Fiction: Token
By Brianca Hadnot
arttimesjournal December 24, 2020
Mincah couldn’t speak. Her braids hung like loose vines passing a curtain over her tear streaked face. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words ran together quickly, and then fell apart. Her heart felt heavy with all the things her tongue had not yet learned to say. She stuttered and stopped, tripping over her teeth, and then puttered out.What did finally come out was only a shadow of what she had meant to say. “I hate it here.”
The classroom was empty now, but there were a total of thirty three students in Burton High’s Sociology course. None of which wanted to be there, they had each been promised their choice of elective: art, dance, culinary skills, woodshop; but after the district initiated mandatory budget cuts, they had been reassigned to the last course with open slots.
Ms.Burr ,a first year teacher who chose to overlook this reality, committed herself to “cultivating long lasting relationships that dismantles barriers of race and alienation.” None of the students had any idea what she meant, but from what they could tell, it involved watching the movie Forest Gump every day for three weeks.
It wasn’t until last Tuesday that Ms. Burr turned off the video and addressed the class. She stood before them wearing an orange and purple patterned dress that landed just above her knees and complimented her fine blonde hair. She was surveying the room, and Mincah couldn't help but notice how the thin lipped woman’s eyes sparkled. Each time Ms. Burr turned, looking from one side of the room to the next, the sun would catch just so, and the blue in her eyes would shine with hints of gold.
“Your assignment” Ms. Burr said cheerfully, nearly singing the words, “ Is to bring a dish that represents your culture.” she held the word Culture a beat longer, and looked to Mincah.
The girl noticed, and her cocoa eyes narrowed into slits. She immediately decided she didn't like the sparkle in her eyes or her ugly dress. In fact she didn’t like Ms. Burr.
Who’s culture would they be learning about? she wondered. Mincah could feel the stares already, she was one of eleven black kids in a predominantly latin school. She had transferred a year earlier after receiving brochures of smiling students-and a line that said “state of the art science labs”.
But, on her first day, anybody with a pulse could see that those labs hadn’t been “state of the art” for at least ten years or so, and she also noticed that although the pamphlet had a rainbow of happy students, the school was mostly vanilla. When she got to her fourth class a boy asked her if she tasted like chocolate.
“What”
“Well, you look like Chocolate. But, I want to know, “Do you taste like chocolate?” he leaned into his chair, and smiled confidently then.
Around the room, the other students waited, watching her, everyone wanted to know what would the black girl do.
Her face flushed red , in her mind she told him to fuck off and lick his own damn arm. Her skin wasn't even that black.
But, in the heat of the moment she choked. She tried to speak but only managed to stammer a fumbled “f-f-f-uck off.”
After that, she began to take her lunch on the fields, where she could be alone. Most of her days were like that at first, students constantly fielding her with questions: Could she dance? What was her favorite sport? Where did she buy her hair?
But, overtime the girl’s novelty faded; outside of Ms. Burr and a few other well to do faculty, Mincha was ignored.
Initially, this had hurt, but the sting of rejection had numbed and she took no notice when she wasn't invited to parties or conveniently left out of group projects. She had given up vying for the attention and acceptance of her peers and regulated herself to being relatively invisible.
That evening, still thinking of Ms.Burr and her stupid project, Mincah found her mother washing dishes. She was humming along to the stereo, her blue scrubs had splashes of dishwater and food residue. The scent of sauteed onions lingered about the house.
Ms. Guillory was a proud Louisiana woman, Creole as she called it. And, although she had forgot PaTois many generations back, she had the recipes. And, she had the spirit.
Mincah slid the directions out of her bag, handing them to her mother. The woman stopped scrubbing, and grabbed the paper. She read quietly, only pausing to say “Ummm…” every line or so. Then she handed it back. Mincah waited, but her mother had turned now and started scrubbing all over again.
“I was hoping,” Mincah began slowly, “Maybe… if you had time.. You could make a coubion.” she looked up then, and gave her best puppy dog expression, her eyes wide like saucers and her bottom lip hanging pitfully.
Ms.Guillory’s stone face broke at the sight of this, and her beauty gave way. As she smiled the deep dimples in her cheeks peeked through and her coffee colored eyes felt warm and inviting. Her cocoa skin was smooth, and Mincah saw just how much the two looked alike.
That night, the two of them cooked her favorite dish; A seared fish with red gravy, stewed tomato, a medley of spices and a bed of white rice. They played zydeco, and told stories and laughed and ate and when morning came Mincah was bursting with excitement. She carried the creole delicacy in her mother’s good crystal. It had floral patterns that cast rainbows in the light.
Originally, Mincah had chosen a plastic bowl they had gotten from the 99 cent store, but her mother had said “presentation is everything”, and shoved the crystal into her arms.
Mincah had to admit, the meal looked even better, her mother had layered the filets of fish perfectly, and she had been extra careful all day.
In Ms. Burr’s class students had already arrived, when Mincah got there the table was flowing with a variety of dishes: spicy salsas, tacos, steak fajita,homemade tortillas, menudo. The smell of spices danced together, and Mincah’s mouth began to water. She proudly sat her dish in the center.
Mincah watched as one by one her classmates sampled from each pot. She smiled inwardly as she waited for the first compliment. She’d thought about this moment all night. How one by one students would try it, and be amazed. How she would be modest, charming. And once she had everyone's attention she would finally set the record straight. She would finally have the chance to explain who she was.
And, when they asked for seconds, which she knew they would because she always did, she would be kind and split it evenly with all of them. Nothing like they had treated her.
But, as the room began to stir with compliments, and fascination, no one said anything to her. She went over to the table then, pretending to scoop another spoon of Emily B’s salsa verde, but in reality she was really peering into her pot.
It was perfect. The seared fish covered in spicy red gravy was exactly as her mother had packed it. Something snapped then, standing there, seeing all that hasn't been touched. She felt a pinch behind her eyes.
Fed up, Mincah plucked her dish from the others. She dropped it on her desk with a great clank. Bent her head, and pierced the white fish with a plastic fork. Placed fork to mouth. Chewed. Then, repeated the process. Another spoonful. More fish. More chewing.
And, as she ate, hot angry tears fell into the red sauce. She refused to look up. Not even when her stomach began to press against her khakis. Not even when Ms. Burr called her name, one hand placed gingerly on her shoulder. Not even when the bell rang.
She sat there forcing bite after bite into her swelling belly. Growing angrier with each tear that fell.
I-I,” Ms. Burr began but fell short.
The levy snapped and broke then. Angry hot tears flowed freely, before falling and disappearing into the medley of fish and gravy. Her sobbing was loud and uncontrollable.
The next day there were a total of thirty two students in the course. Ms. Burr scanned the class for the girl with the woven hair, but Mincah never showed up.