At-Risk

Afternoon Tea

Afternoon Tea A women’s organization decided to adopt the girls in our school for the year, but we weren’t supposed to feel lucky. We were selected not for our scholasticism or high test marks but because our school had the highest percentage of eighth grade girls dropping out to have babies. The organization selected us out of all the other junior highs in Brooklyn as the most need-worthy, designated us as the most at-risk. Ten women from the group would serve as volunteer mentors. Time spent with the women was supposed to raise our self-esteem. It would keep us from making negative decisions that could permanently alter and impact our lives. Translation: the program would keep us from having babies at an early age and living off of welfare. Today was the registration and the welcome for the program and my mother feared we would lose face by showing up late. She rapped on the bathroom door to get me out of the shower. “What, do you think you’re a fish? Make haste!” Once I came out, I said, “I bet this is going to be really boring.” 28 | Afternoon Tea “It will be good for you,” she said. “Just give it a try. You have nothing better to do on Saturday mornings.” This was true. Most Saturdays I stayed at home alone while my mother went out. She visited our extended family, making sure they were getting acclimated to life in the States, shopping for them, and helping them barrel up goods that they wanted to send back home to Jamaica. Because she was the first to come to the States, she was the veteran, the expert, the one who helped everyone else out, the one with whom all our relatives came to live when they first moved here. She was taking a break from visiting to accompany me to the program today. “I still don’t see why I have to go to this,” I said. She tsked at me, grabbed my shoulder, and pushed me toward my room. She ignored my question. “Hurry.” Breakfast was on the table by the time I was fully dressed. “Bun and cheese,” she said. “You don’t have time for anything else.” I checked my watch. “It doesn’t start for another half hour.” My mother sucked air through her teeth. “On time is too late. A half hour early is right on time.” “They’ll probably feed us there,” I said. “I can skip breakfast. That’ll save time.” My mother shook her head. “You are only to nibble while you’re there. You don’t want to stuff yourself on their food and look like a glutton. When people are watching, you have to make a good impression.” “Who’s watching?” I mumbled as I chewed. My mother frowned at me. “They are.” At different times, depending on whom my mother was talking about, they could be anyone. They applied to all Americans, and sometimes specifically American blacks, and on rare occasions to the family my mother had left behind in Jamaica, proud and aristocratic, Afternoon Tea | 29 constantly watching from across the sea and waiting for her to fail and go back home. I finished off my breakfast and got up from my chair. “What are you doing?” “You said to hurry—” “You’ll clean up after yourself first.” “I thought we were late.” “There’s always time for that,” she said, watching me carefully as I took my plate to the sink and wiped the table off with a dishcloth. “You have no servants in this house.” Thirteen years ago, my mother left St. Elizabeth, Jamaica, with the seed of me inside of her, leaving behind a life of affluence for one of struggle. She had grown up a rich little girl. She’d lived in a house with servants. There were women whose job it was to cook and serve dinner, and these women were different from the ones who gathered the laundry and washed her unmentionables. Now my mother worked in a hospital five days a week, changing bedpans and dealing with other people’s filth. Twenty-two of us girls showed up at the school’s library with our mothers. Ten black American women, all dressed impeccably in blue and red, waited for us. Three women met us at the door. “Good morning.” “We’re so...