Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
LYNETTE
As a connoisseur of Black History, I knew the fragile nature of historical documents and records. And as a lover of my history, I was determined to make headway in the Grandma Zinnie, now possibly Zanitha Freeman, mystery.
Justus and I had piqued Mama and Aunt Pauletta’s interest with his essay and my field trip. They promised to do a deeper dive into the data they’d already collected. I, too, had given it my best efforts, but my best was a bust, and the dark hole of missing information was winning.
I’d resorted to haunting the internet in search of Zanitha Freeman with a modicum of caution, cognizant that there were no guarantees Ms. Freeman was Grandma Zinnie.
Other than Queen Lazuli.
I tapped my phone screen and enlarged the image.
There was no denying Granny’s brooch and the one in Ms. Freeman’s picture were one and the same.
Or at worst, a replica and imitation. Trying to remain level-headed, I allowed for the possibility that the brooch may have been a common piece of jewelry back then.
How likely is it that two different Black women rocked the exact same outfit with the exact same brooch?
I admitted it was too coincidental while rereading the paragraph regarding Zanitha Freeman’s birthplace. I paused, trying to recall if we had family in Georgia, and couldn’t.
“Sorry we’re running late, everyone, but thanks for your patience!”
My focus shifted to the long table in the lobby across from where I was sitting.
It was festive with balloons, snack baskets, swag bags, and glossy pamphlets.
It had been unattended when I arrived twenty minutes ago, so I’d copped a squat and did a little Zanitha Freeman/Grandma Zinnie investigating.
Now, three individuals stood there, smiling happily, ready for tonight’s mixer targeting potential re-entry graduate students.
I abandoned my seat to find my check-in line based on last name.
The number of attendees wasn’t overwhelming.
It only took a minute or two to make it to the front of the table, where I received an effusive greeting from a young woman whose shoulder-length hair featured every color of the rainbow, and was rather cute.
This is what we’re doing in grad school?
Commanding a second look were the piercings in her brows, septum, lip, and tongue, and the left side of her face being tattooed.
I wasn’t judging. I was simply accepting I was boring and basic in the shine of her colorful, edgy self-presentation. If she was indicative of the graduate school community, I was inevitably destined for its geriatric wing. Her pre-printed Hello My Name Is tag showed Kara. She was chatty, friendly.
“Here you go, Lynette Stanford-like-the-college that’s not our competitor.” We laughed. She waited while I affixed the adhesive name tag to my shirt before handing me my gift. “Here’s what you really came for… the swag bag!”
Laughing again, I thanked her and entered the event space thinking her quirkiness was sweet. And vaguely familiar. I couldn’t latch onto why as a thought filled my mind.
Baby girl, some of my most memorable students were those returning to college after an absence. They showed a greater appreciation for their education and brought a different depth to lecture discussions because they had life experience.
It was uncanny how a long-ago conversation with my father infiltrated my memory with such perfect timing.
It stilled the sudden burst of nerves that flared the moment I stepped into the room to find myself in a sea of millennials with a sprinkling of Gen Z’ers and a faint dash of my generation.
It wasn’t what I expected for a re-entry student event, and I immediately felt out of context and like the oldest person present.
Where was the pool of “seasoned” folks like me who’d decided to pursue their next-level education? Not one of them looked like they could relate to finding their first gray hairs and the battle of sagging breasts, wrinkly fingers, crow’s feet, talkative knees, or osteoporosis.
I snickered at my exaggerations and put some act right on my behavior.
Being one of the oldest in the group didn’t make me obsolete. I had what my father called good, enriching life experience.
I am valuable and relevant.
I looped that mantra on repeat as I approached the circular formation of cushy-looking armchairs, all the while straightening my spine and slowing my stride as if the ancestors celebrated my entrance.
I was there with divine purpose and felt emboldened or—as Granny might say—like I was stepping in high cotton.
Cotton and carpet were two different things. My foot snagged. I lurched forward but managed to correct my balance and avoid falling.
“Are you alright?”
I turned to find Rainbow Bright, or rather Kara, looking concerned. “Yes… thanks.”
“Cool. The refreshment table’s over there. Grab something. We’ll be starting in a few.” She whizzed by smelling like lavender and perhaps patchouli.
“Sis doesn’t have to tell me twice.” It was my yard duty week.
I’d spent my lunch time supervising the playground—drinking protein shakes versus eating.
I was hungry enough to swipe half the table onto my plate and embarrass my upbringing but opted for a bottle of water, baby carrots, pineapple chunks, flatbread pinwheel sandwiches, and a peanut butter cookie.
I found a seat and made small talk with other potential incoming students. We were a hodgepodge of ethnicities with a few nervous, uptight-looking folks. But most were pleasant. And non-geriatric. We were the admittees who hadn’t officially accepted yet. That’s what tonight was about.
I considered the soft lighting and upbeat music wafting through invisible speakers and creating a vibe.
A welcome video played on a wall-mounted TV screen.
I estimated thirty chairs and surmised multiple events were held to not overwhelm and foster intimacy.
Clearly, the organizers crafted this event to be a reassuring buy-in, sealing the deal and luring us to commit.
I haven’t committed to anything since Rodney.
I silenced that untruth. I was unquestionably committed to our child, my work, and family.
It was difficult imagining a space for a relationship and grad school, but Paul and I had progressed in the regularity of our phone calls and texts.
I was open. Or opening. Like Grandma Zinnie’s hands. I was willing to reach and receive.
“Did we do good with the freebies?”
I looked up to find Kara standing near my seat. “I haven’t even looked.”
I opened the reusable swag bag to find a plethora of goodies bearing the university’s name and branding. Water bottle. Journal and pen. Keychain. Portable charger. Snacks. And a complimentary t-shirt coupon I’d likely give to Justus. “Okay, it’s giving!”
Kara laughed and plopped down on the vacant chair beside me. “So, Lynette, you’re pursuing your master’s in education?”
“I am.” That, too, was on my name tag. I glanced at hers. “You’re in communication studies.”
She nodded. “I have a year left for my M.A., but I’m thinking about hanging around for my doctorate. Are you from Austin? I’m from Dallas. How long have you been out of college? Are you married? Divorced? Furry baby? Grandkids?”
My head tilted the slightest bit, wondering if Rainbow Bright was an undercover detective on assignment necessitating she be ten feet in my business. “Grandkids?”
“No insult intended. It’s just that… you know… this is a re-entry gig so you’re probably south of forty although you don’t look a week over thirty. I guess that’s because,” she framed her words in air quotes, “Black don’t crack. You could be in your sixties.”
I had no words. I simply watched her fidget as her cheeks and ears flushed red.
Her eyes darted left as she nervously rubbed her fingertips together before hopping up. “Excuse me. I forgot something.”
I studied her as she hurried away and realized what made her familiar when we first met.
She’s neurodivergent.
I wanted to follow her and alleviate any embarrassment but knew to respect her need for distance. I smiled at a couple entering the room instead. African-American. Slightly above my age bracket. Holding hands. Obviously intimate.
We exchanged smiles as they sat.
They were too far away to see the details, but both wore name badges with designated disciplines. I got the warm fuzzies realizing they were considering university life. Together.
That’s something Rodney and I might’ve done.
I brushed off that thought as if it was disloyal to Paul, or I was in some unintentional ménage à trois. I focused instead on the couple’s calming energy that seemingly floated across the room and had me feeling less out of place. And even young-ish.
“Good evening, hello, and welcome, everyone!”
I turned my attention to the man and woman standing beneath the TV screen.
They introduced themselves as the dean of graduate admissions and the director of academic advising and offered welcoming speeches before launching into a dreaded icebreaker.
“Tell us your celebrity crush when you were in your teens or twenties.”
Michael Jackson. LL Cool J. And Heavy D!
That got me grinning, reminiscing on asymmetrical hairstyles, doorknocker earrings, and block-color fashion in the Nineties. I was still cheesing when I noticed Kara’s return.
She took a seat on the opposite side of the room, head lowered and looking less energetic. Hands at the sides of her thighs, her thumbs and forefingers rubbed together in rapid succession.
Justus makes similar movements when concentrating or soothing himself.