He looks to me for a confirmation I cannot provide. I leave him there, wallowing in his privileged guilt. I want to take care of his feelings in this moment, like I always do when people feel uneasy around me, but I’m too busy trying to process my own. Black women are treated like batteries in this society, giving, nurturing, and holding space for everyone but ourselves. Where is the reciprocity when we are despaired, uncomfortable, or drained? Then too we are asked to give more.

I glance over at the inner turbulence stirring in Bryce’s eyes. He doesn’t know what to say or do. I prepare to help pick him up off the ground when I hear someone yell, “Whose house?!” The question is met by another person calling back just as loudly, “Our house!” The Alphas, an all-Black fraternity, come stomping into the cafeteria wearing their trademark black-and-gold jackets.

There are ten of them putting on an impromptu step show. A few students look disgruntled at their uninvited performance, but several people, especially the group of Black students that followed them in, cheer with delight. Their step routine is impressive, but I’m embarrassed to be sitting across from Bryce while this is happening, especially given our conversation. I don’t want Bryce to be reminded even more of my Blackness.

I know I’m supposed to have Black pride, after everything my people have fought for and achieved in America. My entire life is a testament to the sacrifice of those that came before me. I wish I could feel proud and grateful, like the cheering Black crowd surrounding the Alphas, but I feel embarrassed. The shame is buried deep down and tells me I have no value. That I’m too ugly and too Black to ever be loved. Part of my search for white Prince Charming is to erase all that. If white Prince Charming, who is sitting on top of the world, wants me, then surely I must have some worth here. I really hope I haven’t ruined my chances with Bryce by asking him challenging questions.

The Alphas continue their show. One of them jumps up on a table and does a solo step routine while shouting, “We’re so cold, ice cold, too cold!” The rest of the men follow suit, repeating his moves and words on the floor. I wonder if I should cheer in solidarity with the other Black people in the room. I decide against it and sit quietly with my hand slightly covering my face in embarrassment. This is the real legacy of white supremacy. It means anyone who is not white cannot congregate freely without suspicion and judgment. The power is with the group, so the group is always a threat.