Tears of a Tiger (5 page)

DECEMBER 13

—Hi, Andy. You ready to go? If we don't hurry, we'll miss the bus.

—What I miss is my car.

—Look, you don't have practice, and you don't have a class or a session to go to today. It's kinda nice, to just spend some time together.

—Hey, you look good, Keisha. How come you don't wear a dress more often?

—If I had known you'd notice, I'd wear them every day.

—Oh, I notice, sweet thing. I notice.

—You sure are in a good mood. What's up?

—I don't know. Somehow I feel like I can breathe today. Let's walk home.

—You crazy! You know it's twenty degrees out there? And snowing!

—Okay, okay. The woman has no sense of adventure. How ‘bout if we ride the bus out to the mall and catch a movie? We can go to the early show and still get home in time for dinner.

—I wish I could, Andy, but I got a chemistry test tomorrow, plus I got to finish that composition for English class. It's gonna take me all night and then some to get everything done. Then I told my mother that I'd start dinner for her tonight ‘cause she has to work late. I just can't tonight, Andy. Can we go this weekend?

—Be like that, then! See if I care! All I ask for is a little of your time, and you want to get all righteous on me. I'll go to the movies by myself!

—Andy, you have that chemistry test tomorrow too. Call me later and we can go over some of the key stuff. Okay? I gotta go. I don't have time to deal with your temper tantrums.

—Hey, I'm sorry, Keisha. I was just lookin' forward to spendin' some time with you. It was
your
idea.

—But I was talking about right now. You want the whole night. I'm not mad, Andy. But you're starting to get on my nerves. Don't forget your chemistry book. I'll talk to you later.

DECEMBER 14

—Hey, Gerald, whatcha got next bell?

—American history. Killer Killian's givin' a test. And I don't know
nothin'
‘bout no Civil War, Andy.

—She givin' a test? Today?

—Yeah, Andy. I just remembered. You got your book?

—Naw, man. You outta luck. It's too late to study now anyway.

—I don't care. If I can get a D, that'll do. Hey, Tyrone, you catch Arsenio on TV last night?

—Sure did, Gerald, my man. It was just comin' on when I got in from my job at Burger King. The ladies in that singin' group he had on are so fine!

—For real!

—Didja read that story for English homework, Ty?

—Naw, man. Even if she gives a quiz, I'm cool. I sit next to Tiffany Brown, the smartest girl in the world.

—I hear you. I hope she has a class discussion. Then I can catch up on my sleep.

—No chance, today, Andy. I heard she's givin' out midterm notices in class today. I know she got one specially engraved for me.

—Oh no! So close to Christmas? Santa can just skate on by my house! I had my mama just about ready to buy me that leather coat.

—Kiss it good-bye, Andini! Now, if you did your homework every once in a while, like my man Marcus over there, you could wear leather down to your underwear!

—Yeah, man. What can I say? I can't be doin' all that. There's the bell. Let's raise up.

—Peace.

DECEMBER 17

—Hello again, Andy. How've you been?

—Not bad. Just hangin' in there.

—Making it to school every day?

—Yeah, I get there. I don't do much while I'm there. All I look forward to is basketball practice.

—Your grades slipping?

—You know those giant slides they have at the swimmin' pool? That's my grades. But then my grades were never that great to start with. My parents are always yellin' at me to improve my grades ‘cause I'll never get into college, but then my parents yell at me all the time.

—Do you feel much pressure from your parents?

—Yeah, lately. Since I been gettin' closer to college, they always be on my back.

—Does that bother you?

—Yeah, it does. Sometimes I really do try hard, but it seems like my brain freezes over or somethin'. I just can't learn some of that stuff. And my parents just don't understand that. They want me to be this straight-A superstar and I just can't do that.

—Do you feel that their expectations are too high?

—I don't know. My friend Gerald—his dad beats him—he's got this big scar on his face from when he had to get stitches when his dad knocked him against a radiator. My parents don't beat me, but they don't understand me either.

—What is it they don't understand?

—It's hard to put into words. There's this kid in my class named Marcus who
always
makes good grades. We call him the “curve buster.” All the other brothers in class be makin' Cs and Ds. My man Marcus be pullin' As on a regular basis. Instead of that makin' him popular, we all hate him.

—Why do you think that's true?

—'Cause he's doin' somethin' that all our parents have told us we could do, but somehow we just
can't.
It's like easier to just “make do,” to get by. I like gettin' good grades, but my friends talk about me if I get called up to the front on Awards Day with all the white kids. It's easier to sit in the back of the auditorium, and laugh, and make hootin' noises when people like Mary Alice Applesapple go up to get their Honor Roll awards.

—What do you think your dad would think of kids like Marcus or Mary Alice?

—He'd probably want me to
marry
the girl. And I'd get a big speech about Marcus and how black youngsters need to achieve and how we got to work so hard to show ourselves better than the white students. I've heard it a million times.

—But your dad's speeches don't have any meaning for you?

—Look, when my dad was seventeen, he was already out of school and workin' full-time in the mail room of Proctor and Gamble. He didn't have to worry ‘bout gettin' into college, because the chance wasn't there. And he didn't have to worry about scholarships or stupid school counselors or just plain feelin' useless.

—I bet he had his share of feeling useless. Have you ever talked to him about it?

—Naw, man. My dad don't
talk.
He lectures, he preaches, he yells. But we don't ever just
talk.

—What about your counselors at school? Are they any help? If I remember, when I was in high school, the counselor was there to help kids out who had academic problems, or problems at home.

—You had counselors who would talk to black students and see their point of view and help them out?

—No, you're right. It was probably even worse when I was in school. I just happened to be fortunate enough to find a lady who recognized a spark in me and gave me some direction.

—I don't know what it was like back then, but all my counselor be doin' is makin' up schedules and callin' people out of class, as far as I can tell. We got one or two that maybe I could talk to, but they're assigned to another grade level. I'm stuck with the one I got.

—Have you ever talked to your counselor?

—Yeah, once, I did. It was a waste of time. I went to see her about graduation requirements and that kind of stuff. She's this wrinkled old bat with bad breath, so kids avoid her. I tried to sit downwind of her breath, but it was right after lunch and she kept burpin' little bursts of garlic. It was really gross. So I was tryin' to get out of there as quick as possible, and she's givin' me this speech about career goals, so I happen to mention that I might like to go into pre-law. She looked at me like I said I wanna see her with her pants down. She said someone with my athletic potential shouldn't be tryin' to make his college career too complicated. She said, “Why don't you major in P.E., enjoy your college years, then maybe come back here in a few years and teach gym?” She said pre-law was too demandin' and that I couldn't afford to miss all those classes while we were on the road playin' basketball, and that my grades would slip and I probably wouldn't get accepted into a law school anyway. Now I have nothin' against gym teachers, but I've always liked “L.A. Law” and even “Perry Mason.” But after talking to her, I felt, you know, kinda useless. So what difference does it make if I make good grades or not?

—I think it does make a difference, Andy. Otherwise this would not have bothered you so much. It's like the system is set up so you don't succeed. I know. I've been there.

—Yeah, man. But you survived.

—So can you, Andy.

—I never liked school all that much anyway. I like gym and I like lunch and I even like history, but don't tell my history teacher that. I got her fooled. She thinks I'm not paying attention, but I could tell her every wife of Henry the Eighth, what he did to each one, and why. But she never asks.

—Why do
you
think she never calls on you?

—I don't know. I guess she just assumes I'm another stupid black kid. So it's easier to pretend to be stupid than to be bothered with all that grade-grubbin' that the white kids do. Lotsa white kids, and some of the white teachers too, think
all
of us are sorta dumb. They don't say it, but they do. The teachers ask us easier questions, if they ask us anythin' at all, and they expect dumb answers. So I just give ‘em what they want.

—What do you think would happen if you
did
volunteer and answer the questions correctly?

—I even tried that. It don't make no difference. Do you know that once I got an A on a test in advanced math, and when the teacher gave back the papers, he said, “Irving got an A, as usual, and Ching Lee got an A, as usual, and, oh my goodness, even
Andy
got an A this week. I must be slipping—my tests are getting too easy if even Andy can get an A on them, or maybe he cheated.” Everybody chuckled, but I was boilin' mad. How come I can't ever get praised for good grades? How come me gettin' an A on a test is somethin' the class should laugh at?

—Do you find this frustration from teachers of both races?

—Even some of the black teachers treat us wrong. They be grinnin' in the faces of those little white girls, sayin' stuff like, “That's wonderful, Mary Alice! You did a marvelous job on that project!” Then they say stuff to me like, “That's good, Andy, but couldn't you have improved this part or enhanced this section?” No matter what I do, it's never good enough, so why bother?

—Are good grades important to you, Andy?

—Yeah, I guess.

—Why?

—'Cause good grades makes my father shut up and my mother to smile a lot. She's good at that—smilin'. Just like my dad is good at yellin'.

—What about you? Do
you
care?

—Not really. I just wanna have fun.

—Are you having fun, Andy?

—Not much these days.

—Our time is almost up. Let's get together after the Christmas holidays and talk about how you managed.

—Whatever you say. Look, man, I gotta get goin' anyway. I promised Keisha that I'd go to the mall with her so she can finish her Christmas shoppin'. I don't know what it is with girls and malls.

—Now
that's
a problem I can't help you with.

—And you call yourself a professional!

—Seriously, Andy, I want you to call me at any time if you need me, you hear?

—I hear you. I guess I should say “Merry Christmas.”

—Happy holidays to you too, Andy. Take care.

—Peace, man. Later.

DECEMBER 17