By the time I get out to the yard, I’ve reconsidered. My thoughts about my own daughter’s racial identity are prejudiced and false, even though I still believe them. I’m too proud to admit it by pulling her out of there, where other minds might be thinking the same thing, will know exactly why I extracted her. That I’ve created a white girl. So I just stand there, at the outer edge of the crowd, watching. Tal’s talking to that boy, who hovers beside her. They both clap along to the beat as he leans in close enough to whisper in her ear. Seeing her respond to his smile, his flirtation, his perfectly groomed thin baby mustache, my newfound fatherly protectiveness is second to my relief that my daughter may have found motivation to attend the school.
Tal’s turn comes last, and I expect her to demure, to shake her head “No” and let them finish, but she just thunders out the moment the girl next to her prances back. And, in the circle, Tal jumps. Her hands go high as she erupts out of the center, and like a sheet falling lightly on a bed she comes down into a split on the ground. Tal’s legs divided on the asphalt; she is as long there as she is tall. A new fear rises, that she is acting like an uppity high-yellow show-off, but it quiets at the site of Tal’s joy at springing up and giving in to the momentum of her twirl. The drums go louder when she leaps, the crowd claps louder and hoots and there’s a “Go on, girl!” at every peak. When Tal does her final split, back at her spot, the drums crescendo to the finish, where they are met and replaced by applause. I get another new father feeling: pride. But it’s muted by an even larger realization. That is how my daughter looks when she really smiles.
“She shouldn’t be jumping up,” Principal Kamau says, walking beside me and handing me the application papers.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, a mix of regret and confusion.
“That was a good start, but she shouldn’t be jumping up so much. We’ll teach her. Jumping up, that’s the European mind-set, you see?”
“Yeah? I’ve seen African dancers jumping before,” I say, because I can’t help myself, because that’s my daughter. And I know I’ve seen African dancers jumping before.
“Sure, but not, not like that.” The principal shakes the bitter taste of the memory out. “See, the European mind-set, it’s about distancing oneself from the planet, so their dancing is all about trying to jump away from it. It’s arrogance, really. It says, ‘I’m better than mother earth, I fly off of you because you’re beneath me.’ The African aesthetic is connected to the soil, see? So less of that flapping around like a pigeon. The dance moves down, to the source, because it has humility. It loves the mother earth.”
“I totally love the mother earth. I only eat organic.” Tal stands before us. She’s with the boy. It only occurs to me now that she found the lightest-skinned guy out here to make her new friend.
“Don’t worry, brother.” Kamau slaps my back, ignoring her, nods a smile at her before heading inside. “You take care of the paperwork, we’ll take care of the cure.”
“A cure? What the hell is his problem? I’m not sick; I’m classically trained. Why are blacks so sensitive?” Tal is intentionally loud for everyone to hear. Kamau stops at the building’s door. He looks at me. I’m responsible.
“What? I didn’t say ‘the blacks’ this time. Oh, am I supposed to say ‘African American’ now?”
“There’s no such thing as ‘classical,’ ” I can hear myself snapping at her, loud enough for people to listen. “That’s just the way white people say ‘European.’ It’s subtle white supremacy. Don’t use it anymore.” I look over. My statement relieves some of Kamau’s facial pressure. Still, the door slams a little when it closes.
“Oh hell no. I’m not going here. Dad. That guy is so crazy, he’s racist against jumping.”
“That’s not what he — look, you’ve been to the Jewish school, right? Your whole life. So are you going to tell me you can’t do an eight-month stint learning about who else you are? Is that it?” I can hear my voice rising. The kids around us are now running through their recess, screaming louder, so I’m covered.
“Not going to happen,” Tal repeats, leaning in and hitting the words harder so they find purchase.
—
Out front of the school, I can’t even speak to her. I can’t even look at her. Instead, I get the engine on the bike revving while Tal stands by playing with her phone. The boy she discovered, he’s standing there too. I won’t even look at him. Handing Tal her helmet, I scoot forward enough for her to climb behind me. Tal takes it, but puts it on the ground and just stands there, now talking to the boy. He gives her a note, his phone number I’m sure.
Lovely. I am fully prepared to just stare back, to wait her out until she realizes that I am the one driving in every sense of the word. But Tal’s a teenager, and I remember teenagers are feral creatures, hormone-mad and erratic as wild colts, and after a good thirty seconds I cave and say, “You’ve made your point. Your complaint has been registered with the Ministry of Displeasure. Now, you’re going to say goodbye and get on the bike so we can go home.”
“You should try the biracial school,” the boy says to me. He’s nodding like this makes so much sense. He’s smiling as if I know what he’s talking about.
“Who are you?” I demand. It’s easier being annoyed at him, this strange kid. Less morally complicated. He’s got brass rings around the tips of his locks, and I’ve never seen that before but I instantly judge him for it. Clearly, he wants to sleep with my daughter.
Clearly, I am supposed to want to strike him for this. This is all very new but I’m pretty sure I have that part right.
“I’m Kimet,” he says, like that is supposed to answer any of my questions. “There’s another school. Another new charter school. It’s themed for mixed kids. You guys could try there, too. They’re enrolling.”
“Listen to him, Pops. Mixed kids. I’m mixed, right? I qualify. You want me to do the whole race education thing, then let’s try that one. If that doesn’t work, we can move on to Chinatown or whatever. Maybe I can pass for Korean. But I’m not going here. That man said I flap around like a pigeon.”
“Tal, there are mixed kids here, and that doesn’t mean anything. Mixed people are just a kind of black people anyway. You wouldn’t be the only mixed kid here, I’m sure.”
“I’m mixed,” Kimet says.
“See?” I say, pointing at him, relieved.
“But if I could, I’d go there too,” Young Mr. Kimet keeps going. I look at him. I try to muster the “look,” the look that dads do when they want you to become silent or face some vague threat, but I have no training. When he starts talking again I interrupt him.
“Yeah? If it’s so great, why don’t you go there?”
“Because my dad won’t let me. He’s the principal here. My dad’s Kamau.” Tal finally gets on the bike, but tries to hand me a paper.
“Not unless you agree to take me by here first,” she says, holding up the address. Atop it says, Mélange Center. I see these words and they’re familiar and I assume it’s from my distant past before I connect it to my recent one. Below it lists what street and such, but by the time I look at that all I see is the biracial militant and destiny or at least an opportunity to feign fate. I don’t believe in fate, but I don’t believe in ignoring fate when it disregards subtlety.