Open Mic Page 6

  I was a certified, bona fide, flag-waving geek. I assumed it was generally accepted common knowledge. Giving him his smile right back, I left the office feeling a little sad for this man who so obviously didn’t know Whom He Was Dealing With.

  Growing up with Maya Angelou and Malcolm X, Sweet Honey in the Rock, Black History Month every month of the year in my home, and a rainbow coalition of friends and family meant that I knew who I was. (I knew who Zora Neale Hurston was, too.) And where I should apply to college.

  I waited for the acceptance letters to roll in.

  And they did. For all of us. We wore our status like the alligators emblazoned on our shirts. We were academic superstars, remember?

  Apparently, not everyone did. At least, not many of our counterparts remembered that we were the same people who sat next to them in AP classes, occasionally gave homework help, and assisted in decoding the poetic genius of hip-hop’s pioneers. When the news spread about our acceptances, all of that didn’t matter anymore.

  We lost one of our labels just like that.

  Suddenly, we were no longer part of the school’s elite geekarati.

  We were only very, very Black.

  “It’s just . . . so wrong,” sputtered my Don’t Free South Africa acquaintance on the phone, who was now more well versed in the nature of injustice. “It’s not fair. Someone like E., who’s worked so hard and is so smart, gets rejected from Harvard, but all of these Black people get into Ivy League schools.”

  Excuse me?

  “People like me, you mean?” I said sweetly, ever polite. My mom taught me manners, even in the face of extreme jackassishness.

  There followed much stammering and blustering, and assurances that, of course, he hadn’t meant me.

  I realized then and there that the same people who’d asked for my notes were always going to see me as more C– than A+, no matter what the report cards said or how good my notes were. And their parents, grumbling about affirmative action and lowered standards in the same breath, probably fed them those thoughts at the dinner table. And some of the wonderful teachers who quietly but fiercely looked out for us let us know that some of their colleagues felt that way, too.

  It broke my heart.

  I thought I knew the face of racism. In second grade, a classmate who knew a lot of bad words and very little about personal space followed me daily murmuring “Niggerniggernigger” in my ear. Yeah, that was A Year to Remember. And then there was the way our community welcomed an interracial couple — with a cross-burning. Thankfully, a number of neighbors had led a march and vigil in objection to that heartbreaking display of ignorance.

  Now I looked around our school and wondered, “Are you like those cross-burning, epithet-spitting people?”

  My teachers and classmates knew me. And still the answer to my question wasn’t clear.

  It. Broke. My. Heart.

  But it didn’t take long to open my eyes and see the truth: It was their problem.

  If they didn’t get it; well, that was too bad.

  I wasn’t going to try talking to them first.

  I’d gotten into the colleges of my choice because I’d worked every multidimensional bone in my body to get there.

  I didn’t need to be in AP Bio to know how wrong it is to be reduced and flattened to a color (but I was). I wave my identity flag high and wide, marching-band style (yep, did that, too — polyester uniform and all).

  I’m Black. I’m a geek.

  And nobody can divide that beautiful partnership.

  Berlin is like a theme park.

  You got your Nazi Land —

  with its huge war monuments,

  stone eagles staring you down,

  and gold bricks in the ground

  telling you how many Jewish folks

  from your building died in the war.

  You have your Commie World,

  all gray and rectangle blocks

  of boring buildings,

  old Karl Marx statues,

  and leftover parts of the Berlin Wall

  standing next to a Starbucks.

  Then you got Futurama,

  where you can ride around on those weird

  Segway people movers,

  zipping past gleaming towers

  and lit-up pyramids

  (like Las Vegas but more classy),

  all built in the empty space

  where the Wall came down.

  It’s all interesting, I guess.

  We’re only here

  a year for Daddy’s work,

  so I can put up with anything —

  even starting high school

  in a place that never heard of

  homecoming.

  What makes it okay is the food.

  There are these amazing gelato stands

  (only eighty cents a scoop!),

  bakeries on every corner with sweets

  you wouldn’t believe,

  and the currywurst —

  that’s bratwurst with curry ketchup —

  man, I could eat that forever.

  I’m thinking of opening

  a chain of my own

  when we get back to the States.

  It’s that good.

  But there are things that suck, too.

  German is hard,

  and nobody ever smiles and says,

  Hey, wassup, girl?

  When it’s cold,

  everybody seems grumpy —

  I guess complaining about winter

  must be like a national sport here.

  And then there’re the subways. . . .

  Me and my family head down

  the subway stairs

  past the stone eagles

  and homeless musicians,

  past the currywurst stand

  where we usually get a snack.

  No stopping today,

  it’s wall-to-wall

  people —

  all Germans —

  tall and pale,

  towering over me

  like Euro-gods with tiny glasses.

  “Why can’t we take a taxi?” I ask.

  “You all gonna pay for it, Reina?” asks Daddy,

  his southern twang

  more out of place

  than we are.

  We move slowly across the platform,

  pushing into the overcrowded train car.

  “Sure, I’ll pay,

  just as soon as I start my own

  currywurst stand.”

  I can still smell it from here.

  My brother, Oscar, laughs. “Yeah, right.”

  I stare at his pudgy face,

  trying not to get squished

  by the rush-hour stampede.

  “What’s so funny?” I say.

  Oscar laughs again.

  “A black American girl

  servin’ up German sausage?

  Sure, that’s not funny

  at all.”

  “I’m not black,” I say.

  An old punk rocker,

  all leather and tattoos,

  laughs when I say that.

  I shoot him a look.

  My dad is black,

  in a real southern way.

  But Mom is a light-skinned Hispanic

  from Puerto Rico,

  so I’m as black as Obama, I guess,

  which is only half.

  My bro rolls his eyes. “Sorry.

  I meant ‘mixed American.’”

  His eyes light up —

  “Or how about ‘mixed-UP American’?”

  Mom makes a face.

  “That doesn’t even make sense, Papito.”

  Oscar shrugs, like she ain’t

  hip enough to get it.

  The doors start to close,

  so I give Oscar one last shove

  ’cause we still sticking out

  the train door a bit.

  We make it in

  as the doors seal shut,

  but now he’s squas
hed up

  against a pole,

  looking like he wished

  he didn’t have a sister.

  “You should thank me

  for saving your butt,” I say.

  “You coulda got cut in two

  by them doors.

  I heard it happened once.”

  He’s thinking of a comeback.

  “I pretty sure your big butt

  woulda stopped those doors

  from closing,” he mutters.

  I laugh in his face. “Dude,

  so weak. Move on

  before you embarrass yourself.

  Oops, sorry, too late.”

  Then we ignore each other,

  standing like sardines

  in a tin can with windows.

  Mom’s feet ache.

  So do mine.

  Too much walking here,

  not like in the States.

  Guess that’s why

  they ain’t all fat here.

  All they do is walk

  and take the subway,

  or the U-bahn, as they call it.

  I wish we had a car,

  but Daddy says the subway

  is a good way to

  “mingle with the people.”

  That’s the only way

  to get into a strange culture,

  he says — dive in,

  headfirst.

  So we ride them,

  morning

  to night.

  No taxis for this familia.

  The subway’s kinda like

  watching reality TV —

  you see all kinds.

  I’ve seen the clothes change

  from season to season since we got here:

  shorts and porkpie hats and flip-flops

  in summer

  become heavy coats and fur caps and boots

  by winter.

  There’s funny-looking people:

  hipster artist types trying to act all Euro-cool,

  workers reading big ol’ novels,

  students bopping to their iPods,

  tourists looking lost and confused.

  But most of all,

  old people.

  Lots of ’em.

  I don’t think I ever seen

  so many old people before.

  Daddy says they ain’t that old —

  they just look it.

  Ex-Communists

  who lost their way of life

  when the Wall came down.

  You’d think they’d be happy,

  but the older ones aren’t.

  They like making your life

  miserable

  ’cause they can’t have it their way

  anymore.

  Daddy says, Just kill ’em

  with kindness.

  But they never smile

  or give us the time of day.

  Daddy looks around for a place

  to park our butts.

  The train is jam-packed —

  no place to go.

  But he smiles,

  winks at me,

  and nods toward

  two older women,

  all uptight with little glasses

  and what they think passes

  for style: beige pants, beige jackets,

  colorful scarves,

  and poofy colored hair.

  To me, it seems

  they all dress the same,

  like they in the same old people’s club

  or something.

  There is one empty seat

  between them.

  Or at least

  Daddy thinks there is.

  It’s more like a small gap,

  but it’ll do.

  “Honey, it’s on,” he says,

  pointing to their row.

  “Not funny, Papi,” Mom says,

  frowning.

  I look at the old ladies,

  especially the one

  with a bright-red mop of Lola hair

  who holds a small dog

  as sour as she is.

  I laugh. “Good luck with that.”

  Daddy shrugs. “I didn’t invent the rules.

  I just play the game.”

  “Some role model,” Oscar pipes in,

  taking Mom’s side.

  “Mama’s boy,” I say.

  “Daddy’s girl,” he says, all cutesy

  ’cause he knows I hate that.

  Daddy puts his hands

  on our heads.

  “Y’all missed

  the freedom-bus protests,

  so you have no idea,” he says.

  Mom clears her throat.

  “Papi, you were two years old back then,”

  she says, blowing his cover.

  Daddy gives her a look and shrugs.

  “Just sayin’. Now, let your man

  go to work.”

  He adjusts his tie,

  smooths down his goatee,

  and heads toward the two old ladies,

  all smiles and southern charm.

  He tips his invisible hat

  and says in his best Alabama-German,

  “How y’all doin’, fraw-lines?”

  then motions to the empty spot.

  They grimace,

  like they just swallowed

  something bad.

  “Dan-ka, ma’ams,” he says politely,

  not waiting for an answer.

  He wiggles between them,

  clears his throat,

  and waits

  for the next move. . . .

  I try to make eye contact

  to see if I can make him

  laugh.

  But he doesn’t.

  He has on

  his most saintly face,

  like he just got baptized

  by the pope.

  The ladies are

  squirming on either side of him.

  Even the dog

  is jumpy.

  It’s like Daddy has a disease

  or something.

  They’re looking around,

  trying not to be too obvious

  about their discomfort,

  but he can’t help but rub shoulders

  with them.

  My guess is they watch

  American TV and think

  if you sit next to a black man,

  it’s only a matter of time

  before he robs you.

  Even if he’s wearing a suit,

  he could still be one of those

  Malcolm X brothers.

  Ach, mein Gott!

  It’s like watching popcorn

  pop —

  sooner or later

  they’re gonna blow.

  I look at my watch.

  Thirty seconds.

  Mom catches my eye,

  frowning at our game.

  I ignore her like I don’t know

  what she’s on about.

  It used to bother me

  when we first arrived in Berlin.

  I mean us getting on the subway.

  I know these folks

  can’t quite figure us out.

  Daddy’s dark skinned;

  Mom’s light tan.

  Oscar looks like a white boy.

  But me, I look like an overcooked

  mini Jennifer Lopez with nappy hair.

  Back home, we ain’t no big thing.

  But here, they don’t know

  what to think.

  I think Daddy made up

  this game,

  to show us not to sweat it —

  it’s all a big joke.

  We’re doing

  social experiments is all.

  “See, America’s an immigrant country,”

  he told us when we first got here.

  “We’re used to rubbing shoulders

  with all kinds.

  But here,

  they never had immigrants

  until recently.

 
They’re just now learning. . . .”

  Not so well,

  as far as I can see.

  When the Germans brought the Turks

  over to do all the manual labor jobs

  fifty years ago,

  they probably didn’t think

  Berlin would turn into

  the third-largest Turkish city

  in the world!

  Seems they’re sorry

  they opened that door now.

  “Hey, pup, what’s your name?”

  Daddy’s trying to make nice

  with the little mutt

  in the red-haired lady’s lap.

  It growls back.

  The lady shushes it,

  but when Daddy tries to pet it,

  she pulls her dog away

  and looks up at the announcement board,

  like her stop is coming.

  She struggles to get to her feet,

  then makes her way

  to the door,

  out of Daddy’s sight.

  But I keep my eyes on her.

  When she thinks

  he can’t see her anymore,

  she spots an empty seat

  and slides in next to a nice-looking

  German couple.

  Daddy spreads out a little more,

  his elbow almost touching

  the other lady.

  He makes eye contact

  with me.

  I stick my tongue out,

  thinking just one

  don’t count.

  If you can’t clear out seats

  for all of us, then —

  Suddenly, the other lady

  takes out her cell phone

  and acts like it just rang.

  Pretends

  she can’t hear

  and has to get up

  to walk to another part

  of the train for better reception.

  But I happen to know

  the phones don’t work

  down here.

  Least mine don’t.

  Still, she gets points

  for her acting.

  Daddy smiles

  and waves us quickly over.

  Mom disapproves

  but is too tired to argue.

  He stands as we squeeze in,

  grateful to be sitting

  after all that walking.

  “Under a minute —

  that’s pretty good,” he says, leaning over,

  waiting for my concession speech.

  It ain’t coming.

  “That last one

  should become an actor —

  she got mad skills,” I say instead.

  Me and him crack up,

  even as a couple across from us

  listens in.

  I know they know what we’re saying,

  but I’m just gonna pretend

  they don’t.

  “People here

  sure like to move about,

  don’t they? These seats

  must be bad

  or something.”

  I fiddle with mine,

  like it’s broken.