Heads of the Colored People(6)
“English, literature really.” Randolph smiled back.
“Oh, good. You will help me. I’m from Venezuela. My writing in English is not so good.”
“Well, neither is my Spanish,” he’d said with a laugh.
“This is my first time teaching in the States,” she said. “I taught in Venezuela.”
“It’s my first time teaching at an HBCU, too.” Randolph wanted to make that clear.
“It’s a beautiful campus, very green,” she said.
“It’s a campus,” he said.
She smiled and nodded for a reason Randolph couldn’t interpret, then began to unpack the little rolling suitcase she had brought. Randolph showed her where to find office supplies, how to adjust the thermostat, which had a tendency to stick, and how to sign up for the university’s text-alert system. At Preston, crimes on or near campus were summarized in a monthly email from PR, probably to minimize the sense of widespread criminality, though the numbers were likely similar to Wil U’s. At Wil U, crimes were part of the daily tableau. Alert: reported sexual assault on the fourth floor of Wiley. Alert: students robbed outside McGill. Alert: black Mitsubishi Gallant stolen from West Featherringhill parking lot. Sometimes students sounded like they were going to fight in the hallway. Once, two faculty members did. The anxiety didn’t even register for Randolph anymore, he said, but he thought Isabela, especially as a woman, should be prepared.
Isabela, however, seemed almost unfazed as Randolph told her the stories. She nodded, her eyes serious as he spoke. “The school where I taught in Caracas is very violent.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Where I grew up was rough, but I didn’t expect it at a university, even one in the South or in the hood.” He put the word in scare quotes. “Ghetto?” he asked, unsure if she understood.
She shrugged and twisted her lips, as if to say she’d expected it. “People are the same, where you put them.”
Randolph shrugged this time. He finished the tour of the office by telling Isabela that he liked to keep the lights off because of a sensitivity to artificial light and, he emphasized, because of the great windows in the room. The office faced south and was fully lit until the late afternoon most days, the trees outside providing just enough shade so that the sun never felt sharp. She nodded slowly, her lips pursed. He continued, “We can close the office door if things get too loud in the hall.”
Randolph realized as soon as the words left his mouth their potential for misinterpretation. He should probably keep the office door open, for her sake, for the sake of propriety. He watched her face for discomfort and found none. Still, he started to explain that he hadn’t meant anything, but she just said, “Yes, I don’t like lots of noise.”
He thought they would be friends. They were about the same age, unmarried and content with that status. Randolph didn’t want to date another coworker, and Isabela, he said, wasn’t his type anyway, though Randolph’s friends would say that wasn’t true. He wouldn’t even meet with his former coworkers at the Preston campus, for fear of running into his ex Crystal, a history professor who said that Randolph’s passivity belied chauvinism and that his book proposal, The New New Paternalism: Romantic Racism and Sexism in the Post-Postracial Era, would continue to go nowhere until he confronted his own masculinity issues. Crystal confused Randolph, because she wanted him to be angrier, scarier in bed, bought him books on erotic asphyxiation, called him Smaller Thomas during an argument, and concluded that he had low T, but broke up with him after he got “too rough.” She couldn’t have it both ways, he argued. “You always overcorrect or undercorrect, but never get it just right,” she cried.
When describing Isabela, then, Randolph oversold her undesirable aspects: She was not unattractive, but flat, bland yet aggressive. She wore her brown hair in a ponytail, which accentuated her ears. All her features were tiny—her ears like those of a little old man, and her nose, a narrow point with a slightly beaked end—yet overpronounced.
Isabela, he later learned, wanted to settle into life in the United States, maybe find a tenure-track job, before dating. It was a perfect situation for maintaining a platonic relationship, which Randy insisted he wanted. They both felt underdressed among the students, who alternated between church and club wear to classes. They laughed easily. She ate trail mix from a Ziploc bag. Randolph ate granola mixed with M&Ms. They kept their respective desks tidy and arranged their bric-a-brac just so. They shared disbelief at their students’ general boldness.
? ? ?
One rainy day in mid-October, Isabela sighed, a bit dramatically, Randolph thought. She must have had an altercation with a student, but when he asked, she said, “Randy, it is very dark in here today. May I turn on the lights?”
Randolph considered how to answer. He didn’t want this to become a pattern. “Oh,” he said. “Well, remember, I keep them off because I can’t deal with the fluorescent bulbs. I get migraines.” He pointed to his chestnut-colored forehead and frowned.
She nodded. “Yes, but it is very dark.”
“It’s fine today, I guess. I’m leaving soon, but in general, I prefer not to have them on.” Randolph fiddled with his necktie.
She turned on the lights. The department chair, Carol, stepped into the office as Randolph packed up his bag.
“Oh, Randolph, I’m glad I caught you,” she said, her face flushed, though it always looked that way. “I was going to email you, but I was walking by the office anyway. Dr. Ivan-Yorke says you two haven’t officially met for a mentoring session. Remember you need to meet twice each semester. I wouldn’t wait too long. You know how it is after the break.”