Benevolence

Chapter 5: Limbo's Pendelum

The lecture room is shrouded in darkness. The only light emanates from the black-and-white screen projecting the 1943 film Stormy Weather, and Lena Horne's timeless voice bellows throughout in shrill, harmonious waves. American Entertainment: A film study class that pays tribute to the contributions of African Americans in the entertainment industry, is an elective that Bryan and I agreed on taking. One, ironically instructed by our very White, but socially aware Professor. I close my eyes, my head resting comfortably against Bryan's shoulder. The despair in Lena's voice is transcendent. I know I'm just imagining it but her words seem to be directed at me...

"I walk around heavy-hearted and sad

Night comes around and I'm still feelin' bad

Rain pourin' down, blindin' every hope I had

This pitterin', patterin', beatin' and spatterin' drives me mad..."

"I swear they're just here for the credits," Bryan whispers to me, referring to our classmates whose faces are not only illuminated by the projector but their phones. Hidden beneath their desks or partially hanging out of their pockets. "I would do anything to watch Lena perform all day," he finishes.

"If only we could teleport ourselves into the film," I chuckle softly. "That would beat having any VIP pass or behind the scenes footage." I sigh, scooting closer. "You can't force them to appreciate things like this, Bry. It's easy to confuse simplicity with lack of substance. And for them, all great things come through blindingly colored flatscreen tv's."

"High definition bullshit," He mumbles, with a short chuckle.

I laugh. "Right."

Following the conclusion of the movie, Professor Adams starts his lecture; turning off the projector, adjusting the lights, and pulling up the slides from his computer. An hour's passed and he still has the class entranced--Bryan included. His chin is balanced on the crook of his thumb, his index finger is pressed to his pursed lips, and he leans forward on his desk like the words are calling out to him.

We've had our share of ignorant professors growing up. It's only molded us into advocates of our own experiences. But Professor Adams not only has the credentials to instruct a class like this but the courage and the grit. His lectures are candid and raw, and his blatant radicalism makes all seventy-five percent of the White students in my class squirm in their seats. Having suffered from second-hand embarrassment on several occasions since the semester started, his lectures have become...a pleasure to be a part of.

Tilting forward to match Bryan's stance, I shift closer to him with my eyes fixated on the Professor. "You know," I start discreetly. "I've always thought Professor Adams to be sexy in a nerdy, bartender at the side, kinda way. But if he's even gained the attention of a non-sexually confused guy like you, that definitely says something."

He turns to me, running his teeth over his lips to suppress his grin. "You're incorrigible," he whispers, squinting his eyes in fake engagement. "I know what you're trying to do: distract me— but it won't work. You won't catch me slipping the way you were last week, and... what's not to love about him?" He winks my way.

I stifle a laugh, covering my mouth.

When it comes to our education, everything is a competition, especially when we share the same classes. It's the only way to ensure that we pass with flying colors. He's been teasing me nonstop about my failure to meet business standards in our other classes; claiming my attire makes DuBois turn over in his grave, and that I look more like the stereotypical failed artist, rather than a well-acclaimed CEO. I mean, yes I wear oversized slacks that sit high on my waist, and sometimes have to borrow his old blazers. And yes, our Professors count our appearance as a part of our grade, but I can't help it. I just have to be a little street in every ensemble that I throw together.