Coffee Will Make You Black (28 page)

“Not by a long shot. Stevie, it's like peeling an onion, there's always another layer.”

An old, well-dressed white woman with a small, ugly dog leaned over our bench.

She looked directly at Nurse Horn as if I were invisible. “It's so wonderful to see you donating your time to help an underprivileged child. My daughter teaches the culturally deprived.” The woman smiled at Nurse Horn and pulled her dog along.

Nurse Horn looked embarrassed. She was turning red.

“Culturally deprived! Underprivileged! Humph,” I shouted.

Nurse Horn groaned. “She's the one who's culturally deprived.”

I looked down at my Keds that Mama had been after me to wash. “Do I look underprivileged?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“No, of course not. If I had been sitting here with a white girl, she would've never said that.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Are you hungry?”

I nodded. “What about the Coop?”

“I'm going to forget about grocery shopping until tomorrow. So come along, you underprivileged child, I'll buy you some pizza.”

“Make it deep dish. I'm also culturally deprived.”

I stood in a pay phone outside the restaurant. “Yeah, Mama, Nurse Horn is treating me to pizza in Hyde Park. Deep-dish, Mama.”

“That's nice.”

“She wanted me to call to see if it was okay. You know, I'm her student helper.”

“Nurse Horn is white, isn't she?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Well, don't act ignorant, remember your table manners.”

“Mama, we're having pizza, not filet mignon.”

“I know. But when you're black, you're always being judged.”

“Mama, just put the dishes in the sink, I'll wash them when I get home.”

“That's all right, the boys can wash them.”

I couldn't believe my ears. “The boys can wash the dishes? Do they even know how?”

“Well, if they don't, it's high time they learned. They can't depend on women to do everything.”

“Boy, Mama, you sure have changed.”

“This is a new day, Jean Eloise, it's nineteen-seventy.”

“You're telling me, Mama.”

“Jean.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Don't forget to thank Nurse Horn. She doesn't have to do this. It always pays to show appreciation. You never know when you'll need a white person.”

“Okay, bye, Mama.” She was still Mama.

The joint was jumping when Nurse Horn and I walked in. University of Chicago sweaters were outnumbered by jean jackets, some with peace signs on them. A singer was shouting on the jukebox.

“Who's that screaming?” I asked.

“Janis Joplin.”

“Do you like her?”

“Yes, I have to admit she's grown on me.”

“Oh,” I answered, deciding to give Janis a chance.

We sat down at one of the little round tables in the dimly lit room. The pizza place reminded me of Italy, even though I'd never been there.

“Me and Carla fell out because she said that she wouldn't have anything to do with me if it turned out I was funny,” I confided in Nurse Horn. “I had to read her.”

“Read her?”

“Give her a piece of my mind. Tell her off.”

“Oh.”

“I told Carla if she couldn't accept me for who I am, regardless, our friendship was pretty tired.”

“Tired?”

“Yeah … sorry, pathetic.”

“Oh. You never know, Stevie, Carla might end up coming around. You might not be rid of her yet.”

“Well, if she does, she'll come around on my terms. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

I stared as a waiter set a black skillet in front of a couple of hippies. The pizza was smoking; it smelled good as anything you could think of. So that's deep dish, I thought. The waiter twirled around toward us.

“Hi, Di, I'm ready whenever you are, darling.”

The waiter was obviously a homosexual. Of course I felt sorry for him. He even had the nerve to have a little silk scarf tied around his neck. It was so unnecessary, I thought. Why not just wear a big sign?

“What can I bring you girls to drink?”

“I guess I'll have a Coke.”

“Make that two Cokes, Dennis.”

“No beer? We've got a new draft, no pun intended.”

He didn't have to worry about going to Vietnam, I thought, cause they wouldn't accept him in anybody's army.

“Ha ha,” the waiter laughed at his own joke.

Nurse Horn hesitated.

“Come on, Di, what's pizza without beer?” Dennis insisted.

Nurse Horn looked at me.

“You can have one beer, Di, I won't report you to the principal. Just so long as you don't get sloppy drunk,” I teased.

Dennis laughed. “I'd love to see Di sloppy drunk. She never has more than one beer. She's sooo good.”

“Okay, okay, I'll try it.”

The waiter pranced away with our order.

“He's a trip, huh?” I said.

“Dennis is a sweet soul.”

I decided to try to become more accepting.

“I still hope that I don't turn out to be like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know, funny.”

“Stevie, you can only become what you already are.”

“Come again?”

“My yoga teacher says that you don't change, you just become more transparent.”

“Is yoga where they stand on their heads?”

“That's one posture.”

“So, you're into yoga?”

Nurse Horn's eyes lit up. “I'm a beginner, but it's great! We meditate at the end of each class.”

“What's it like to meditate?”

“My yoga teacher says praying is talking to God but meditating is listening to God.”

“Is your yoga teacher from another planet?”

Nurse Horn smiled, “Yes, Berkeley, California.”

“Well, how do you become more transparent? Do you have to take LSD?”

“No, silly. Stevie, imagine a glass house covered with dirt, mud, and a lot of other junk.”

“I'm following you.”

“And you wash it clean till it sparkles.”

“Right on.”

“Well, the house hasn't really changed.”

“It's clean.”

“But the essence of what it is hasn't changed. It has just become more transparent. You can shine by becoming more who you already are. Am I being too deep?”

“No, I got it. I just hope the pizza is as deep as you are, though.”

“Did I sound like a space cadet?”

“No, I can relate. I'm versatile.”

“I thought that you marched to the beat of a different drummer.”

I smiled. “Yeah, you can take me anywhere. You know Miss Humphrey told us something in Art class once. She said some dude asked Michelangelo how he knew how to sculpt David?”

“What did he say?”

“He just chipped away at everything that wasn't David.”

Nurse Horn sighed. “That's beautiful, Stevie.”

Dennis set our drinks down. While Nurse Horn was gazing up at the poster of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I switched our mugs and took a drink of her beer. The bitter taste would take some getting used to. Nurse Horn sipped my Coke. She had a funny look on her face and sipped again. Nurse Horn looked over at me gulping her beer. I started laughing. She reached across and grabbed the mug from me.

“Psych! Fooled you, didn't I!”

“Stevie, if you think that was funny, you should see your mouth, it's got foam all over it.” Nurse Horn smiled.

She leaned over and wiped the side of my mouth with her bare thumb. Nurse Horn's touch against my face reminded me of how cozy I used to feel up in Grandma's lap when I was young. But when her thumb brushed my lips, I had a different feeling, cozy and exciting at the same time.

My life might not turn out to be easy, I thought.

I just hoped that I turned out to be strong.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Stevie Stevenson series

1

“You meet the same peoples over and over again in life,” Grandma warned from the doorway.

I didn't give her my full attention. I was too busy cramming wool sweaters into a suitcase full of jeans. Despite my sweaty, well-toasted skin, I knew I'd need warm clothes in a month or so.

“They names and they faces might be different. But they will be the same peoples,” Grandma insisted. Her words hung in the humid Chicago air like the smell of chitterlings cooking on a stove. She pulled a paper towel from her apron pocket and wiped the sweat off her fudge-colored forehead. Grandma wore one of those serious aprons that you had to stick your arms through. There was nothing prim and proper about her.

I was the first person in my whole family to go away to college, and I was excited. But I knew that “book learning” wasn't everything. Grandma says experience is the best teacher. And she is no one to take lightly.

Mama joined Grandma in the doorway. The two of them could barlely fit. They were both big women. Neither of them were fat, just big in the way grown women are supposed to be, according to Grandma. She'd often say, “Chile, don't nobody want a bone but a dog.” But I was content with my slim figure. Thin was in, especially in white America, where I was headed. After all, Twiggy was the model of the hour. And besides, I certainly wasn't anywhere near that skinny. I did have titties and booty to speak of.

There sure were a lot of memories in this bedroom. The walls had been yellow, pink, and finally blue, my favorite color. I shook my head at the now worn-out-looking white bedroom furniture that had looked so magnificent the Saturday afternoon they carried it home in my uncle's truck. Mama and Daddy bought it used from a house sale in Lake Forest, a rich northern suburb. I'd thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Aunt Sheila took one look at the gleaming white furniture and declared that we'd arrived.

I gazed at my bed. The quilt that Grandma made me years ago was almost in tatters now. I'd bought a brand-new, lime-green corduroy bedspread with some of the money I'd made this summer helping Grandma at her chicken stand.

Mama looked sad, like she hated seeing her only daughter go. You'd never know by her puppy dog expression that Mama had swung a mean switch in her day. She'd also done a lot of preaching over the years. And I'd been the mainstay of her congregation. My two younger brothers could never be held hostage long enough to listen to her sermons. Boys were “outside children,” they “liked to go,” as Mama would say. I wondered if David and Kevin would finally have to help her out in the house. She might make them wash a few dishes, but that would probably be about it.

“Well, Mama, you won't have me to kick around anymore,” I teased.

“Just don't let some man make a fool out of you and you'll be all right.” She sighed. Her smooth pecan complexion only showed wrinkles when she frowned.

I didn't have a boyfriend right now. I'd gone to the senior prom with a dude from the school band who'd asked me at the last minute. I'd barely known the shy, husky trumpet player drew breath until he'd mumbled, “Stevie, will you go with me to the prom?” They call me Stevie at school. My family calls me Jean. My name is actually Jean Stevenson. I'd swallowed and answered, “Yeah, I'll go with you.” Paul was shy and quiet, but kind of cute. At least he wouldn't expect me to put out, I figured.

Our date had been pleasant enough. I even had fond memories of resting my head on Paul's shoulder as we slow-danced to the prom's theme song, “We've Only Just Begun.” It was a white tune by the Carpenters; and our class of 1971 was all-black, except for a couple of Puerto Ricans and a Chinese girl. Some people had complained about the honky theme, but the prom committee prevailed. Only three other white songs were played during the prom, Carole King's “It's Too Late” (which everybody agreed was hot, white girl or no white girl); Bread's “I'd Like to Make It with You”; and Bob Dylan's “Lay, Lady, Lay.” Of course no dudes could complain about the last two.

Paul and I had gone to the Indiana Dunes for the senior class picnic the day after the prom. And Paul had been a perfect gentleman, lightly brushing my lips only when he'd said goodbye. It would give me a sweet feeling, just thinking about it. Something might have come of our connection if we'd had more time to get to know each other. But we didn't; Paul's draft number was pulled. He jumped up and joined the navy and shipped out right after graduation. Paul figured if he was in the navy, he'd have a better chance of staying out of Vietnam.

“Jean,” Grandma said, interrupting my thoughts. “We're expecting great things outta you.”

I chuckled as I stuffed underwear in the inside pocket of the large suitcase. “Grandma, I'm just going away to a state university, so don't y'all expect me to come back a Rhodes scholar.”

“I know you'll do us proud,” Grandma said, dabbing her eyes.