CHAPTER 9
908 Words
CHAPTER 9
Kennedy had just finished brushing her teeth when Willow barged into their room. “You decent?” she called out. “I brought a friend with me.” She led in a tall student Kennedy recognized from Willow’s theater troupe.
She tried not to groan. It was almost midnight. What was Willow thinking?
“I’m really tired.” Kennedy reached over to turn her desk lamp off. “Could you two go somewhere else to hang out?”
Willow tossed her bag onto her desk. “Oh, we’re not here for that.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “I couldn’t get Othello to go to bed with me even if I wanted to.”
Kennedy was left wondering what was so humorous. “Your name’s really Othello?” she asked, but the two of them were too busy chuckling to answer.
“So anyway ...” Willow plopped down in her purple bean bag chair, and Othello sank in beside her. He crossed his leg and draped his arm around her shoulder. All he needed was a beanie cap to look like some sort of African-American beatnik poet.
Willow arched her penciled eyebrows and got that artificial look she adopted whenever she was around her theater friends. “I told Othello about your little encounter tonight, you and your pseudo-boyfriend.”
Kennedy was about to ask how much he knew, but as if taking a cue from somewhere offstage, Othello shook his head and muttered, “Now, that’s what I’m talking about. It’s that sort of warfare, that type of dictatorial oppression that’s been plaguing our country since the days of slavery.”
He paused for a moment to sigh. It was no wonder he was in the theater department.
“For centuries, my people have been the victims of a coordinated assault, a cultural g******e, not with bombs but with racial profiling. The ghettoization of our homes. The methodical incarceration of our young men. The rape of our women. The abduction of our children by welfare workers backed up by policemen armed with guns who know nothing of our way of life, our culture.”
Kennedy didn’t know how to answer. It was as if Othello had opened his mouth, and Reverend Clarence came spewing out.
“I just want you to know how grateful we are to you,” he told her, meeting her eyes for the first time. “Sometimes it takes a tragedy like this for people to pay attention. Black men are brutalized, terrorized every day, and nobody cares. But you, a white woman who gets harassed — now that’s something the hypnotized majority of this nation will pay attention to. And I just want to tell you that I’m honored you’re here to stand side by side with us to speak out against the racism that’s poisoned our schools, polluted our judiciary system, and plagued our inner cities.”
He ended his words with a flourish, and Kennedy wondered if he was expecting applause or something of the sort. She’d heard all those arguments before in Reverend Clarence’s speeches and Professor Hill’s classroom. But this was the first time it’d come addressed directly to her. She wasn’t sure if she should give Othello an ovation or apologize to him on behalf of every single white American, past, present, and future.
It couldn’t be that bad, could it? And if it was, how would she know? How could she — a white American who’d lived in China since the third grade — know what it was like for minorities in the inner cities? How would she know if it was as bad as Othello said if she’d never seen it, never experienced it firsthand?
From the beanbag chair where Willow was running her fingers through his short curly hair, Othello nodded sagely. “It’s hard to find kindred spirits in our light-skinned counterparts.”
Kennedy was too tired to tell if he was giving her a compliment or insulting her, but she knew she had to correct his assumptions. “Actually, I haven’t decided whether I’m going to file a complaint or not.” All she wanted was to go to sleep. She could make up her mind later.
Othello turned to Willow. “You said she was going to take her story to the news outlets.”
Willow fidgeted with her scarf. “I said I thought she was going to. There’s a big difference.”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Kennedy’s voice came out harsher than she intended, but she didn’t care.
Othello scowled. “If you keep quiet, it’s just as bad as if you let that cop murder your friend. You know that, don’t you?”
Willow put her hand on his shoulder. “Hey, all she said was she needed more time to make up her mind. I think it’s only fair ...”
He wasn’t paying any attention. “So you’re just like everyone else. You don’t care what happens to us. You’ll leave it up to the Reverend Clarences of the world to plan their protests and marches, and you’ll just sit cozy, swimming in your white privilege ...”
Willow nudged him in the ribs. “I told you to leave her alone.”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “Sure. The cops are out exterminating our race one traffic stop at a time, but hey, I wouldn’t want you two pretty porcelains losing sleep over it or anything.”
He could say whatever he wanted. He had no idea what he was talking about. He could harp and rail about police brutality and violence against blacks. She was too tired to listen. Willow followed him out of the room, their ensuing argument loud enough to wake up anybody lucky enough to have fallen asleep already. It didn’t matter. Kennedy didn’t have the energy to think about it, let alone let his words discourage her.
She just needed rest. Without even bothering to turn off the light, she covered her head with her blanket and squeezed her eyes shut. Her brain soaked up the comfort of her bed like parched roots drinking up rainfall.
Sleep. That’s all she wanted to do. Everything would be clearer in the morning.
- Writer
