Part 61 (1/2)

”What now?”

”That girl makes me crazy sometimes. She doesn't get fired up enough about racial issues that come up at her school. Even though, mind you, I've exposed her since day one to cultural things. But she-I don't know why, just refuses to take a stand, so once again-I'll have to.”

”I know how you agonize about her school, but you made a compromise with James, and you say you're satisfied with the academics. Think back-were you such an activist at her age? Sure she can't handle it without you getting involved?” Norma asks, cautiously. She scoots her chair closer to the table, allowing another patron to get by.

”Norma”-Moxie puts her hand up-”I don't even want to talk about it. You'll tell me you know what private school is like, meaning I don't; you'll side with Zadi and it'll just infuriate me again, so let's order.” She turns in her seat and tries to read the posted menu. ”What are you going to have?”

”Wait a minute. You just totally dismissed me in one sentence.”

”Sorry. I get frustrated with that school on so many levels. I told you how I tried to organize a meeting of black parents, so we could check in with each other, compare notes on how the kids are doing. But I think only ten parents showed up out of the already paltry thirty-five or forty black families. Later I heard things like they thought it was going to be a gripe session or something divisive. From black people! Some of those folks act like they came to the school to get away from themselves. I swear-it's such a headache.”

”I'm sure it's not easy for you,” says Norma, opening her purse, somewhat annoyed. ”But you have such strict standards.” Woody's a good man. He really is. He's white, but he's a good man.

”Like what?” Moxie listens intently.

”Oh, come on. You know how you are. No one's ever black enough to suit you,” Norma says with a smile. ”If it was up to you, you would have me, Zadi, and your dad running around tied up in kente cloth all the time, celebrating Kwanzaa every other month.” Norma laughs, pleased with her half-serious joke, and then busies herself, taking several dollars from her wallet. ”I think I'm going to have a vanilla latte. What kind of tea do you want? I'll get yours.”

”'Tied up in kente cloth.' Norma, you're crazy.” Moxie laughs, too. It's Norma's customary way of digging at her.

”You know what I'm saying is true, Moxie. You know it's your lifelong dream to someday be crowned Ms. African American.”

Moxie waves her off. ”Leave me alone.” She squints at the sign displaying the coffee shop's offerings. Although she laughed, Moxie knows all too well what it's like to bear the brunt of a racial-Richter-scale judgment. She recalls feeling not black enough for some of the people at Zadi's African-centered preschool. Her gaze lingers on Norma's relaxed hair, cut in a bob with amber hair coloring to disguise the gray strands, a constant reminder of one of the differences they have silently agreed to sidestep for the sake of friends.h.i.+p.

”I was supposed to be ordering-What kind of tea do you want?” Norma asks. ”Oh, I'll take that Gypsy Ginger Rose. Why'd they have to call it 'gypsy'? Why couldn't it be just plain 'ginger rose'? I mean, is that exoticism or racism?”

”See-you're the crazy one.” Norma is still not as relaxed or ready as she had hoped. She leans forward and changes the subject. ”So, Mox, it's a new year, any potential dates or mates on the horizon yet?”

Moxie clears her throat. ”I told you. I'm not dealing with that. What-you don't believe me?”

”It was on your wish list last year.”

”Yea, and where did it get me? Entanglements that stressed me out. I need to work on me before I can be involved with anyone. I'm tired of giving myself away to men and getting only half of them, or less, back in return. I don't even want them taking up s.p.a.ce on my voice mail. I told the last guy I went out with to call me back after he'd had a year of therapy. He called and I said, 'Did you start therapy?' And he laughed, and said he didn't think I was serious. I was very serious. He had 'issues,' as Zadi would say. This year I'm concentrating solely on my family. Understand?” Moxie raises her eyebrows for emphasis.

”Yes, but remember Phillip, the guy from the Eastern Market Gallery we ran into before the holidays?” She can see that Moxie doesn't remember. ”The halfway cute one who had his dog with him? He's asked me twice about you. If you want, I could arrange a little dinner, nothing fancy, grilled vegetables, lamb or chicken. Could be a nice hookup . . . never know.”

”No thanks. I barely remember him, but unless he's the reincarnation of Gandhi, Martin, or Malcolm, I don't want a thing to do with him. What is with you and my father constantly trying to play matchmaker?”

Norma removes her sungla.s.ses from her turtleneck collar and places them low on her nose. She looks over them at Moxie and speaks in a mock baritone. ”I understand what you're saying, Sister Moxie. But I have a dream today. I have a dream, my sister, that you will walk into the sunset with an upstanding brother who is not only my reincarnation, but the others you mentioned, all rolled into one.” They both laugh heartily, as Norma takes off the sungla.s.ses.

”Norma. I'm serious, though,” Moxie says, reaching across to touch Norma's arm. ”This year I just want to be really happy with myself, by myself; I want to be closer to my dad and to Zadi; I want to make a difference in the lives of my clients. And of the utmost importance is keeping Zadi a virgin.”

Norma puts her gla.s.ses back on her nose and deepens her voice once more. ”I see, Sister Moxie. Let me understand, are you talking about for the rest of the girl's natural life?” They laugh again.

Moxie stops laughing, a little abruptly. ”Well, at least until she's in college. I don't think that's too much to ask. Norma, I see so many parents knuckling under the pressure. They hand out condoms to their sons, take their daughters to get on the pill. To me, that's condoning it. And I'm not just being paranoid-I can tell Zadi's thinking about sowing her wild oats. Her body is blossoming like some d.a.m.n springtime. She walks around with her b.o.o.bs, bigger than mine, pushed out all the time and jiggling like Jell-O. Never mind that b.u.t.t.”

”Yeah. She's a brick house. So what? Are you jealous?” Norma's eyes brighten as she smiles impishly.

”I've had my brick-house moments,” Moxie says, pus.h.i.+ng her chest forward and placing her hands on her hips. ”But she looks a bit too much like prime meat to me.” She glances up at the menu again. ”I thought you were going to order.”

”Just don't go overboard with my girl, Moxie, please. Alright? Okay, I'm finally going to get the tea. Want anything else?”

Norma goes over to the counter while Moxie flips through the New York Times sections left at their table. Moxie looks up and notices a black man come in, locked in laughter with a tall red-haired white woman. His arm is hinged on her shoulder while she regards him as if he were the only person in the world. He glances around, Moxie thinks, to make sure all are taking note of their presence. She won't give him that satisfaction, though, and returns to perusing the newspaper. When Moxie looks up again, Norma is engaged in a conversation with a white woman who holds a small child's hand.

”You know so many white people,” Moxie says to Norma when she returns carrying a tray with two steaming mugs on it.

”Oh, she's a parent from Miles' preschool,” Norma says, ignoring the way Moxie's comment p.r.i.c.ked through the surface. ”I've run into her before. She's one of the few who recognize me outside of the center.” Norma knows this statement will help put her back on track with Moxie. Moxie nods. Often when she encounters white people she knows through work or Zadi's school, they don't recognize her if the meeting takes place in a different context.

After Norma sits down, Moxie whispers, ”Why does it feel worse when it's a brother?” She aims her eyes in the direction of the interracial couple.

Norma looks over her shoulder at the couple, then unwraps a m.u.f.fin and puts a napkin in her lap. ”Worse than what?”

”Worse than if it was a sister.”

”Oh, no. Are we going to be subjected to your where-have-all-the-brothers-gone speech again? You know it doesn't bother me. If they're happy together, then so be it,” Norma says, feeling slightly piqued. ”What is it-you think he should be dating you instead?”

”No, thank you,” Moxie says, blowing onto a spoonful of tea before bringing it to her lips. ”I just wonder if he rejects all black women, and what his mama thinks about that.”

”His mama! I don't believe you. For all we know, she's happy as a clam thinking about those light-skinned, straight-haired grandkids she's going to have.” Norma glances at Moxie slyly, while she swallows a piece of her m.u.f.fin.

”On the other hand, she might be the type who'd be devastated,” Moxie says without smiling.

”Devastated? Don't you think that's a little strong?”

”Not really.” Moxie frowns as she contemplates her statement. Norma says nothing, but s.h.i.+fts around in her seat. The black half of the interracial couple approaches Moxie's chair from behind, holding her scarf. ”Excuse me, miss. Your scarf was on the floor.”

Moxie turns and searches his face but receives only an empty smile. ”Thanks,” she says, as coldly as she can manage, wrapping the scarf around her neck. She watches him go back to the white girl. His narrow behind hardly moves beneath his leather bomber jacket.

”So, now did he redeem himself enough for you?” Norma says, leaning forward to playfully tug at Moxie's sweater.

”Just another lost brother.” Moxie waves one hand, dismissively, and returns to her tea.

”That's not fair, Moxie. Remember, even your boy Malcolm X came to the conclusion that all white folks aren't devils.”

Moxie adjusts her fabric hair wrap and peers at Norma. ”And I never said they were. I just think it's important not to forget the history of who was the oppressor and who was the oppressed.” She reaches across and tastes a piece of Norma's m.u.f.fin. ”Did I ever tell you what my old roommate used to call them?” she asks in an attempt to relax the conversation.

”Who? Brothers?”

”No, interracial couples.”

”What?”

”'IRCs.'” Moxie laughs. ”Well, anyway, what's this big thing you want to talk to me about?”