So Many Agoes

Chapter 22

Mid September 1970

Trigger warning: the N word, elements of being h*nged, racially motivated hate crime.

     One rainy September evening, Emilienne came bursting through the door like a whirlwind tornado. She made a beeline for the bathroom, without saying so much as a hello. I heard the shower turn on only a moment later. I had been studying on the floor in front of our bed while a roast sizzled enticingly in the oven. I removed the pile of papers and textbooks from my lap and stood to knock on the bathroom door.

"Emi? Are you okay?"

"Just give me a minute, please!"

I could hear the water splashing down from her hair and hitting the shower tiles and her soft muttering in Creole as I backed away from the door,

"Okay, if you need anything let me know"

     I then decided to clean up my study mess as I had been going at it for a few hours already, and tend to the apartment, dinner and Emilienne. The roast was done so I separated it into portions for us to eat over the following week. With it only being the first month of school, both of us were too busy and stressed to cook every single day.

     I perched myself on the foot of the bed to wait for Emilienne, but after 10 minutes passed, I had slid backwards to sit on the bed. After 30 minutes passed, I turned on the radio to find an evening talk show to listen to. We didn't yet have a TV, so entertainment was minimal.

     Finally an hour had passed when I heard the cry of the metal shower knob twist, and the water stopped, our food was cold and I was thoroughly bored. Emilienne stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her and a cloud of steam billowing out behind her. It wasn't long before the wonderful scents of castor oil and cocoa butter graced my nose.

      I watched her curiously when she walked towards the closet. She pulled out a pair of soft pajama pants and one of my t shirts. I couldn't help but stare, entranced, as she let the towel fall to her feet and she began putting the clothes on.

     After cleaning up, she brought her comb, mirror and oils to our bed and began braiding her hair, a ritual she had to keep her hair healthy, but low maintenance when she was busy and stressed out. She sat, crisscross against the headboard and began running the comb through her hair.

"Are you okay?"

"No, but I don't feel like talking about it at the moment. I just want to relax, and be comfortable."

     I nodded and asked her if she'd be okay with me doing her hair. She cracked a small smile as I pulled her into my lap and began working at the ends of her curls. She sat in front of me, lightly massaging her tummy that was getting quite round.

     The traffic outside sailed past our basement apartment, feet swiftly walking past our ground level windows and kicking up puddled water that splashed onto the glass near our bed. We sat in silence, with only the sound of her curls being detangled proving our existence. 

It wasn't until the street lights outside came on, and I had finished braiding half of her head that she finally spoke,

"A bunch of people at school found out that you are the father of our baby. So did my internship. They fired me on the spot because you're white and we're unmarried."

"Are you serious? Let me go talk to them, that's unacceptable!"

"No it's okay, I'd probably have to take leave eventually to handle the end of my pregnancy and the birth as well."

"I can't believe they did that to you. After all the hard work you put into that company"

"Well, I did win in some way. Many of the other employees quit when they overheard what happened. So we all left."

     I couldn't help but smile at the influence she had on that place. She changed the office for the better, often coming home and telling me how they suddenly painted all the walls or how almost every week there were new decorations, and that the attitudes of all the employees drastically changed as she exposed their racism and taught them to accept those that are different from themselves.

     After finishing her braids, we heated up the roast and enjoyed the Friday evening listening to rain and music. Eventually we fell asleep peacefully and in each others arms.

     The following day was our weekly date. We excitedly prepared to put our schooling to the side and treat our relationship with a picnic in Central Park. We stopped for food from one of our new favorite restaurants in Harlem.

     A little bit of Georgia in the middle of New York, the soul food store front was owned by a man who had lived through the Harlem Renaissance. From there we picked a spot in the park and devoured the piping hot jambalaya.

     With our stomachs full, we walked the park and happily treated ourselves to an ice cream cone or two. We ended the date with an order of crepes doused in powdered sugar to take home with us.

     Emilienne had plans to start making a dress that evening, so we headed home with the intent of being productive. However, upon entering our building, fearful chills took over our once happy demeanor. Our door stood slightly ajar, and the all too familiar scent of a hate crime washed over us. I shoved the door open, quickly searching to see if anyone was still hiding.

     Both of our mouths hung open when we saw the state of the inside. Spray paint, everywhere. Holes in the drywall created by sledgehammers. Racial slurs on every inch of wall and possession. A black doll made to look pregnant with a rope around her neck tied to the ceiling fan above, with a sign that read "N**ger" taped to her chest.

     No words came out of our mouths. There was no way to process such a vile act. We stood for over two minutes in complete shock. Then Emilienne sprung into action, muttering what I recognized as swear words in Creole, she made a beeline for the phone, immediately dialing the police. Anger dripped from her voice as she spoke to the operator,

"Hi. I have had an act of extreme racism committed against me."

     It was safe to say, Emilienne's dress would have to wait. Six hours after discovering the act of hate, we walked the police officers out of our apartment. We were lucky to have officers that cared, not many were so fortunate.

     We spent the remainder of the weekend erasing the evidence, painting, and replacing our belongings. We didn't sleep much, instead we just laid in each other's arms wide awake, processing, thinking.

     Later the following week our landlord sent repairmen to cover up the holes and erase the evidence so that the sad event turned into nothing but a memory.

     It reminded us that we weren't allowed to get comfortable. We needed to be vigilant at all times, always alert, always watching. This was the reality of being black. I didn't allow Emilienne to do anything for a while. No cooking, no cleaning, no nothing. She deserved rest and peace.

      We sent word home to Milcreek, and within a couple weeks, replacement items were sent to us from everyone at home.

     Despite the circumstances it was assuring to know that no matter what, we'd have support, and that's what kept us going.