White Freshman, Black Coeds Ch. 23

I told her I wasn't a fan of magic, that I needed things to be real, or at least possible. Even in Science Fiction, which I liked to read, there was a kind-of parallel genre of Fantasy, but I didn't like dragons and wizards and things like that too much. But I'd be glad to go with her. She told me she'd discovered the first Harry Potter book in middle school, and had read all six books, the latest one having just come out in July. So she was a big fan.

"I guess you'll be going home for Thanksgiving?" I said it as non-chalantly as I could. I'd practiced it since Friday, but wanted to wait till it was November to ask. Because there was more I wanted to ask. She said she was, her cousin was coming to pick her up that Wednesday and she'd be back Sunday.

"Does your mom cook a big meal, turkey and all? I vaguely remember a big ol' browned turkey when I was little."

"Oh yeah! She loves to cook. But she has two sisters in Kalamazoo and they love to cook too, so they all take turns. One does Thanksgiving, one does Christmas, one does Easter, and then one does the Fourth of July. Four holidays and 3 cooks means it rotates around whose house we go to each year for each holiday."

"That sounds like a lot of fun. So you probably have a lot of cousins, huh?"

"Yeah, one of those aunts has 2 kids and one has 4, then on my dad's side there's..." But all of those siblings didn't live close because he was from somewhere else.

"I guess the cafeteria will be open; hopefully they'll have a Thanksgiving spread. One of my foster moms, Miss Shirley, made the best stuffing I've ever had. Twice I got to have that," I said wistfully. You can see what I was doing.

"Yeah, I actually like my Aunt Linda's stuffing best, but I always tell my mom hers is my favorite!" We chuckled together over that, but still she wasn't catching on.

"I guess it'll be dead around here, no classes Friday either. But that's good, I should be able to work a lot those four days when the other guys go home." Was I laying it on too thick?

Nia had just taken a bite of her sandwich and had started to mmhmm agree with me, when she quickly swallowed and said, "Oh Mark, I didn't even think, I'm so sorry! Why don't you come home with me?!"

I said no, she was too kind, etcetera. But she persisted. "No, you HAVE to! I want my parents and everybody to meet you!" That made my heart swell and my eyes tear up. "Oh baby, I'm SO sorry! I just hadn't thought that far ahead. Of course I want you to meet my parents! You're my boyfriend and I'm so proud of you, why wouldn't I??" I leaned in to hug her, burying my face in her shoulder, a couple of jerking sobs wrenching my body. I'm not ashamed to admit it, that's how strongly I felt about her, so hearing that back from her choked me up. When just possibly I'd been thinking that while she enjoyed our time together, she didn't think me worthy of 'meeting the parents.'

"Baby, no, stop thinking that! I honestly just hadn't put 2 and 2 together yet, but I was absolutely planning to have you meet my parents soon, really soon. Please believe that! I want them to see for themselves how wonderful you are, and how good you are to me. I'm so proud of you, please know that."

I rose up and wiped my eyes, then apologized for fishing for that, but only do it if you want to, maybe it's too early and we could plan for Christmas. But I did want to meet her parents and start winning them over, because I really did only have the best of intentions for their daughter. And with it being just 3 weeks away I thought arrangements should be made before it got too late. And being quite blunt, maybe she should tell them about me (and my skin color) to let them start getting used to the idea.

She looked a little uncomfortable at that last part. "I've told my mom a lot about you, even that, but I've left it to her to tell daddy because....well I don't know why exactly. One, I guess that's not the kind of things girls sort of normally talk about with their fathers? But two, and I don't understand what's behind this, but daddy has some kind of issues with white men. Not white people, but white men specifically. I guess I'd better talk to mama about that before I bring you home. But I'm sure the rest of my family will just love you, especially my aunties."

We took a few more bites of our food in silence. "Hey, I checked out a book from the library last week called The Colors of Love and it says—what?"

"You checked out a book on interracial relationships?" She was smiling, incredulous.

"Well yeah. I want to know what we're getting into. I mean, you and I are just two people in love, but I want to try to understand what other people will think when they see us together, and how we're going to navigate those kinds of things. Like this thing with your dad I guess, whatever it is."

And then it was her turn to bury her face in my shoulder and cry. I wasn't sure why exactly, because I thought getting the book was a happy thing, but I waited for her to tell me.

"Mark, you're so thoughtful. I didn't even know there was such a thing!"

I'm randomly all over a library looking for new things to learn, but this time I'd specifically gone into like the Psychology and Self Help shelves to see if there was something like that. I was as amazed as she was that there was such a thing; in fact, there were several books on the subject. "That's really awesome, baby. Can I be frank with you for a minute?"

"No, not just for a minute: always be frank with me! Like you told me to never fib to you." I was a little hurt that she felt she had to ask permission to be frank with me.

"You're right, that didn't come out right. How about: can I share something with you? As a black person, there's always this nagging fear of Am I good enough? 'Am I a good enough student?' 'Am I a good enough dancer?'" Then she choked up and held me tight, whispering the last thing into my neck, "Am I good enough for a white husband?" She burst into quiet sobs, the agony of that singular question wracking her body.

I wanted to stand on the table and proclaim to the world that she was MORE than good enough, but I knew not to answer yet because it would only lead her to cry harder. So I simply held her as tight as I could, to give her the assurance she so desperately needed. A week ago I would've hardly understood the question, but after reading the book (of course I'd read it already; it pertained to our relationship) I knew full well what she meant. At least I thought I understood it as much as a white male could. A white girl could've gotten closer, since she'd have had the same male/female 'good enough' thing. But I'd learned from the book that there was another layer to this, the 'white is better and black is less-than' idea. All her life she would likely have been raised under the shadow of that idea.

When she stopped sobbing and released me a bit I handed her a napkin for her eyes. Then taking her face in my hands and going back to the foreheads-together thing, I said, "Nia, please don't cry any more, because it'll only make me cry." I found that being this close to her eyes helped because they were out of focus. "You're more than good enough for any man, and don't you ever forget that! It's me who should worry about being good enough for you!"

We laughed/cried together for a few moments. "I know what you're saying because I learned it from the book. But I didn't know that whole dynamic before, and I hate that you've been beating yourself up over me. I've told you so many times how truly wonderful you are in every way, both as a person and as a woman, and I've meant every single superlative I've ever used (or thought) to describe you. Please know that I respect and admire you simply for who you are, for what I see in your eyes when you look at me, and for that incredible brain that always keeps me guessing." She gave a sharp, happy, blubbering sob/laugh at that.

"So please don't ever change. Or if you already have changed to fit some self-imposed ideal of what you think I want, then stop doing that. I want to know and love the whole you, the real you, and I don't want there to ever be any artificiality between us."

She kind of broke down again and went back to softly sobbing into my shoulder, and I felt her trying to touch me everywhere she could with her face, shoulders, arms, torso, legs, even feet. I'm sure everyone in the café and those passing by beyond were wondering what all this was about, but I didn't care. This was too important for us.

"Mark?" Raising again and finding another napkin waiting for her. "What I'd wanted to say earlier, when I said I wanted to be frank, was that it made me so happy that you'd looked for, found, and then read that book. Because it told me you really see a future for us. Shhh, please don't protest. I know. But like you'd been worried that I maybe didn't think of you seriously enough to meet my parents, I always had a nagging doubt that maybe I was just a fling for you, a black girl for you to try before you tired of me and found a 'better' white woman, and...." And more tears and nuzzling into my neck, bawling out her realization that I found her 'good enough.'

When she calmed a bit I said, "Nia, nothing could be further from the truth, and I think your brain knows that. I'm so sorry that society or whatever has imprinted that on your psyche, but maybe we can work on if together? Because I truly love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you. If you'll have me..."

She kissed my face tenderly and repeatedly, our tears of joy mingling on our cheeks. There was nothing more to say, and indeed we didn't say anything else as I walked her to her 1:00 and we gently kissed goodbye for the day.

Our relationship changed profoundly that day, and it was in no small part due to Rita's admonition Sunday that we get back to learning and knowing each other. I would've said before that day that I knew plenty about Nia, all the important things, anyway. But the important things aren't where you're from or what your parents do, or even what books and movies you like. No, I was finding that the important things were more intangible, the things that made you you. Like what your biggest fear is, what you'd change about yourself if you could, how your friends would describe you. (All questions on Rita's list.)

Speaking of Rita, tomorrow was The Day. The day I'd fantasized about ever since she'd made me this offer/promise in the hotel room when I first met Nia. And while the lustful part of me still wanted to go through with it, the romantic part no longer did. Not after the epiphany Nia and I had just had. Sex (even with her, I surprisingly found myself thinking) seemed somewhat sordid now, like it was on a lower plane or something. Important, to be sure, but why cram it all into now, when the real goal was a lifetime of forevers with Nia in which there'd be plenty of time for that?

And why share that with others, when Nia was the person I really loved? Candace was a distant second, to be sure, and I felt a tenderness for Gabby that I didn't fully understand, but Kyla? And more to the point: Rita? No, whatever I felt for her was purely lust, and that felt somehow ugly now. I thought all these things in class when I should've been paying attention, and I had a mind to call tomorrow night off now. Or at least steer it in a way so that Rita was strictly tutoring again, and not involve her. It's hard being a romantic 18-year-old guy, let me tell you!

Wednesday, 11/2

>>20+ pairs of shoes???

>What? A girl's gotta have shoes! ;-)

>I don't >know how you get by with just 3!!

>>See ya tonight?

>Oh yeah!

Classes were a blur, and then work from 4 to 8. I flew home to shower quick, which made me a few minutes late. I hate being late, and Nia knew it. "Mark! I was worried about you. Did you have to disarm a guy with a baseball bat or something?" Another callback to The Ridealong.

Pulling her out the door and sweeping her up in my arms I said, "I'm'a disarm you!" She giggled and play-fought to get free. Then quietly into her ear, "Actually, I'm'a disrobe you!" And then I kissed and nibbled her neck where she was ticklish, and then she really did fight to get free.

"Nia, you need help out there?" It was Tanya who I'd delivered to the other night.

"With this guy? Naw, I can handle him!" I set her down, both of us laughing, and we went inside.

"Well you just let me know, cuz I don't take kindly to young men man-handling my little Sisters." Her face was dead-serious and I thought I was really in trouble, but then she cracked a smile and with a "Come here, you!" gave me a big hug. She was a stout girl, at least as tall as me, and from the strength of her hug I was pretty sure I didn't want to be on her bad side.

"Mark, you must be doing something right, because all this one does is float around here all day talking about how wonderful you are." She tousled Nia's poofy hair while I blushed and looked away. "And, she's already choosing bride's maids!"

"Tanya, stop!!" Tanya tousled her hair once more and then left us be, leaving with a big grin at Nia. She took my hand and led us toward the kitchen, saying, "To set the record straight, I only maybe asked Gabby if she'd be my Maid of Honor. Maybe I asked her that."

Wow, this was all so gratifying to hear. I mean, I knew we were too young to really get married, but to know she was thinking about it made me so happy. "White or red?" I told her I thought I preferred white, and she said she did too, then she poured us two plastic cups from a box in the industrial-sized fridge. We'd only each taken one sip when Rita came in, and with greetings all around, poured herself a glass of red. In a wineglass, because that's how she was. And red because I suppose that's how she was too: red has always seemed to me to require a more sophisticated palate. And Rita was nothing if not sophisticated.

"Nia told me you picked up The Colors of Love from the library; that was a good choice. And like her, I'm very impressed that you went out of your way to even look for such a thing. It only confirms for me that you were a good choice for Nia, and I'm so happy and proud to see you two getting along so well." She looked at me and us with such pride and approval that it made my heart hurt. A longing kind of hurt, because I wished my mom could've looked at me like that and approved of Nia.

"What interesting answers you both gave on the questionnaire! Have you started discussing them with each other already?" Nia told her we had, and showed her the texts from the last few days. "I saw a lot of similarities there, but also a lot of differences. And it's those differences that make relationships exciting, expanding our horizons and forcing us to think about things in different ways."

"For instance, the deserted island question. Mark, you chose to bring a water filter, a lighter, and a tarp. Great choices for water, food, and shelter, and that's exactly what I'd expect of you. While Nia you said your favorite book, a journal, and...Cheetos?"

"I couldn't think of a third one!" She looked a little embarrassed that her choices weren't practical, but Rita quickly addressed that.

"Dear, don't worry that your choices weren't necessarily practical: your choices were to nourish your mind. You weren't given any parameters for 'deserted island,' so you chose things that are important to you. While your practical boyfriend chose things for survival. Neither set of choices is wrong, they just reflect your natures. And *I think* they show how compatible you two are, how you fill each other's gaps and make a whole that's greater than the sum of its parts. Does that make sense? I hope as you continue to understand each other's answers, and as you face new questions and new choices in your lives, that you'll appreciate how your partner complements you rather than thinks exactly like you.

"Anyway, enough lecturing. Mark, Nia is very eager to share this new thing with you, so why don't you finish your drinks, refill your glasses, and we'll retire to my suite."

I've described parts of the main floor of the House before, basically a formal dining room in the front left corner of the floorplan, which was huge. Then what I've been calling the parlor in the front right corner; as wide, but not quite as deep. The front door and central hallway separated those two spaces. Then the kitchen, big with a large island, and behind it on the back wall of the house an informal dining area; you might call it a breakfast nook in a smaller house, but it was much bigger in this house and stretched across the back of the house until it intersected the central hallway.

Then there was a set of double doors I hadn't seen behind yet. Rita opened the right leaf and it led into a short hallway with a door ahead and a door to the right (that door I later found out was a half-bath). The other door led into Rita's 'suite,' and she wasn't kidding! First was a sitting room/office that was at least 12' across to the other wall, and maybe 18' left to right. The left wall (which I think must've been the back wall of the dining room), had floor to ceiling bookshelves, and I judged that this level of the house had 12' ceilings. There was even one of those cool old-timey sliding ladders so you could get to the books up high. Two upholstered armchairs flanked a little table, making a place to sit and visit or just read.

The right wall held two almost floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the huge backyard, and set between them was a massive old desk, dark wood ornately carved, with its chair against the wall, facing out. Judging by the books and journals and papers spread about I judged that's where Rita did most of her work. In the middle of the far wall was a single door which led into the inner sanctum.

This room shared the same 18' width of the outer chamber, but had to be at least 20 feet across to the far wall (which was the left side of the house if you were facing it). Dominating the room was a massive four-poster bed centered on the left wall; you could tell it was old, and it was draped in sheer curtains from an arrangement of curtain rods atop the posts. The next focal point was the white clawfoot tub centered on the middle-of-three windows in the back wall, and about 3 feet out from the wall. It had a brushed nickel oval shower curtain ring suspended above it by cables that was obviously a newer addition.

In the back-right corner (the back-left corner of the house), was a small walled-in space with a door: a water closet. And outside it, on the side wall of the house was what looked like an old dresser converted into a sink and vanity, with its old silvered mirror still attached. Left of that was a small makeup table with its own mirror and an ornate gold-framed stool with a pleated white cushion.

There were other furnishings about, chairs and little tables, two huge chiffarobes flanking the door behind us, and a chest of drawers. But what really made the space seem exotic was the way Rita had decorated it. I mentioned in Chapter 7 when I first met her that she seemed to be from Africa, and there were all kinds of African decorations and paintings and things around. A leather war shield easily 5 feet tall and narrow, some kind of beautiful stuffed bird high up on one wall, tapestries and woven things all about, and smooth stone carvings of leopards and cranes and other sleek animals.