Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
LYNETTE
April fifteenth.
I stared at the email hailing the date as more than the nation’s final day to file taxes without penalty. It was my decision deadline. Was I attending UT Austin?
As I sat in the waiting room while Justus had his bimonthly therapy session, my foot tapped a steady rhythm against the carpet as I considered my options.
Go? And possibly change my life. Don’t go? Remain status quo.
I wanted this opportunity for reasons beyond the obvious.
The career advancement and higher earning bracket.
The contributions to my retirement savings at a higher pay rate that made the time and energy necessary to earn this advanced degree well worth it.
What was unexamined, but my soul felt, was that this was a chance to succeed where I’d failed.
Rodney’s ringtone sounded on my phone before my mind could dart down that rabbit hole.
“Damn.” I’d outrun grace and postponing discussing Justus moving to California before I was ready. His father’s and my ongoing phone tag the past few days, and our texting about the matter, hadn’t gotten us anywhere. It had only caused delay.
I lowered my voice when I answered despite being the waiting room’s sole occupant. It was time to face the music. “Hey, Rod.”
“Hey, Nette. Congrats. You decide yet?”
“Huh?”
He laughed. “Bet you thought I was calling to jump in your grill about J coming here. I’m calling offering my congrats on grad school.”
I laughed in relief. “I apologize for not telling you directly. I honestly meant to. But everything with Granny…”
“No worries. Our son broadcasted your business. Yay or nay? Which is it?”
“I barely got the acceptance email. I need a minute to contemplate.”
“I’m in between meetings so I’ll give you five. Contemplate. Ruminate. Let’s get it.”
I blurted the truth without censoring. “I’m concerned after my undergrad experience.”
He didn’t miss a beat. Knew exactly what I was referencing. “You mean taking time off after your dad passed?”
“Yes.” Two weeks after Daddy’s funeral I returned to college and my part-time position as a resident advisor thinking diving back into my studies and being busy would distract me from grief.
Avoidance helped nothing. It backed me into a corner cramped with unexpressed heartache, pretense, and misery.
I cracked a month later. Wound up in the middle of the food commons rocking and bawling like a baby, barely cognizant of my surroundings. A classmate called my roommate, who walked me to the health office.
That breakdown led to a leave of absence.
“I spent a year getting back on track.” Went to grief counseling. Did art therapy. Reduced my double major and focused solely on a bachelor’s in education. Mama and my sisters expressed pure pride when I graduated. I knew joy mixed with shadows of disappointment.
I’d graduated a year later than planned. And, unlike my siblings, without high honors or distinction. Hindsight and wisdom assured me all was as it should be. Still. “Going back after all this time is nerve-racking.”
“The situation isn’t the same, Nette. Plus, you’re older, wiser.”
“Emphasis on old. I don’t have twenty’s knees or energy.”
He laughed that deep laugh of his. “You’ll be fine. Gotta go. Let me know what you decide. And remember you have an entire support tribe. Me included.”
I thanked him and disconnected, convincing myself being the only one without an advanced degree in my immediate family did not make me a weak link in a chain of greats. My family never looked down on me or treated me less-than. I had their support and reflected on that of my grandparents.
They’d always encouraged me to get what this country once denied African-Americans. Granny was quick to say, “Get your book learning. Once you do, can’t nobody take it.”
It was our triumph, our success despite America’s history of mistreatment and denied access.
What about Granny’s health and needs?
“Lynette, please! You know Granny.” I pulled a half-eaten protein bar from my teacher tote that I hadn’t finished at lunch, knowing Granny would never allow me to use her as an excuse.
She’d be first in line cheering. Equally important was my desire to set good examples for my son and leave a legacy he could be proud of.
So, why the vacillation?
I bit into the bar and admitted plain old-fashioned fear. Period.
Did I have the bandwidth to manage grad school and work?
My program of interest was designed with career persons in mind.
Still, would the curriculum prove too vigorous?
What if it did and my job performance suffered?
Or I couldn’t balance things efficiently and short-changed my students?
Most importantly, what about being a mother to Justus?
I looked around the therapist’s office, taking in the colorful ambience, proud of my son and how he’d grown and adjusted since his initial diagnosis. I couldn’t interrupt or reverse that progress by being less available to him or disrupting his normal.
He won’t break, Lynette. He’s strong and resilient. Give him credit.
I acknowledged that truth while latching onto the fact that grad school acceptance required an enrollment deposit. It was only a few hundred dollars and wouldn’t break my bank, per se. But I was hypervigilant about money and had zero to play with. For me, paying that deposit equaled commitment.
My foot was bobbing nervously against the carpet, and I felt the beginnings of a headache despite the evidence stacked in my favor, including a built-in support system.
Lynette! Poop or get off the pot.
That was one of Granddad’s sayings. Except he omitted poop in favor of an expletive. Still, the point remained the same. I was a free-will agent empowered with decision-making capabilities. Whether yay or nay. The choice was mine to make, and I needed to make it.
“Class! Class!”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“No one is boarding the bus and going on this field trip until there’s complete silence. That includes you, Alejandro R. and Alejandro M.”
“Yeah, so be quiet, little twinny twins.”
I shot a hardcore teacher stare at Kayla Gipson, one of my most loquacious students. “Miss Gipson, what part of ‘silence’ was easy for you to misinterpret?”
Her impish little grin disappeared instantly, allowing me to refocus on doling out last-minute instructions.
Reminding ten- and eleven-year-olds about school rules, expectations, and not to interact with strangers seemed redundant, but being one of four teachers responsible for nearly a hundred fourth graders on a field trip required extra caution.
“Remember, ladies and gentlemen, your participation in future events can be revoked for inappropriate behavior.”
“Yeah, so board this bus like you woke up with good sense.”
“What Mrs. Browne said.” I pointed at Nichelle, sporting our mandatory-for-off-campus-outings school logo t-shirt, which she’d blinged out with rhinestones and cut-hem fringe.
With her polka dot leggings, lacy bobby socks, and purple high-rise Converse—or Chuck Taylors as the kids would say—sis was giving.
“If you’re ready and we can do this, give me a silent thumbs-up. ”
I grinned at our students’ vigorous thumb salute as Nichelle and I went into action.
We worked in tandem, calling and checking off names as each child boarded, confirming they were wearing our school’s requisite purple and white logo-emblazoned t-shirts for easy identification in public places.
“Hallelujah, that’s done. Everyone’s present and accounted for,” Nichelle celebrated as the last child boarded the bus transporting our combined classes. “I hope they took some anti-heathen pills this morning. I don’t wanna choke-check nobody.” She feigned a karate chop.
“Girl, get on the bus and hush.” I waved at our colleagues—two other fourth-grade teachers whose classes were also included on the field trip—there in front of the school where our yellow buses waited like oversized Twinkies.
I boarded and returned the greeting from the driver of our Twinkie, a good-looking Black man with a toothpaste commercial smile. He was in my age range with a little extra padding about the waist. But who in our age bracket didn’t have a few pounds hanging on like freeloading relatives on payday?
“He’s cute, huh?” Nichelle whispered as I slid onto the vacant seat beside her.
“And very married.” I’d noticed his wedding band after my vision cleared from his blinding teeth.
“Well, he’s ugly then. How many left-behind kids on your list?”
“Three.” I felt a ping of sympathy for the names at the bottom of my list indicating the students who wouldn’t be accompanying us due to lack of a signed permission slip as required for liability purposes by our school district.
They’d been long in the face like little lost puppies as they trudged next door to spend the day with Ms. O’Brien’s third-grade class with all the joy of undergoing a root canal. “Yours?”
She held up a single finger. “Guess which one…”
We answered in unison, “Jaxson.” His older brother was in my class last year and no matter the field trip, science project, or movie requiring permission, their parents always marked Denied, citing religious reasons.
“Nette, what spiritual contamination’s gonna infest these kids at a children’s theater?”
“We listen, Nichelle. We don’t judge.”
“He probably can’t come because the play features Black Women’s History Month.”
“I’m Black all day every day and I’ve never had a problem with the parents.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re not low-key racists with a collection of four-lettered red dad caps designed by the insurrectionist clown king of limited vocabulary.”
I snickered at Nichelle’s description of one of our country’s most divisive political tyrants as she stood and faced the busload of students behind us, reminding them once again of today’s expectations.
“Now… who’s ready to enjoy a play celebrating the contributions of Black women? Raise a hand. Show some love!”