The Chosen One, page 18
“If we are going to make it in this world,” Keli says, “we have to know how they think.”
“Yea, but don’t you think four negroes walking in together will be suspicious?”
“That’s why we don’t walk in together,” Keli says. “We go separately and pretend to be like Daniel. Just Black individuals down for the cause.”
“Um, I’m afraid,” I say. “They are going to know we don’t belong there. We’re gonna need all the deities to get us through this… and Freddy.”
Earnell reaches into his bag and pulls out the Nightmare on Elm Street doll. “Gotcha covered.”
Right before we leave for the meeting, Earnell gets on his knees and leans over the side of his bed.
“Oh my God, what are you doing, Earnell?” I ask. “And why are you dressed like a rich white man from Connecticut?” He is wearing Dockers pants and shoes and a powder-blue, collared, button-down shirt with a sweater tied around his neck.
“I’m praying and I suggest you all join me. And to blend in. Duh. Is that what you’re wearing? That ridiculous ‘disguise’ is going to be a dead giveaway you don’t belong.”
My jeans, black turtleneck, and trademark black sunglasses are insufficient for conservative infiltration, apparently.
“I don’t care what they think,” I reply. “I’m not saying anything when we get there. I’m just going to sit in the back quietly and cause no problems, like in theater class.” I turn and look at Keli. “And please don’t get into a fight. You know I’m not a fighter. I will run.”
“Look,” she responds. “If anyone steps to my face, I will start throwin’ bows. It’s not up to me. It’s up to anyone who wants to try me.”
“Come here, girl,” Gabby says. “You need this most of all.” Gabby lights a plume of sage and douses Keli in the airy white smoke. “If this doesn’t help, nothing will.”
“Amen,” Earnell says, hoisting himself up off the floor. “I feel protected by the blood of the lamb. Let’s go.”
The meeting begins with the Pledge of Allegiance “to honor this great nation and the rule of law.” Already I want to leave. I don’t look at Earnell, Gabby, or Keli, since I know I would burst out laughing. Instead, I focus on the flag they have hung across the blackboard in front of the room. The room is mainly full of white men, a few white women, and two other students of color, one South Asian and one East Asian. I expect to see Daniel, but he doesn’t make an appearance. He probably would have outed us anyways. We didn’t think about that at all.
The first part of the gathering is business: which speakers to invite next, minutes from the last meeting, and whether they should stage another affirmative action protest in the middle of campus. The second part is a debate about freedom of speech and whether there should be limitations for certain people based on beliefs and ideas.
“I can start,” Stephen Clark, who is chairing the meeting, begins. “In my opinion, free speech is only complicated due to certain groups, mainly far left-wing liberals, attempting to put restrictions around what conservatives think, feel, and believe. The answer is simple. Let us believe and speak about whatever we want to our willful audience. Then there is zero problem. Not sure why that’s so hard to grasp.”
I am burning. I hate Stephen Clark and his squinty little eyes and his squeaky little voice. I cover my ears and count the stars on the flag even though I already know how many there are. I can still hear what they are saying, though muffled.
“People have a right to ‘hate’ speech publicly if that’s what they believe.”
“There shouldn’t be any ‘safe’ spaces that allow the voices of some but deny others. It’s unconstitutional.”
“This is really a discussion about who gets to draw the line between morally acceptable and unacceptable speech. I definitely don’t want them deciding that for me.”
The young conservatives feel very persecuted, like the whole world is out to get them. I never knew white people—white men—could feel like victims. How? When so much has been given. How, when the privileges afforded them for generations are as thick as the molasses from an old sap tree? They want the entire world. They want the world of their ancestors, to be free to take whatever suits them—land, people, riches. Not just privilege but vast, unchecked power. There are too many voices now and experiences demanding inclusion. This is not the world they know in their bones. Considering the impact of their words on someone else encroaches on their right to hate freely and, when in power, oppress freely.
I don’t say any of that out loud, of course. I sit quietly still staring at the flag and the clock, which are my safe anchors in this room. Gabby, Keli, and Earnell have also been quiet for the duration of the meeting. Until Stephen says there should be limitations on protests against public servants, particularly police officers and people elected to serve “this great nation.” I can feel the tsunami of Earnell’s rage coming. I look at Gabby and Keli—we know it’s time to prepare for battle.
“Hey, just gonna chime in here. Faithful conservative since birth. Earnell. Yea, I don’t think we’re thinking about this in the right way. Public servants and police officers are people also. They are not without flaws just because they are in a certain role. If anything, we should be even more vigilant and speak up when wrongdoing has occurred.”
A hellscape of discussion. World War III of beliefs. Jennifer’s ideological tennis ball jockeying back and forth, building to a crescendo of Earnell’s raw emotion for this brother. Earnell stands and begins shouting:
“These dumb opinions are easy when you never been through nothin’! When the toughest choice in your life is what college to go to.”
“You don’t know what I’ve been through,” Stephen retorts.
“I don’t. But I know that if you have been through what I’ve been through it’s almost impossible to believe what you believe.”
A force field of energy starts building behind my eyes. Then words by Dr. King: “Until justice rolls down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream.” So much pressure builds, I furtively shake my head to try and release it. It doesn’t work. More energetic intensity. Then beams of light spinning around the retinas before shooting out of my pupils, bathing Stephen in a bright white light. He freezes, hypnotized by the glare.
“Show him,” I say, beckoning the Keepers. “Show him his ignorance.” Messages from the light pour out. Black men who have been shot and killed by the police, incidents that never made the news, flow into Stephen.
He thought I fit the profile of a burglary suspect. I was twenty-one. He was acquitted. My mother hasn’t gotten out of bed in a year.
He thought I was reaching for a gun. No weapons were found. I was twenty-nine. No charges filed. My family marched for justice that never came. He retired and moved to Florida.
He yelled, “Show me your hands!” and then shot before I could get them up. My head landed on the steering wheel while my six-year-old daughter cried in the seat behind me. They give her risperidone for the anxiety and nightmares. She keeps asking if I’m ever coming back.
So many. Too many to count. Their faces and stories burn into Stephen’s mind now, wrestling with his blind conservativism.
The light begins to retract. I take several deep breaths to try and steady myself. I don’t know what just happened or why, but I’m deeply affected by it. I can see that Stephen is also. Something shifts in his eyes. One of his guards stands down. There is a receptivity present that wasn’t here at the beginning of the meeting.
Earnell is still enraged and doesn’t see it. He leans forward on the table, burning.
“There is not a day that goes by when I don’t think about my brother. Not one.” He points his finger at Stephen. “Imagine someone you love, a sister, a brother, or parent, is senselessly ripped from you and there are no consequences for the person that took them. Imagine! You are debating rights and freedoms, but what about justice for those who suffer when the law sides with the hateful? What should we, the ones forced to reckon with the flaws in your police and public servants, do? Sit quietly in cruel acceptance? I think the fuck not. You’re delusional. Keli, Gabby, Echo, let’s go.”
We stand and begin clapping for Earnell while marching toward the exit. Everyone watches silently as we leave.
“Hey,” Stephen calls out before we reach the door. “I’d want consequences if it was my family and I’d want a right to speak up.” He tries to build a bridge toward us, but it’s too late. We are already in the water, swimming against a tide that comes from all sides. We’ve been in the water our entire lives and don’t know what it’s like to bunk in a cabin on land. If we had, we wouldn’t think the tide was so bad either and it would take a miracle of the light to convince us also.
Earnell is quiet for the rest of the evening. A silent Earnell is unusual. I know he must be ruminating over his brother. We order milkshakes in the late-night café. A band onstage plays soul music. Hits by Otis, Sam Cooke, and Aretha. Gabby snaps and sways along.
“It was worse than I thought,” I say.
“A real slap in the face,” Gabby says. “How can they believe all that crap?”
Keli places her hand on Earnell’s shoulder and asks, “How ya doin’, buddy?”
“When will we be equal?” Earnell asks wearily. “When will they understand? One hundred more years? Two hundred?”
“More like a thousand,” Keli responds. “Probably never.”
The smoke of sorrow, which always follows the flames of rage, settles on the table and doesn’t lift even after we leave. No one sits there for the rest of the night. The band’s last song is “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood,” by Nina Simone.
Dean Yoda takes me out to dinner every week now, instead of meeting at her office, to check in and see how I’m doing. I eat as much as I can each time. Campus food is great, but not as delicious as restaurant food. Last week we went to Molly’s, which has the best bread around. They bring out a basket of warm bread and honey butter. I finished most of it myself, then asked for another. I ordered calamari to start, fish and chips as my main course, and apple pie for dessert. It was so delicious, I could barely keep up conversation. After I finish, I suck down the large glass of water on the table, pour another, then repeat. I am nearly in a food coma, like after the lobster dinner, when it’s all done.
Tonight, we are at the Indian restaurant down the street from Molly’s. Indian food is my favorite. It’s so different from the food we eat in Cleveland, but I fell in love with it instantly. The spices, the naan, the curries. If I go to heaven, I want them to only serve me Indian food. I don’t eat anything for breakfast on the days Yoda takes me out so I can leave room in my stomach for everything I will eat later. I walk into the restaurant beaming, full of glee.
“Hi, Dean Harrison!” I call out. “I came starving.”
“I know you did,” she says, smiling knowingly.
I tell her about the Keepers and the light at the Dartmouth Beacon meeting a week ago, about how it shifted something in one of the biggest conservatives on campus.
“I’m proud of you for figuring out so quickly what works for you, and for that incredible, life-changing realization. Some people carry pain their entire lives. It also makes perfect sense that scripture would be your conjuring tool. You have always been called by the words, even Bible verses though you are not Christian. I find that strange.”
“You find something strange,” I say amusedly. “This coming from the weirdest person I know. How did you become like this?”
“I, like you, was called forth.…”
“Oh my God, it was a joke,” I say, laughing. I take another long sip of water before launching my next question. “Why can’t I just get people to do what I want? Like why can’t I turn Stephen Clark into an ally?”
“That’s not how it works. What we really do is influence deeper insight, which can alter how someone sees the world. Once that happens, change is inevitable. We work to inspire new realizations. After that, it’s up to the person.”
I want to ask Dean Harrison another question, but I don’t want to offend her since she rarely shares anything about herself. I try to think of how to frame it, but before I can finish the thought, she interrupts me.
“I’m afraid of many things. I just don’t allow that fear to define me and my choices.”
“What! You can read my mind?”
“I accessed the frequency you are emitting.”
“Well, I guess there is no privacy here, then.”
“If you don’t want me to do that, just say so.”
“Have you been reading me every time we meet?”
“Here and there, mostly when there is some change in your energy field. There was sudden distress and I wondered what it was. Know that you can ask me anything. In the beginning I was a bit of a firecracker. Very hot around the collar. Through many lives comes the calm of knowing and release from the fear paradigm. It is simply futile to resist or give in to fear. Life will never be without turbulence, but it’s easier to accept what is happening rather than fight it. That wisdom applies in every field, all realms.”
I consider what Dean Harrison says. I’ve never met anyone as calm as her. I wonder if she is Buddhist. In religion class, they say that a Buddha is the highest flowering of human consciousness. One is without inner turmoil and can access universal wisdom for the benefit of others. Does that not apply to Dean Harrison? I don’t know how not to fight. I’ve been resisting my entire life. I wonder if I’ll be a Yoda or a Buddha one day: graceful, calm, and wise. For now, I’m still a wellspring of curiosity, confusion, and determination.
“No, I am not a Buddha, just well-practiced.”
“Hey!”
“Last time, promise,” she says, smiling.
While Dean Harrison signs the check after dinner, I suddenly feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude to her. Though she has pressed how inescapable the call is, there is still a choosing. An acceptance. She chooses to give freely so much of her time and wisdom. No question is stupid or off-limits. There is never judgment or frustration. She is so clear and unobstructed without internal friction. I wonder if adults—real adults, not nineteen-year-old beginners like me—should spend more time ironing out their insides before they try to teach us anything. Maybe if they faced what they have buried, they could be more available and hold better space for us.
“We all do the best we can,” she says.
“Hey!”
She smirks and hands the waiter the check.
“You said you were Yoda. Can I call you that?” I ask, taking one final swig of water.
“No, please, I wouldn’t like that at all. It was just a metaphor.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I’m always afraid of what Professor Nielson will make us do in her workshops. We haven’t read any scripts or done anything related to theater five weeks into the semester. Winter Carnival is only a few days away and midterms a month out. At this point, I have no idea when we will start actually performing. “Before you can do theater, you must examine yourselves, which is a lifelong practice,” Professor Nielson says with her stretched-out syllables. “College will end. Self-study won’t.”
I’m tired of examining myself. There is so much to learn. I thought there would come a point when the learning was done and you can stand on the mountaintop of self and claim victory. I wonder how much more I will have to figure out.
All of the initial theater classes are dedicated to self-study. In the first session, we sketch our childhood inspirations and present them to each other. I choose Maya Angelou (who reminds me of Dean Yoda) since she overcame similar obstacles as me and seemed very internally balanced in her later life.
“Maya Angelou,” Professor Nielson says, stretching out her syllables even more. “Interesting. That tells me a lot about you.”
“What does it tell you?”
“That you have the soul of an artist or healer.”
Professor Nielson asks us to split into small groups and discuss our fears and angers in the second class. Each person has to sit in the middle of the circle when it’s their turn to be “witnessed in raw form.”
“How can you transmit the range of human emotion,” Professor Nielson says intensely, “if you don’t know what’s buried inside? Usually fear and anger are pushed down the furthest.”
Today, in class, she tells us, “We are going to do mirror work.”
I don’t understand what she means until she starts setting up full-length mirrors against the wall in front of us. Oh dear God, I think to myself. What on earth is she going to make us do? Fear rides through my bones.
“The mirror can tell you a lot about yourself,” she says. “Most of us look at our reflection almost every day, but do we really see the soul looking back?” She sounds like Hypnotist Jerry. “If you cannot behold yourself, how can you expect as much from an audience? You must know who exists within you before delivering them to others in a meaningful way.” I begin praying: Our Father, who art in heaven, please protect me from this woman and her witchcraft. “Today you just might confront the higher being that lives inside.”
I look around the circle to see if anyone else is freaking out. I make eye contact with a blond girl standing across the room from me. Her eyes are wide with fright, confirming I’m not the only one terrified by what is about to happen. My feet are running out of the room and into the safety of the hallway. Just my imaginary feet. My actual body is frozen.
I don’t know why I’m so afraid to look at myself in front of others. Probably because the mirror has never been my friend and has only been a place of critique and pain. I realize Professor Nielson is right. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen myself outside of superficial projections of how I imagine others view me.
“So here we go,” Professor Nielson says before dramatically turning off the lights. “I want you all to take a deep breath. Come into the room. Feel yourself in your body. Flesh and bone. A living miracle. Buddhism approaches the possibility of life occurring like finding a needle in the ocean. Extremely rare. So there is no question about your majestic preciousness. Only a matter of you seeing it.
