Page 31 of Glass Half Full
It was August then, late enough in the month that the nights were getting colder. People were starting to talk about every summer activity like it was the ‘last time’: the ‘last’ swim, the ‘last’ barbeque, the ‘last’ happy hour on the patio. Maybe that’s why there was something bittersweet in the air, some hint of desperation on the breeze, the kind that makes ‘goodnight’ sound like ‘goodbye,’ the kind that makes people cough up their secrets and say things they’ve kept hidden for far too long.
The slam season hadn’t officially started back up again, but we were hosting an open mic night to kick things off. Renee performed, of course. She did an old piece I’d heard before, but it still left me—and everyone else in the room—totally gobsmacked. Flabbergasted. Overwhelmed. Whatever you want to call it, she stood up there and turned her words into warriors that took us all by storm.
She talked about what it was like to grow up biracial, to get teased about her hair at school, to be met with the question of, ‘So, what are you?’ more times than she could count. She described the stares her family got when they all went out for dinner. She shared the nights she cried herself to sleep wishing she had a mother who really understood what it means to be black.
She stood tall as she told us about the day she asked to get her hair relaxed. On the way to the salon, she asked her mom to stop the car and cancel the appointment.
“I am more than a Frankenstein
Of mismatched DNA.”
I always remembered those words. I remembered looking at this girl and realizing all over again that her words had the power to tip people over and shake them up, and if spoken word has opened my eyes to anything, it’s just how badly this world needs shaking up. It needs people like her.
That’s all I meant to tell her when I saw her checking her phone outside the metro station on my way home from the open mic. The light from the screen was casting a blue glow on her face.
“You were awesome,” I remember telling her, “as usual.”
She smiled at me as she slipped her phone away and murmured, “Thanks.”
The natural thing to do would have been to head into the station together, but she settled her back against the wall, and I slid my hands into my pockets.
“You ready for England?”
She let out a laugh edged with nerves. “I don’t think I’m ever going to feel ready.”
“Tally-ho, Renee!” I joked, putting on possibly the worst British accent ever. “Of course you’re ready, lassie! Pip pip!”
She started cracking up for real. “Lassie? I think that’s Scottish, not English.”
I waved my hand in dismissal. “It’s all the same.”
“I’m pretty sure there are people who would consider that statement a criminal offence.”
I tried not to flinch at the wordcriminal. Even now, it makes me jump every damn time.
“I assume you’ll fly back for all the slams, right?”
Her expression shifted, a heaviness setting in. “Maybe I can catch a show when I come back for Christmas.”
She looked so small all of a sudden, like she was shrinking right in front of my eyes after standing tall as a giant on stage. That was the first moment I ever felt the urge to put my arms around her, to hold her close so she couldn’t sink straight through the ground and disappear.
“Hey, slams are a thing in England too,” I tried to console her, even though it didn’t sound like the right thing to say. “That I do know I’ve got right, lassie.”
Her lips quirked up, but only for a second.
“It won’t be the same.” I had to step closer to hear her. “God, nothing is going to be the same.”
I’d never seen her look so unsure of herself. As long as I’d known her, she’d been dead set on studying abroad. I knew she’d won scholarships, that she’d graduated in the top tier of her whole class. She was a go-getter. She never set a goal she didn’t meet, and yet standing in front of me in the near darkness, she was trembling, shaking under the weight of her own success, like having everything she wanted was the most terrifying thing in the world.
“I just want to know I made the right choice,” she admitted. “How can I be sure this is what I’m supposed to be doing?”
I was in no position to give her advice on life choices, not considering where I’d been when I was her age, but I gave it a shot anyway.
“I don’t think you can. It sucks, and it’s hard, and it makes life really fucking difficult, but I don’t think you can ever be sure. Sometimes the only lens you get to see through is a rear-view mirror, and you can’t put the car in reverse. That’s why so many people crash. That’s why so many people never start their engines in the first place.”
“Sounds like the safer option.” She made a weak attempt at a laugh.
“Safer, sure,” I agree, “but what are you gonna do? Sit in the garage for the rest of your life? Nuh-uh. Not you, Renee.”
