The Black Mecca by Ebony LaDelle
The Black Mecca
Ebony L a Delle
Sophomore Year
Lynetta
There’s a particular kind of torture to the waiting, the pining, the slowest burn, like setting fire to wet logs. One that flickers and pops like the grease in a pan. Wondering if you’ll yearn for him all four years.
When I first met him at the pinning ceremony to usher in our freshman class of 1981, I listened to our marching band, The Soul Steppers, perform the alma mater class song, reminding us to be true and stand strong.
As the choir chimed “O Howard, we sing of thee,” it might have seemed sappy, but I knew I was in the right place.
I got emotional listening, feeling a sense of home.
With my newly formed Quad homegirls posted on the track turf, watching the festivities on the gridiron, he walked by and for an instant, it seemed at that exact moment we felt the same pride, a shared awareness of what this moment was for both of us: a right decision.
His beard and mustache parted, and teeth as white as piano keys revealed themselves in a smile, his Afro as round and glorious as the sun itself.
With no hesitation, he leaned toward me and said, “I don’t know what makes me happier, being here or being here standing next to you.
” Then realizing how cliché that sounded, his keys suddenly changed tune.
“I hope you didn’t misinterpret what I said. It’s just…”
“It’s okay,” I responded, amused. “I’m Lynetta, nice to meet you.”
“Assad,” he said, half smirking, as though he surprised himself letting that slip out his mouth. “Nice to meet you, Lynetta.” He extended his palm face up, and I placed my hand on his, his strong fingers gripping it. “What dorm you in?”
“The Quad, Baldwin Hall,” I replied, and Assad laughed. “What?”
“I would be into a girl that stays in the hall named after my favorite writer.”
I felt my cheeks redden. “Baldwin, huh? He’s in my top five. You, like, a casual reader, or—?”
“My grandpa was a librarian, so I’d say a little more than casual. I’ve always had a book in my hand.”
I wanted to probe more but opted not to.
You’re at the Mecca of Black education, you’re gonna meet brothers who like to read.
“Guess I’ll run into you at Founders or the HUB then?
” I replied while finally slipping my hand from under his warm embrace.
“See you around?” He’s one of many. I won’t get caught up this easily, this soon.
“See you around, Miss Lynetta.”
The thing about a slow burn is even with all that logic, the agony you feel of wanting what you want doesn’t go away.
Being on a college campus, with the likelihood of seeing Assad many times over, also doesn’t help.
Like a fleeting moment at a pep rally, or spotting him at the Quad’s talent show, or even a brief instance grabbing lunch at the Punchout.
Trying to squash down and stomp on all the emotions that kept trying to rise every time I’d have a thought of him, or a glimpse of him in passing.
He’s obviously handsome, with his medium skin and square jaw, those beautiful teeth and majestic mane that caught my attention at Greene Stadium, but he’s also an intellectual.
It’s like every time I see him he’s moving with a purpose.
And just like the first time we met, his face always greets mine with the same level of spark and intrigue, but never an occasion to speak more than a few minutes at a time, always being pulled away by our crew. Never time for just…us.
Now, second semester of sophomore year, all I want is to lay the crush to rest, but as I sit on the wall in front of the Harriet Tubman Quadrangle aka The Quad, reading a book I’d just got from the bookstore and enjoying the abnormally warm March weather, I spot him once again.
“Assad!” I yell against my better judgment just as he’s about to cut through The Valley. He turns and grins. Suddenly his whole demeanor changes as he slows his pace and crosses 4th Street in my direction.
“Lynetta,” he says, when he’s right in front of me. It’s the way he says my name, like he’s been waiting to say it all semester.
“Been a while since I’ve seen you,” I reply, feeling bold.
My high school sweetheart, Keith, convinced me in our second semester freshman year that he was ready to be serious, and I was the best thing he ever had, then stood me up one too many times while we were both home for spring break. I’m over the false promises.
Seeing Assad is a bright spot in my day.
“I’ve been working,” he responds somewhat bashfully, his hands in his pockets. “What you doing hanging at The Quad? We’re not freshmen anymore.”
“They just opened the bookstore here. I thought you were big into reading. You haven’t been yet?”
He shrugs and I laugh. “I usually buy used textbooks from our classmates. But if you go to any library in the DMV you’ll see my name on like every checkout card.
” I giggle, and he comes closer, peering at the cover of my book.
“Do you mind?” he asks, and I shake my head.
He goes to grab the paperback and our fingers touch briefly, sending me back to freshman year.
Assad eyes the cover, with Toni Morrison’s name planted brazenly in green.
“ Tar Baby, ” he reads. “I love this cover.” Then he looks back at me.
“I’m surprised you’re not reading on The Yard. ”
“You know how it gets on a warm day. Everybody’s out there. It’s a little too packed for me.”
“No catwalk on the runway?” he asks, sitting next to me, his brown bell-bottoms brushing a bit of my pleated skirt and exposed thigh. “Sorry,” he quickly says.
“It’s quite alright,” I reply, then regret my word choice, nervously messing with my knee socks. “…And not today. I like to read in peace. What about you?”
“Nah,” he says, looking me in the eye. “Being here with you is so much better.” His gaze feels like he can see through my skull, telepath right into my thoughts.
But luckily, he brings us back, telling me how little time he has to hang on campus since he works at the Martin Luther King Jr. branch of the D.C.
Public Library, and also a record store on U Street.
“Two jobs, huh? You must clock a lot of hours.”
“Yeah, I’m damn near full time. I wish I could enjoy college a bit more but my student account ain’t gonna pay itself,” he responds.
Hmm, he’s got a strong work ethic, in addition to an interest in books. Again, I’m trying to remind myself most guys on campus have these qualities, so don’t get too charmed.
“You?”
“Tuition is paid for. But I’m currently writing for the school’s newspaper. I’m trying to keep my schedule free so that I can finally become a staff writer at The Hilltop soon.”
“Continue the legacy of our newspaper’s founder, Ms. Zora Neale Hurston?” he asks.
“I take back everything I said about you not being a reader,” I say a bit too overzealously, and he laughs.
“That would definitely be a job.” Time slips away as we watch others strolling up the hill to the iron gates that open to The Yard, students we both know passing by, saying hellos and offering probing looks at Assad and me as we keep to ourselves.
We share our semester highlights and woes—what we like about Howard, adjusting to life in D.C.
, chatting about the political unrest just around the corner from our school.
I explain an article I’m currently working on and where I’m stuck and he offers a few notes on ways I can go with the story.
When I tell him he should consider writing or editing for The Hilltop, he blushes but tells me journalism isn’t for him.
The three-hour conversation abruptly ends when a friend stops to ask him what he’s doing on campus and Assad realizes not only did he miss two classes, but he’s almost an hour late for his shift at the record shop.
“I can make up my assignments, but I can’t get fired.” And he dashes off, with a promise we’ll meet again.