and assessing herself. I look like a professional, speak like a professional, and conduct business like a professional. Why should I have to fight for the respect I deserve?
Not even her husband understood how she felt. How could he? He wasn’t black and he wasn’t female. He’d supported her in the beginning when she’d first begun to agitate over not receiving promotions, but his support didn’t seem to go very deep. How could she tell him she had taken the next step toward filing the lawsuit?
When she had interviewed for college, Thyme had been asked: “As an aspiring black American about to enter college, what do you want?” Her stock answer was “To be a black face in a high place.” That was still her answer.
As valedictorian of her high school class in 1971, she had delivered the commencement speech at graduation. Even though blacks represented less than two percent of her graduating class in West Bloomfield, she had structured her speech as a message to her fellow pioneers. She ended with: “I believe racism is a fundamental form of human evil. And I believe we cannot hide from evil. I feel that racism can be changed, reformed, ameliorated, even restricted. But racism will always take some form in society today and we can’t ignore it.”
She was to learn later that the five-minute-long ovation she had received was unprecedented. The irony was that as an outspoken black female during her high school years, she had kept silent about her relationship with one of the most popular white athletes, Cy Tyler. Even though her classmates accepted her as the valedictorian, she knew that they would never condone interracial dating.
Cy’s twin sister, Sydney, had discovered their affair right before graduation. She threatened to tell the Tyler family, which would have been disastrous for both Cy and Thyme when her parents were alive. Like Cy, Sydney was a natural blue-eyed blond. She was the homecoming queen. With wide-set eyes, a narrow nose, full lips, a center cleft in her chin, and a prominent jaw, she was a female version of Cy. And as twins, they were as close as one second is to the next.
Ironically, if Sydney hadn’t played her hand, Thyme might not have had the nerve to prepare a speech about being black and being proud of it. And she might have never discovered how much Cy truly loved her when, later that night, he had slipped an engagement ring on her finger.
At that young age she had never questioned Cy about how he felt about her race. They weren’t concerned with the prejudices of the world; their only care was how much they loved each other. In truth, she was always so conservative, so neat, so proper, so unblack, as to appear color-less despite her deep chocolate skin.
To Cy, she felt, color hadn’t mattered. And for a long time it hadn’t mattered to her.
But now, more than twenty-five years later, race did matter. It factored into every aspect of her life, and it was time she did something about it.
After spraying a touch of oil sheen on her hair, she brushed her wrapped hairstyle until every strand was in place. She gave her makeup a final check and glanced at her watch. Turning out the lights in the bathroom, she hurried into the bedroom to say good-bye to Cy. “Call me, honey.” She kissed his groggy head, and flew down the back hallway. It was twenty minutes to five in the morning. Cy didn’t have to get up for another hour.
She grabbed her purse and keys. Halfway down the hall, she made a U-turn back to the kitchen. She’d forgotten to write out the weekly check for her cleaning lady, Sonia.
All during the thirty-minute drive to work, she scrutinized every year of her and Cy’s marriage. She hadn’t realized until now how easily she made excuses to condone their interracial relationship. It all seemed to be coming to a head now.
In the first five years of their marriage, she’d held firm in her conviction not to have children. Had God been trying to tell her something even
Not even her husband understood how she felt. How could he? He wasn’t black and he wasn’t female. He’d supported her in the beginning when she’d first begun to agitate over not receiving promotions, but his support didn’t seem to go very deep. How could she tell him she had taken the next step toward filing the lawsuit?
When she had interviewed for college, Thyme had been asked: “As an aspiring black American about to enter college, what do you want?” Her stock answer was “To be a black face in a high place.” That was still her answer.
As valedictorian of her high school class in 1971, she had delivered the commencement speech at graduation. Even though blacks represented less than two percent of her graduating class in West Bloomfield, she had structured her speech as a message to her fellow pioneers. She ended with: “I believe racism is a fundamental form of human evil. And I believe we cannot hide from evil. I feel that racism can be changed, reformed, ameliorated, even restricted. But racism will always take some form in society today and we can’t ignore it.”
She was to learn later that the five-minute-long ovation she had received was unprecedented. The irony was that as an outspoken black female during her high school years, she had kept silent about her relationship with one of the most popular white athletes, Cy Tyler. Even though her classmates accepted her as the valedictorian, she knew that they would never condone interracial dating.
Cy’s twin sister, Sydney, had discovered their affair right before graduation. She threatened to tell the Tyler family, which would have been disastrous for both Cy and Thyme when her parents were alive. Like Cy, Sydney was a natural blue-eyed blond. She was the homecoming queen. With wide-set eyes, a narrow nose, full lips, a center cleft in her chin, and a prominent jaw, she was a female version of Cy. And as twins, they were as close as one second is to the next.
Ironically, if Sydney hadn’t played her hand, Thyme might not have had the nerve to prepare a speech about being black and being proud of it. And she might have never discovered how much Cy truly loved her when, later that night, he had slipped an engagement ring on her finger.
At that young age she had never questioned Cy about how he felt about her race. They weren’t concerned with the prejudices of the world; their only care was how much they loved each other. In truth, she was always so conservative, so neat, so proper, so unblack, as to appear color-less despite her deep chocolate skin.
To Cy, she felt, color hadn’t mattered. And for a long time it hadn’t mattered to her.
But now, more than twenty-five years later, race did matter. It factored into every aspect of her life, and it was time she did something about it.
After spraying a touch of oil sheen on her hair, she brushed her wrapped hairstyle until every strand was in place. She gave her makeup a final check and glanced at her watch. Turning out the lights in the bathroom, she hurried into the bedroom to say good-bye to Cy. “Call me, honey.” She kissed his groggy head, and flew down the back hallway. It was twenty minutes to five in the morning. Cy didn’t have to get up for another hour.
She grabbed her purse and keys. Halfway down the hall, she made a U-turn back to the kitchen. She’d forgotten to write out the weekly check for her cleaning lady, Sonia.
All during the thirty-minute drive to work, she scrutinized every year of her and Cy’s marriage. She hadn’t realized until now how easily she made excuses to condone their interracial relationship. It all seemed to be coming to a head now.
In the first five years of their marriage, she’d held firm in her conviction not to have children. Had God been trying to tell her something even
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