Boaz Brown (26 page)

“No, not at all,” I said. “Actually, I might need your advice. I’ve got to buy something for my father. His birthday is on the thirtieth, and I’d like to go ahead and kill two birds on Christmas day.”

“Okay.”

Later, Peaches called to ask if I wanted to hang with her on Thursday and wade through the slush pile to snatch up the last-minute holiday deals.

“Oh, I can’t. I’ve already made plans for tomorrow morning.”

“What you got going on, girl?” she asked innocently.

“I’m just gonna…um…I’m gonna go get my dad’s birthday gift and then get something quick to eat. Nothing much, but I know the traffic tomorrow is gonna be crazy out your way. The Galleria is always a mess.” I laughed nervously, hoping that she wouldn’t pick up on my tension.

“Okay,” she said slowly, suspiciously. “I guess I’ll see you Friday at my parents’ house.”

“Okay.”

“All right, girl, keep it real. Bye.”

My stomach churned.
Real?
I wasn’t being real with her. I wasn’t ready to be real with her. I wasn’t even sure if I was ready to be real with myself at this point.

In prayer, I brought the situation before God and searched the Word for His answers, though I already knew. I mean, I didn’t have to be Solomon to realize that I had to be true to myself.

Problem was, myself happened to be changing. I liked Stelson despite the fact that he was white. I liked him more than Mark. I liked him more than a lot of other black men I’d known. He was kind and considerate. At the same time he was challenging and interesting. He was right there in the middle of being a gentleman and a leader: gentle enough to put others’ interests above his; confident enough to stand for his beliefs. Yes, I liked him—a lot.

I studied him as he walked to meet me in the foyer of Dillard’s. One hand in his pocket, the other swaying gently at his side. He was dressed in a cotton plaid button- down shirt tucked neatly into his jeans, and a brown suede jacket. As he looked down and zipped his keys up in his coat pocket, I noticed how his dark hair shined in the sunlight, catching the rays and dispersing them throughout.

“Wow!” I looked over my shoulder and saw two women leaving Dillard’s. One was tall and seemed cheerful, full of the Christmas spirit. The other one, short and maternal- looking, was an odd match for her much younger shopping partner.

They were clearly gawking at Stelson. I really didn’t mind that they were making remarks about his looks. But it did occur to me that those women didn’t care one bit about whether Stelson was a good person or knew God or had a good attitude.

This was my second time witnessing the frenzy that went on in his presence—women preparing themselves for his scrutiny, hoping he might acknowledge them. And yet, he walked into that foyer without the least bit of arrogance trailing him.

“Hey, Shondra. You look great. You ready?” He hugged me casually.

“Thanks. Yeah, I’m ready.”

He put his right hand at my back and opened the door for me with his left. I didn’t look back to see the expressions on their faces. I’d seen it before, and I saw it plenty of times that morning in the mall. Honestly, it was enough to make you want to go check yourself in the mirror.

The staring, staring, staring was irritating. Everywhere I turned, somebody else was looking at us, trying to figure out if we were actually together. I made a mental tally—we were an equal-opportunity spectacle. For once I was glad to see other interracial couples—like the relief I’d always felt when I walked into a meeting or a workshop and saw another face of color in the room.

“You okay?” he asked me.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I rolled up the corners of my lips.
I am fine. I’m not gonna let these people’s attitudes stop me from doing what I have to do.
And it was then, for the first time, that I realized: people do what they want to do whether others like it or not. Why should I be any different?

After Stelson helped me pick out the perfect pair of boots for my father, we decided to ride together in his car to the Marble Creamery. The Marble Creamery wasn’t actually one of those “black” places (I wasn’t ready to go black-place yet with Stelson), but its ownership regularly employed people of color. It was located in one of those upwardly bound neighborhoods with its fair share of educated African-Americans who, like myself, wanted to “buy black” whenever we could. We placed our orders, got our ice cream, and headed toward a booth.

“I am eternally grateful,” Stelson said, taking a huge spoonful of caramel-flavored ice cream with crushed Heath bar into his mouth. “I’m gonna take a pint of this home with me.”

“I told you it was good.”

“By the way, I got you something.” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a red envelope. “Merry Christmas.”

“Stelson, you didn’t have to do that,” I said.

“I know. I wanted to.”

“This is so nice of you.” I took the card from him. He’d written my name across the front of the envelope and sealed it with a gold sticker. I opened the card and read it aloud:
 

Christmas is when all God’s children celebrate
The greatest gift of all.
I count it a blessing
To share it with yo
u.
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
—Stelson

“Thank you, Stelson.”

“You’re welcome.” He nodded.

“Okay.” He ignored the spoonful of ice cream quickly melting on his tongue. “You wanted to talk.”

“Okay, can we just let the card moment pass first?” I laughed. My pulse quickened at the thought of actually pouring my heart out to this white man sitting across from me. I felt my soul’s veil lift, exposing LaShondra in a way that I dared not bare her in front of a white person. I was bifacial, I knew: one face for white people and one for blacks. But after this veil-lifting, what would I be—an Oreo? A sell-out?

“I’m anxious to know what you have to say,” Stelson said.

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I am somewhat uncomfortable with this race issue,” I began. I shifted a little in my chair, searching for the right words. The tangles in my mind pushed and pulled, attempting to loosen themselves.

“I gathered that.” He nodded. “What’s the problem, as you see it?”

I paused.

“Look, LaShondra, you don’t have to be politically correct here,’’ he said. “I’m not gonna get up and walk out. I can take it. Go ahead and say what’s on your mind.”

I let
it
rip. “Okay, here
it
goes. I don’t trust white people. I don’t like white people. I think that for the most part, white people are a bunch of crooks who have never done anything but steal, cheat, and kill. And anybody who comes from that lineage has a little bit of
it
in ‘em—I don’t care how good they try to be. White men are arrogant and manipulative, and white women are simple, whiny, and lazy.”

I expected him to flinch, sit back, draw in some air and cross his arms. But he didn’t; just sat there with his hands flat on the table, eyes focused on mine. “And how did you arrive at those conclusions?” he asked.

“Life. Experiences.”

“Your personal experiences?”

“Some were mine; some are secondhand. But they’re true for the most part.” I shrugged. “A lot of it came from my dad.”

“What about white Christians?”

“I. . . I really didn’t think much about white Christians. I mean, there might be a few, but deep down inside, I’ve always thought that if white people were
really
Christians, they wouldn’t have let slavery go on for three hundred years and they wouldn’t keep hiding behind the cross and systematically discriminating against other human beings. The fact that black people are still behind in this country is no accident.

“But then. . .“ I shoved in a mouthful of ice cream.

“Then what?”

The ice cream on my tongue transformed from solid to liquid and slipped down my throat. “Then I met you.”

He waited patiently for me to continue. “And you were kind and helpful, and I just never got that white vibe, you know? I’ve never felt that you, Stelson Brown, had anything but my best interest at heart. I mean, I suspected you were deranged, but you’re passing every test. You’re doing better than the brothers.” I laughed. “And now I’m thinking, if Stelson isn’t everything I thought he was, maybe I’ve been wrong... about a lot of things.

“And again, when I met the people at your church, and I felt so. . . accepted. I was ready to pigeonhole them, but I couldn’t, because they treated me with such kindness. I really wasn’t expecting that. I’ve been studying love, and for the first time, I think I understand what it means for people to know you are Christian by your love.”

That’s
what He’s been trying to tell me.
I spoke the words to Stelson, but they hit home with me. It was never about black or white—it was about my relationship with Christ. Could I relinquish my definition of myself—first black, then Christian? Was my attitude toward white people reflective of the Holy Spirit, which I claimed to have dwelling within me?

“Okay, you still haven’t told me what the problem is. You had low expectations, but I’m turning out to be a decent person. So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know.” I looked down. “It’s just that—you will never, ever find yourself in my position. It’s like if you said, ‘yeah, I feel sorry for women when they’re in labor.’ I’m sure you do—but you will never give birth. That pain is something you yourself will never know personally. And sometimes, like when we were at your client’s restaurant, I feel like our lack of common reference puts us worlds apart.”

He nodded. “Okay. I can agree with the fact that I can’t know your pain as intensely as you do. But there’s a lot I won’t ever be able to do. I won’t ever be a woman, I won’t ever be Japanese, I won’t ever be a plant, I won’t ever be African-American, and I can’t change the past. Does that mean I can’t have a relationship with you here and now?”

“What about you, Stelson?” I stepped from under the microscope. “What do you really think about black people—in the recesses of your mind?”

“I grew up in Louisiana around a lot of different cultures, races, and languages. Everybody is mixed in Louisiana—I’m one of the few people I know who doesn’t have a living black relative, though I’m sure I’ve got some in my family tree. But Louisiana isn’t a bubble, you know? I picked up on some biased views just like every other American does.”

“And you’ve never acted on those biases?” I asked.

“Before I finished college and started working, I was pretty reticent to interact with people of other races. I had the generic white American fears—that black people would rob me or beat me up or steal my car.

“But then a couple of things happened. One of them was experience in the business world. The more I dealt with people, the more I found out that the only color that matters to ninety-nine percent of the population is green, no matter what race or nationality they are. I’ve dated white women, black women, French women, Creole women, an Asian woman. I’ve worked with clients from several different countries and backgrounds, and I can tell you: money makes chameleons. Especially when you’re dealing with people who aren’t rooted in Christ.”

“Well.” I pooched my lips out. “I can’t argue with that.”

“The second thing is something that I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t experienced membership in an integrated church. I will always be grateful for my roots in the Assemblies of God. But when I joined Living Word and saw God pouring out His Spirit on every nationality, I knew it was the right place for me. I’ve learned through my church experience that love doesn’t have a color. Maybe it does for people who haven’t experienced the love of God, but not for those of us who know better.”

“And it was just that easy for you?” I asked.

“I don’t know if ‘easy’ is the word for it—I guess the word is ‘simple.’ If you can be talked into something, you can be talked out of it. But when you experience something for yourself, you can’t deny that. It becomes your undisputed truth, and no one can convince you otherwise.