Daddy was an orphaned mechanic who could barely read and write on an eighth-grade level when he decided to pursue the Gospel, while Ma, a cosmetologist, dropped out of high school at 17 years old with several college acceptance letters abandoned in her mailbox. I wish they had an inspiring American Dream story of how they escaped a life of struggle in their youth, hurdled over rusted steel gates, and emerged as idols in their prime. But the truth is my parents were broker at 50 than they were at She leans through the narrow opening of the door with thebroomstick in hand, Well, I want to see it too.
I remember when we went up to Boston. Walking around that campus with your dad, we was amazed. They make those colleges so pretty, all that open space and grass, those buildings.
I always knew God would take you there though-. I fall back onto the couch and continue typing my letter. The church bell across the street is still ringing. But for the both us. You mean God? Maybe not my God, but God as an idea? The Cupid Shuffle drops, and with it, so does the recitation of name, study, and profession. The crowd trickles onto the dance floor. I like dancing. I want to dance. My classmate grabs my wrist to pull me toward the swaying hips, but I smile and politely decline.
Another drink, I say and head toward the bar. Jack and Coke, please. To be at this bar on the edge of the room peering inward feels safest. He nods without looking up, twisting the caps back onto bottles, as if trying to distract himself from telling us both the truth.
I look out to the shuffling crowd. The woman with the hair shaved down on the sides like mine rolls her neck with each turn. Because we, I, am not. And it is precisely the too-subtle differences between all of us that maddens me.
