The Talk
You can tell by the set of his jaw that he is a serious man. His tie hangs loose around his neck; his laptop bag sits patiently on the floor. The familiar trill of jazz notes climbs up and down the walls. The man enjoys the way his wife moves about the kitchen, not yet noticing him. She hums along to the music, swaying in place as though with a partner. He is still thinking of this when their lips meet, as they always do by the day’s end, with polite longing.
The woman searches the man’s eyes. She doesn’t ask about his day, but rather, pushes a plate of food his way. It’s alright, is what she means. They talk about her clients. They talk about the news. He eats thoughtfully and asks after the boy. They talk about his school projects. They talk about his friends. The woman quiets, waiting for her husband to tell her the thing.
“I think it’s time to have the talk with him.”
She doesn’t respond. She gets up to clear away the counter. He eyes her comfortably as she drifts from one end to the other. Her thick black hair, braided on both sides and piled up high, looks regal in the fading October light.
The woman says it’s much too soon. She turns on the tap, frowning slightly. My baby, she thinks, if only he could remain just so.
The man says it’s important. They look at each other. They look away. The pots have nearly drowned in water by the time the woman decides.
“Okay,” she concedes, “let’s go.”
The man hesitates, searching for the words.
“Oh,” she says.
“It’s just -”
“You’d rather do it alone.”
“Man to man.”
She scoffs. Women know a thing or two about it, she says.
The man offers an understanding, tired smile. His rested chin on clasped hands and the lean of her hips against the counter tell each that the other agrees. He gets up from the table and makes his way upstairs.
The boy lays on his stomach drawing; he drags the pencil expertly across the page. The intricate designs are certainly better than anything the man has ever produced. Looking up, he leaps off the bed and into his father’s arms. The boy is not too old or too cool for an honest hug.
The man is surprised by the stirring in his stomach and the squeezing in his chest. He has never done such a thing. The boy is their first child. The man clears his throat, wishing that he knew the magic words. The boy sits by his side, peering up at him expectantly.
“You’re getting older now,” the man begins. He says that the boy will soon, if he hasn’t already, start to notice some changes, start to feel different from the others. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, the man explains.
“You are enough as you are,” he continues. There will be much need for this reminder. The man can never forget his first time. The first time cuts deeply for most. There is no way to protect the boy.
The man tells him that there will come a time when his black skin will be used as a weapon against him, used to label and then dismiss him. There are those that will appear in his corner but will not come to his defense. There are those that will call him brother but will mute his cries of pain. There are those that will try to make him feel small, less intelligent, less deserving, believing that they can only look forward if he is looking down; love them, but leave them be. He tells the boy that they will demand graciousness from those like him, and then refuse to return the favor.
The man worries that the boy may be too young to understand. How can he tell him that the world will think he’s guilty before he’s even said a word, before he’s even moved an inch? How can he tell him that through no fault of his own, there will be people that regard him as frightening, as threatening? How can he explain that there are things the boy will have to do and not do in order to protect himself? And how that still may not be enough? How can he tell him that the rules are different for them?
The boy searches his father’s face, an older reflection of his own. Some of this he understands or has felt without giving it a name. He nods solemnly. He senses that his father is deeply sad. The boy is unsure of how to comfort him.
“Dad,” he whispers, “will it get better?” The boy has always wanted to be just like his father. He imagines the world of adults, with their rushing around, with their important things to do. He looks up into the heart of his father’s eyes. Make it alright, is what he means.
The man goes away for a moment into his own mind. He pictures the boy at his desk at work, going through each day as the man does now. He wants better for his son. He wants equal pay for equal labor; he wants promotions based on merit; he wants a life lived authentically without consequence; he wants to fill a space as himself, and not as the well-mannered negro who must tiptoe so as not to frighten or intimidate. He wants to feel a freedom as abundant as air; to move boldly, by day and night, at a pace of his choosing, in clothes of his choosing, in a neighborhood of his choosing. He wants all these things for the boy.
The man has no more words. He envelopes his son as if to shield him from the outside. He hopes that the boy’s children will have no need for this conversation. He hopes for change; the kind that seeps into the very bones of a nation.
The woman stands in the doorway, watching the loves of her life, sobbing silently into her sleeve. They have not noticed her yet, and she takes this in for as long as it will last. As the man tightens his hold on the boy, emotion slides steadily down his cheek and onto the bed covers; they stay like that for some time, pretending not to notice.
Photo Credit: Catt Liu
