A Fly on the Wall

A hush came over the students as the door of the classroom slammed open against the wall.

“Good morning. I hope everyone had an excellent weekend. I saw on Instagram that some of y’all were at the movies together, is that right?” Dr. Broadus always liked to start her classes with a little catch-up.

“Us,” Erika chirped, eagerly pointing to herself and the two young women sitting with her.

Dr. Broadus made her way slowly down the aisle near the wall. “Well isn’t that nice. I’m glad to see some of y’all are making friends this early in the semester. It’s hard being a freshman, most of you bein’ in a new city.” Dr. Broadus had finally made it to the front of the classroom, leaning her walker against the wall and sitting in a desk chair in front of the several rows of tables the classroom had.

“Come on, now. Circle up. We have something to read today. You know we can’t do any discussin’ in these rows. Bring your chairs on around now. There you go.”

The class was small, about 13 students. The tuition made it possible for Freshman to have a class just for them. Just to adjust to the college life.

“We’ve got some readin’ to do today. Anybody hear about what’s been going on this past week?” The students all nodded slowly, whispering little yeses. Loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to not sound like a volunteer to speak.

“Well. Let’s just get into the reading for today. This is an excerpt from a memoir. It might speak to this week’s events. It might even help you understand a little about how folks are feelin’. So let’s jump in.

The students took the stapled copies, a title written in pen copied at the top. The round robin reading began:

Excerpt from “A Fly on the Wall” by Edna Harris

“Scooch over!” Hissed Willie. A fly buzzed by my head. I swatted at it. Then Mama swatted at me.

           “Shush up!” Auntie Hattie spit through gritted teeth. I wanted to whine that it was all Willie’s fault. That he kept pokin’ me to move. But Auntie Hattie wouldn’t take too kindly to that. I was a big girl of six and I knew from ‘sperience that Auntie Hattie and mama were not interested in justice for me right now. Just silence. My armpits chafed on the itchy lace. I unglued my bottom from the pew kneeler and plopped myself on the bench next to Mama.

           “Shh,” she whispered as she put her arm around me. I moved myself carefully onto her lap, dipping my head down to avoid the wide brim of her purple straw Sunday hat. I put each of her forearms under my own skinny arms and held her hands, opening them and closing them I as listened to the preacher.

           Last night we’d had dinner with our family. The screen door banged as my cousins and I ran in and out. I heard Mama talking to Auntie Hattie and Uncle Big Willie about the man that would be preaching the next morning. Called him Doctor King. I abandoned my game of tag even though Willie was a rotten apple and deserved a good beating once I caught him.

           “A doctor? Am I getting a shot at church tomorrow?” I asked nervously, my breath ragged as I recovered from chasing Willie.

           “Sweet little thang. No, sugar. Doctor King is a minister. He’s tryin’ to make white folk come to see black folk in a different way,” She bent over and kissed my cheek.

           “But all you need to worry about is sittin’ still and stayin’ quite, girl. We ain’t gon’ be embarrassin’ our family tomorrow,” Auntie Hattie chided.

           “Yes ma’am,” I said and ran off to find Willie.

           Now, sitting on Mama’s lap in the hot pew in the middle of a packed church, I was bored. It felt like Doctor King had been talking all morning. I’d used a pencil to circle all the letter A’s in my leaflet, I’d reorganized the pennies in my coin purse several times, and I’d even rested my eyes, head lain on the seat of the pew, my bottom sticking out behind me on the kneeler. Doctor King’s sermon and lulled me back and forth as I whiled away my time, but just as boredom came to a head, I noticed something different. His speech was quiet with rises and swells. Speaking of faraway places in Africa. Of colonies. But now, now his voice was full and bellowing. Now, he was speaking of us, not Africans. Now, he was calling us to action.

           A boy named Marshall was reading aloud when he had a thought.

           “Why’d you stop reading, Marshall?” Dr. Broadus asked. She knew he’d noticed.

“Dr. Broadus, when Dr. King said those things, did you know that you were being oppressed?”

           Dr. Broadus looked up at Marshall. His eyes sparkled with curiosity. He wasn’t asking if the story was about her. He knew it was. And he knew that she knew.

           “Marshall, when you were six, did you know you were oppressed? When was the first time someone said something racist to you? When was the first time that you knew being black didn’t only make you different? That it made you less than?”

           Marshall was quiet for a moment, lost in thought. He looked around the circle at the other freshmen. Most of his classmates were Hispanic. Some white. But none black.

           “Yes I knew when I was six. Heck, I knew when I was four. We came home from dinner, my family and me, and my dad left everyone in the car to run inside and unlock it. It was raining and he wanted the door unlocked before my mom started getting everyone out of the car. He was always a gentleman. The problem was, we were rich. Sure my parents came from nothing but my dad was smart and had made it to the top of an up-and-coming company that grew and grew. By the time I came along we were living in the wealthiest part of our city.

           Well a cop was patrolling the area. And when he saw my black dad running to the door of our million dollar home with his car running in the driveway, he thought it was suspicious. He detained my father, just long enough for him to pull out his driver’s license and prove this was his house. But it was also long enough for me to notice and wonder why that cop thought my dad didn’t belong in that house.

           I knew then that there was a problem with being black. I didn’t understand the problem until I got older, but I knew it was there from that moment on.”

           Dr. Broadus smiled at Marshall.

           “You see, class, the riots this week are not about police brutality. Not wholly. They are about a group of people who has been treated less-than. Since the time they could first remember, they knew to be ashamed of their color. Of their place in society. And right now, we could listen to this sermon that I heard from Dr. King’s own mouth from my perch on Mama’s lap and it would be no less pertinent. So let’s listen to it today. I’ll pull it up on YouTube.”

           Dr. Broadus began her long walk to the computer as he students began mumbling back and forth. She heard whispers, a girl asked Marshall to tell her more about his interactions with police. Juan wanted to interject how he’d had similar problems. As Dr. Broadus searched on the computer for her video, she smiled. A lifetime after hearing that sermon in Alabama, she was sparking conversations about race in society among children of all backgrounds so that they could better understand each other and their role in helping society change.