I’m One, Yet Torn in Two

     There are moments in life where we feel utterly useless. I feel like it every day when I walk to class or if I’m around town. It’s like my default setting in life. Not saying that I enjoy it because I don’t. It’s one of those things I wish I never feel, but when one of your parents is white and the other Hispanic. Not to mention that you grow up in a small town where everyone knows you. This is how I can describe it, the feeling of being useless because no one wants you, and when you’re like me, you don’t belong anywhere. Why am I thinking of this or telling this story? Because my school counselor is asking me to sum myself up in one word. So this is my answer.  

     “Useless,” I say. My counselor, Mrs. Binks, stares at me. Her eyes blink at me as she cannot form a word or sentence to reply. Granted, I don’t like her; she just told me I would only be good at construction because of my pedigree. Yes, you read that right. So there is also a chance I might be a little aggressive here.  

     “Why would you think that?” Mrs. Binks finally can say as she writes some notes down on the pad on her desk. Mrs. Binks is trying not to step on the minefield I lay out. Too bad. I sit across from her desk as the fall afternoon sunlight is sneaking through the window behind her. I look out at it, trying not to make eye contact.   

     I return my attention to her when I came up with an answer.   

     “That’s how to world wants me to feel,” I say. It would be better than calling her a bigot. I could still do that, never mind. What would I even gain from it? Again all I got is a stare and her eyes blinking back and forth.   

     Oh, I can hear the phone ringing at the house when I get home, but I don’t care anymore. Why should I? I have been dealing with this for seventeen damn years.   

     “Why don’t you sleep on it, and we can come back to this next week and explore a–more appropriate word.” She says. Still trying to avoid those mines. I secretly hope she would repeat something stupid, it would be easy to use it as an excuse to escape and this is the last thing before heading home for the day.   

     “Ok, can I go? I have work soon.” I reply, keeping my voice level.  

     “Sure, have a good afternoon Mr. Bentley.”  

     “Thanks.” I get up, pull my backpack over my back, and walk out the door. I’m ready to scream, but I didn’t need to make a scene, and I could get it all out of my system later.   

     I left the consoler's office and walk down the hallways, made a right turn before making a left. Our school is a bit of a maze; if you look at it from the road, it looks like a prison with windows on top of the wall and slanted concrete walls outside. They built it to be a safe school for severe storms like tornadoes which are common here in Mississippi, especially during the spring. I found it rather ugly looking. I still swear it is because they built in the Cold War, so they thought it would protect against a nuclear strike. Apparently, I am wrong, but would they tell you if it was true? I walk past a few classrooms before coming to the front office, where I exit the building.   

    The hot and muggy air greets me and sweat begins to form without effort. The sunlight pounds down on me as I pass the statue of our mascot a giant Indian head, with a few boys sitting next to them. I know them; we go to the same church together. Their hair is dark black, and their skin brown.   

     “Sup, creamy,” they say.  

     “Fuck off,” I reply as they laugh at me, then say something in Spanish to each other, thinking it is the funniest thing in the world. I glare at them. See, there it is; I'm not good enough for the white people, even if I am half-white. They can’t get over that other half of you, right? On the flip side, though, I’m neither good enough for the Hispanic community as I'm called these ugly names.   

     So why creamy? Well, If you look at me, you probably think, oh, he is your typical white boy. I have black hair and a light skin complexion, though I am lucky enough to have a slight olive tone to my skin, and it's tough for me to burn. I have some perks. My father is white, so I have a familiar last name. Bentley, because my dad's family from England generations ago. The only thing Hispanic about me is my middle name, Tomás. Well, and the fact that my Mother is.   

     I should also mention that me having to go to work is a lie, I don’t have a job, but I really wanted to leave her office. Frankly, the moment I could get home and inside, away from the world. The safer I would be.  

     Underneath a tree, I found my car. It’s used as my parents thought it best for me until I went to college. I’m lucky for it to be in the shade, but that's a perk to getting to school early, where you can pick out the best spot, which in the south meant the spot with shade. You know, so you don’t have to drive in a portable oven.

     Our house is outside of town, technically in the city limits but not within the central cluster of buildings. It stood between two giant sycamore trees with a pine woods in the back. It’s a tree farm, not part of our land. My Mother will hate the day they cut them down, but so far, they stood tall and green, gently sawing in the breeze. As a kid, I would run into them as it’s so neat that the tree is all in straight lines. You could see down to the other end, yet it’s far away.   

     The house is quiet when I enter. Only the dog greets me, our yellow lab Rusty. His tail is wagging so hard his butt is shaking, mainly because he’s happy to see me and I him. I bent to his level and pet him as he tries to sneak a few licks in. When he is satisfied, I open the house's back door to let him out into the fenced yard. It takes a few moments, but he comes after he did his business and I give a bone to him before he retires to his bed.   

     While Rusty snacks, I, too, find something to munch on, at least until my parents get home from work. It would be maybe two hours before my dad would arrive home, maybe three for Mom. So there's time to kill and I walk to the front porch to sit and eat the simple peanut butter sandwich. My dad built a swinging chair for my mom a few Mother’s days ago, and it quickly became one of my favorite spots. Not to mention it is under a fan, which I turn on as I make my way over to it.   

     I sit and eat my sandwich as I ponder. However, trying to think positively after the disaster of my afternoon is brutal. Instead, I listen to the birds and the occasional car driving down the road.   

     “Hey you,” I hear a thick, accent voice behind me.   

     “Hi Natty,” I say, knowing it’s her, that accent I could pick out anywhere. Natty is from Nigeria as her Mother is an instructor at a college nearby, and we have become friends over the past few years. She quickly climbs onto the porch and finds her seat next to me. I split off part of my sandwich and give it to her.   

     “So, how did you go with the black hole?” I smirk at the nickname we gave to our consular; to be fair, the whole class hates her. Mrs. Binks let around thirty students lose scholarships last year because she didn’t turn in the forms on time. Everyone is surprised she has a job, but that’s what you get when a family friend is on the school board.   

     “My pedigree states I would be good for construction,” I say as straight-face as possible. Natty stops chewing and swallows.  

     “Say that again,” Natty replies.   

     “Oh yes, she said it.”  

     “She said pedigree?? Like she realizes that extremely inappropriate, right?”  

     “Oh no, she asked me to sum me up in a word,” I reply. Natty shook her head at me and smiles.  

     “What did you say?” She asks.  

     “Useless.”  

     Natty gave me the, you know better, look. Mainly because she recognize I actually believe it. Natty knows me too well to think otherwise.   

     “And how did she take that?”   

   “She said we would put a pin in it till next week and that I should think of a more appropriate word,” I say. Natty laughs, almost dropping her sandwich.   

    “Well, first, I say this again. You are not; two, I wish I’d seen her face when you said it.”  

    “It was priceless, even if I was annoyed.”  

    “You could say something,” Natty says more seriously.  

    “What good would it do?” I reply. “They all believe it. They will say I’m being fragile.”   

    “You should still do it.” Her face now is more serious. A fire lit in her eye. “If you don’t, I will.”  

    “No, Natty.”   

    She softens a bit.   

    “I appreciate you defending me,” I say as she leans her head against my shoulder.   

    “Always.”  

    We sat as she finishes the rest of the sandwich, then swing back and forth on the chair. Natty is one of the only people who sees me, who may somehow understand me.  If that’s even possible.

    “You defended me when I first came here when everyone made fun of my accent. I will always be here for you.” She broke the silence. I smile as I remember that day, I got in trouble for what I did to those kids, but it was well worth it.  

    “Always will.” She smiles.  

    “I should get going; you think of a better word to describe yourself,” Natty says, getting up.   

    “I’ll try,” I reply as she walks down the porch steps.  

   “Try harder,” she yells from the front yard. I shake my head, watching her walk down the driveway to the street. Then up the road. Watching until she is out of eyesight.   

***  

    My parents arrive home about an hour later. My Mother goes straight to making dinner while my dad finishes up on a few things and then takes Rusty for a walk. She finishes when he returns, and we all sit down and eat.  Tonight my mother made street tacos, all very simple with cilantro, onions, and cheese. She even made steak to go into them, which was a rare occasion, normally it's chicken and to top it all off she has guac. The homemade kind and what my mother is quite famous for around town. 

    “How was your day?” My Mother asks.  

   “Ok,” I lie. She looks at me like she saw through it. However, she shakes her head as we eat. Dinner is quiet, even more than usual. They must know, but why didn’t they say anything?   

    “Natty said hello.” I brake the silence. Trying to kill the tension.  

    “Oh, how nice. How’s she doing?”  

    “Good, she came over for a bit after school.”  

    “I’m glad you two are friends. She is a very nice girl.”  

    I smile, trying to see if I could inch my way away from this conversation. It’s getting weird. My dad silent through it all, which is telling in its own right. Something’s coming.  

    “She is.”   

    “The school emailed me today,” she says. Here it is.   

    “Oh, did they,” My attitude is already coming out in force. “Did they tell you what I was told today?”   

    My Mother looks at me rather sternly.   

    “They said you described yourself as useless.”   

    “I did!” I say, “Did she tell you what she said before that?”  

    “What do you mean? That was disrespectful.”  

    Blood rushes to my head as my body feels numb to what I say. My Mother's face turns more annoyed every second.  

    “She neglected to tell you I’m only suited for construction.” My voice raises. “Because of my pedigree!”  

    My Mother's face is stone cold, and my father’s turns red. Like he is ready to lash out, but not at me.  

    “She said what?” My Mother asks as soon as she recovers from the shock.  

    “Yes, so I replied with the answer of how they make me feel.”    

    “You should have said something then. Just because she disrespected you doesn’t mean you have to disrespect her.”   

    Frankly, this made it worse.   

    “The hell it doesn’t; I’m sick and tired of living this life. Were I have to hide half of my being because they don’t like it! Yet even then, it’s not enough. I’m not enough!” It came out harsh.

    “Don’t yell!” My Mother is stern. “You should be proud of your heritage.”  

    “That heritage doesn’t accept me either; you at least have a community you belong to. I don’t.”   

    I'm over it and leave. Not cleaning up the plate that sat half-finished in front of me. I walk over to the counter where my keys are and grab them as I sprint out the door to my car. I need to escape before I say anything more damaging or stupid.  

    “Alex, get back here.” I hear her yell, and my dad follows suit.  

    I get in my car, turned it on, left, and drive down the driveway to the road. I follow the winding road as it moves between the trees and farmlands. Rising and falling along the rolling hills. Powelines following my every turn. My mind tries to relax as the sun sets on the horizon. It takes me almost twenty minutes to drive to my destination. As I pull up, the sun is already low enough that it’s barely visible below the tree line.  

    I arrive; it’s one of my spots, I come to think at, to escape. A little piece of land that jets out into a lake. It's always quiet, with no one around. I get up, close the car door, and walk over to the stone bench that stood by the lake. Letting the darkness take me, swallow me into it. Waters gently crash against the shore. I find my seat on the table and look out into the water, letting my heart beat calm. The ride helps, but it's still fast and rushed. You should’ve control yourself, I keep telling myself. I should’ve been better; I shouldn’t have let my emotion control me. I know better, yet for some reason, today, I burst. Letting it flood out of me, and unfortunately, my Mother got the brunt of it.   

    I sat there for maybe an hour or so. Breathing in and out, taking in the sounds and calm before I hear a car door shut behind me. I’m positive it’s Natty; she's the only person who knows of this spot.   

    “Mind if I join you?” It wasn’t natty, and I turn to see my Mother’s figure in the dark barely.  

    “How did you know where to find me?” I ask.  

    “I’m your Mother. We know things,” She replies, “Plus, I called Natty.”  

    That made more sense.  

    “Sure.” She came and sits down next to me.  

    “I hate that you feel this way.” She began. “I just want you to be proud of who you are, Alex.”  

    I sit quietly for a second before answering.  

    “It's hard when everyone hates me.”   

   “We can’t control what people think of us, but we can control our actions.” She leans over, putting her arm around my back.   “Once we do, we give them everything, and they will use it against us. Saying were mad, angry, ungrateful, anything to prove that they are over us, even though they are not.”

She’s right.

    “I’m sorry, I yelled at you. I was so angry today. Angry at the world for what I am. For them, not seeing me as an equal.”  

    “I know Mejio.” Her hand rubs my back. It relaxes the tension. “I want you never to let people decide who you are. Never let them degrade or define your worth and identity. Only you can do that.”  

    “It’s easier said than done,” I say. She softly laughs.   

    “It is, but you can do it.” I try to smile, but it was hard to muster the will. “I know you can.”  

    “I feel like I’m one, yet torn in two. Constantly at war, trying to mend my parts. Yet they push each other apart.” A tear falls across my Mother’s face. She then takes her other hand to wipes it away.  

    “That’s a hard thing to figure out, but I hope you will one day accept the other part of you when you're ready. Because when you do, you will truly be yourself.”   

    “Thanks.” I say,” I don’t know if it makes me feel better now. Maybe one day it will.”  

    “It will; until then, be you, be brave, be a crusader!”  

    We sat there quietly, letting it all sink in. I think what she said made sense. While by no means solves why I feel this rage. It at least helps calm it. People may never accept me, but should I really seek their acceptance? Instead of seeking my own, I should work to be proud of who I am. I ponder my word to describe myself as we look out into the lake. Then when I feel the emotions inside me quiet, we head back to the house.  

***  

    The weekend is uneventful, yet I slowly realize how to make myself happy. I have friends like Natty, a family that supports me, and working for a better world. While I might not know how to solve the feeling of being torn, divided, and biracial. I make a step every day to work at. Of course, when the weekend ends, I sit in the same chair as last week. Looking at my consular, waiting for her to speak. She's not kidding about returning to this, but I’m ready this time.  

    “So, have you considered what I told you about construction?” She asks, rather straight-faced.   

    “I have; I think the notion of it stupid and not to my skill set,” I reply. Keeping it monotone as possible, giving no hints of emotion. Her eyes widens with shock, and she pauses to collect herself. 

    “Well, it is a perfectly acceptable career for your...”   

    “I’m going to stop you there.” I interrupt. “I’m going to be a writer.”  

   “Well, you must do some real work to get accepted into a school. Have you even applied?” She literally has no clue. 

    “I have.”  

   “Oh,” she says, still looking at me shaken as the blinking starts back as she shuffles some papers on her desk. “Have you come up with a better word than useless?”   

    I got up from my seat.  

   “Crusader,” I say. “because there will be a day when people like you understand I’m the same. That'll be my crusade.”  

    I turn to head out of the door, ending the meeting.  

    “You will never succeed, Alex!” She says as I reach the door in an elevated tone. I turn to face her once more.  

    “Watch me!”  

© 2023 James Ungurait