“That’s just one nutjob,” she tells me.
“That article has eighty-four likes. On Facebook. So those are just the people willing to link their names to it.”
Tal doesn’t say anything in there for a bit, but I can hear her on her own laptop.
“Well the First Couple video now has 22,786 page views,” Tal says back triumphantly.
—
I only know about Tal’s membership in the Loving Day Planning Committee because Tal, in her insistence on leaving the house for the final meeting before doing the dishes, chooses to reveal this to me. A teenager’s every move is their opportunity for the clandestine and the only way I get in on this is to demand that I come. I have to be there. I have concerns. I have concerns that need to be raised. I have to be there also because Roslyn is not answering my texts or calls directly. Tal gets a response, though, and I’m allowed. “As my guest,” my daughter makes the point of telling me.
It’s a late-spring day, but we’re inside the administration trailer, encased by its depressed low ceiling and wood-veneer paneling. The room has more than a dozen people shoved into it, the hum of an air conditioner forcing everyone to speak a little too loud for grace. My attempt to grab Roslyn before the meeting begins is foiled by a delegation of half-breeds from other mixed-race organizations and locales. Apparently not just black and white people are sleeping together. “Everyone is loving everyone, always, everywhere, and this room is proof of that,” jokes the hapa dude after his introduction. He flew in all the way from Oakland. For this. It’s going to be huge.
I sit through forty-five minutes of prattle and minutiae. Also, I sit through the way Roslyn stares at me. Like she’s won, and like she’s happy about it. Staring over at the Amerasian issues therapists, and the multiracial marketing coordinator, all the other lords of their own online and community mixed-race support groups, the Great Mulatto Queen addresses her court of subjects. The regality of her chandelier earrings, the rich draping of scarves over head and breast — none is as majestic as the look of joy in Roslyn’s eyes. Or maybe she’s actually happy. Maybe this is all her dream. Maybe it’s all come true, everything she imagined in her darkest hour would bring her bliss and fulfillment.
“It’s going to be protested,” I say the second Roslyn asks if there are any questions. “I talked to a friend. She made it clear. There are going to be protests, the whole damn day I’m sure.” Roslyn looks at me as if I’m not even speaking. As if the only reason she’s even facing my way is to read me like a clock on a wall. So I turn, physically, to the rest of the room.
“This is an existing neighborhood. There is an existing order. Racially, locally, all that. Blowback is going to happen. And with that video circulating online, who knows how many other wackos are going to be drawn out. You need to seriously consider canceling this. This whole place will be on the news for something a lot less silly than ghosts. This could be bad.”
“Protests mean press. All press is good press, generally.” Roslyn, always pleasant, always smiling just enough to promise not only happiness but the opportunity for more. “We want the world to know we exist. Nobody cares about marches or rallies anymore. They want spectacle. They want ninety-second clips they can peruse on their choice of mobile device. Our guest speakers are already here, the bands and equipment are booked.”
“My house is a mess. And not ready for a tour,” I point out.
“Fine. But people are already in cars, trains, planes, coming here. For this. For us. For all of us. This event is happening. Protesters are just the final ingredient to make the day monumental. How many agree?”
“Agreed!” comes from across the room. Even Tal, she says it. I hear her voice distinctly because she’s the one I love here and also she’s right by my side.
“Sarah, make sure you resend the press release immediately. Add the part about the expected protesters. Make it a headline. Use the word ‘controversial’ in it too. Also, ‘outrage.’ They’ll see ‘outrage,’ and think page views.”
I get one voice on my side. One fellow champion of sanity in the whole lot of mutts. I have no idea what ethnic groups she’s mixed with, either. Laotian and Ecuadorian? Pakistani and Italian? Who knows, she’s just another member of the international legion of tan. But the woman is wearing a business suit, and is by far presenting the most professional air in the room, so I take special pleasure in cloaking my agenda in her gravitas.
“Does this dovetail with the image that you hope to promote, though? If the intent is to create an atmosphere of acceptance to interest the marginalized?”
Standing to speak to us all, opening her arms high like a bear staking its territory, Roslyn says, “This year, it’s about making our presence known. About thrusting ourselves into the dialogue. Not just locally. As far as we can. Nationally. Internationally, if possible. Next year, our second Loving Day event will be at our new rural location, and then we can focus on message refinement. This year, this year we announce to the world that we are here, this is our time to be heard, our time to be whole. If this is big enough, next year, they will come from all over to find us.”
“What ‘new rural location’?” And I know Roslyn hears me, because she responds to everyone else.
“Tomorrow night, we have a major announcement. The Mélange Center for Multiracial Life will be unveiling a new satellite retreat in a setting that combines natural beauty with major historic resonance.”
“What ‘new rural location’?” I ask again, and keep asking, but no one can hear me over the applause.
—
Tal follows me out because she can tell I’m mad and it’s not with her. “We don’t have to do the ghost tour, Pops. I mean, it would be so awesome, but I was thinking, you’re right we would have to clean, which is a pain in the ass. And now there’s all the orange spray paint. And honestly I don’t know if the ghosts would like it, you know?”
“This isn’t about ghosts.”
“It’s about Roslyn, isn’t it? You know she’s awesome, right? Look at all she’s done here. It’s going to work out. You have to trust her,” Tal finishes with, which is what gets me to slam the front door behind us.
“No I don’t, and you don’t. Or you shouldn’t. I am your family. They are not your family. She’s a liar, Tal. Did you hear that crap about the second location? She told me she only had money to buy one. Just to get the price on the house down. She lied to me. She lied to us. Do you know how much that probably cost us? Thousands. Hundreds of thousands, probably.”
“She didn’t lie,” Tal tells me.
“Roslyn lied,” I say. Calmer now. It’s just true. It’s simple. The words don’t need emphasis. I walk up the stairs. I want a shower. I want a drink. I can do both up there.
“She didn’t lie,” Tal calls after me before I can reach the top. “I’m not selling her the place. Not yet. I’m going to keep renting to Mélange for a little while, so they can buy the other place first. It’s an opportunity we can’t miss, and we can’t afford to do both.”
I fight the urge to yell by walking down the steps, slowly. I take my time. Because I want to be calm when I get there. When I get to her. There’s an air of menace coming off me, I realize, in the slow and deliberate fall of my feet before I get to Tal. But it works too, because by the time I’m there before her I’m speaking in almost a whisper.
“Honey? You can’t. Do that. We need that money. You and me, the real ‘we.’ For college. I need that money. To live.”
“I don’t want to go all the way to Washington State. I want to be here, with them.”