We Are Not Like Them(71)

“Shit, Rye. I’m sorry. That’s a lot. Of course, you’re right to be mad—well, not at Gigi, that woman was a national treasure and lived a long life—but I hear you. But everything else? Yeah, I get it. I mean, maybe it’s good that you’re mad now, that you’re letting it all out; maybe you haven’t been mad enough?”

Maybe that was it. Maybe all the ways I’ve trained myself—even prided myself on being able—to let things slide, the snide comments at work, the teachers who accused me of cheating when my papers were too good, everything with Shaun, it was bound to take its toll. I’d always tried to take it in stride—a real Booker T. Washington. Work hard, excel, be respectable—that’s what we were supposed to do. It was the only way to play a game where you didn’t make the rules, a game set up to make you fail. But it wasn’t a game at all—it was survival. And to survive, you couldn’t get too mad, too upset, too defiant, because there would be consequences… a lost job, a lost mind… or worse, a lost life. It was a message that wormed its way deep inside of me, and stayed there like a clenched fist.

A memory comes: me turning to my dad after we watched a documentary together about Bloody Sunday, and I asked him, “How could you stand it?” He knew what I meant: the oppression of Jim Crow, all the slights and humiliations he’d experienced growing up in rural Georgia, drinking from segregated fountains, averting his eyes from any white person walking his way, being called “boy”—or worse. He was quiet for a moment, hands resting on his round belly, a sliver of skin showing above the waist of his pants.

“There are some things you can’t change, baby girl. White folks are gonna do what white folks do, and the way I see it you can be resentful and angry all the time and let it eat away at you, which some people do, and how can you blame them? Or you can choose to control the one thing you can: your mind-set. You can decide, Nope, I’m not going to let them get to me. I won’t be bitter, I’m going to be better—and better doesn’t mean just working hard. It comes down to character, an ability to be defiant in your joy no matter what they do. That’s what your mom and I tried to teach you kids.”

But what’s the point of the high road or of being the exception, the anomaly, of rising above, when your whole community is struggling, unable to catch a break, the thumbs of oppression on their necks?

Gaby takes a deep breath. I can tell she’s gearing up to tell me something about myself, one of her favorite activities. “Look, you need to talk to Jen. You know, she’s not necessarily my cup of tea, but I respect how close y’all are, and I’m sure if you guys talked it all out… You need to try to tell her how you feel. You’ve got to trust that on some level she’ll understand, and if she doesn’t, well, then she wasn’t the friend you thought she was.”

Maybe that’s why I have a folder full of unsent drafts. At the end of the day, I’m afraid that Jen won’t get it. Maybe I’ve always been afraid. That’s why I didn’t tell her about when Ryan left that note in my locker, or Birmingham, or even Shaun last year. She could listen, but she could never truly get it. I can’t necessarily fault her for that, but it nags at me: Why don’t we talk about race more? Gaby and I talk about it pretty much every single day, specifically some fucked-up thing in the news or our lives—like venting about ignorant BS like someone mistaking us for the sales clerk at the mall too many times. But I talk to Jen about things I rarely share with Gaby too, like my anxiety and depression and feelings of inadequacy. And besides, Jenny and I met when we were so young, during that brief, elusive period when kids are truly color-blind. We didn’t talk about race when we were five, or ten, or fifteen, and now… it’s a muscle we haven’t used. So is it that I can’t talk to Jenny or that I don’t? Which leads me to an even more gut-wrenching question: What if, when it comes down to it, there will always be some essential part of me that is unknowable to her because of our different experiences? It’s as if an unnoticeable crack between us has stretched into a chasm and our friendship risks falling right through it.

“What am I supposed to say, Gaby? ‘I can’t ever forgive your husband for what he did’? ‘He’s part of the chain of systemic racism that’s killing men who look like my father and brother’? ‘If you don’t think race is the problem here, then you’re completely clueless’?”

The fist in my stomach squeezes tighter at the fact that I even have to explain that.

“Um, hell yeah. That’s a start. How can you have a friendship if you can’t be honest with each other? I’m just gonna say it—you dance around things with her, from what I’ve seen over the years. I mean, I have about one white friend—you know, Kate, from work. She’s like a half friend to grab lunch with, but whatever, I still tell her what’s up all the time. And I call her out too. Like last week when she said our other coworker Lakeisha was being ‘ghetto’ in a meeting. Uh-uh, Katie, girl. We had to have a good, long talk. I mean, maybe I’m too much—don’t answer that—but that’s me. Bottom line: You should feel like you can say what you need to say to Jen. You need to get it all out there now.”

“You’re right, Gab. My mom said the same thing. I just have to find the time.”

“Story of your life, girl.”