“This young woman is lost,” Carla says, still speaking low in dark growling tones. “She doesn’t know who she is, that she is here to serve our Lord. THAT SHE IS A SERVANT OF THE LIGHT! PRAY FOR HER!” Carla starts shouting in a shrill tone. She is possessed, seemingly overtaken by the spirit of her Lord. “Pray she finds clarity,” Carla hisses into the microphone. “Pray she finds the right path. HIS way!” Suddenly several people move to the front of the room, extending their arms out toward me. Their faces are wrinkled in fiery concern. They are praying as if their prayers can save me. I grow increasingly angry. Enraged at these white people trying to force their white Lord upon me. Have they learned nothing from their own history? This is yet another conquest, but they have targeted a breaker of chains who cannot be conquered.

“Stop it!” I recoil in shock at the force of my own words. “Stop it! I don’t need you to pray for my soul. You know who I need you to pray for is my brother who just got out of prison. And my other brother, who’s schizophrenic. And my dad, who’s still drinking himself to death. And all the people I know who will never be able to realize their dreams no matter how hard they try because the system trampled them. Where was your God when all of that shit was happening? Why don’t you pray for the dismantling of systematic oppression—then we can talk about the state of my soul.”

I turn my head toward the staring group from earlier, who seem just as shocked as the math class watchers, and I shout, “And why the hell are you people always staring? It’s invasive and rude. Knock it off!”

I rush out into the brisk fall air toward the Big Green where Matthew and a thousand broken promises lay scattered: the promise that I could catch up, that I could fit in, that I belonged here. The decaying flesh of those promises sinks back down into the earth and disappears. It all becomes clear in this moment how unevenly the scales are tipped, how gravely wrong Stephen Clark is about everything, and how far behind I am—generations behind. I was naïve to think I could gamble against the house of oppression and win. Negro Brown and her ancestors never stood a chance against these kinds of odds.

CHAPTER FOUR

I may not have privilege, but I will have Prince Charming, who is white, like the men I see in all the romantic comedies and superhero movies. My attraction to white boys has ballooned since arriving at Dartmouth, and it is squarely at odds with my prolific critiques of whiteness. I never expected to be attracted to white men and I don’t fully understand it myself.