—How about green with envy?
—Yellow fear?
—Icy blue!
—Purple passion!
—Ruby red lips!
—How about white heat?
—Or white as death?
—I know a real weird one. Chocolate is dark, right?
—Right! Brown and luscious!
—Ever eat white chocolate? It’s even better!
—Dag! Everything good that’s dark, they take it and make it white!
—How about black magic! Is that better than white magic?
—It’s more powerful!
—Well then, what about black gold? Oil! I’d be rich!
—Excellent, class. As you have shown, color is used all the time to create images in our mind. It’s society that implants positives or negatives onto certain ideas. You have the option to accept, reject, or change the stereotypes that currently exist.
—How do you mean?
—Okay, let me give you an example. In Puritan England, about 300 years ago, it was against the law to wear the color red. Anyone caught wearing red would be arrested and probably killed.
—Why? That’s stupid.
—It wasn’t stupid to them. They associated red with the devil and works of evil; therefore, anyone who wore that color must be guilty of evildoing.
—Hey, Keisha! You better get rid of that red sweater you’re wearin’! I heard a police car go by. I’d be glad to hold it for you.
—Shut up, Gerald. You are just used to running from police cars!
—Okay, now, calm down. Let me give you another example of how color bias can be changed—and this one is racial in nature. About twenty to twenty-five years ago, social activists started a campaign to get rid of unfair, negative racial stereotypes. That’s when we first started hearing the phrases, “Black is beautiful” and “Say it loud, I’m black and I’m proud!” Before that, black people in American had been called all sorts of terrible names. And all those thousands of years of the Black Knight and black cats and the blackness of death that people associated with negative ideas were associated with a group of people whose skin happened to be darker than the skin of the folks who seemed to be in charge here. Even Africa was called “the Dark Continent.”
—I see what you mean. My mother told me about all that stuff. She said when she was little, all she could buy were white dolls. Every little black girl had a beautiful white baby doll with long blonde curls to love and to hug.
—You’re right, Rhonda. I had one like that myself.
—You did? Now that’s funny!
—Well, times have changed. Stereotypes of color, race, and gender are slowly disappearing. It’s up to you people to make a world that is better. Well, there’s the bell. Good discussion, class. No homework tonight. Enjoy the snow.
—Are you feet cold, Andy?
—Not really. Yeah, maybe a little. Hey, Keisha, can I ask you somethin’?
—Sure.
—Do you think Robbie is cold?
—What?
—It’s so cold today. And there’s so much snow. Do you think he’s cold?
—What makes you think of stuff like that?
—I was just thinkin’ about how cold my feet are and how uncomfortable it makes me feel. And I was just wonderin’ if Robbie is feeling like this all over.
—Andy, I don’t think you should be talking like this.
—So cold. So cold. I can’t stand it! I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout Robbie out there frozen and cold in the cemetery. It’s drivin’ me crazy!
—Andy, stop it! You’re driving me crazy. Robbie can’t feel anything, Andy. Robbie is warm and at peace.
—Are you sure?
—As sure as I can be.
—Warm?
—Warm.
—At peace?
—At peace. Like I wish you could be. Now let’s get out of here. If we miss the bus and have to walk in all this snow, then we’ll really know what cold is.
—Okay, okay. Here I come…. Cold…. Cold…. So cold….
Accepting Fear—
Escaping Pain
Andy and the Psychologist
JANUARY 12
—So Andy, here we are again. Are you ready?
—You called the meetin’, boss.
—How do you like all this cold weather?
—I don’t. Everything is cold and dirty and generally depressin’.
—Do you find yourself depressed very often?
—Yeah, sometimes I don’t even want to get out of bed.
—Do you feel sad?
—Not really. Just heavy, like I’m carryin’ ‘round Mike Tyson’s punchin’ bag inside of me.
—Do you ever feel like you’re “out of touch” with reality?
—Well, yeah, now that you mention it. Me and Keisha went for a long walk a couple of weeks ago (I have no wheels anymore—remember?). We’d been talkin’ ‘bout Rob and the holidays and how his family must have felt.
—Have you talked to either of Rob’s parents since that phone call you had from his mother on Christmas Day?
—Naw, man. I ain’t got the nerve. I know they must hate me. Why would they want to talk to the person who killed their son?
—It might be worth a try. You were Rob’s best friend, weren’t you?
—Yeah, I guess.
—I bet they’d be glad to talk to you.
—Maybe.
—So go ahead—you were talking about the walk you took with Keisha.
—Yeah. We stopped at a freeway overpass, and we just stood there for a minute, watchin’ the cars whiz under us. Their lights were on, and they came at us like bullets, it seemed—too fast to count. I thought about the four of us the night of the accident, on that same expressway, and I noticed that the retainin’ wall was really only ‘bout four feet high.
—Did you remember it differently?
—Yeah. That night, it seemed like a mountain. And the longer I stood there, the more I became like—sorta hypnotized by the slick whistlin’ of the cars as they rushed beneath us. And I wanted to jump.
—Why do you think you felt like that?
—I don’t know why—I just felt like I should be down there, like if I were part of that fast-movin’ rush, I wouldn’t feel anythin’ anymore, and everythin’ would be cool again. I think I even leaned over, really ready to join those bullet-things down below.
—So what happened then?
—Keisha grabbed my jacket and screamed at me, “Andy Jackson! Get your stupid butt away from that railing! Are you crazy?” It’s like I sorta came to then, and I looked at her as if she was from another planet. I guess I was the one actin’ spacey, but she just told me to take her home. By the time we got to her house, it had started to snow, and we were both breathin’ normally again.
—Did she say anything else?
—No. I just looked at her, and I said, like real soft and easy—“Thanks.” Then I kissed her real lightly on the lips and went home. We never mentioned it again. And nothin’ like that ever happened again.
—Why did you say you felt like you should be down there with the cars? Did you feel like you wanted to die?
—Die?…Yeah…. No…. I don’t know. Why you talkin’ ‘bout dyin’?
—Have you ever thought about being dead, Andy?
—I used to. Right after the accident I wanted to be dead. I wanted it to be me that was dead instead of Rob. I wanted the hurtin’ to go away.
—What about now? Do you ever think about death?
—To tell you the truth, man, I think about it all the time.
—Does that frighten you?
—Yeah, sometimes. It seems like bein’ dead is the only way I’ll ever feel alive again. Does that make sense?
—Sure it does, Andy. You’re hurting and you can’t find an escape from the pain and you’re frightened because the only way out seems to be something you can’t even verbalize. Am I right?
—Yeah, man. You’re the first
person that will even talk about death to me. People are scared of it, and nobody, not even my friends and family, wants to talk about it. It’s kinda a relief to bring it out finally.
—There’s nothing wrong with thinking about or talking about death, Andy. And it’s normal for your thoughts to center on this subject. After all, the death of a friend is a traumatic experience in itself.
—So I ain’t crazy?
—Not even a little bit.
—Suppose it’s more than just thinkin’ about death in general. Suppose I told you I sometimes think about killin’ myself.
—I’d say I’m not surprised. Sometimes it’s part of the guilt and grieving process—to consider suicide as an alternative to the pain. But the answer is life, Andy, not death. So then I’d tell you about the other alternatives to help eliminate the pain.
—Like what?
—Like talking to Rob’s parents. Like writing a letter to Rob. Like talking to other kids who might consider drinking and driving. Do you think you could handle any of those?
—Yeah, probably. Maybe. I don’t really know.
—And then I’d ask you to promise me that if you got so depressed that you didn’t think you could handle the situation, you’d call me before you did anything to harm yourself. Could you promise that?
—Yeah, I’d call you. But I ain’t stupid, man. I might think about it, I might even threaten it, but I ain’t hardly gonna kill myself. I ain’t got the nerve.
—That’s good. Do you feel a little better now that we’ve verbalized some things that you were unsure of or unwilling to talk about?
—Yeah, I do.
—Do you think if you wrote a letter to Rob, or to his parents, it would help eliminate some of the pain?
—I don’t know. I never thought about it.
—Why don’t you try to write one of those letters and bring it next time that you come, okay?
—Dag! Now I got homework from my shrink! I can’t win.
—Yes, you can, Andy. You’re a winner all the way.
—You really think so?
—I know so. You remember now—you promise to call me if you need me—any time of the day or night, okay?
—Yeah, okay.
—Peace, man.
—Later.
Night and Dreams
Andy and Monty
Just before Bedtime
JANUARY 14
—Hey, Andy—would you turn my light back on?
—Why? You scared of the dark, Monty?
—No, I just want to be able to see stuff while I’m fallin’ asleep.
—How you gonna see stuff? Your eyes be closed.
—Yeah, but if I hafta open ‘em real quick—like if it was a fire or a robber or a monster or something—I could see what I needed to see.
—Okay, okay, I’ll leave the light on. You get to sleep now.
—Andy?
—What?
—When you dream, do you dream in color or in black and white?
—I don’t know. I never thought about it. Where do you get these questions?
—Hey, I’m six years old. I got a lot to learn.
—You got that right.
—So, tell me. Are dreams in color, like on TV, or black and white, like those old movies that Daddy likes to watch?
—I guess dreams are in color. That makes sense, don’t it?
—Maybe black people dream in color, and white people dream in black and white. That makes sense to me.
—Seems to me that stuff that makes sense to you don’t make much sense to nobody else in the world. Who knows? You may be right. Now go to sleep.
—Andy?
—What?
—Do you ever have bad dreams?
—Yeah, man. Sometimes. I guess everybody does at one time or another.
—About monsters and robbers and stuff?
—Naw, man. That’s kiddie nightmares. I have grownup nightmares about chemistry tests and dragon-breathin’ teachers and bein’ caught in a rich white neighborhood after midnight.
—That ain’t scary.
—It’s scary if you’re seventeen. Let’s get some sleep now. You ask too many questions.
—Are you gonna go to sleep now too?
—Yeah, in a little bit. I’m gonna call Keisha and then I’ll turn in.
—When’ll Mama and Daddy be home?
—I don’t know. They went out to dinner—first time in a long time. They need to get out every once in a while.
—Yeah, I guess. I’m not scared, though, ‘cause I got my light on, and I got you in the next room.
—Oh, wow! You got Andy the Might Protector!
—Yeah, and if that don’t work, I got my Teenage Warrior Space Soldier.
—You sleep with that thing?
—Yeah, why not?
—You too big to be sleepin’ with stuff like that.
—I am not. If you slept with a warrior space soldier, maybe you wouldn’t have nightmares either.
—I’ll keep that in mind. Good night, little dude.
—Good night, Andy.
—Hello, may I speak to Keisha?…Hi, Keisha. Watcha doin’?
—Nothing much. Finishing up my homework and thinking about you.
—Oh yeah? Good stuff?
—Yeah, mostly.
—Like what?
—Like how much fun you can be sometimes. Like how patient you are with Monty. Like how things brighten up when you’re smiling.
—You ever think bad stuff about me?
—Sometimes. I mean, sometimes I worry about you.
—Yeah, I know. Sometimes I worry about myself.
—How come?
—Like for instance, I look at Monty and his future looks so bright. He’s cute and he’s smart. He’ll be a doctor or a lawyer some day. I can tell. But me, I don’t see me bein’ nothin’ in the future.
—You mean you see yourself as one of those street people with no place to go?
—No. I mean I don’t see myself at all. When I think about the future, all I see is a blank—and darkness.
—That’s depressing. What do you see for me in the future?
—You? You gonna be the first black woman somethin’-or-other. If there ain’t one yet, you gonna be it.
—You’re crazy. And don’t you see yourself with me as the husband (or maybe the secret lover) of the first black woman something-or-other?
—No, I don’t. I don’t know where I’ll be, but I’m not there with you. I’m not anywhere.
—Very strange, your visions of the future. What about the near future, like next Friday?
—That far, I can see.
—Do you see us getting together?
—I see us at a movie…. I see us at Mickey D’s for burgers…. I see us makin’ passionate love in the moonlight!
—I think your crystal ball is cracked. But two out of three ain’t bad.
—Which two were right?
—Get off the phone, silly dude. I’ll see you tomorrow.
—G’night, Keisha. You know, I like talkin’ to you on the phone.
—Why?
—’Cause you don’t make fun of me when I start talkin’ off-the-wall stuff. And you listen to whatever foolishness I got to say.
—That’s ‘cause I like you, Andy. And I care about you.
—You’re somethin’ special, you know.
—That’s what all the fellas say.
—Girl, get outta here. Talk to you tomorrow.
—Okay, Andy. Bye. You going to sleep now?
—Yeah. My head is on the pillow and I’m gonna fall asleep think’ ‘bout you.
—Then I guess you’ll have sweet dreams. Good night.
—’Night, Keisha.
—Andy! Andy! Andy! Why are you sleepin’ in that soft warm bed with the fresh blue pillowcases? I’m cold, Andy. Can I borrow a blanket?
—Who’s there? Who said that?
—It’s me, brother. Your main man, Roberto. And yes, I’m col
d. Very cold. It’s no fun bein’ dead.
—I’m sorry, Rob. You know I didn’t mean to hurt you.
—Understood, my man. But when’re you comin’ to keep me company?
—Me?
—We could play some on-on-one. You know I always could beat you.
—What you talkin’ about? You want me to be dead?
—Yeah, man, with you dead, it’ll be live! Wait a minute. Does that make sense?
—None of this makes sense. What do you want, Robbie?
—I want you, Andy. You. Ain’t no black folks in the part of Heaven that I been assigned to and I’m bored.
—What?
—Computer foul-up. Since my last name is Washington, they put me in the section with George and Martha. Nice folks, but boring! George never even heard of basketball, and Martha keeps askin’ why there ain’t no slave quarters in Heaven. So I spend most of my time (which, by the way, is an eternity) bringin’ ‘em up to date on American history. And you know I slept through most of Killian’s class, so I’m runnin’ out of things to tell ‘em.
—Rob, you drivin’ me crazy! None of this makes any sense. I must be dreamin’!
—Sure, you’re dreamin’. You know, if you had a Teenage Warrior Space Soldier with you, I couldn’t be botherin’ you. They’re pretty powerful, you know.
—You mean Monty was right?
—Sure. And tell him he’s also right about dreams. It’s true—black folks do dream in color. Big dreams need technicolor. So, when you comin’?
—I can’t, Rob. Please leave me alone.
—It’s all your fault, you know. All your fault. You got the beer. You drove the car. You smashed into the wall. You killed me. And now you gotta come and keep me company.
—No! I swear I didn’t mean to! It was an accident! A horrible, horrible accident!
—I’m waitin’ for ya, Andy…. I’m waiting….
—No! No! No! Get outta here! Leave me alone!
—Andy? You okay?
—Wha—? What? Whatsa matter, Monty? Why you in here?
—You were screamin’. Did you have a bad dream after all?
—A bad dream? Yeah, I guess so. I’m okay now.
—You want my Teenage Warrior Space Soldier? I got two. Rocketman is the most powerful, but Astroman has the most weapons.