Black Enough: Stories of Being Young & Black in America

Myron quickly parked, opened his door, and began to switch shoes. He acknowledged a few kids as they passed by—a head nod to a group of Black dudes, and a more subdued hand wave to a group of white kids.

The house was full of people. The music was turned up loud—booming bass with rapid-fire rap lyrics on top—and I swear I could feel my teeth rattling with each thump of the tower speakers. The large, wall-mounted flat-screen was showing the game—Golden State against Cleveland. The Warriors were way up in points, and it was only the second quarter.

“You sure she’ll be here, right?” I asked as we stepped farther into the den.

“She’s here,” he said. “Anyone who’s anybody will be here. Just don’t start whining and begging to leave when you crash and burn at Jess’s feet.”

I followed Myron and joined the group of Black kids we’d seen outside. Myron gave them daps.

“Nice kicks, my man,” one of the guys said to Myron.

“’Preciate it,” he replied. “Gotta step up my game for the ladies.” Then he nodded toward me and introduced me to the group.

They looked me up and down. “Those are the Jordan 1 Mid Retros, right?” another boy said. “Nice.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Thank you!? Who said that? Why couldn’t I say what Myron said? Or even something like plain old Thanks.

“Y’all hooping at the park tomorrow?” Myron asked.

They nodded. Myron wasn’t a great basketball player, but he understood the game way better than I did. Me and my friends weren’t into sports.

The conversation switched from basketball to football. The other guys would ask me a question every now and then, but I mostly tried to keep my mouth shut.

“Why you so quiet?” Myron whispered as everyone turned to watch a replay of a dunk on the television.

I shrugged. “I’m trying to figure out what I’m going to say to Jess when I see her.”

He gave me a look but didn’t say anything. Then he and I were pulled into a nearby conversation, this time with a group of mostly white kids.

“Nice shoes, man,” one of them said.

“Thanks,” Myron replied. “We picked them up today. Have y’all met my cousin, Cameron?”

The change in his tone was immediate. Less bass. More enunciation. I wondered if he was even aware that he was doing it.

I quickly introduced myself. Most of them shook my hand, but one overeager guy leaned in to give me a dap-hug, saying, “What’s up, brother.”

And I said the same thing back, just like it was natural.

Because here was the thing—it was natural. This was how I interacted with kids all the time. I didn’t have to code switch at my school. There weren’t many other Black kids to code switch with. We lived in a very affluent neighborhood. (“A white neighborhood,” Grandma would say whenever Dad said this.) Even though most of my friends were white, a few weren’t. Arpit was from India, and Oscar was from Brazil. But it wasn’t like I talked differently around them than I did with my white friends. Honestly, we didn’t want to code switch. We were trying to sound like all our other … affluent classmates.

After a few minutes, Myron tapped me on the shoulder. “To your right,” he whispered. “But don’t turn too fast.”

I waited for Myron to pull away, then slowly shifted my gaze. There was Jess, looking as good as ever. Her brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she was wearing one of those summer dresses that made all us guys go crazy. As our eyes met, her lips faltered for a second, before she finally offered up a small smile and waved at me. I did the same.

Before I knew it, I was crossing the room.

“Hey Jess,” I said once I’d reached her group.

“Hey,” she said back. No kiss. No hug. Not even a handshake. “Guys, this is Cameron. Myron’s cousin.”

“Hey.”

“Wassup, man.”

“How’s it going?”

I took in each person’s greeting, thinking how Jessica must like being around kids like this. Once the last person in the group introduced himself, I took a deep breath and said, “Wazzup, peeps.”

God, did that sound as horrible out loud as it did to my ears?

Everyone else nodded back at me, but I noticed a flicker of a frown cross Jess’s face.

The discussion turned back to—what else?—basketball. I waited for a lull in the conversation, then threw out the little bit of basketball knowledge I had.

“That cat Steph Curry is amazing,” I said. “Best playa on the court. Breaking ankles with each step.”

“Yeah, but no one has a crossover as sweet as AI, right?” one of the guys replied.

“Um. Yeah,” I said. I had no idea who they were even talking about. Was there a person with those initials on the Warriors?

I caught sight of Jess again. This time the frown was full-on across her face.

“Cam, can I talk to you for a second?” But with the way she took my arm and guided me away, it was clear she wasn’t really asking.

At least she was finally making physical contact. Progress, I guess.

She led me outside, but as soon as we stepped off the front steps, she let go of me and crossed her arms.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Um … talking?”

“You sound like a fool,” she said.

“I’m just …” I shook my head. There was no way I could explain what I was trying to do. It sounded too stupid to admit.

“And those shoes?” she continued. “Since when did you start wearing Jordans? You think that makes you hood or something?”

“Myron said they looked good.”

“Myron is an idiot with too much of his daddy’s money to spend.” She swiped a bang away from her face. “You don’t even like basketball. Tell me the truth—did you know that AI stood for Allen Iverson?”

This was not the reception I was expecting when I’d dreamed about seeing Jess again. I mean, I hadn’t been holding my breath for love at first sight, but I didn’t think she’d be so upset. “Jess, are you mad at me?”

“Cam …”