anything else. And the atmosphere within was definitely one of a pep rally. Energy. Livelihood. Smiles everywhere.

Stelson and I received warm greetings from members seated near us. They seemed to know Brother Brown well, embracing him and asking him how things were going with the business.

“We’re blessed,” Stelson replied. Then he introduced me: “This is my friend LaShondra Smith.”

I watched them, waiting for the moment their faces said,
she’s black.
But before I could see it in a half-smile or a subtle hesitation, they were already shaking my hand and welcoming me into our Father’s house.

Taking in the breadth of the building, I realized that the congregation was a rainbow of colors, from the darkest ebony to the fairest ivory and everything in between. There were a few interracial couples with sandy-haired children, worshipping just like everybody else.

“Our God is a wonderful God; he lives…” I closed my eyes, forgot about the colors, and lifted my hands in worship, basking in the presence of the Lord, which poured out on each of us with no respect to color. “Come, let us worship the Lord in His great holiness.” The beat was a little different, but the words were the same. The Spirit was the same.

Well, I thought I knew what Saturday Night Live would be like, but I wasn’t prepared for what I witnessed. Those kids were on the verge of hip-hop dancing, and I thought for sure lightning was going to strike us all down. But between songs, teenagers of all shades took the stage and testified to what God had done for them and how they were gaining victories in their young lives; how they were standing up for Christ at school, with their athletic teams, and on their jobs; how they had won souls for Christ. It was inspiring, and I was so proud of my little brothers and sisters in Christ.

The church kitchen was buzzing with children after the service. Stelson and other workers busied themselves squirting ketchup and mustard on hot dogs and passing out Dixie cups of juice. As handsome as Stelson already was, he looked even more attractive in an apron. I asked if I could help, but he assured me that they had it under control.

I watched and waited at the back table, smiling as parents walked by to pick up their children. The skeptical part of me started up again, looking, searching for what had to be wrong with Stelson. There had to be something, no matter how tiny it might be.

I did a little self-talk.
I can accept him just as he is, as good as he is, white as he is; he might not be black, but he is my brother in Christ.

After
all the kids had been served, Stelson courteously asked if he should stay to clean up, but the other helpers gave him the green light to go ahead and leave. “I see you’ve got a guest.” One of the older black ladies smiled at him. Her silvery gray hair was the only testament to her age.

“Are you sure, Sister Milford?”

“Oh, we’ve got it. You go on ‘head with your lady friend.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “I’ll see you all next time.”

It was dark when we left the building, but the night was still young. Stelson took me to a posh restaurant that I’d only read about in the society section of the newspaper. For a ritzy place, it seemed to have a pretty casual atmosphere—jeans, boots, and sweaters. No blacks, but it wasn’t the first time I’d been somewhere and been the only African-American in the house.

We approached the podium together, and Stelson did all the talking, telling the waiter that we needed a table for two in the nonsmoking section. “Brown,” he said.

The waiter, a white man in his mid-twenties, looked at us both as if we were there to steal something. I knew that look, but I guess Stelson didn’t, because he smiled on back to the waiting area. “This place is great. You’re gonna love it. The owner is one of my clients.”

A cute elderly couple got on the waiting list after us, followed by a young pair. Stelson and I laughed that their parents had probably dropped them
off.
We watched them, amused at their obvious nervousness.

“Did you enjoy yourself at church tonight?” Stelson asked.

“Oh, I had a great time in the Lord. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Thanks for coming. It was nice having someone by my side for once.”

“You
never bring women to church?” I was a little puzzled.

“Usually after I bless the food that first time, I scare them off.” He laughed softly.

I laughed, probably too loudly for that restaurant. “So is that your screening device?”

“Pretty much,” he said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I don’t do
it
to scare women
off.
But I really don’t feel led to start at spiritual square one with anybody, you know? I know my weaknesses, and I know I’m liable to get off course at any given time. I need somebody who can run with me. Somebody who can stand with me. I like a down- to-earth woman. But I
need
a Christian woman.”

“Harris, your table is ready,” the waiter called. The teenagers across from us rose and were met by a waitress who then led them to their seats.

“Didn’t they come in after us?” Stelson asked me.

“Yeah.”

“Hmm…” Stelson shrugged. “Maybe they’re sitting in the smoking section.”

The elderly couple had long been seated. And when two more couples came in after us and were seated within the twenty-five minutes that we’d been waiting, I told Stelson I was going to ask the waiter for an explanation.

“Excuse me.” I placed my hand firmly on the edge of the podium. “We’ve been waiting for a table for nearly thirty minutes, and several couples who came after us have already been seated. How much longer before you have a table ready for Brown?”

“Hmm.” The man ran his finger along the list of names. I looked down at the list and saw for myself that
Brown
was visible, while the names above it and the three names after it had been crossed off.

“We do have a seat for Mr. Brown, but I’m having a hard time finding one for you.”

“What?” I raised my voice. “Let me speak to your manager.”

“I’m sorry. He’s not available.” The waiter took off his badge, but not before I read his name.

“Look, Aaron, get somebody else over here. Now!”

He seemed a bit flustered, now that I knew his name. “That won’t be necessary. I can get you a seat—”

“What’s going on?” Stelson walked up behind me.

“Aaron here won’t seat us because I’m black,” I almost screamed.

“Mr. Brown, th-that’s not true,” Aaron stammered. “I told her that—”

“Is Mr. Maxwell here tonight?” Stelson asked.

“Mr. Maxwell?”

“Yes. Victor Maxwell—the man who owns this restaurant. I know him very well.”

“No, no.” Out pops the sweat above Aaron’s lip. “Mr. Maxwell isn’t here tonight. Look, I’m sure this was just a misunderstanding.”

“No, I understood you very well.” I nodded my head. Then I turned to Stelson and said, “I don’t want to eat here.”

“Okay,” he said, “we don’t have to.” Then he said to Aaron, “Mr. Maxwell will be in touch with you.”

Stelson matched my pace, and we reached the car in record time. My heart pounding, my face hot with anger. I wished I could have known this was going to happen—I would have had a barrage of defensive terminology waiting on the tip of my tongue. But just like that night when I froze at the movie theater with Judith’s boyfriend, I left.

I felt small, like a child among adults. I was mad at the waiter, but I was also mad at myself for leaving.
Isn’t that what he wanted me to do?

Stelson opened the passenger’s door for me, and I climbed inside, grabbing the door handle and closing it before he had a chance to. I watched him walk to his side, brow creased in thought. He got in and started the engine. “You still hungry?”

“Of course I’m still hungry.” I rolled my eyes, ready to release my anger in Stelson’s direction. “You think discrimination stops black folks from eatin’?”

“That’s not what I meant, LaShondra.” Stelson’s eyes apologized. “I just—”

“Yes, I’m hungry. I’d like some fast food to go, and then I’d like to go home.”

“Okay. Where to?”

“There’s a Boston Market near my house. That will do.” I put my elbow on the door panel and let my chin rest in my hand, keeping my head turned away from Stelson. I couldn’t help but think of how things would have been different if I’d seen it coming.

But I hadn’t, and there was no way I could take it back now. Yes, Stelson would call his client and let him know what an awful experience we had. But his complaint would do little to eradicate the painful experience so many of my African-American brothers and sisters live every day.

There were several cars ahead of us in the drive-through, making the wait so long that I wished I’d gone inside. Then again, I’d had more than enough of people staring at us.

“LaShondra, I’m really sorry about what happened at the restaurant.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said, still looking away.

“I know it’s not, but I still feel bad about the experience you had there.”

“It was just as much your experience as it was mine.” I turned my nose down and looked at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that when you’re with a black woman, your social status is greatly diminished,” I said.

“That’s ridiculous.” He shook his head.

“Is it?” I blinked my eyes very deliberately.

“LaShondra, Aaron is one prejudiced person who happens to be in charge of when and where people get seated in one restaurant. And actually, Aaron won’t be in charge of that much longer.”

“No, but he’ll get a job somewhere else and do the same thing. Maybe he’ll grow up to be a loan officer and deny mortgages to black people or, worse, put them in high-interest loans he knows they can’t afford. Or he might be a doctor and treat disease in his black patients with a little less tenacity. There’s any number of ways he’ll be able to keep right on being Aaron. Matter of fact, now that he’s lost his job because of a black person, he’ll probably be worse.”

“Do you really think it works this way?” Stelson asked me, finally pulling up to the window. He paid for the food and handed it to me.

“How else does it work, Stelson?”

“Individuals making individual choices. I mean, I know that African-Americans—”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” I held up my index finger and pressed my back into the door’s panel so that I could face him. “You don’t know
anything
about being African-American. If you did, you wouldn’t have been sitting there like, ‘Oh, maybe they’re just sitting in the smoking section.’ Everybody ain’t sittin’ in the smoking section, Stelson.” I tried hard to keep from yelling at him. “You’re out of your mind if you don’t believe there’s a network of people out there like Aaron.”