Black Enough: Stories of Being Young & Black in America

“Yes, yes, it’s all in hand,” Headmaster Ewing says. His voice is always the perfect balance of polite authority and rigid expectations. I wonder if he, like Ryan, ever tires of being so put together. He gives a nod. His ash-brown hair, sprouting gray at his temples, remains in perfect place. Then he turns to the rest of us. “Apologies for the delay, everyone. There’s an unexpected addition to our gallery; however, it will not disrupt the day any further. Please make your way down to the class wing in an orderly fashion.”

Everything Caswell students do is orderly. That’s part of the programming.

“Nivia!” Headmaster Ewing calls out, and tips his head my way.

I nearly jump out of my skin. He and Dad were Caswell football teammates in ancient times. So him saying hi shouldn’t be a big deal. But it is.

“I look forward to seeing your father this weekend.”

I’m not sure if I give a smile or a grimace. Until that very second, for almost an hour I’ve successfully blocked out that my parents are coming, even though they’ve never missed a Caswell parents’ event since my brother and sister went here. I try to speak, even grunt, but before I can, Headmaster Ewing moves on.

Now I’m the one who’s gonna be sick.

“You okay?” Ryan asks, holding up her palm so I don’t step on her foot as I sway backward.

I manage a squeak in response.

“Move along, everyone,” Mr. Ivers, the art history teacher, advises in a harried tone as students file into the gallery and head for the basement classrooms. But that doesn’t stop anyone from looking, especially me. I lag behind, near the railing, taking an extra moment to peer inside the main exhibit hall.

There it is. Loud, proud, colorful, and speaking some kind of truth.

“This is serious,” Mr. Ivers complains to my teacher, Ms. Teresi, who stands in front of my favorite Jabec work, Broken Reflections. She taps the tip of her reading glasses against her lips—something she does while thinking. I linger just out of their view. “This is a definite call for expulsion.”

“Perhaps, but are you even looking at the work?” She leans toward the wall.

“How can I avoid it? The transgression is right in our faces.” Mr. Ivers jabs his finger at the explosion of color and brushstrokes that climb the once-white wall around Jabec’s 20 × 20 canvas. Broken Reflections, with its shards of tile and mirrors, has birthed something new since yesterday. A larger work spreads across the wall using the original piece as inspiration, paint shining and fresh. A rainbow of cadmium yellow, magenta, viridian, and other colors splits a silhouetted body of dark fabrics. They wrap around Jabec’s canvas as if scooping up pieces of mirror to construct a new whole, creating a seamless reflection.

I swear I hear Ms. Teresi breathe, “The bravery,” but I can’t be sure.

“This is the kind of thing Jabec would’ve done,” she says, and stretches her hand toward the exhibit banner announcing the new permanent collection of the street-artist-turned-fine-artist’s work.

“Well, I don’t think we ought to applaud such blatant disregard for private property. Reckless acts warrant severe punishment,” says Mr. Ivers. He’s one of the most buttoned-up teachers at Caswell, and that’s saying a lot—since most of them are stuffy, old white men who don’t have time for change.

Ms. Teresi is different though. So is Headmaster Ewing. They’re at least open to more.

“Every year someone pushes boundaries,” Mr. Teresi says, “tries to go beyond, but this … this is just more literal.”

“You say it as if it’s to be admired?” he scoffs.

Ms. Teresi turns away from the wall, noticing me for the first time. “Nivia, is there something we can help you with?”

Yes, I want to say. Do you admire it? Since she was one of the Jabec Beard Prize judges, her thoughts matter. “Um, no, I’m good.”

She nods toward the stairs, her salt-and-pepper hair toppling out of a messy top bun. In long graceful strides, she heads my way.

“Neither of us needs to be later than we already are,” she says, reaching me. She’s all but forgotten Mr. Ivers’s question. “Tell me, what do you think of the new addition to our gallery?”

My brain freezes. “It’s okay, I guess.”

“You guess? Come now, Nivia, someone as talented as you must have an opinion.”

I half smile. Her Visual Culture class sophomore year was everything for me. It taught me how images transform moods and relay messages deeper than even words can. That certain visual experiences challenge people to feel, notice, and continue the visual conversation. I glance back up the white marbled stairs but can no longer see the conversation started on that wall.

As if reading my thoughts, she adds, “I actually see glimpses of you in that work. But it’s riskier and a bit more honest than anything you’ve ever dared put forth. Can you learn something from it? Do you think it speaks the element of truth that’s been missing in your pieces?”

I want to tell her yes. That it holds exactly what’s missing—but I’m still unsure. Art isn’t like math. There’s no right answer.

Ms. Teresi opens her classroom door. Work and supplies are spread across most of the tables as students concentrate on their midterm projects. “I’m glad to see you aren’t wasting valuable time. Tomorrow morning’s deadline quickly approaches.” Her linen layers swing around her.

Grabbing my supplies, I head to my table, right behind Ryan’s. Classmates’ whispers buzz in my ear.

“Ryan, just let go,” Ms. Teresi encourages, eyeing her work. Then she gives a light laugh. “Haven’t you ever dabbled outside the lines?”

Ryan’s brow furrows. Her work is controlled perfection. Like her. Nothing she creates is out of place or haphazard.

“It’s evident you’ve been taught well,” Ms. Teresi says. “But don’t let it trap you. Explore.” She taps the paper. “Stop obeying the lines and challenge them.”

I don’t need to see Ryan’s face to know she’s cracking.

“Ms. Teresi, aren’t we going to talk about what happened?” Keegan asks from a front table. “Was that someone’s submission?”

“Fat chance.” Logan leans back on his stool. He hasn’t bothered to open his folder yet. “They would’ve needed to take credit to get credit.”

“I would,” Isaiah, the only other Black kid in class, says almost to himself. “I mean, not that I’d take credit for someone else’s stuff, but if I’d done it I would’ve signed it. The style’s sick. None of us is putting out work like that.”

“Okay, settle down, everyone. Focus on the work at hand. There are only a few precious hours before midterm projects are due,” Ms. Teresi says, shutting down the conversation before it starts.

“But Ms. Teresi.” Emily, an underclassman who has an answer for everything, shoots her hand into the air. “It speaks about the truth Jabec always talked about. Whoever did it is showing the weight of mirrors reflected back on us by society, filled with everything we’re supposed to be for everyone, and making them something new.”

“Dude, you got all that from it?” Logan asks. “You might need your glasses prescription checked.”

“Hold on now, Logan,” Ms. Teresi interrupts. “Great art has the ability to be different things for different people. What did you see?”

“Honestly?” Logan’s front stool legs crash against the floor. “Confusion.”

“That’s the point,” Isaiah interjects.

Ms. Teresi gives him a look to let Logan finish.

“It’s a shadow split six ways, like it doesn’t know what it wants to do,” Logan continues.

“And the mirrors? What did the mirror mosaic mean for you?” Ms. Teresi asks him.

Logan shrugs. “I didn’t think they were actually reflecting anything specific,” he adds. A couple of others nod. “And things get bizarre with all those colors. Someone’s pretty out of control—”

“Or torn,” Ryan says, almost too quiet for anyone to hear, but I do since I sit right behind her.

“I disagree, Ms. Teresi,” Isaiah speaks up. “It’s not out of control at all. The shadows are trying to break free. To show their colors. To be visible.”