WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) by Fowler Robertson Page B
Authors: Fowler Robertson
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snipped. The bubbles popped.
“Heyyyy” Cruella says sternly. “You…”
The way this crow was barking orders and snapping fingers, it was apparent she was used to getting her way.
“Neeegro.” She spat. When it hit my ears, I felt my eyes turn black. Ms. Blanche stopped and looked up, her round hands still inside creamy bubbles and blonde locks. “Well…about time. Don’t you know anything? THAT is a Beatles song.” She turned to garner votes in her favor but everyone looked away. This made her more fervent to vent and rage and ramble as if it was her right to do so.
“Negroes need to stay with their own kind, just like the white trash and the Mexicans. And them, Asian slant eyed people, and what’s those others, those sand negro’s or Indian people, those kind too. Separation is essential to each race. Everyone knows that. It also means that they need to sing their own kind of songs, that jiggaboo, jungle stuff, you know, beating drums and tribal whatnots, God knows what else. It’s apparent that no one ever told you, so I’m just letting you know as my duty. I mean, you just can’t hoard in on the likes of fine w hite peoples musical abilities.” She touched her heart as if she was talking about herself. “ I t will taint their reputation and who knows what will be next, interracial breeding, mixed bands and we—,” she glanced around as if she had a Manson following. “And we just can’t have that.”
My eyes feel like they will pop out of their sockets and my ears are burning. The whole time she’s yacking, all I see is a bird. An old black crow cawing. Caw! Caw! Caw! The wings of her black cape flapped as she talked with her hands. Her chiseled nose a bird beak, her forked tongue curling in cruelty, her black hair, slick like wet feathers. She was one of those people. People without a filter. The kind of people who think it’s their God given right to bad mouth others, tear them down, and set them straight. And they enjoy doing it. They make others uncomfortable and move side to side in their seats and touch their hair curlers and turn away to redo lipstick or powder their face and pretend that nothing is happening. Whispers and low gasps filled the room. My inner wild child went crazy. A twig called justice snapped off the family tree. The Nehi soda in my hand fizzled angrily and said, “Rise up Willodean. Slap that biddy upside her winged head.”
I screamed. I stomped a hissy fit across the beauty shop floor. I rose up for justice, plucked the crow naked and tossed her out to the trash and then hugged Ms. Blanche and everyone sang the Beatles song together as it was supposed to be in a perfect, unprejudiced world. But that version only happ ened in my head. I sat on the red bench, quiet as a mouse while a twig called j ustice lay underneath my feet.
The whole time the crow bantered, it looked as if Ms. Blanche’s was searching inside herself for a way out of a bad situation. She turned away, her eyes me eting mine. I felt the impact of humiliation and shame cut me inside as if I felt her pain well up in my gut. I wanted nothing more than to stand up for her, an d everything I know to be right and true, good and noble. I’d engage my James Dean gene and bar fight a soda bottle up side that mouthy crow and finish her off by shaving her head and sprayi ng her eyes shut with hairspray so she’d never forget what she did. But then I felt bad because it wasn’t right or good or noble, but gosh darn it—it sure felt like the right thing to do at the time. Instead, I sat on the red bench. Justice denied while fear, heart stopping, debilitating fear kept me there. I was one of them . The do nothings. The pretend it isn’t happenings. The say nothings. The silent ones. The avoiders.
Knowing this made me hate myself. I wanted to scream, react, do something, but if I reacted this whole place would go up
“Heyyyy” Cruella says sternly. “You…”
The way this crow was barking orders and snapping fingers, it was apparent she was used to getting her way.
“Neeegro.” She spat. When it hit my ears, I felt my eyes turn black. Ms. Blanche stopped and looked up, her round hands still inside creamy bubbles and blonde locks. “Well…about time. Don’t you know anything? THAT is a Beatles song.” She turned to garner votes in her favor but everyone looked away. This made her more fervent to vent and rage and ramble as if it was her right to do so.
“Negroes need to stay with their own kind, just like the white trash and the Mexicans. And them, Asian slant eyed people, and what’s those others, those sand negro’s or Indian people, those kind too. Separation is essential to each race. Everyone knows that. It also means that they need to sing their own kind of songs, that jiggaboo, jungle stuff, you know, beating drums and tribal whatnots, God knows what else. It’s apparent that no one ever told you, so I’m just letting you know as my duty. I mean, you just can’t hoard in on the likes of fine w hite peoples musical abilities.” She touched her heart as if she was talking about herself. “ I t will taint their reputation and who knows what will be next, interracial breeding, mixed bands and we—,” she glanced around as if she had a Manson following. “And we just can’t have that.”
My eyes feel like they will pop out of their sockets and my ears are burning. The whole time she’s yacking, all I see is a bird. An old black crow cawing. Caw! Caw! Caw! The wings of her black cape flapped as she talked with her hands. Her chiseled nose a bird beak, her forked tongue curling in cruelty, her black hair, slick like wet feathers. She was one of those people. People without a filter. The kind of people who think it’s their God given right to bad mouth others, tear them down, and set them straight. And they enjoy doing it. They make others uncomfortable and move side to side in their seats and touch their hair curlers and turn away to redo lipstick or powder their face and pretend that nothing is happening. Whispers and low gasps filled the room. My inner wild child went crazy. A twig called justice snapped off the family tree. The Nehi soda in my hand fizzled angrily and said, “Rise up Willodean. Slap that biddy upside her winged head.”
I screamed. I stomped a hissy fit across the beauty shop floor. I rose up for justice, plucked the crow naked and tossed her out to the trash and then hugged Ms. Blanche and everyone sang the Beatles song together as it was supposed to be in a perfect, unprejudiced world. But that version only happ ened in my head. I sat on the red bench, quiet as a mouse while a twig called j ustice lay underneath my feet.
The whole time the crow bantered, it looked as if Ms. Blanche’s was searching inside herself for a way out of a bad situation. She turned away, her eyes me eting mine. I felt the impact of humiliation and shame cut me inside as if I felt her pain well up in my gut. I wanted nothing more than to stand up for her, an d everything I know to be right and true, good and noble. I’d engage my James Dean gene and bar fight a soda bottle up side that mouthy crow and finish her off by shaving her head and sprayi ng her eyes shut with hairspray so she’d never forget what she did. But then I felt bad because it wasn’t right or good or noble, but gosh darn it—it sure felt like the right thing to do at the time. Instead, I sat on the red bench. Justice denied while fear, heart stopping, debilitating fear kept me there. I was one of them . The do nothings. The pretend it isn’t happenings. The say nothings. The silent ones. The avoiders.
Knowing this made me hate myself. I wanted to scream, react, do something, but if I reacted this whole place would go up
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