Black Boy White School by Brian F. Walker Page B

man . . . tell me how you got everybody on your side.”
    George left his clothes and straddled a chair backward, resting his arms across the top. “Let me get this straight, you want me to show you how to get along with white people?”
    â€œAnd still be myself, yeah.”
    George winked. “You can’t. I told you that already. Around here, you have to be somebody else. More than one person, really.” He held up one of his hands. “Five things,” he said, and lowered a digit as he counted each one. “First and foremost, don’t ever hit anybody, no matter how much they piss you off. I don’t need to tell you why because you already know. Second, smile instead of scowling all the time, like you’re mad at the world. The minute these people start feeling unsafe, brothers start getting sent home.”
    â€œHas that happened before?”
    â€œMore than you think. To tell the truth, I’m surprised you’re still around.”
    â€œMe, too,” Anthony said. “Somebody must be looking after me.”
    â€œThat’s good. Without Coach Rockwell watching my back, I would have been gone a long time ago.” He stopped and looked somewhere far off. Then he blinked a couple of times.
    â€œThird,” George continued, “hit those books, son, and hit ’em hard. There’s nothing more powerful in this world than a black man who uses his brain. And fourth, get to know these people. Learn their hobbies, where they come from, and what their parents do for a living. You never know when it all might come in handy.” George stopped talking and arched his eyebrows, leaving his rigid middle finger still standing all alone.
    â€œWhat’s the last one? You said five things, right?”
    George waved the finger back and forth. “You’re right,” he said. “This last one is the most important: No matter how much time you spend with them and how hard they try to do it, most of the kids here will never really know you.” He put the finger down.
    Anthony frowned. “Why not? Because I shouldn’t let them?”
    â€œBecause they can’t,” George said sadly. “To them, you’re not just Tony, you’re that black guy, Tony, or their black friend, Tony, or that crazy black guy, Tony, who went berserk at the brook. The color of our skin makes them blind, sometimes. These Belton kids can’t see us because they can’t get past the blackness.” He smiled at Anthony. “Think about your name, son. For real. No matter how many times you tell them, they still keep calling you what they want.”
    Anthony agreed but then thought about it. Something still didn’t make sense to him. “What about you?” Anthony said. “Almost every time I see you, you’re hanging out with some white people, laughing and joking around. Seems like you made some friends that really know you.”
    George smiled. “I did,” he said. “It took some work, though. From both sides. I had to drop some stereotypical things associated with black folk.”
    â€œYeah,” Anthony joked, “but not basketball, though.”
    â€œNot that, but other things,” George said. “Things like my music and how loud I listen to it, making sure I pull my pants up and wear a belt. And another thing I don’t do is eat fried chicken up here, which is more than I can say about some people. Your girl was at dinner the other night, eating wings like they were going out of style.”
    At first he wasn’t sure, but then Anthony figured it out. “You mean Gloria?”
    â€œThe one and only. People like her are dangerous. They can set black people back a hundred years.”
    â€œFor eating chicken in public? Come on, man,” Anthony said. “I don’t know about that one.”
    â€œHow about for being a segregationist, then? I know that she can’t stand me for