The Chosen One, page 20
Titanic offers its timeless, tragic love story to me once again. I shriek, I sob, I hug my pillow for comfort. I wait for the final scene. The one that always knocks down all my walls. It’s an imaginary scene after Leo dies. There is an audience of people all standing around the grand staircase. Kate begins to ascend toward Leo, who is waiting at the top. When she finally reaches him they kiss, cementing their love, allowed to blossom if only in a dream. The audience, gracious and supportive, erupts in enamored applause. It will never happen, of course, since Leo freezes to death, but the scene represents what could have been without turmoil and suffering.
I am lying in bed sobbing when Manda Panda comes bouncing through the door. I try to suck in my wails, but she sees me and comes running to my bed. “Oh my God, are you OK?! What happened? Who did this to you?! I will go after them and I will destroy them. Just say the name.”
I sit up, heaving in despair. I can’t stop crying. “It’s just so beautiful,” I say through tears. “Their love”—pointing at the movie credits—“so pure and innocent. Why can’t I have something like that?”
“Wait. You were watching Titanic? Why would you do that to yourself on such a nice day?”
“I had to do it for theater class.”
“I just came back to grab my tennis racket, but do you want me to sit with you for a bit? I have some time.”
I shake my head no, blowing my nose.
“It’s OK. I have to practice this scene now anyways.”
“That nutty professor has you acting out scenes from Titanic?”
“No, another play. We had to watch sappy movies to open our hearts.”
“Did Tina teach you nothing? Keep that sucker closed. If you’re all right, I’ll catch ya later.”
I return Cold Mountain to its case. I was going to watch both today, but I’m already eviscerated. My guard is down. I am without my protections. My heart, like the Defiance on its white horses, comes galloping back to me, covering me in a blanket of transcendent energy.
I grab the script and stand in front of the mirror. All the vulnerability I could not summon earlier comes flooding out. I feel my higher self nearby, again gently encouraging me forward. The gladiator rests and the characters come alive with emotion. We are united, the characters and me, meeting at the intersection of the words and my living interpretation. Professor Nielson was right. This is the only way theater can be done. The actor has to leave it all onstage and offer the luminosity of their insides, then pray the audience appreciates the magnificence of what has been given so Russell Crowe never has to ask the question again.
Econ is my least favorite subject this semester, but it’s also the class I look forward to most, thanks to Alex Rodriquez from South Central Los Angeles. I’ve never seen such a beautiful man in person. Even more stunning than Bryce. He is both soft and hard somehow, like he would cry with you during movies but also build a house with his bare hands. It’s a combination I rarely see in men that I find really attractive.
Now that winter has released its death-hold on the campus, and spring has announced her arrival with sunshine, chirping birds, and cherry blossoms, I feel especially open to new romantic possibilities. It’s late March, so my window for finding a boyfriend is winding down. I’ve got to be more focused and deliberate. I set my sights clearly on Alex, a bronzed Latino god from the City of Angels.
The first time I saw him, I sat with my mouth open for several seconds until I noticed someone watching and judging me. I pretend to take notes while continuing to glance at him out of the corner of my eyes. How is such beauty possible? Is the Joker trying to trap me again through this mesmerizing mirage? I feel like Blanche from The Golden Girls, who was always lusting after some guy. I spray myself with imaginary mist and wipe the phantom sweat from my forehead every time he passes.
I don’t know what comes over me when I see him sitting alone on a bench three days after my Titanic meltdown. I don’t really believe I have a chance with him, yet all of my recent inner work has intensified my longing for a connection. I act without thinking. I prance over to him. I have discovered that love makes me prance. I prepare to seduce him with my charms when I feel someone forcefully pull me away. I spin around in shock, dropping my notebook and a six-dollar smoothie I just bought from the cafeteria.
“Yoda! Sorry, Dean Harrison! What are you doing behind me like a creepy crawler? Are you following me?”
“I saw you and was coming to say hi. I see you are spying on that handsome fellow over there. Before you give him your all, make sure he’s the right one, OK? Nothing disrupts the call like the wrong man.”
“This is not helpful at all, you know.”
“I know.” She smiles cunningly. “All right, I’ll leave you to your spy work.”
Her cautioning does not dissuade me. I am determined. I take a deep breath and prance back over to him. I stand behind his bench for several seconds like a serial killer.
“Hey, Alex,” I say awkwardly.
He turns, shocked, looking up at me. “How long have you been standing there?”
“I just got here. Saw you sitting and thought I would come over.”
I walk around the bench and sit.
“Lovely day today, huh?”
“Beautiful. Almost feels like Cali.”
We both stare ahead in silence.
“So interesting how world systems work, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I was talking about Econ since we’re both in that class. The professor was discussing societal systems the other day.”
“Oh.” He laughs uneasily. “Yea.”
Silence.
“Well, I was thinking, if you aren’t busy, maybe we can talk about Econ sometime. Together. At a café.”
“Are you asking me out? Oh, that’s so nice. You’re such a sweetheart. But honey, I’m gay. I’m really flattered, though!”
Rejection and disappointment, my old friends, squeeze in between us. I’m too shocked to speak.
“I’m sorry. I know how hard it is up here to find someone. I’ve been in a drought all year. You know what, how about we still go out? We’ll make it a pretend date. Get dressed up, go to a nice dinner, and take a stroll. No harm in that.”
I light up at the invitation. It won’t lead me to where I want to go, but I accept anyways. Even a mock date is better than nothing.
“OK,” I respond. “When are you free?”
“How about Friday? Tomorrow? I was thinking of going out by myself anyways. Now I’ll have good company. We can go to Molly’s and eat all their bread.”
“I love that place! I can eat two baskets by myself and still have room for dinner.”
“I thought I was the only one,” he says, laughing. “It’s a date, then.”
When tomorrow comes, I’m surprised I’m still nervous even though there’s nothing at stake. We don’t have to figure out if we like each other or if we want the same things. We can just enjoy each other’s company. Yet part of me feels like it’s the real thing. I search through my closet for what to wear. I’ve never been on a date before, so I don’t know what’s appropriate.
Manda Panda, who is approving or disapproving all my options, says, “Wait. I have the perfect outfit for this.”
She quickly scans through her own closet and hands me a sleek cream-colored top made of silk.
“It looks so expensive,” I say. “What if I spill something on it?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
She opens her jewelry box and pulls out a pair of diamond earrings.
“Whoa, are those real?! Are you sure it’s OK?”
“Of course! You’re gonna look so pretty. I can’t believe you’re going on a date with a gay man, but it’ll probably be even better, honestly,” she says sarcastically.
I change into the outfit and put on the diamond earrings. I make sure the earring backs are pushed all the way forward. I would never want to lose something so precious and expensive. Manda Panda claps when she sees the finished product.
“You look so gorge,” she says. “Gotta take a pic.” She snaps a Polaroid and hangs it on her wall. “Be home by ten,” she says jokingly.
“Sure, Mom,” I respond. “I won’t be late.”
Conversation with Alex is so easy and effortless. We talk about everything. Liberal politics, what it’s like being a student of color on campus, our upbringings. Alex is from a middle-class family in Los Angeles. His family owns a restaurant, where he’ll work over the summer. He tells me he’s come across all the stereotypes here: people assuming he’s in a gang, doesn’t speak good English, or is a farmworker, “but I didn’t know I would be romantically isolated also.”
“I mean I knew dating here would be hard, but I didn’t know it would be this bad. I feel like an angsty teenager who’s never gonna get laid.”
“Well, I’m a virgin.”
“Aww, that is precious. You’re a real doll. Are you saving yourself for marriage?”
“No. I just can’t find someone who’s not gay that likes me back.… Well, one of my good friends likes me, but I’m not feeling him. I wish I did, but it’s just not there for me.”
“The way of the world, dear.”
I feel like I’ve known Alex forever. There is no awkward phase of trying to figure each other out, we just click. We eat four baskets of bread between us. I finish mine first, then try to steal some of his, but he playfully smacks my hand. Molly’s has white paper table coverings with a cup of crayons in the middle. We draw pictures and play hangman. When Alex tells me Will Smith gave a talk at his high school, we sing the theme song to Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. We both know all the words.
I don’t want the night to end. I knew it could be like this. That connecting intimately with someone is the best feeling in the world, even if I know it’s not intimate for him.
In true date fashion, he pays the bill. I follow him out to grab tea at the Hopkins café across the street.
“I never liked tea before I came here,” I say, ordering a chamomile-and-lavender infusion. “Now I can’t get enough. You know, some say tea can open a portal to another dimension.”
“Oh yea, who?”
“Some.”
“OK, weirdo,” he says, laughing. “Aww, look, honey,” he says, changing the subject, “this is the table where we first met. Remember you had the ganache and I had the cheesecake,” he continues, pretending like we’re a real couple.
“I’ll never forget that night, dumpling.”
“Gag. Why do people call each other food? Like are you going to kiss me or eat me?”
“I like it,” I say, sipping my tea. “It’s endearing.”
“I can’t believe you never had a boyfriend. How is that possible? I really can’t deal with straight men.”
“I’m untouchable, that’s why. Well, at least that’s how I’ve seen myself until recently.”
The untouchables. Those of us that have found ourselves on the opposite end of accepted standards of beauty. We who are too dark, disabled, odd looking, ugly, or short to be desired, especially in a place like this. I didn’t know that I would be trapped in this category for so much of my life and that each rejection would burn holes in me. The only thing that has ever drawn people to me is intelligence, but men don’t care how smart you are. They want something beautiful that fits nicely on their arm and who their family will accept. They want someone who answers the question “What would people think?” with statements like: “She’s perfect for you. She’ll fit right in.” What they don’t want is a Black, too dark Chosen One from the west side of Cleveland. Men don’t chase after heroes, they run from them.
“Bryce doesn’t deserve you,” Alex says.
I smile, embarrassed, finishing the last of my tea. People always say stuff like that when they don’t have an answer to your problem.
“But Earnell sounds like a real catch.”
“I know. I just wish I were attracted to him.”
“Oh, the game of love. Who will win? Who will lose?”
“Stay tuned next week to find out on another episode of the Young, Restless, and Minority at Dartmouth College.”
We giggle softly. There are no more words as we both ponder our positions. People walk by. The clanging of pots, pans, and dishes rings out from the kitchen as the café prepares to close. I could have sat there all night, but the next words Alex speaks are of endings.
“You know how we should end our date?” he asks.
“By walking home?” I say sarcastically.
“No,” he says. “With a kiss. Like a real date.”
“But you’re gay.”
“So. That doesn’t mean we can’t kiss.”
The moment is right. Yearning takes hold of both of us. I walk around the table and sit on his lap, wrapping my hands around his neck. He kisses me like I am his boyfriend. Passionately. Intensely. It’s better than I imagined. It transports me to another place outside of myself. I am here, sitting with him, but I am gone somehow. Elevated again. Astral without leaving the realm.
“Thank you,” I say, bashfully staring down at our legs, grateful for the experience even if it can’t go on.
“The night is still young,” he responds before pulling me up for a starlight stroll.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Swimming is the perfect distraction from thinking about Alex. Now that I’m focused on not drowning, I don’t have time to obsess about making out with him. Initially, I try everything to forget him. I study constantly to prepare for finals in three weeks. I stay in my room as much as possible to avoid seeing him. I watch more movies than my brain can handle. Action and thrillers like The Mummy Returns, Men in Black, and Pearl Harbor keep me company for days. Until it gets old. All of my antics lose their ability to distract me eventually. Then I’m right back where I started, craving someone I can never have.
After the date, Alex confirms that it was magical, but can’t happen again. He’s happy to be friends, but he doesn’t want me to get romantically attached since he knows I’m attracted to him. He’s right. His honesty is a blessing, but I’m already attached. How could I not be? My experience of dating has been distorted. I have known men primarily through the lens of pain, abuse, and rejection. When a chance is finally given to see the other side, my brain explodes in desire like someone who hasn’t eaten in a month devouring the worst food possible. It doesn’t matter, at least it’s food.
I reflect on my hunger while staring at the amazingly chiseled swim instructor, six-ab Brett. This is my third lesson this week. There are six of us in the class. Everyone else seems to get it, but I keep sinking like a rock. I hate being submerged in water. It’s unnatural and dangerous, but Dartmouth is one of three Ivy League schools that still require a stupid swim test to graduate. Something else they never put in those glossy brochures. You have to take it before you graduate, but I decided to start lessons early since I know it’s going to be an eternity before I get comfortable in a pool. I only started this week, but I’ve nearly drowned twice. The lifeguard saved me the first time and another student the second. I freak out when I can’t touch the bottom of the pool with my feet and start to pull myself under.
I have always been afraid of drowning. There were no swimming pools in our neighborhood in Cleveland. Moreover, water only brings trouble. In movies, if it’s not a comedy or romance, when there is a body of water it’s because someone is about to drown or get eaten by a shark. Swimming also has a different significance to many Black folks. I can’t forget the pictures of angry white racists pouring acid into pools attempting to integrate. Or dripping wet Black bodies being beaten by segregationists as they emerged from the water. Those images are burned into my psyche, subconsciously convincing me that swimming is not safe for people who look like me.
Brett keeps giving me all these tips, but he doesn’t understand the depth of my fear. He’s focused on the mechanics of swimming, but I need to overcome the psychological hindrance somehow. “If you don’t resist, you’ll naturally float. Lie on the water. Don’t move your arms or legs. Just relax your body.”
“But every time I do that, I feel like I’m being sucked under.”
“That’s because you’re pulling yourself down with panicked movements. Look, let me show you.”
He gets in the pool next to me, puts out his arms, and I lie back. While he’s supporting the weight of my body, I feel safe. As soon as he lets go, the fear takes over and I thrash wildly.
“Oh my God!” he yells. “Just don’t move! Look, watch me.”
He lies back and floats effortlessly. The water glazes his finely sculpted torso.
“I can’t do it,” I say, defeated. “I tried my hardest, but I’m too afraid.”
Brett softens. He runs his hand through his wet hair, pushing it back. I stare at his abs.
“Look,” he says, “I think it’s best if you start off with one-on-one lessons and then rejoin a class. You need focused attention to advance. You’ll get the hang of it with enough practice. Don’t give up.”
Someone weirdly starts clapping. When no one else joins, six-ab Brett shouts, “Yea, let’s encourage her.” The class claps off beat. I smile awkwardly and climb out of the pool. I walk defeated toward the locker room, despite the lukewarm applause. “Hey,” Brett calls from behind me. “You just have to surrender. Don’t fight it. Whether the water sinks or saves you depends on that.”
“Surrender, like Yoda says. I’ll try that next time.”
The first-year weekend retreat is the last big event of the year. I’m stoked for more manufactured vulnerability and connecting. I see how these kinds of functions can be addicting. Gabby and Keli are not going, opting instead to focus on the upcoming final exams. I feel confident in my classes, otherwise I would also skip the retreat. I don’t know if Earnell is going since he’s still not talking to me, or even Gabby and Keli now.
