College Boy : A Novel (9781416586500) (18 page)

“Troy, my grandmother was
crusty
black! I don't know what he saw in her. I had never seen her in person. She had died before I was born. But they showed me pictures of her, and she was dark, dark. But anyway, my mother turned out real, real light. I don't know how that happened, from how black my grandmother was. You remember seeing my mother, don't you? You were around seven then.”

Troy thought back to his childhood years, slowly shaking his head. “Naw. I just remember that old White lady who used to come here on the weekends,” he said.

Bessie bowed over in laughter. “Boy, that wasn't no old White lady, that was your great-grandmother!” she hollered. “But she lived in Jersey, and still does. You never got the chance to get close to her. You were always off, running around in the streets. She stopped visiting, though, a long while ago. Every once in a while I go to see her.”

Troy smiled. “Dag, I thought she was your teacher or something from when you were young. 'Cause she sure looked White to me.”

“Yeah, well she had married my father, who was part French from down New Orleans. He was traveling in one of those blues bands and ended up meeting and falling in love with my mother. And they had me. But he left her, though. She had to raise me by herself. And as soon as I got married, she moved off to New Jersey with the fella she lives with now.”

“So that's French
and
Spanish blood?” Troy asked, keeping count.

“More than that,” she told him. “Your grandfather—my late husband, Calvin—was part Dutch and Scottish.” She shook her head and grinned. “Them White folks always talkin' ‘bout how they got a melting pot in America, but we Blacks are the most melted things in this country.

“Back when me and your grandfather got married, black was the worst thing you could be. If you were real dark, you tried to get anything light that you could find. People ran out after Puerto Ricans, Chinese, Japanese, anything that was light-colored. It was terrible being black in the nineteen forties. But now, I hear people running around talkin' 'bout they ‘proud to be Black.' I couldn't believe my ears after all of the things we had done to stay light. Folks used bleachin' creams and whatnot. It was terrible.”

Bessie stopped and giggled before continuing. Troy said nothing. He listened and smiled to himself, enjoying it.

“Your father had a whole lot of Indian blood in his family,” she said. “His mother had real long, wavy hair and was just a beautiful woman. His father looked like an Indian, too. He had these tiny black eyes, the same type that the Mexicans be having. He looked like he was either drunk or high.”

Troy laughed again and continued listening. He wouldn't dare to correct his grandmother about using the term “Indian” (although it was on his mind). It was just a respect-for-your-elders thing.

Troy received lots of new information after a few hours of conversing with his grandmother,. He had gained more knowledge than he expected. He questioned the validity of the American rule that said you were Black if you had any drop of African blood, and he began to despise it.

The American rule was too limited. Black families ranged in all colors from light to dark. Many had even passed for White. However, Troy's thoughts on racial identity were quickly disregarded. Black he was. He accepted it.

He stayed and watched more television in his mother's room, awaiting her return from paying the utility bills. On the five o'clock news, it was reported that the Japanese ambassador had commented that the Blacks and Hispanics brought down the United States' educational system; they spent too much money on credit cards and general consumerism.

Troy agreed. He knew many Blacks who struggled eagerly to live beyond their means. He had come to the same conclusion weeks ago. Nevertheless, the politically astute Blacks of the United States demanded an apology. Troy suspected that the demand had come, most likely, from those upper-middle-class Blacks who politely ignored the American dilemma of race. They chose to view issues through their own economic and integrationist fantasies. They'd rather protect their claims of minority success stories than address the multifaceted problems that plagued the Black community.

Troy also found distaste in the continuous television ads for aid to starving Ethiopian and South American children. Black American kids would then create harmful slurs based upon what they saw but failed to understand.

 

Tired of waiting for his mother to return, Troy decided to visit Scooter's. It was fast approaching six o'clock.

Troy dashed across the street, let himself in, said “Hi” to Scooter's silent, gray-haired grandmother, and headed straight for the basement.

“Yo, Scoot, it's me,” Troy hollered down the basement stairs.

“Ay', what's up, man? You had me laughing hard as hell that night I was at your aunt's crib, cuz. And yo, my grandmother don't like Black people either. She said they're loud and disrespectful. But you don't like Blacks for real, though, cuz?” Scooter quizzed, vividly remembering their discussion.

Troy fell into the three-person couch to the right. “I don't know who or what I like anymore. I wish I had never gone to that college. I mean, I didn't give a fuck before I went up there. But now, all I think about is racial shit.”

“I know, 'cause I thought I was the only one that hated Blacks. But since you've been back, you helped me to get out a lot of my anger. Matter of fact, all we ever talk about is race when I'm with you,” Scooter mentioned. “I mean, Black people ain't shit, though, for real. They cool to hang out with and all, but when it comes to gettin' money, I'm gon' get with a Jewish dude. They know how to get paid, cuz. Straight up!”

They sat and watched TV before either said anything.

“Man, I even hate watching some of these movies now. I leave the theater embarrassed as hell when White people put us in their movies.”

Scooter laughed before he responded. “I don't like when Blacks are on TV. They don't even know how to talk, most of the time.”

They started to giggle at their pronouncements.

“ ‘Black is beautiful,'” Scooter said. “That shit is crazy. I don't know who thought of some shit as wild as that. You know?”

Troy nodded. “Yup. Girls out here be wearin' contact lenses and getting their hair dyed blond, but yet, ‘Black is beautiful.'”

Scooter laughed. “White people made contacts for us. They knew niggas wanted to be like them. So they said, ‘Yeah, we can make lots of money off the niggers,'”

“And that messed it up for the Blacks who have natural light eyes,” Troy added.

Scooter shook his head. “Man, White people get paid off of all the shit we do. Like, if they just make any stupid movie about us, we'll go see that shit.”

“Yeah, cuz, remember that movie,
Planet of the
Apes
? That could have been about us. 'Cause they had the light-colored apes, who were supposedly closest to humans, like you light-skinned Blacks are closest to Whites. And they were smart and nonviolent, just like White people think you are,” Troy said.

“Oh, my God!” Scooter yelled. “And then they had them black apes that couldn't even talk right. And they was always ready to kill somebody.

“I knew it was some reason why I didn't like that movie. And Black people watched it like fools. Oh my God, cuz!
We nuts!
” Scooter shouted. He got excited and took over from Troy.

“In one of them movies they came over in cages. And the White people were laughing at 'em, just like they did us. Damn, Troy, you right, cuz! Then they had them in-between monkeys always trying to make peace, like a Martin Luther King type.”

Troy laughed as Scooter's imagination went wild.

“Yup, Troy. Some ingenious White man was sitting around one day and said to his boy, ‘Hey, Joe, what if we made a movie about the niggers taking over the world? Jesus, Joe! This could be the hit of the century. But we can't put real niggers in it. They'll fuck up the movie with their protests and all. So let's make them into apes. ‘Cause that's all they really are, a bunch of stupid apes. We could get rich off this movie and they would never know.'

“Oh my God, cuz! I don't believe how stupid we are!” Scooter hollered as Troy giggled.

“And
King Kong
could be about us, too,” Troy added with a grin. “You know how they think we crazy about their women. So they set it up where the giant ape symbolizes our biggest, strongest Black man. And you notice that they went to some African jungle to find him, right. Then he goes crazy and chases this White bitch all over New York.”

“
Oh my God, cuz! I hate black people!
We stupid as shit, Troy. Aaaahhhh we dumb, and we watched all that shit, too!” Scooter shouted.

“Why you keep hollering about some God?” Troy asked. “It ain't no God, cuz. Only poor and stupid people believe in that. White people tricked us on that, too. They made that shit up to calm people down, then they could take over the world without a fight.

“The first thing White people do is send their religious missionaries in to soften up the people. Then the armies come in to take over. I mean, us Blacks are the holiest people in the fuckin' world, thinking we gon' go to heaven and shit. That's the White man's greatest magic trick. And that's why we won't ever get nowhere.

“All Blacks do is get on TV and thank the Lord, whenever they accomplish something great. And that's tellin' White people we don't have any confidence in ourselves. We tellin' them that we need this supernatural shit to achieve something. What, we can't do shit with our own hard work? Is that what we believe? And people always run to that religious shit when they're weak, scared, or in some kind of jam. There ain't no God, Scooter. We've all been fooled.”

Scooter changed his tune. “Yo, cuz, is you crazy? You better stop talkin' like that. I think you lost it in this racial stuff to talk about God like that, man. You better take that shit back.”

“Aw see, they got you too. And I ain't never seen you go to church. So how you gon' believe in God?”

Scooter hunched his shoulders. “Cuz, I'on know, but there is a God. I think I'm gon' ask him to help you, 'cause you goin' crazy,” he responded, chuckling to himself.

“So I guess I'm goin' to hell to burn up in the eternal fires, right? Where it's dark and black with smoke,” Troy said, grinning himself. “Tell me something then, Scooter. How come heaven is white? How come everything white is good? How come Jesus is white? How come you get married in white and die in black? How come this country is ruled by the White House instead of the House of Liberty, or the House of America, or, the fuckin' House of
Freedom?
'Cause White people made up that shit, Scooter. So it ain't no God, and if it is, the Jews are his people.
So what the fuck does he have to do with Black niggas?
” Troy shouted.

“Look, cuz, God created everything on earth! You can't count on that bullshit that the White man say.
They don't know everything!
” Scooter shouted back.

“Man, Troy. I'm gon' pray for you, cuz. You've lost it completely. I mean, you turnin' crazy. And I don't know what that college is doin' to you, but you better stop talkin' 'bout it ain't no God. Going to hell ain't no joke!”

Troy shook his head, disappointed. “Yeah, man, whatever. Pray for your damn self.”

 

Next morning, Troy felt he had no friends left in the world. Scooter had let him down. He believed in religion. Weak. Scooter was unaware that White priests had pressed their religious philosophies down the choking throats of the world, smothering them with talk of sin and forgiveness. Troy cared nothing of heaven or hell, he was no longer afraid of death.

Black is beautiful, he thought again. He wondered what they had to be proud of. They had lost their birthplace, their beliefs, their racial purity, and their culture. Maybe a more historical approach was needed. So Troy continued to read, and to question.

 

“You been reading all day, hunh?” his aunt Judy asked Troy. He had returned to her cozy basement couch after an unsuccessful visit with his mother. She called and said that she had plenty of errands to run the night before.

“I just can't believe that you couldn't find a job this summer,” his aunt mentioned. “You don't even
look
like you wanna get up.”

“Yeah, well, I don't know how to sell myself to get one,” he responded. “Them interviews are stupid anyway. All people work for is the money. So why should you have to tell a lie? That's just how White people like it. They're a bunch of liars.”

Judy frowned. “Look, Troy, don't be goin' around blaming White people for you not being able to get a job, 'cause if you really want one, you can get one.”