completed his pilgrimage to Mecca, he met white people who embraced him and treated him as an equal. Not only did that change his views about them, he concluded that Islam was the solution to racism.”
Q lays his drill on the floor and motions for me to follow him outside. Without naming them, he points at particular things. The litter along the curb. The burned-out building across the street with the shattered windows and sooty graffiti. Cutter trudging up the block, singing along with the D Train song blaring out a Grand Prix stopped at the light: “ ‘Keep keepin’ on, you gotta keep keepin’ on. Keep keepin’ on, you gotta keep keepin’ on.’ ”
“But this is not Mecca,” Qusay says. Then he places his hands on my shoulders. “God, the truth is the truth, and it is available to anyone, regardless of race, creed, language, age, gender…. But the truth in this country is that everything here is for the white man and against all who are not white. Any white man who wishes to be righteous must rebuke the very system that hands him everything based on the color of his skin.”
“They exist, though.” Still, I’m afraid he’s right. Sean talks as if being Irish means he isn’t white, and Eric won’t even say the word
racism,
using
prejudice
and
discrimination
as if they mean the same thing. But if you had told me five years ago I would be going to a school like Dawkins and have white friends to bum about, I would have called you crazy.
“Yes, but they are rare.” Cutter reaches us, now singing, “Mama Used to Say.” Last year I was the only person in the world who couldn’t stand that song. Funny how now it doesn’t bother me in the least.
Qusay squeezes my shoulders and then extends a hand to Cutter. “God, how are you this fine day?”
Cutter says, “Brother, can you spare some change?”
“For you to buy that poison and inject it into your veins? No, I do not have any change to spare you, my brother,” says Q. He puts his arm around Cutter’s shoulder and steers him toward the door of the storefront. “But I do have something to eat if you’re hungry.”
“I am,” says Cutter. “I’m so very, very hungry.” I follow Qusay and Cutter inside the academy.
“W hat’s next?” I ask, resting my chin on Sara’s shoulder.
“Willie…” I love when she sings my name like that. “Stop.” Sara wiggles away from me.
“What? I was just trying to look at your list.” I sway my head with El DeBarge as he sings,
All this love is waiting for you, my baby, my sugar.
I’m hoping to finish soon so maybe Sara’ll have time to chill somewhere with me instead of rushing home.
Sara reads from the loose-leaf-paper she tore out of a notebook. “Some tomatoes, cucumbers, and scallions, and we’ll be done.”
I give Sara’s cart a push, but the back wheel sticks. “You need a new cart, yo.” I kick the wheel, and the cart juts forward. “Y’all making sofrito?”
“What?”
“I figured that, since Ricans don’t use tomatoes in our recaito.” I don’t tell her about the Dominican girl I used to mess with who told me that. Whassername said that Puerto Ricans are the only people in the world who don’t put tomatoes in recaito, like we’re a race of morons. I quit her for that. “That’s how we’re unique,” I say, motioning between Sara and me. “Am I right? You making sofrito tonight?”
Sara studies her list. “Something like that.” She takes a jar off the shelf and places it in the cart. “So you were saying about Smiles…”
“He waited until the last minute to tell me he was transferring to Dawkins.” I follow Sara as she turns the corner and heads toward the fruits and vegetables. “I mean, I ain’t no honor student, OK, but I know you got to go through a lot to get into a school like that. Applications, tests, interviews…”
“Geez, that was two years ago, Willie. And he’s your best friend. Why are you still holding a grudge?”
“I could’ve
Q lays his drill on the floor and motions for me to follow him outside. Without naming them, he points at particular things. The litter along the curb. The burned-out building across the street with the shattered windows and sooty graffiti. Cutter trudging up the block, singing along with the D Train song blaring out a Grand Prix stopped at the light: “ ‘Keep keepin’ on, you gotta keep keepin’ on. Keep keepin’ on, you gotta keep keepin’ on.’ ”
“But this is not Mecca,” Qusay says. Then he places his hands on my shoulders. “God, the truth is the truth, and it is available to anyone, regardless of race, creed, language, age, gender…. But the truth in this country is that everything here is for the white man and against all who are not white. Any white man who wishes to be righteous must rebuke the very system that hands him everything based on the color of his skin.”
“They exist, though.” Still, I’m afraid he’s right. Sean talks as if being Irish means he isn’t white, and Eric won’t even say the word
racism,
using
prejudice
and
discrimination
as if they mean the same thing. But if you had told me five years ago I would be going to a school like Dawkins and have white friends to bum about, I would have called you crazy.
“Yes, but they are rare.” Cutter reaches us, now singing, “Mama Used to Say.” Last year I was the only person in the world who couldn’t stand that song. Funny how now it doesn’t bother me in the least.
Qusay squeezes my shoulders and then extends a hand to Cutter. “God, how are you this fine day?”
Cutter says, “Brother, can you spare some change?”
“For you to buy that poison and inject it into your veins? No, I do not have any change to spare you, my brother,” says Q. He puts his arm around Cutter’s shoulder and steers him toward the door of the storefront. “But I do have something to eat if you’re hungry.”
“I am,” says Cutter. “I’m so very, very hungry.” I follow Qusay and Cutter inside the academy.
“W hat’s next?” I ask, resting my chin on Sara’s shoulder.
“Willie…” I love when she sings my name like that. “Stop.” Sara wiggles away from me.
“What? I was just trying to look at your list.” I sway my head with El DeBarge as he sings,
All this love is waiting for you, my baby, my sugar.
I’m hoping to finish soon so maybe Sara’ll have time to chill somewhere with me instead of rushing home.
Sara reads from the loose-leaf-paper she tore out of a notebook. “Some tomatoes, cucumbers, and scallions, and we’ll be done.”
I give Sara’s cart a push, but the back wheel sticks. “You need a new cart, yo.” I kick the wheel, and the cart juts forward. “Y’all making sofrito?”
“What?”
“I figured that, since Ricans don’t use tomatoes in our recaito.” I don’t tell her about the Dominican girl I used to mess with who told me that. Whassername said that Puerto Ricans are the only people in the world who don’t put tomatoes in recaito, like we’re a race of morons. I quit her for that. “That’s how we’re unique,” I say, motioning between Sara and me. “Am I right? You making sofrito tonight?”
Sara studies her list. “Something like that.” She takes a jar off the shelf and places it in the cart. “So you were saying about Smiles…”
“He waited until the last minute to tell me he was transferring to Dawkins.” I follow Sara as she turns the corner and heads toward the fruits and vegetables. “I mean, I ain’t no honor student, OK, but I know you got to go through a lot to get into a school like that. Applications, tests, interviews…”
“Geez, that was two years ago, Willie. And he’s your best friend. Why are you still holding a grudge?”
“I could’ve
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