Small Town USA

Warning: Racial prejudice

                                   Small Town USA

                                  by Kryste Andrews

         “If you date a Mexican boy, you’ll get a bad reputation.”  Dad was stern and unmoving.   

         “But, Dad, Ricky’s the sweetest boy in our class, much nicer than the white guys. And he’s respectful."

         Ricky and I had become an item during the winter of our sophomore year, but dating the cute, popular Mexican boy was forbidden. I brought up the subject at home occasionally, but Mom and Dad didn’t realize how important Ricky had become to me.

       By spring, I was pushing hard for permission to go on a real date with my boyfriend. He would have his license soon and I wanted to be out with him in public – no more sneaking around. I was tired of feeling sad and tragic because his skin was darker than mine. Everything in me screamed at that injustice.      

       “I don’t care what people say, Dad.”  

      I couldn’t tell my dad about the feelings I got when I danced with Ricky, how his sweater smelled like the cologne he wore and how that made me want to burrow into his chest and stay there, wrapped in his arms. 

      “You’re too young to be dating just one boy,” Mom said.

       Dad said, “You have to think about how hard it is on children of mixed race. Kids suffer ‘cause they don’t belong anywhere in society.”

       “Kids! Who said anything about kids? We’re not planning to get married. We just want to date and I think that if you were really being Christian about it, you’d let me.”

       Actually, Ricky and I did talk of marriage. We’d move to Hawaii and live where there was a lot of mingling of races. No one would bother us there. 

       Dad wouldn’t budge. I was furious at him and at the whole town. It was society as a whole that infuriated me. Prejudice stood between me and happiness and I railed against it, fiercely protesting the closed minds that prevented me from acting on my rights as a human being. 

      Help arrived from an unexpected source.

      Dad’s oldest sister, Lillian, chose to fly out from California that spring. Flamboyant by small town standards, Aunt Lillian had moved to the west coast in her early twenties to seek her fortune. She had never married. Dad looked up to her because she’d become a successful business woman, owning a motel and raising nutria on her property in southern California, all on her own. 

       This aunt I was meeting for the first time appeared so sophisticated with her dramatic eyes and distinctive features on her pleasantly round face, but it felt like she was a divisive character in the family. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to like her or not. I watched for cues but the signals from Mom and Dad were mixed. Dad had never shown so much public affection for anyone as he did for his big sister with her long, dark braids wound around her head and pinned into a tidy circle on top.  Aunt Lillian called Dad her “little brother,” leaning towards him and laughing a lot. 

      Mother frowned and rolled her eyes at this. She and her brothers were never sappy like that with each other and she said Dad was “being foolish.”

     Normally, I’d have followed Mother’s lead and dismissed Aunt Lillian as a bad person, but I enjoyed watching the mutual affection between Dad and his “big sis.” It was a side of my dad I’d never seen before, a softer side that I liked

      Out of earshot, Mother voiced her opinion on the nutria Aunt Lillian brought with her.  “She snuck that little rat on the plane in her purse and then spent the trip showing it off to everybody. She’s just raising it to have it skinned. Couldn’t she stand to leave it for two weeks, for goodness sake?”                  

        Luckily, I didn’t have to take a stand for or against my aunt. She let me off the hook by ignoring me, acting as if I didn’t exist. She had no children of her own; maybe she hadn’t wanted any.

       Clearly, Aunt Lillian’s maternal instincts were nonexistent, but she had common sense when it came to human nature. Dad mentioned to her the dilemma of my desire to date Ricky and she voiced her strong opinion. 

       “Nova, you’d better let Kryste date this boy. She’s going to, anyway. If you deny permission, she’s gonna turn up pregnant. Let her go and the relationship will run its course. You’ll see.”

      Wise Aunt Lillian was the only person who could influence Dad. Permission was granted. 

       Aunt Lillian didn’t stop at this bit of successful counseling.  “Why don’t you invite the young man to dinner while I’m here? I’d like to meet him, get to know him a little.”

       I wasn’t crazy about putting Ricky through what could be a torturous meal with Mom, Dad, Aunt Lillian and me, but I passed along the invitation, anyway. Ricky accepted.  “It’s the price we have to pay,”  he said. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.  

      Our family rarely went out for dinner, so we didn’t consider going to the eating establishments in town - Polly’s Café or the Meloneer Inn. Nope, Mom would make one of her home-cooked suppers for this momentous introduction. She was good at stretching a dollar at Safeway and preparing balanced meals of  meat, potatoes and a boiled green vegetable like string beans. Sometimes she’d fill her green glass bowl with iceberg lettuce, a tomato and a generous slathering of creamy Ranch dressing and call it a salad, too.

      When Ricky arrived that Friday evening to be inspected, I could tell he was nervous but determined to appear confident and at ease. The fact he was willing to put himself through this torture made me love him even more. What would Aunt Lillian say to him? And how would Dad act? I hoped it wouldn’t turn into an interview. Dad could be intimidating. Nova Andrews was a fierce guy when he wanted to be, in spite of his Bible studies and church attendance. 

      Dad shook Ricky’s hand. “Welcome, Rick. Glad you could join us tonight.”

      “Thanks for the invitation, Mr. Andrews.” Ricky’s voice was steady and his handshake firm. He sat with me on the couch, both of us smiling awkwardly while Mother brought the steaming dishes to our old oak dining table, set with five places. 

       Aunt Lillian came over to us and Rick immediately stood up and held his hand out to greet her. She demurred, putting her right hand on his shoulder instead and smiling knowingly into his eyes. She was practically flirting with my fifteen-year-old boyfriend. Jealousy crept up my spine and suddenly I understood Mother’s resentment of her sister-in-law.  

       Oh, I get it, I thought.  She likes boys better than girls. Ricky was already a hit by just being male and cute. I was still miffed, but mostly relieved that the pressure was off. I left them chatting together and went to bring the last dish to the table, a platter of my least favorite meat – calves liver. I always slathered mine with ketchup to disguise the gamey flavor. 

        Mother must have found a sale on liver that week. Couldn’t she have chosen a tastier part of the calf to serve tonight?

        “Supper’s ready,” Mother called cheerily. I caught Ricky’s eye and motioned to his chair at the table. He sat to my left. Mother took her usual chair by Dad who sat at the head of the table as always.  Aunt Lillian was on Ricky’s left. 

       Dad looked around at us meaningfully and said, “Shall we say the blessing?” 

       It wasn’t a question, really.

       Ricky’s family didn’t pray before eating but I’d instructed him to bow his head and close his eyes while Dad asked God to bless the food. I peeked at Ricky while we prayed. His eyes blinked open for a second when Dad got to the part “and bless the hands that prepared this meal.” I detected a thinly-disguised look of horror on his face. I followed his gaze to the plate of liver.      

       Uh, oh, I thought, remembering. He hates liver.

       When Dad finished the blessing, the first thing Mother did was offer the meat to her guest, saying sweetly, “Ricky, help yourself. I hope you like liver.”

        I grabbed the plate from Mother and set it down between Ricky and me. Ricky took a long breath and said, in a controlled voice, “Thank you, Mrs. Andrews.”     

        He looked at me, then down at the meat. I picked up my fork and stabbed the smallest piece. As I put it on Ricky’s plate, he lifted his eyes to mine with a mixture of dismay and gratefulness. This is one meal he’ll never forget, I thought.

        I ladled out generous helpings of mashed potatoes with gravy for Ricky and he put a big pile of green beans on his plate. The measly portion of liver disappeared slowly as Ricky cut it into miniscule pieces and mixed each one with a forkful of potatoes or disguised it between helpings of green beans. His first glass of milk was soon gone, a chaser.

       “More milk, Ricky?” Mother asked.

        I looked at his plate. Three bites of meat remained. “Yes, thank you,” Ricky said. I squeezed his hand under the table. 

       Dessert was the highlight of every meal at my house and my spirits lifted at the thought of the iced donuts from the bakery and Mother’s homemade sugar cookies. When the platter of goodies came out, I smiled encouragingly at Ricky. 

        “Here’s the best part,” I said, grinning. My good feeling disappeared when Ricky only took one sugar cookie. I’d forgotten he wasn’t a sweets eater.   

        While I helped Mother clear the table, Aunt Lillian asked Ricky about his family.

        “It’s just me and my parents at home now. My older sister lives in Washington, D.C.” I could hear the probing questions and Ricky’s courteous answers as I hurried from the dining room to the kitchen and back again, carrying dishes until they were all piled up by the sink. I wondered if Ricky would stop speaking to me after this evening of torture.

       “Mother, do I have to help wash dishes tonight or can Ricky and I leave now?”

       “Go ahead, honey. I know you two want to go out. Be home by ten thirty, remember.”

        I made a quick trip to the bathroom and rushed to Ricky’s side. He and Aunt Lillian were standing together in the living room, talking like old friends.

        I watched, ignored, as Aunt Lillian held both of Ricky’s hands in hers and gazed soulfully into his eyes. “California is a long ways from here and I may not get back anytime soon. But I’m glad we met at least this once, Ricky. I can see you’re a very responsible and respectful young man.” She shot a quick glance at me. “Now you two go on. Have fun with your friends. Don’t keep Kryste out too late.” 

       Ricky thanked her warmly and smiled his sweet, crooked smile. I loved the way his brown eyes squinched up when he grinned. She’s going to hug him if I don’t get him out of here, I thought.

       We said our goodbyes and Dad shook Ricky’s hand again. In the car, Ricky floored the gas pedal and headed for the filling station six blocks away where he jumped out and raced to the bathroom. Two glasses of milk weighed heavily on his bladder but he had gritted his teeth and held on to avoid using the bathroom at the house. Aunt Lillian was right. Rick was responsible and respectful. Only I knew how self-disciplined he was.                           

      Aunt Lillian was spot on about letting the relationship run its course, too, as it turned out. Ricky and I spent a lot of meaningful time together all summer. I maintained strict boundaries when it came to petting although I was mad for his kisses and sometimes let his eager hands roam over the top of my clothes before pulling them away.

         As it happened, a different relative from California influenced our relationship at the end of the summer. Ricky and his cousin, Tommy, were “more like brothers,” they always said.  Born ten days apart, they were opposites in personality but spent as much time as possible playing together through the years, out on the Chavez acreage when Tommy visited and in the Minjarez neighborhood when Ricky traveled to California.

      Ricky was ambitious and Tommy was laid back. Ricky was sincere and Tommy was a player. Tommy wasn’t used to sharing his cousin with anyone nor could he understand why Ricky spent so much time with a girl without having sex. “She doesn’t really love you if she won’t have sex with you.”

       That summer Tommy regaled his cousin with visions of horny girls waiting for them in California. Ricky came to me one late summer day wanting to talk. “I’m going to California for a few weeks and I just wanted you to know that Tommy is going to introduce me to some girls who really like him and they do things with him like using their tongues and stuff.” His words sounded scripted and he had trouble meeting my gaze.

      “You’re going to go to California and make out with other girls?”

      “Well, no, I mean, maybe, but don’t worry; I wouldn’t like ‘em or anything. They’re just into having fun and they could show me things.  I still want us to be together.  I can learn some things for us to do when I get back.” He assumed a wheedling tone. “We’ve gotta learn about this stuff somehow.”

      Ricky was trying hard to make the whole thing sound harmless, educationally sound even. I was not buying it.   I wanted to run but my body stayed glued to the picnic bench in the back yard. These were Cousin Tommy’s words coming from my boyfriend’s mouth. It was pretty clear that Ricky was already gone, though he sat close, trying to hold my hand and looking imploringly into my eyes. Tommy might as well have been sitting right there, too; he had so successfully driven a wedge between us. 

      I felt bamboozled. Was Tommy jealous of Ricky’s closeness with me? If so, he had won the battle over Ricky before I’d even realized we were at war.    

    Tears threatened but I held my breath, willing them not to spill over. I would not let him see me cry. I

kept my voice reasonable as I stood up.

    “If that’s what you want to do, then go ahead. But we’re done.” 

    I began walking towards the house. I wanted to say so much more, but couldn’t get any more words out

without crying. I just wanted him to leave so I could deal with the knot in my stomach and the tears that

hovered behind my eyes. 

    Standing and moving after me, Ricky continued trying to reason with me. His last plea was sincere, but

pitiful. “Kryste, I don’t want us to break up. But . . . but I guess we have to.”

    So, this was his decision; he was choosing Tommy and his playmates over me. My stomach hurt and I

thought I’d throw up.     

    Firmly, I said goodbye. He played the gentleman, dropping his head and turning to go. Now he could

claim I broke up with him, now that I wouldn’t go along with his and Tommy’s little sex education plan.

    I was overwhelmed by his betrayal. Ugly – that’s how I felt – ugly and betrayed, angry, self-righteous. 

 I pictured Ricky sitting in the back seat of a bus sticking his tongue in some girl’s ear and going much

further. The thought of his primitive need doubled me over with rage and confusion. This meant he didn’t

value me, couldn’t really care for me as I’d thought he did. 

     Mother listened sympathetically, inwardly sighing with relief. “I’m proud of you. You made the right

choice."

      Later, she’d tell Dad, and they would pray that the breakup would last.

     All through high school, Ricky and I danced around each other, still drawn by an undeniable attraction

but convinced the other one didn’t have sincere feelings of love. We didn’t officially date again, though the

invisible lure drew us together over and over. We acted in the same plays, played in the school band and

hung out in the same clique while the thread of attraction disappeared into the chasm that deepened

between us.

     If it hadn’t been for Cousin Tommy, things might have gone differently with Ricky and me. If I had to

do it over, would I fight for the right to date him openly?  

     Yes. I’d stood up for what I believed. It was the principle that mattered.     

     And love.