Black man is God, Raymond. He has an innate divinity that he can cultivate and harness from within, instead of beseeching some mystery god outside of himself.” Now Q points the drill at me. “Now you see why I’m driven to create this organization. The white devil has been very effective in concealing the truth and slandering those of us who wish to teach it.” He steps away from the wall to examine the three shelves he just created.
“The first one is still crooked,” I say. “There on the right.” I debate whether I should say anything. I like hanging out with Qusay. He teaches me things I would never know. I want to be a part of the five percent. Although I never admit it to anyone, I’ve been questioning everything, especially after Mama died. God, America, everything. Nike’s right. Going to Dawkins is changing me, just not in the way he dogs me about. And not in the way the people at Dawkins would like or how Mama had hoped.
In public school, I got good grades for memorizing things for tests. At Dawkins, they push us to learn the facts but to interpret them ourselves. That’s great until the sense I’m making upsets my teachers and classmates. The brochure says Dawkins is committed to equal opportunity, but you can count the number of Black kids in each class on one hand, we only learn Black history one month during the year, and the only Black adult in the school building is the live-in custodian.
“You got me in hot water at school, Q.”
“And how did I do that, G?”
“Last semester we were learning about the Kennedy assassination and got to talking about conspiracy theories. I remembered you telling the homies about the Tuskegee Experiment when you used to build at Pulaski Park.” Damn, I forgot that might be a sore spot for Qusay. He would hold parliaments there all the time until Junior threatened to beat Q down if he didn’t take his “preachin’ ass” somewhere else. Booby and some other Barbarians were getting hyped about Q’s teachings, and I guess Junior saw that as a threat to his business. When Qusay doesn’t respond to my mention of his exile from the park, I continue. “I asked my teacher whether, if something like the Tuskegee experiment could happen, it is far-fetched to believe that the U.S. government didn’t have a role in this crack explosion, like you said.” Before I know it, I add, “Or AIDS.”
Q gives me that look my mother used to when I brought home straight As.
“And what did that white devil say?” I imitate my teacher stuttering, and Q laughs. “And while he was at a loss for words, I explained to the class how the U.S. government told almost four hundred Black men it was treating them for syphilis when the true point of the study was to let them die. That this only ended ten years ago.” I hold back the fact that I learned about the experiment when I was doing research on sickle cell anemia, trying to understand the threat against my mother. Searching for hope. Still believing that I was fighting the right enemy.
“I can’t wait to have the money to hire you,” says Q. “You’ve already given me so many good ideas. You’re going to make an excellent assistant and teacher.”
I like the sound of that a lot. But sometimes Q says something that punches me in the gut, and I wonder if I’m cut out to be a poor righteous teacher. Since that debate, things have changed between Eric, Sean, and me, but I still don’t look at them and see white devils. They’re nice guys who mean well. That’s what I want to believe, anyway. I
have
to believe it. I can’t keep my promise to Mama and make it through one more year at Dawkins if I can’t believe it. Who knew that good intentions could be so blinding.
But if he’s willing to build with Booby, Pooh, and other homeboys even when they’re stealing and dealing for Junior, Qusay’s not going to turn his back on me the way Eric, Sean, and even Nike did. I hold up X’s autobiography. “But when Malcolm
“The first one is still crooked,” I say. “There on the right.” I debate whether I should say anything. I like hanging out with Qusay. He teaches me things I would never know. I want to be a part of the five percent. Although I never admit it to anyone, I’ve been questioning everything, especially after Mama died. God, America, everything. Nike’s right. Going to Dawkins is changing me, just not in the way he dogs me about. And not in the way the people at Dawkins would like or how Mama had hoped.
In public school, I got good grades for memorizing things for tests. At Dawkins, they push us to learn the facts but to interpret them ourselves. That’s great until the sense I’m making upsets my teachers and classmates. The brochure says Dawkins is committed to equal opportunity, but you can count the number of Black kids in each class on one hand, we only learn Black history one month during the year, and the only Black adult in the school building is the live-in custodian.
“You got me in hot water at school, Q.”
“And how did I do that, G?”
“Last semester we were learning about the Kennedy assassination and got to talking about conspiracy theories. I remembered you telling the homies about the Tuskegee Experiment when you used to build at Pulaski Park.” Damn, I forgot that might be a sore spot for Qusay. He would hold parliaments there all the time until Junior threatened to beat Q down if he didn’t take his “preachin’ ass” somewhere else. Booby and some other Barbarians were getting hyped about Q’s teachings, and I guess Junior saw that as a threat to his business. When Qusay doesn’t respond to my mention of his exile from the park, I continue. “I asked my teacher whether, if something like the Tuskegee experiment could happen, it is far-fetched to believe that the U.S. government didn’t have a role in this crack explosion, like you said.” Before I know it, I add, “Or AIDS.”
Q gives me that look my mother used to when I brought home straight As.
“And what did that white devil say?” I imitate my teacher stuttering, and Q laughs. “And while he was at a loss for words, I explained to the class how the U.S. government told almost four hundred Black men it was treating them for syphilis when the true point of the study was to let them die. That this only ended ten years ago.” I hold back the fact that I learned about the experiment when I was doing research on sickle cell anemia, trying to understand the threat against my mother. Searching for hope. Still believing that I was fighting the right enemy.
“I can’t wait to have the money to hire you,” says Q. “You’ve already given me so many good ideas. You’re going to make an excellent assistant and teacher.”
I like the sound of that a lot. But sometimes Q says something that punches me in the gut, and I wonder if I’m cut out to be a poor righteous teacher. Since that debate, things have changed between Eric, Sean, and me, but I still don’t look at them and see white devils. They’re nice guys who mean well. That’s what I want to believe, anyway. I
have
to believe it. I can’t keep my promise to Mama and make it through one more year at Dawkins if I can’t believe it. Who knew that good intentions could be so blinding.
But if he’s willing to build with Booby, Pooh, and other homeboys even when they’re stealing and dealing for Junior, Qusay’s not going to turn his back on me the way Eric, Sean, and even Nike did. I hold up X’s autobiography. “But when Malcolm
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