Jorge, on the other hand, really fell for Ivory and actually proposed marriage to her. She had this thing where guys would propose to her all the time, which I never understood. Every guy she dated was absolutely in love with her. I mean, Ivory was very attractive and funny, but men acted like her vagina had some sort of potpourri shooting out of it.
Anyway, Jorge proposed and Ivory accepted like she always did until she sobered up and realized Jorge probably just wanted his visa.
The next day we received a phone call from the Martha's Vineyard Police Department wanting to know if we had any idea of the whereabouts of a Mr. Jorge Menendez, who was wanted for grand theft auto. No wonder they were cooking for us at home.
I told the police my parents weren't home and our gardener's name was Alejandro. Other than that, I didn't know anyone of Spanish descent.
I explained to Ivory that our summer of love was over and we needed to vacate the premises. We packed our bags, called home, and told our parents that we were homesick. That's slang for "on the run."
We discussed our future and decided since we were both twenty and hated college as well as New Jersey, it was time to broaden our horizons.
"How does California sound to you?" Ivory asked. "You could be an actress and I'll get a real job."
"Finally," I moaned. "Now you're starting to make sense."
And off we went.
GUESS WHO'S LEAVING THROUGH THE WINDOW?
"SHVARTZER" is the term my father uses to refer to black people. It is a Yiddish slang word that basically means "black," "colored," or "Negro." My father will argue with you until the sun comes up that he doesn't have a racist bone in his body, one of his favorite defenses being, "Are you kidding? I love the blacks, they make great employees. Plus, they can run like bell." This is the same man who went to a cocktail party in the late eighties with my mother and upon seeing the only black couple there, approached the woman and asked her if she would be interested in cleaning our house.
I met my first black boyfriend at the local community college. Tyrone and I sat next to each other in Russian history class. Our professor was a thick-accented Russian who talked more about his childhood than he did about Russia 's history. On our midterms we were asked actual questions about his personal life-in what city he was born, how old was he when he learned to ride a bike without training wheels. Tyrone and I would laugh at the absurdity of Professor Beregova's self-importance, but everyone else there seemed to think this was perfectly normal lesson planning.
"This can't be happening at real colleges," Tyrone said to me one day after class. "Why doesn't anyone else in class think this is strange?"
"I know," I said. "And this is supposed to be one of the top-ten community colleges in the country."
When I brought Tyrone home for dinner, my father tried as hard as he could to act like it didn't bother him but was constantly looking at Tyrone out of the corner of his eye. When we held hands, my father twitched slightly and looked away. I had fantasies of inviting him to sleep over, knowing my father wouldn't object in front of Tyrone. If it had been a white boyfriend, my father would have protested in front of everyone, but in his never-ending plea to appear color-blind, I knew my dad would not only allow him to sleep over but would probably offer up his own pajamas. The only topics my father was able to discuss with Tyrone were football, basketball, and slavery.
Tyrone and I broke up a few months later when he transferred to a more respectable college somewhere in Michigan. When I told my father about his transfer, he feigned disappointment. "That's too bad, love. He was a nice guy. Not too dark, could almost pass for a Colombian."
"Why would he want to pass for a Colombian, Dad?" I asked.
"Listen, don't start with the racial stuff, okay? I think the sbvartzers have a lot of courage; I love the blacks. Dogs don't seem to like them, but I don't have a problem. Look at Oprah!"
"That's real nice, Dad. You have a real way with words. You should think about running for public office."
"Yeah, well I'll tell ya, it wouldn't be the worst thing. You're not the first person to tell me that, love. And you probably won't be the last."
Tyrone had been the first black man I had had sex with, and I felt very strongly about venturing farther into that arena. So during the two months I had to kill before Ivory and I were off to California, I started chatting online with Jerome, whom I met on ChocolateSingles.com. Since he also lived with his parents, I had to wait until mine were out of town before we could set up our first rendezvous. My brothers and sisters had all moved out and I was the only child left at home. Jerome and I had exchanged photos of ourselves, and as long as he looked somewhat similar to his picture, I knew we would be having sex.
We agreed on dinner and a movie, which I suggested mostly because I didn't want to be obvious about my overwhelming desire to have sex with another black man.
We planned to meet at six o'clock at a steakhouse not far from my parents' house. Unfortunately, earlier that day I had done quite a number on my hair. I had been inspired to cut my own bangs-the result of which was not at all positive. In short, I looked as if I had lost a fight with a pair of craft scissors. I managed to get my bangs under control by placing a barrette directly above my forehead where it met my hairline. It wasn't a good look for anyone, but on the bright side, the severity with which my bangs were pulled back made me look much more alert than usual.
Jerome was already seated when I arrived. He was six-two and gorgeous, with a body absolutely to die for. He was twenty-five, had a short buzz cut, light brown eyes, and a big happy smile. He was ten times better looking than his picture. "Jerome?" I asked innocently, as if he weren't the only black person in the entire place.
"Hello," he said, standing up to give me a kiss on the cheek. His skin was the softest I had ever felt, and it was the exact color of a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. I couldn't believe how beautiful he was. If this guy hadn't lived with his parents, he would've been out of my league. He glanced at my barrette a couple of times and I felt my face getting hotter. He was obviously wondering why I'd placed a barrette so close to my forehead.
I was furious about giving myself a home haircut. How could I have been so stupid? Clearly, I had to say something to allay his fears. "I had a little accident today," I told him.
"Oh, no," he said.
"It was nothing serious. I was actually volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club of America and a little boy set my hair on fire by accident. He has ADD and it's a pretty sad story."
"Oh, my God, were you hurt?" Jerome asked.
"No, no, no," I said, relieved that the lie seemed to be working. "I felt pretty stupid when I looked in the mirror, but I was more concerned about Linus."
"How old is the boy?" asked a horrified Jerome.
I scrambled to think of an appropriate age for a child who would set someone else on fire. "He's seven," I told him, "but challenged." I didn't know where these lies were coming from, but I couldn't stop myself. I was so intimidated by him I just jumped into a story I was sure would give us a lot to talk about.
Within the next fifteen minutes Linus had also been born a Siamese twin whose brother didn't make it through the surgery and whose biological mother had tried to auction him off on eBay.
"I didn't even know there was a Boys and Girls Club around here," said Jerome.
I had never seen a Boys & Girls Club in my life but wasn't about to tell Jerome that. "Oh, there's one at the mall," I blurted.