148
" Through The Mecca I saw that we were, in our own segregated body politic, cosmopolitans. The black diaspora was not just our own world but, in so many ways, the Western world itself.
Now, the heirs of those Virginia planters could never directly acknowledge this legacy or reckon with its power. And so that beauty that Malcolm pledged us to protect, black beauty, was never celebrated in movies, in television, or in the textbooks I’d seen as a child. Everyone of any import, from Jesus to George Washington, was white. This was why your grandparents banned Tarzan and the Lone Ranger and toys with white faces from the house. They were rebelling against the history books that spoke of black people only as sentimental “firsts”—first black five-star general, first black congressman, first black mayor—always presented in the bemused manner of a category of Trivial Pursuit. Serious history was the West, and the West was white. This was all distilled for me in a quote I once read from the novelist Saul Bellow. I can’t remember where I read it, or when—only that I was already at Howard. “Who is the Tolstoy of the Zulus?” Bellow quipped. Tolstoy was “white,” and so Tolstoy “mattered,” like everything else that was white “mattered.” And this view of things was connected to the fear that passed through the generations, to the sense of dispossession. We were black, beyond the visible spectrum, beyond civilization. Our history was inferior because we were inferior, which is to say our bodies were inferior. And our inferior bodies could not possibly be accorded the same respect as those that built the West. Would it not be better, then, if our bodies were civilized, improved, and put to some legitimate Christian use? "
― Ta-Nehisi Coates , Between the World and Me
150
" So what's your doll's name?" Boo asked me." Barbie," I said. " All their names are Barbie." " I see," she said. " Well, I'd think that would get boring, everyone having the samename." I thought about this, then said, " Okay, then her name is Sabrina." " Well, that's a very nice name," Boo said. I remember she was baking bread,kneading the doughbetween her thick fingers. " What does she do?" " Do?" I said." Yes." She flipped the dough over and started in on it from the other side. " Whatdoes she do?" " She goes out with Ken," I said." And what else?" " She goes to parties," I said slowly. " And shopping." " Oh," Boo said, nodding." She can't work?" " She doesn't have to work," I said." Why not?" " Because she's Barbie." " I hate to tell you, Caitlin, but somebody has to make payments on that town houseand the Corvette," Boo said cheerfully. " Unless Barbie has a lot of family money." I considered this while I put on Ken's pants.Boo started pushing the dough into a pan, smoothing it with her hand over the top." You know what Ithink, Caitlin?" Her voice was soft and nice, the way she always spoke to me." What?" " I think your Barbie can go shopping, and go out with Ken, and also have aproductive and satisfyingcareer of her own." She opened the oven and slid in the bread pan, adjusting itsposition on the rack." But what can she do?" My mother didn't work and spent her time cleaning thehouse and going to PTA.I couldn't imagine Barbie, whose most casual outfit had sequins and go-go boots,doing s.uch things.Boo came over and plopped right down beside me. I always rememberher being on my level; she'd siton the edge of the sandbox, or lie across her bed with me and Cass as we listened tothe radio." Well," she said thoughtfully, picking up Ken and examining his perfect physique." What do you want todo when you grow up?" I remember this moment so well; I can still see Boo sitting there on the floor, cross-legged, holding myKen and watching my face as she tried to make me see that between my mother'sPTA and Boo'sstrange ways there was a middle ground that began here with my Barbie, Sab-rina,and led right to me." Well," I said abruptly, " I want to be in advertising." I have no idea where this camefrom." Advertising," Boo repeated, nodding. " Okay. Advertising it is. So Sabrina has to goto work every day,coming up with ideas for commercialsand things like that." " She works in an office," I went on. " Sometimes she has to work late." " Sure she does," Boo said. " It's hard to get ahead. Even if you're Barbie." " Because she wants to get promoted," I added. " So she can pay off the town house.And the Corvette." " Very responsible of her," Boo said." Can she be divorced?" I asked. " And famous for her commercialsand ideas?" " She can be anything," Boo told me, and this is what I remember most, her freckledface so solemn, as ifshe knew she was the first to tell me. " And so can you. "
152
" I was once driven north along Central Park, all the way from Chinatown. We hailed the cab in front of a building where Orthodox Jews still lived, so they shut down an elevator on Saturdays. In the taxi, I was with my mother. We were visiting her aunt, my great aunt, who was 93. She had no memory of the old country, Lithuania, but she'd been born there. Her parents escaped the pogroms so she could survived a century here. Her American prosperity was half a century of subsistence wages and thirty years of Medicare in an elevator building. The old country for the cab driver was Bangladesh, and he was a talker. He'd just graduated from college, and his prospects were good. He'd majored in a practical field, network engineering or something like that. Young and optimistic, he spoke fluent English. His big idea was to keep his countrymen out of the United States. America was great, but if he got overrun with foreigners, his kind in particular, it would be ruined. " Bangladesh is hot and crowded. Why would want to make America like that." He said this in all sincerity. "
154
" In the distant past, Muslim doctors advised nervous people to look up at the sky. Forget the tight earth. Imagine that the sky, all of it, belonged to them alone. Crescent, low moon, more stars than the eyes looking up at them. But the sky was free, without any price, no one I knew spoke of it, no one competed for it. Instead, one by one those who could afford it began to sleep indoors in cool air-conditioned rooms, away from the mosquitoes and the flies... "
― Leila Aboulela
155
" It was in her garden that whatever physical grace Abigail St. Croix possessed asserted itself. She moved among her flowers with consummate natural fluidity, enjoying the incommunicable pleasures of growing things with the patience and concentration of a watchmaker. In this, her small, green country, surrounded by an embrasure of old Charleston brick, there were camellias of distinction, eight discrete varieties of azaleas, and a host of other flowers, but she directed her prime attention to the growing of roses. She had taught me to love flowers since I had known her; I had learned that each variety had its own special personality, its own distinctive and individual way of presenting itself to the world. She told me of the shyness of columbine, the aggression of ivy, and the diseases that affected gardenias. Some flowers were arrogant invaders and would overrun the entire garden if allowed too much freedom. Some were so diffident and fearful that in their fragile reticence often lived the truest, most infinitely prized beauty. She spoke to her flowers unconsciously as we made our way to the roses in the rear of the garden.
“You can learn a lot from raising roses, Will. I’ve always told you that.”
“I’ve never raised a good weed, Abigail. I could kill kudzu.”
“Then one part of your life is empty,” she declared. “There’s a part of the spirit that’s not being fed. "
― Pat Conroy , The Lords of Discipline
