The Chosen One Read online

  “What are you doing?” she says. “Why are you standing there awkwardly like Pennywise the clown or something?”

  “No reason,” I say unconvincingly, afraid to move and praying the picture of Jesus does not fall off the wall.

  “I swear, you’re so stiff, girl,” she says. “You need to learn how to relax. College is meant to be fun. All you do is study and lurk around. Look, I got this bottle of Tanqueray for the weekend.” She smiles wickedly and shakes the alcohol enticingly in front of me. “Snoop Dogg’s ‘Gin and Juice.’ ‘I got my mind on my money and my money on my mind.’ God, he’s so hard-core. A bunch of us are gonna hang out at Trevor’s place on Saturday. You can totally join if you want.” I smile unenthusiastically and watch as she throws a few items in her bookbag before prancing back out of the room. “Smoocha later. K, byeee.” It’s late so I have no idea where she’s going, but she comes and goes so frequently, I’m used to her disappearing.

  I stare blankly at the ceiling for several seconds trying to process the night’s events: the frozen people, the disconnecting sound cloud, the demonic laughter, Hypnotist Jerry’s spinning eyes, the Polaroids, and the portal to another dimension oozing out of my wall.

  “I don’t know what the heck is going on here,” I say to myself, “but I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

  Affinity Week—the quintessential first-semester college extravaganza showcasing various clubs, frats, sororities, and shared-interest housing—arrives with a blast of unusually cold arctic air. It’s twenty below the normal fifty-five degrees it should be this time of year. Seniors have noted the strange weather patterns since summer ended. Lightning storms, violent winds, and sideways rain.

  “It’s the Gods of White Supremacy punishing the college for admitting the most ‘diverse’ class in the school’s history,” Earnell says sarcastically. “Calm your fury, Zeus. We’ll be gone soon enough,” he purrs, nostalgic for a future that hasn’t happened yet.

  Now it’s the last week of September, but already feels like December. The week starts with a bang of controversy. First, the Party for Reparations—a political activist group made up of students from different racial backgrounds that tries to raise awareness about why Black people deserve restitution from the United States government—sponsors a pop-up slave play in the cafeteria. Every single person in Collis Cafe watches in stunned awe as Black students pick cotton balls off the floor while wearing dingy cloth attire and gloomily singing “Wade in the Water,” as several white overseers stand by with long black whips. Actual whips. When one student accidentally drops her basket, spilling her day’s harvest on the floor, one of the white masters walks over and says, “We cain’t have these kind’a mistakes, Carol Ann. You know what comes next. Assume the position!”

  The woman begs on her knees, “Please, Massa! I’s sorry! I promise I won’t do it again!” Massa spins Carol Ann around and pretends to whip her as the other “slaves” shriek dramatically in fear. Carol Ann screams with such pain you’d think she was actually being hit. Her cries are deeply disturbing and make me wonder how the ancestors survived it.

  After the whipping, Carol Ann gets up and addresses the shocked crowd of onlookers. “What if your ancestors were treated like this for centuries? Would you think they deserved some kind of penance? At least an apology? The United States government should pay for its evil sins.” She returns to her knees, back in scene, and screams at the top of her lungs, “No more, Massa! No more!”

  When the play finishes, all of the actors stand and bow to a totally quiet and unmoving audience, which is definitely not a Hypnotist Jerry illusion. We look at each other with wide, blinking eyes as the entire scene disbands. “Welcome to college,” says someone standing next to me who must know I’m a freshman. “One antic after another for four years straight,” he concludes before walking away in disgust.

  The slave play is followed by a Mexican-themed frat party where several white people paint their skin brown, wear sombreros, and drink margaritas. Salsa music rings out as drunk people shout random phrases with offensive mock accents, none of which have anything to do with Mexican culture: “Arrivederci!” “Say hello to my little friend!” “Show me the money, Carlos!”

  The college administration suspends the frat for several months, barring it from holding any social gatherings at the risk of being permanently closed. The Dartmouth Beacon, the most conservative newspaper on campus, writes a scathing editorial asking why the Party for Reparations, “whose egregious slave play, which was equally shameful and appalling, didn’t receive the same punishment.” The op-ed was published three days ago. College officials are yet to respond. If and when they do, I will be sure to grab a bag of popcorn to watch the Racism Olympics unfold.

  I didn’t expect Dartmouth to be so racially charged, but everywhere I turn, there seems to be another hot-button debate or event bubbling to the surface. Affirmative action, which is being contested around the nation, seems to be the most divisive issue of all. I’ve watched people’s eyes bulge with rage, their tongues spewing impassioned, angry arguments for why “anything other than a merit-based system is cruel and unfair.” I wonder if the people now arguing for blind admissions, absent racial considerations, would have wanted the same thing when the government was enacting Jim Crow laws or when it was giving advantages to only white soldiers returning from war in the GI Bill. Did they argue for a merit-based system then? The hypocrisy of it all.

  No one is more obstinately against affirmative action than Stephen Clark, whose squirmy face I can barely stand to look at whenever he opens his mouth. Every time he raises his hand in my Introduction to American Government class, I prepare to have my entire existence invalidated. He spews his rage-filled, big-word comments all over the classroom. I pull out my dictionary to keep up as he speaks.

  “Affirmative action has made the debate over college admissions litigious, rightfully so, and contentious.” Litigious: suitable to become the subject of a lawsuit.

  “Look,” he continues, “let every man and woman stand in the arena on his or her own accord. Those that are truly intelligent, regardless of race, will rise to the top. They always do. I agree that in the past, things were pretty fucked up. Even I can admit that, but we don’t live in the past. We live in the present where a lot of work has been done to balance the scales. Furthermore, you can’t punish mostly white and Asian students for the sins of the past. It’s not fair. I just want everyone to have an equal shot. That’s all.”

  The class is silent, but I am exploding inside. Does he really not realize how much unchecked privilege got him to where he is? Not merit. I look around and read the expressions on other students’ faces. Some burn with rage, just like me. Others, like Daniel McCullum, a Black student from Detroit, smile with righteous indignation as if their leader has just silenced the critics. “Might I add,” Daniel chimes in, “that you can’t fix a broken system by creating another broken system. Affirmative action is just as wrong as slavery or segregation in my opinion. Let the test scores speak for themselves.”

  Back home, when someone says something that is too outrageous to be taken seriously, you might turn to your equally shocked friend and say, “This nigga.” Which is short for “this nigga has lost his mind.” I want to turn to the Black person next to me and commiserate, but I remember where I am. I never use the N-word, not even in Cleveland, but if ever there were a moment that called for it, it’s now. No shade to people who do use it, because I firmly believe that a person is allowed to reclaim derogatory word missiles that have been aimed at them in the past.

  Professor Alexander-Grant, who is usually neutral, offering perspective on both sides of a debate, stands up with an expression on her face I’ve never seen. It’s a mix of anger that she is trying hard not to show, disappointment, and befuddlement, another Comp Lit word. I’m very curious to see how she responds, since she is also white. I expect her to soothe his angst and massage his very wrong opinions, which is a phenomenon I see repeated
ly in contentious debates: the rush to alleviate the suffering of white students.

  I have watched so many of my professors (all white) do this, which is why I don’t trust any of them. Not only do they placate white students, but I know they can’t see my true potential and don’t really believe in me like Professor Cartwright. I can tell they don’t see a student of promise, but instead a stereotype—another one of the many students of color they’ve known who have dropped out. They can’t imagine what pushes anyone to leave school: not having financial or emotional support from your family, not understanding this white new world with its different social cues and customs, and most importantly, the exhaustion of constantly being underestimated and questioned even though you know you’ve had to work twice as hard to get there. These professors don’t comprehend how much worse everything can be. So I sit back and wait to be disappointed by Professor Alexander-Grant’s response.

  “Stephen,” she begins, “your argument is based on two deeply incorrect assumptions. First, that we live in a perfect world absent of influence from past injustices. Let’s start with that one. Do you really think the past does not ripple into the present like a wave across the ocean? Do you believe we exist in a sort of atemporal vacuum? Society is an aggregate”—I quickly consult the dictionary—“of various living realities. The past, the elements that went into making the systems of those societies, are alive today and must be considered in the rendering of equality and justice. This is really a conversation about atonement. We have a problem with not wanting to take responsibility for past grievances in this country. It’s called social amnesia.

  “Second, the United States has never operated on merit. It wasn’t merit that yielded white leaders across every professional and political field, it was violence and forced inequality. It was the massacre of Black Wall Street in Tulsa, Oklahoma, a thriving community of Black people who had built up wealth and prosperity amongst themselves despite the barriers. It was ‘Separate but Equal,’ which legalized racial disparity in access and opportunity. It was redlining in urban communities across the nation, systematically denying Black citizens access to resources. The result of those policies and practices granted tremendous privilege to white people. The call ‘for merit,’ in my opinion, is often used to further disenfranchise the disadvantaged by painting a present that conveniently erases key historical elements. It’s inaccurate and unjust. I really hope you come to understand that this is all more nuanced and complex than you are making it out to be.”

  I want to applaud. I want to stand up and shout from the mountaintops the rightness of what this woman has said. A white lady professor that actually gets it?! Wait till I tell Earnell and Keli. I close my dictionary in quiet satisfaction. The class is silent. Just breathing bodies with no words. This is why I refuse to get a tutor. I can’t let Stephen, his conservative cronies, and Mr. Walsh win. I deserve to be here and am just as smart as them, even though I’m in remedial classes and have to use a dictionary to decode what is being discussed. They can’t be right. They can’t win again. I have to figure this out on my own to prove that I’m so brilliant, I can catch up from generations behind. To prove that there are some people who can’t be stopped. No matter the injustice.

  I am still brimming with joyful contentment remembering Professor Alexander-Grant’s speech as I make my way to the Servants of Jesus prayer group, which is my last affinity activity of the week. So far, I’ve been to events hosted by the Little Club of Africa, where we wore dashikis and ate traditional African food; the Victorian Tea Club, where we drank tea with our pinkies turned up; the Bitchy Feminist Reading Group, where we discussed works by Nikki Giovanni and Gloria Steinem; and a lunch thrown by Kappa Gamma. I have no interest in joining a sorority, but I went for the free food.

  There is so much to eat and drink at Dartmouth. Unlike in Cleveland, there is no struggle for sustenance. A cornucopia of nourishment awaits at every table, café, professor’s house, and dining hall. In fact, there is such an abundance of food, each incoming freshman class gets an all-you-can-eat lobster dinner the second week of the semester. Initially, I was hesitant since I’d never had fancy seafood before. I inspected the red hard shell, poking and prodding at it until Manda Panda showed me how to crack it. I removed the tender white meat and dipped it in the lemon butter sauce. It was love at first bite. What joy. What a delectable delight. It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten at Dartmouth. I returned so many times, the cafeteria worker remarked disgustedly, “You again,” as she plopped another onto my plate. By the end of the dinner, I was comatose. I laid my head on the table in agony and deep satisfaction. “The Freshman Fifteen is definitely coming for you,” Manda Panda whispered knowingly into my ear. I smiled, not caring. Now, four weeks later, my jeans betray me, bursting at the seams. “Find your ability to stretch,” I implore them jokingly.

  I remember the joy of that lobster as I head toward the prayer group to which Bryce has invited me. He has promised fresh-baked cookies, which draw me forward like the Eye of Mordor from Lord of the Rings. “My precious cookies,” I say, imitating Gollum as he pines for the ring. I stop in front of Matthew and tell him where I’m going in case the Christians kidnap me and cut out my beating, pagan heart. “Send help if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow,” I chuckle to myself. “K, byeee, smoocha later,” I say, imitating Manda Panda.

  As soon as I arrive, I head straight toward the snack table only to find there are no cookies. Damnit. I am preparing to sit through a two-hour prayer session without any treats when someone emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray of freshly baked peanut butter cookies. I am so happy, I begin clapping proudly until the person carrying the platter stares me down, confused. “Save those claps for Jesus, young lady,” she says haughtily.

  I grab the large black Bible on the table and pretend to read, which gives me an excuse to remain standing near the cookies. I nod my head knowingly, as if I’m absorbing something profound while chewing rambunctiously. I’m just about to grab another treat when I notice the words in the book start to crumble and break apart. At first, I think it must be crumbs. I try to wipe them away, but the letters slide down, somersaulting over the edge of the book until only a few letters remain, with gaping white spaces between them on the almost-empty page. They spell out, “Not the call and not your mother’s God.”

  “I hear that’s a good read,” someone says from behind me. I slam the book closed and almost choke on the unchewed cookie still in my mouth. When I see that it’s Bryce, I swallow hard and try to form a cohesive sentence, despite what I’ve just seen.

  “Excited,” I say finally. “I mean, seems like everyone’s super excited to be here. I’ve never seen so many happy people in one place.” Bryce tells me it’s because they have a special musical guest from a famous church in California.

  “It’s going to be totally awesome,” he says. “Oh, there he is. Jim! Buddy! How are you? We can’t wait to hear you sing later, man.” Jim is a tall white boy with blond hair and blue eyes who literally looks like the picture of Jesus hanging over my desk.

  “Bryce, my man,” Jim responds. “How was your summer? Tell your dad I’ll be touring on the West Coast for the rest of the year, so hopefully we can head to the lake and bait some hooks. Would be amazing to see him.”

  “Dude, you should hit up the ocean too. The tide will be killer this time of year.” They talk like the people in all of the white movies and TV shows I’ve ever seen. Later, when I get back to my dorm room, I practice adding “dude,” “killer,” and “rad” to random sentences. Dude, this fried chicken is totally killer. No way, that’s so rad. I stand in front of the mirror watching my African lips fold awkwardly around these foreign words. I feel different talking like this. Freer, more carefree. The caucasity, I think to myself.

  “Oh hey, let me introduce you to Echo,” Bryce finally says after catching up with his “bro.” “She’s a first-year and still figuring things out.” Jim turns to me, smiling so hard I wonder if his face i
s going to tear apart.

  “Welcome,” he says, “we need as many warriors of the light as we can get.” I smile plastically, but warmly.

  “Well, they’re about to start,” I say. “I better go find a seat. Nice to meet you.” He smiles intensely again. I wonder what’s the point of smiling that hard? If it’s truly from the soul, like Earnell’s laugh, shouldn’t it feel easy? In Cleveland, people only smile like this when they’re trying to hide something.

  I make my way to the bloodred chair in the front of the room. This can’t be a good sign, I think to myself when I notice it’s the only one of its color. Rebellious paganism compels me to sit anyways. Others start filtering in wearing their forced smiles and chatting along the way. When most people are seated, Bryce walks up to the front and introduces Jim, who I learn is an old friend of his family’s. Bryce beams with pride recalling precious memories. The lights dim and Jim begins his performance.

  I’ve been to many churches in Cleveland, but I’ve never heard singing like this before. “He’s our saviorrrr,” Jim sings. “He walks with us,” he continues. It’s the whitest music I’ve ever witnessed in my life. In our churches, everyone gets to shouting and a-clapping and a-catching the Holy Ghost like it’s a festival in New Orleans. Beads of sweat roll angrily down the pastor’s dark brown face, landing in his handkerchief, which is already soaked from hours of prayer. The pastor gyrates and moans into the microphone, “Well, I wanna tell ya’ll something tonight. Can I tell you something? The lawwwd gave his only begotten son so that we may live out our lives on this good earth. And the lawwwd is the only saving grace in this world of sin. Can I get a hallelujah? Can I get an amen?”