Heavy: An American Memoir(22)

“What aren’t they intimidated by? I’m a black woman with a PhD and a postdissertation fellowship from a major university.” I told you I didn’t think anyone other than you and four other people even knew what that meant. “At some point, you are going to have to understand that people outside of Mississippi never know what to do with us when we’re excellent. So they do what they can to punish us.”

I sat in the booth of the restaurant, musty, screw-faced, trying to make sense of what you said. None of it really made sense but I was happy to learn we were this contentious thick-thighed Mississippi duo facing a slew of northern enemies trying to punish us for shining.

“They cannot fuck with us,” you kept saying. “Excuse me for saying it. But it’s true. They cannot fuck with us.”

On the way back to our apartment that night, I thought about how the black boys at DeMatha call me a “Bama,” how the coaches and students made fun of how I pronounced the word “am-bue-lance,” how my Spanish teacher joked with the rest of the class that my blazer smelled like catfish, and how all my teachers, who all happen to be white men, patted me on the head in class and said “Good for you, Kee-say” when I got an obvious answer right.

When we were half a mile from home, a Maryland police car stopped us. Just like when they stopped us in Mississippi, you sat up in your seat, kept both hands on the wheel, and looked straight ahead. You took out your University of Maryland ID and tucked my red, black, and green African medallion into my Public Enemy T-shirt. You told me to sit up, keep my hands on the dashboard, and don’t say a word.

The officer knelt down and looked in your window. When I saw your face so close to his gun, I wanted to snatch it and watch it melt into black grits. Ever since police started approaching me more often in Mississippi, I wanted the superpower to melt every gun in the world into black grits. The officer asked why we had Mississippi license plates.

“Because we are residents of Jackson, Mississippi,” you said. “I have a postdoctoral appointment at the University of Maryland at College Park. Have I done anything wrong, Officer?”

When the officer told you to speak up and claimed you changed lanes without signaling, you kept your grip on the steering wheel and said, “I did not change lanes without signaling. You sped up behind me so I signaled and changed lanes.”

The officer tried to laugh in your face as he asked for license and registration. “Is that your man?” he asked you. “He needs to show identification, too.”

Your hands came off the steering wheel and you pointed at the officer’s face. “Move away from my car,” you said. “That is my child and he is fifteen years old. He does not have identification. May I have your badge number, please?” I hated how it sounded when you didn’t use contractions.

The officer asked both of us to step out of the car.

“We will not get out of this car,” you said, louder this time. “We have done nothing wrong.”

My fists were balled up, and I was inching toward the driver-side window. You slapped me across my chest with the back of your hand, and told me to be quiet and unclench my fists right as another officer pulled up. The first officer, who was now laughing, walked back to the second officer’s car.

You eventually showed the second officer your license and your University of Maryland ID. The officer looked at the ID, flipped it over, and told us to have a good night.

“Never give them a chance to take the shot,” you finally said after we walked in the apartment and locked the door. “They will take it. They will take it. They will take it.” I wondered why you said it three times, and why you never told me to shoot back. “Mississippi. Maryland. It don’t matter where you are. They will shoot your black ass out of the sky every chance they get. If you have a heart attack dodging their bullets, they will hide they guns and say you killed yourself.”

“I hear you,” I told you, and tried to make you laugh. “Why didn’t you just say ‘don’t’ instead of ‘does not’ or ‘doesn’t’ and ‘they’ instead of ‘their,’ though?”

“If I did not know correct English, it’s more likely that police officer might have shot us,” you said.

“No he wouldn’t,” I told you. “That fool got madder because you were speaking correct English.”

You looked at me like you were thinking. “You might actually be right, Kie. But in the long run, correct English will save a black man more than it will hurt you.”

“Will correct English save you, though?”

“I do not need saving,” you said. “I am not the one who is an endangered species.”

“I’m not either,” I told you. “I’m an endangered species with a lot of gas in my stomach. I’ll be right back. That cop gave me the bubble-guts.”

You laughed and laughed and laughed until you didn’t.

While I was in my room changing, you told me to write about what I learned from the experience with the police. I wasn’t sure what to write because I wasn’t sure how to live life in a way that didn’t give them a chance to shoot us out of the sky. It seemed like just driving, or walking into a house, or doing your job, or cutting a grapefruit was all it took to get shot out of the sky. And the biggest problem was police weren’t the only people doing the shooting. They were just the only people allowed to walk around and threaten us with guns and prison if they didn’t like our style of flying.