The closed-circuit camera I installed by the garage is now the house.
The camera is in the living room.
I didn’t move it there.
I stand, and can see it. Sitting on the fireplace mantel. I look at my screen, and recognize the tent Tal sleeps in most nights.
13
IN 1958, EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD Mildred Jeter got knocked up by her boyfriend, Richard Loving, a family friend six years older than she, and they decided the best thing to do next was get married. They drove up from Central Point, Virginia, to Washington, D.C., because Richard was a white guy and Virginia had a law called the Racial Integrity Act of 1924 that said white people and black people couldn’t get married. Soon after they got back, the police raided their home in the dark of night, hoping to catch them in the act of fucking, because that was illegal too — which is really ironic when you reflect that the God of Virginia is Thomas Jefferson. They were sentenced to a year in prison, but allowed to have that downgraded to probation as long as they agreed to leave the state and never come back. Six years later, sick of not being able to see their family and broke in D.C., they decided to sue the State of Virginia. It took three years for the Supreme Court to rule in their favor, but it did unanimously, and Loving v. Virginia became the case that decriminalized interracial marriage in America. Sixteen states still had antimiscegenation on the books when it passed. There’s even an unofficial holiday for it in June, Loving Day, which the mixies at Mélange talk about like it’s Mulatto Christmas.
Roslyn wants our class to do a special comic to be handed out at Mélange’s Loving Day event. They’re going to print a thousand copies. All the other mixed-race organizations in the area are coming, and not just the black/white ones either: the Asian/white, the Latino/everything, the all general mixed the hell up. It’s going to be huge. Tosha IMs me while I’m doing the research for all this and I make the mistake of telling her what I’m doing when her message pops up on my screen.
They really need a holiday, to celebrate a white guy having jungle fever? That’s all Virginia white guys live to do: get some strange.
That’s really racist.
No, that’s not, “really racist,” Tosha insists.
The next message takes longer, as the English language struggles to convey her fury.
You could argue that it’s prejudiced, but I’m not racist. Racism requires power to back it up, and I don’t have a goddamn bit of that. George led a police tactics training course in Buchanan County, Virginia. All white, Irish. Do you know what the crime rate is down there? Do you know some of the names they used to call George, that summer?
I can imagine.
Not just “nigger” either. They were creative. And that was from the other cops. They thought it was funny. It’s like 1861 down there. Those Paddy bastards are crazy.
You know my dad was Irish, right? I’m Irish.
You’re fucking Irish? You’re serious, aren’t you? Since when are you Irish? Your black ass is not Irish. You’re losing your mind over in Uncle Tom fairyland.
Nobody gets to define me but me, that’s what I’m learning.
What kind of Kool-Aid do they have you drink? Is it gray?
This text comes with a smiley face emoticon. But I can hear past it to Tosha’s tone. I know her well enough to insert her sneer of condescension.
Get it? Gray? Half white, half black? Or do they make Oreo flavor now?
You know, “Virginia is for lovers,” I finally respond.
I wait a few seconds. The screen flashes Composing for a full minute, but only seven words finally come through when she sends.
I want to tell George we’re dating.
Bad idea. Why would you do that?
I’ve been checking the GPS tracker. He denies it, but he keeps going over there. He’s taking me for granted. At least imply we’re thinking about hooking up.
Bad idea, I write again, then send, barely resisting all caps. Did you contact Sirleaf about your rights?
I’m not ready for that. I need this favor, Warren. He has to come home. Or not. This can’t keep going on like this. I need a catalyst.
Bad idea, I send once more.
We already lying to the kids. This is a smaller lie. It could help things.
Again, I pause, but Tosha doesn’t need me to continue the conversation.
It will free me, comes when I take too long to respond.
And then, He was just here. I’m sorry. I kind of already did it.
I slam the laptop shut, curse.
Tal looks over at me, sees my face. “What?” she asks.
“My friend. Is acting like a lunatic.” I get up, head to the kitchen. There’s no alcohol in the house because of my daughter, so I settle for putting a pot of coffee on instead.
“That wasn’t Sunita, right? Everything’s cool with her, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. Though I don’t catch the transition.
“I mean, I haven’t even seen you guys talk lately. I thought you were into her?”
“We’re just friends,” I tell her, but at the moment even this sounds like a stretch.
“I’m not a baby. I’m not clueless. You think I’m like some little kid but—”
My phone thankfully rings before we can take the conversation further. Tosha’s face flashes on the screen and then her voice is in my ear.
“I’m sorry. He was here and I know from the GPS that the bitch was at his apartment, and he had the nerve to deny it. I got mad. And, just to see the look on his face, I said you were coming over, later tonight. I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” is all I say, because Tal is interested now, trying to look at my screen.
“Thanks for getting my back.”
“I got your back,” I tell her. George might have my ass, but I have her back.
“Good. So let me get your back: that biracial thing is a bunch of brown-bag divisive bullshit and you know it. That shit is dangerous and it’s brainwashing and you can’t get sucked into that. Or let your daughter get sucked into it either. I know you’re beige, but stay black.”
“I will,” I tell her, because I just want to escape.
“Loving versus the state of my ass,” Tosha says before hanging up.
—
I’m standing in front of a statue of an Indian, big as two men. He kneels down, hand over his eyes to block the sun, staring through the trees, down at the white people jogging across the Wissahickon on Forbidden Drive.
“He’s looking west,” Spider tells the kids, all gathered around with their notepads and charcoals, looking up at him and the statue, trying to figure out which one to pay attention to. “He’s supposed to be looking for the Lenape who once lived here, the ones pushed farther inland when the Europeans invaded.”
“Look at the angles of his arms, legs. Try to capture the angles. Even if it’s just stick figures, focus on the lines. Check out the lines on his headdress, all those straight feathers,” I say, because I’m supposed to be team teaching, and I have to say something. I look up at his massive thighs, and I think of Sun’s thighs shaking as she rose to get away from me that weekend. I think of the dimples of the cellulite that were so much more real and beautiful than this statue’s spotless hard quadriceps. That really happened. Sunita Habersham does speak to me, passes me without saying anything, but it still really happened. Shazam. Those little details, like that red fuzz ball of lint hanging from her hair, bouncing when I was behind her, they tell me that really happened.