Genesis Begins Again: Chapters 7–13

“Yeah.” I scoot back, gauging his mood.

He pulls on his mustache, mulling it over. “Naw, can’t say I have.”

I grin because I can’t believe I’m stumping Dad.

“But you see,” Wikipedia Dad goes on, “Gandhi had a vision of peace...way across the ocean in India, with all the hustle and bustle of cars driving through crowded streets and cows crossing right in the middle of roads, there was this little man...”

And I soar across India, catch a delicious whiff of chicken from a vendor, watch men driving motorbikes through crammed roads, and hear hypnotic music from stringed instruments.

Still, I can’t help picturing girl cliques strutting down the halls together, and how I’m usually the one standing on the sidelines, watching instead of being watched.

Heck, it was because of Mrs. Hill talking about family history that I even pried in the first place.

She does this with several more students. “Eloise, breathe deep into your diaphragm like I showed you...that’s better. Belinda, let’s hear you...good pitch. All together now...stop, stop, stop.”

Fingers itched. Hands fretfully rubbed foreheads.

Dad stood up, and came at me. “You!” His breath rancid.

She seems to be pondering something deep, like man’s existence.

She tilts her head back and gritty raw sugar spills out.

“Your father never told you about Angela Davis? Oh, Angela was this activist associated with the Black Panthers.” Mama tells me how Angela fought for civil rights, but she doesn’t tell stories like Dad, so I make a mental note to ask him about her later.

“Then I met your daddy,” she’d said. “He was determined, charismatic, plus that man could dance!”

“No,” I say, gingerly touching the burnt spot.

Mama places the comb back on the burner and puts a little grease on my hair for sheen.

“Be still," Mama chides. She blows on the comb as she gets the iron insanely close to my scalp.

Mama pushes my head back down. “Gotta get the kitchen.”
The kitchen is at the nape of the neck. Why grown folks call it that I have no idea.

This is my cue to slink down the hall to my room and close the door.

Mama must’ve been doing some heavy-duty thinking. And Dad’s stupid antics haven’t helped his cause.

There’s only one real reason that someone would be hiding out in the restroom with a flushed face.

“What was she like? Hmph, country and unrefined.” Grandma pours coffee into her cup.

“She didn’t care for my Sharon. Claimed we acted uppity...because we were ‘yellow.’” Grandma snatches the curtain closed. “What kind of nonsense is that?”

“Grandma?” I start, deliberating about asking this question, but I need to know. “Why don’t you like my dad? Is it because his mama called y’all yellow and stuff?”

“You see, Genesis, the folks my grandpa sold insurance to, those folks working in the mills and doing the hard manual labor were Black men. And, the poor sharecroppers? Black men. If he was able to get ahead, why couldn’t they? Then he realized something—most of these men weren’t just regular brown- or light-skin men, but...” Grandma stops herself.

Grandma barrels on, not expecting an answer. “I remember the day she came back home from the university. She was so happy, her new beau by her side. You could see it in her eyes.”

She knew what that meant. And she cried and cried, but Papa was resolute.

“Understand that my grandpapa was a forward thinker. Our lineage is full of doctors and professors and successful businessmen. It’s not luck, Genesis.”

I can’t stop fuming over Grandma’s revelation even after I’m done with my chores.

Grandma sidles up beside me and tugs on my clothes. “Stand up straight.”