Chapter XI. Everything That Rises Must Converge. #3
She and Derrick had had two golden-blond children before adopting a third.
A little girl from Ethiopia. The fact that I had spent the last thirty minutes in a sobfest, sitting three seats away from an A-list, two-time Academy Award winner and had been completely oblivious to it was comical to me. Only in LA.
When the sobbing is over, we file out of the community room, through the halls of the arts building, and out into the California light.
There are couplets of parents stalling, talking amongst themselves.
Chummy, familiar. And as I wind between the Spanish-styled buildings, down the shaded path, toward the parking lot, I find myself walking alongside Cressida.
The only other parent, it seems, not making small talk.
I don’t know what the protocol is on introducing oneself to übercelebrities in Los Angeles, but not saying anything to a person you’re walking beside for a long stretch feels like a manufactured silence, and so I break it.
“Well, that was an unexpectedly emotional start to my day.”
“Par for the course, I think,” she says, looking over to me.
She’s tall, about five eight, thin (of course), with gray-green eyes, a dignified nose, and a sumptuous mouth.
It’s a good face. One that I am very familiar with.
And I am struck by how bizarre it is to meet someone you feel you already know.
Celebrity is a singular beast.
“Is this your first time at one of these?” she asks, cocking her head.
“Yes. My kids started in January. I believe our sons are friends.…”
“Who’s your son?”
“Julien. Julien Charlot.”
It takes a second. And then, “Ohhhhh, you’re Francois Charlot’s wife!” It’s not the response I was expecting. I keep forgetting that Fran is somewhat known here now. That his work is celebrated, even if mine is not.
“Julien is lovely. He and Eryx get on famously.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
After the initial sleepover at Derrick’s in Malibu, I’d had little direct contact with the family. Julien had spent a couple of Sunday afternoons at their house in Carbon Beach, but it had all been coordinated through their male nanny, whose name was, in fact, Manny.
“How are you liking Bancroft?” she asks, as we approach the parking lot and head toward the visitor spots.
“I like it, so far. Although, it’s much more touchy-feely than what we’re used to at home.”
She laughs. It’s her big Cressida James laugh, almost a snort, completely antithetical to her English-rose appearance and a huge part of her appeal.
“Oh, don’t I know it! I was shipped off to boarding school at the age of nine, where a teacher once stood watch for an hour straight while I cried over a bowl of congealed rice pudding.
She would not let me leave the dining hall until I finished it.
This place is like Euro Disney in comparison.
“Anyway,” she continues, “it’s still far more traditional than some of the progressive schools out here. What you just experienced was council lite. At Windwood, I’m told, they light a candle, sit on the floor, and pass a talking stick.
“Well, this is me,” she says, as we near a black-on-black Range Rover. “Nice chatting with you. I’m Cressida, by the way.”
“Cecilia.”
“Lovely to meet you, Cecilia. Welcome to Bancroft.”
“We haven’t prepared Julien for living here. I’ve failed him.” It’s later that evening, and I’ve managed to pin down Fran at his hotel for a quick FaceTime before he heads off to dinner.
“Why do you say that?”
“I haven’t taught him the code. I don’t know the code. How you should act around police. How to avoid being killed.”
“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”
“Nothing. Nothing happened. I just … I’m worried he doesn’t know how to behave to stay safe in this country.”
“Don’t be silly. He behaves like he behaves at home. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, Francois.”
He pauses for a second, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his elegant nose. He’s been up since three thirty AM, on set at four forty-five. They’d shot for eleven hours and were looking to do a similar day tomorrow.
“Where is this coming from, Cile?”
“Bancroft. I went to a parent discussion this morning on race and ethnicity, and it was mind-blowing. Incroyable. All these things I hadn’t thought of.
Or maybe at some time I had thought of them, but they didn’t feel pressing.
And now they do. Racism in France is more subtle, Fran.
It exists, but it’s more, like, who doesn’t get the top jobs versus who gets killed by the police.
And no amount of my teaching Julien self-esteem and perseverance and pride is going to protect him from a cop’s bullet. ”
“Oh là-là là-là. Okay, slow down. Julien is not a target. He’s not Black.”
“Of course he’s Black! What are you saying?”
“Il est métis, Cecilia. He doesn’t look Black really. He looks mixed or Arab or Brazilian or Mexican or something else. Not African American. They’re not going to target him in the same way.”
I pause for a second. Deep down, I know that this is mostly true.
But it doesn’t make me feel any better. My son, depending on his location, the company he keeps, the stereotypes and prejudices of the given culture, will be targeted in myriad ways.
Terrorist. Criminal. Undocumented. Thug.
Furthermore, teaching him that he benefits from not being regarded as fully Black is not exactly the message I want to convey.
He is Black. He will always be Black. That will forever be part of his history, his identity.
Regardless of what else is coursing through his veins.
Teaching him otherwise will do him no favors.
“They will still target him, Francois. He is still ‘other’ to them. They will target him. And this is America, where they shoot first and ask questions later.”