“Sure, it can be used as an insult, okay, but the meaning I like is that you have to change to become who you are. Perfect, right? So then, to further mulatto-tize it, I changed the classic Akan star to the star that corresponds with the wearer’s European ethnic heritage, thereby bonding together their ethnic nature. In Doris’s case, the Star of David. Which despite what it says about tattooing in the Torah, has been very popular around here.”
“Leviticus 19:28 is very contentious,” says Doris, and starts laughing again. She’s high. There’s no way she’s not high.
“That’s the one I’d get, Pops,” Tal says, leaning in closer to get a better look at it.
“Not until you’re eighteen. As your father I feel very strongly about Leviticus 19:28,” I tell Tal. And I do, suddenly, though I’m not sure what Leviticus 19:28 says.
“Listen to your old man,” Spider tells my daughter, then looks at me. “But Pops, you got to see them. Sixty-three different versions of this design walking around here. Linking us, you know? Spiritually. I once inked the entire Leaves of Grass on over a thousand people at Burning Man. One verse written on each person. That was dope. But the Sesa? It’s, like, on another plane of consciousness. We’re creating a people, man.”
There’s silence. There’s no one talking because he was speaking to me, and I have nothing to say in response. Because I’m actually listening to him, and he terrifies me. The very idea, of creating a tribe where I would fully belong, of changing my definition to fit me instead of the other way around, terrifies me. It scares me because it’s not crazy. It’s attractive, logical even. It’s just priced at abandoning my existing identity and entire worldview.
“G-d, you’re pretentious,” Doris breaks the pause, laughing.
8
THERE’S A FRIDAY NIGHT powwow the last workday before school starts, and all the grown mixies show up. They have a full bonfire burning and the faculty and staff stand around like a god might arise from the flames. Fresh tattoos shine on the oiled skin of the newly branded: I see six-pointed druid stars, Soviet-style red ones, two-dimensional Nordic sailor stars that look like shuriken, all encased by the Sesa’s black swirls. There’s even a Sesa with the star from Star Trek—presumably worn by Captain Kirk’s lovechild. I recognize the intricately knotted Celtic pattern in several of the stars, and know if I got one, that would be it. And I also know I won’t, though I think it does look good. I think things like: they are all connected, these people. I think these sorts of thoughts because I’m drunk. There are about seventy people here, and they’re all shades from pink to dark ebony. Fat, thin, whatever. But they’re all connected. Spider knew. How to draw a symbolic line between them, from calves to arms to shoulders to the meat on Doris’s back. She walks by me and she’s wearing a tank top and the skin back there is still red and painful but she looks so happy, as if the pain has been sensualized. And the fat of her midriff hangs out on the sides and again I am drunk and so don’t deny its beauty. Doris knows. She knows that meat is her and she loves it and she loves everyone else here enough that she is willing to let them see all of who she is in this moment. I find that easy to envy. I want to live in a fantasy world too.
I get another drink, because they’re free and my mouth has nothing else to do. I stand staring at the fire, wait for some sort of formal ceremony to begin, but it doesn’t come. This is a school that doesn’t feel like one even in the daytime, but as it gets dark its true nature unspools. It’s less a school than a family reunion. I don’t know these people, but I do, because they’re like me. They don’t look like me, they don’t sound like me, but they know what it’s like to be me. To be in the group while intangibly excluded from it. I know they know by how relieved they appear to be together. To be completely at home. Without question of identity or membership. I belong here, I catch myself thinking, and I’m too drunk to question or squash that joy. Spider comes over and, from my elation, my new admiration for his work pours.
“That’s my thing. I haul my camper to all the festivals, tattoo conventions, you know, make my money. North April to July, south and out west till fall, hole up in Santa Fe the off months. Dude, I came to Mélange thinking I’d stay two weeks. And here I am, still. First time I’ve been still for a lunar cycle since 9/11. No lie.”
“So you’re one of the people who were here from the beginning?” I like Spider. He’s a little guy, in height and weight, and I like little guys that don’t immediately point out that I am a big guy. If he never mentions this, I could grow to love him. Surely I could.
“Yup. You know Marie Bella? The folk slash fusion singer? She’s got a song that goes—” Spider sings a few bars I’ve never heard but I nod to get him to stop. “Well anyway, that’s one of Roslyn’s exes, she got bank; she funded it to start. A lot of her friends gave money. You wouldn’t believe how many biracial cats get rich in the entertainment industry. It’s like the family business for zebras.”
“Yeah, but why squat in a park, in Philly?”
“We were already here.” Spider shrugs. “Mutts take what we can get. I mean, it’s a little crazy, right? This whole mulatto thing. But I say, enjoy it while it lasts, and keep a full tank of gas just in case.”
I toast to him on that, and we both drink all the way down for good measure. A portion of his beer ends up on his T-shirt, but Spider doesn’t seem to care. Without comment he takes it off and pitches it into the bonfire. It’s a beautiful sight, the crackling flame, the way the glow reflects off his nipple rings.
I’m ready to leave, but my body isn’t. I am allowed to drink one serving of alcohol every hour and still drive home. I can’t mess up the ratio, not with the bike. Bad math is the single biggest killer of motorcycle riders. Based on my six drinks over the last two, I estimate I’ll be drunk for four more hours, so I turn to head back to the art room. There’s a pile of packing blankets in its closet, left over from the tables just brought in, and I plan to make a hobo cot with them. But then Roslyn walks by and squeezes my arm, pulls me around again.
“Don’t go, sugar. Fun’s about to begin.” The words come in a hum of matriarchal authority strong enough to make my muscles stop and obey before I’ve even processed the words. I don’t take it personally, the mothering is clearly for everyone, and as she releases me she’s already hushing another attendee.
Roslyn stands before the fire and lifts her arms and we all fall silent and start forming a crowd around her. Immediately I am bored, and there’s nothing to do with my hands but grab another beer. I drink that and think, You know what, I can get even drunker if I sleep behind my desk till dawn. Be fine and go back for a shower before Tal even wakes up. Then I remember the crackheads. Crackheads are a major responsibility. But there haven’t been any more break-ins, and Tal has her cell anyway, so I grab another beer and lose count of how many I’ve drunk because it doesn’t matter anymore.
Roslyn definitely gets her style from the black side of the family: the endless acknowledgments and appreciations. I get my introduction, which commends me for creating “the greatest biracial graphic novel of his generation,” which could probably be qualified by “and the only,” but I don’t interrupt her, or bring up the fact that I just drew what some faceless dude instructed. I am tired. She keeps talking. I don’t want a speech. I want a lullaby. I look at Roslyn, trying to think of a scenario where somehow, somehow it would be prudent of me to lay my head on her lap and take a nap as she kept humming.