Black Enough: Stories of Being Young & Black in America

“It’s not so simple,” I say. “I have a ton to lose.”

“Like I don’t?” The cold creeps into her eyes now.

“Though I bet there were no consequences for you, were there?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Ryan says nothing at first. “It will be up for consideration.”

“Figures.” I want to smack the entitled look off her face. “I can’t believe you’re actually going to do this.”

Her back goes straight, like she’s made another decision. “Why?” She stares at me, almost as a challenge. “It says everything I need to say to win.” Ryan moves away, then looks back. “You don’t want it bad enough. I do.”

All I can do is watch her go, feeling more than betrayal, knowing she’s right. As much as I risked, I’m not sure I ever intended to confess. And now I don’t know what pisses me off more—my own cowardice or her audacity.

During my junior year, my aunt Gladys, who inspired my love of art, took me on a spring-break girls’ trip to Italy. And as my eyes devoured Michelangelo’s Cleopatra sketch in the Uffizi, she casually asked: How bad do you want this? And by the looks of things now, not bad enough. I stand motionless in the center of my room, taking in all the sketches and paintings I’ve done. The ones I’ve actually let others see.

I pull them down and spread them across my floor. This work captures moments in my life, but it’s not enough. I hesitate for just a second before pulling my sketchbooks off the shelf. The ones Ryan talked about. The ones no one was ever meant to see. They’re crammed with crinkled pages of self-portraits, snips of fabric from memories, photographs, movie tickets, gum wrappers with doodles, and torn slips of paper with images painted with watercolors. My thoughts and full life spill out of these books I’ve always kept contained and secured with wide green rubber bands. I remember when we were roommates, Ryan peeking over my shoulder once while I was working. She didn’t recognize the images were of me. And I’ve always wondered why. But now I think I know. It was the side of me I don’t let breathe. The side that doesn’t fit expectations. The side that’s free.

And she saw that on that wall.

I scan the self-portraits and photos into the computer and print page after page. I am beginning to understand my truth, which has always been staring back at me. And now I have less than twelve hours to speak it.

For Parents’ Weekend everything seems extra golden.

The chandeliers sparkle overhead in the dining room of Chatterley House, the on-campus inn, which should really be called legacy row. It’s booked years in advance for every special occasion families can attend. Even before my arrival freshman year, Mom and Dad had paid four years in advance for certain dates, like they had for Mya and Reese before me. Who, unlike me, followed in all of the family traditions without even a grumble, both studying law. My parents couldn’t have been prouder when Reese became a lobbyist and my sister a political analyst and law professor like Mom. These dark mahogany walls have been witness to many family conversations, good and bad.

“I had an interesting call from Councilwoman Myers’s husband yesterday,” Dad says, wiping a napkin at his lips. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the mention of Councilwoman Myers’s husband, a dean at Dad’s alma mater. Can’t we have just one meal that doesn’t focus on my future? We’re seated around one of the immaculate white-cloth-covered tables in the inn’s dining room and my appetite is suddenly lost. “Mitch says he never saw your early-decision application come through admissions.”

It hasn’t escaped me that he’s waited for Mom to leave the table to chat with old friends before he starts his cross-examination. At least there’ll be a time limit to his storm. Though Mom has already told me where she stands. Go after what you want. She made it clear she isn’t battling the worst of the storm if I’m not willing to myself. I take a breath.

“I didn’t send it. I’m applying to art schools, general admission, instead.” I don’t dare tell him about my last-minute Jabec Beard submission.

Blood surges through a vein over his right eye, an impending eruption. “The answer is no.” The words a hiss through clenched teeth. His expression remains blank for the sake of appearance, but I know the storm is brewing. “I’m not funding that, nor have I funded four years here for you to think painting pictures is your future. We’ve already discussed this.”

“You talked. I didn’t,” I mumble before saying, “I really want to do this.”

“So did your aunt Gladys, and look where that got her.” The sapphire in his class ring catches the light as he smooths his hand over his close-cut beard. “My sister is a shell of who she once was. Too many doors slammed in her face, or never opened. People love brown on canvas—the bark of a tree, the shine of a saddle—but that same brown on her skin was rejected,” he says, his perfectly tailored suit giving off its own shine. “This is a truth you need to know, Nivia. In this world, the brown of your skin is rarely a shelter. Here at Caswell, color may fade—for a while anyway, except when it’s needed for brochures or diversity experiments—but out there, it’s front and center always. Don’t forget that. The law is where you can find a sturdy footing.”

I drop my gaze, part of me knowing he’s right. I’m surprised he doesn’t mention me squandering Grandpa’s legacy and his fight for equal consideration as one of Caswell’s first Black students. He’s sparing me that argument—this time.

He reaches for my hand. I don’t pull away. “Mitch assures me he’ll look out for your application during general admission. You can paint there in your free time. It’ll be hectic with a prelaw course load, but as long as it doesn’t hinder your priorities …”

“Such serious faces,” Mom says as she nears our table with Ryan’s mother. Mom’s cheeks lift as loose, highlighted curls swing around her pearl earrings when she smiles. Ryan’s mother reveals a perfect smile too. They look like they’ve sauntered out of a fashion spread.

From her table, Ryan glances at me.

I turn away.

Dad slides his hand off mine. The corner of his eye crinkles as he smiles back at Mom. He greets them warmly, then picks up his salad fork and spears a radish. For him, the matter is decided.

Latham Auditorium is alive with voices as we wait for the presentations to begin. I sink deep into the admiral-blue velvet seats. Seniors from Alcott and Eldridge are unmistakable in their maroon or gray blazers, eager as we are to know the outcomes. Four awards are given, and the Jabec always comes after community service and before the essays. I can hardly breathe as the lights dim and faculty judges take the stage.

Ryan sits two rows ahead of us, watching her grandfather onstage as he waits to give an introduction. You’d never know the lie she’s holding, sitting totally collected between her parents in her Caswell uniform while the community service awards are handed out. When she keeps tucking her hair behind her ear, her mom discreetly pulls her hand away.

Mom lays her palm over my knee. The warm pressure stops my leg from jumping. She winks my way as bluesy jazz is piped in through the speakers. A self-portrait of a tanned Jabec Beard with a shaved head stares out at us, the years of his life scrawled underneath.

“Jabec Beard,” Ms. Teresi begins, “is remembered and celebrated for the stunning pieces he gifted the world.”

Some of his most famous works brighten the movie-theater-sized screen behind her with colors, angles, words, and feeling. Everyone drinks in the images, especially me.

“But he was more than just an artist; he was a seeker of truth in all things, and devoted his life to encouraging people to go after their inner truth and challenge the barriers put around them and the expectations suppressing them,” Ms. Teresi continues. “He yearned for everyone to find his or her authentic self, and that is why this year’s prize theme, Tell. Your. Truth., is so relevant for our students. These are the years where they question with open hearts, explore with abandon, and discover with amazement the courage to do so. The pieces you’ll see this evening were chosen from a talented and inspiring pool, bearing witness to what he sought to inspire.”

I can hardly draw in air as the lights go dimmer. A hush falls over the room as work from an Eldridge student demands everyone’s attention. It’s the kind of piece people sit on museum benches for hours staring at, with its deliberate brushstrokes and moody color palette of blues and grays. A scene of a lone boy in the rain. The next painting is equally as powerful—sneakers at the edge of a cliff, a lively carnival on a cloud high in the sky, fog below.

All the pieces tell an honest story.

Then I bite at my lip as Ryan’s back goes rigid. Jabec Beard’s Broken Reflections comes into focus. Ryan’s grandfather nods her way from the stage as claps sprinkle through the audience when the added work is revealed.

My work!

“In an unconventional twist, one of our students has literally used Jabec’s truth as a foundation for her own.” Ms. Teresi’s hand opens in Ryan’s direction. Her parents give a wave and nod like it is their work on display. Ryan remains motionless.

But I know she is more than cracking inside.

Then a brown face, my face, with jet-black hair pulled into a high bun, fills the screen with color ribboning all around it. Glitter cascades down the cheekbones, as I bite a gag that tries to silence me. Dad’s looking, but he’s not focused on the image. I want to scream, Look, Dad, look! Look at me! The real me.

When the slide zooms in, quiet gasps poke the air as people realize the brown of the skin is made up of dozens of sepia-toned scenes, photographs, portraits, and strips of fabric from my sketchbooks.

This collage is all of me.

As I balloon with disbelief that I created this, that everyone is seeing my true world, I can see from where I’m sitting that Ryan crumples.

When the image shifts to the teeth digging into an unmistakable hunter-green scarf patterned with little foxes, Ryan flinches, turning slightly to me. But I don’t have time to watch her sweat over the gift she once gave me as the focus turns to a drawing of a man hugging a little girl in bobby socks and puffballs. Dad leans forward, his attention caught. He straightens his already straight tie, clearing his throat, blinking as if he isn’t seeing things correctly. Then the complete piece fills the screen again. And everyone can see how the moments of my life weave together to create this determined, certain face. Mine. Dad turns to me and I expect to see anger, but a storm is not there. His eyes are soft.

He’s about to say something when Ms. Teresi adjusts the microphone. The music goes low.

“This multilayered piece was left at my door with only a few minutes to spare, but the creator, who is obvious to some of us, still failed to sign it.” Ms. Teresi searches the crowd, and then her eyes lock on mine. “It’d be a shame if this talent remained silent. And this work couldn’t officially be considered.”

Every part of me is shaking, but I know this is the moment I’ve been trying to build my courage up to for so long. I glance at my dad, whose eyes are glued to me. I nod to him. He only blinks, seeing if I’ll fight.

I stand, legs trembling, then I hold my head high and say as loud as I possibly can, “This is my story. This is my truth.”

BLACK. NERD. PROBLEMS. (#ulink_d866f464-d6b8-5237-9502-4f91c55c4f7a)

LAMAR GILES (#ulink_d866f464-d6b8-5237-9502-4f91c55c4f7a)

“We’re going to burn this joint down, my ninja! My outfit is fire.” We were in Foot Locker and DeMarcus popped his collar in the mirror. A floor mirror. The kind meant for checking your kicks, so he was leaning over real weird to do it. DeMarcus did everything weird.

The sharp, slightly toxic scent of fresh shoe rubber and insta-cleaner tinged the air. That fire outfit of his was some Old Navy jeans slashed strategically for the right percentage of exposed skinny leg meat, one shiny black patent-leather shoe, and one blinding white Air Force 1. A Drake T-shirt plus a lavender tuxedo jacket from the Salvation Army topped it off. Total swerve from the visor, polo shirt, and apron he wore daily as Chief Knot Inspector at Auntie Anne’s Pretzel’s.