Mat Johnson - Loving Day

“It’s so funny. Last August you were basically a white girl. It was all, ‘the blacks’ then, remember? Not even a year later and you’re another Mulatta Militant,” is the first thing I say, after a while.

“Jews aren’t really ‘white,’ in the racial sense,” Tal informs me, looking out the window so she doesn’t see the self-restraint it takes for me not to immediately respond.

“I still can’t believe you never went to the African American Museum. The whole time you were growing up in Philly. I guess white people just don’t go to black museums.” I thought I was changing the subject. Even when I stop talking, I think, thank God I changed the goddamn subject.

“Well, who’s fucking fault is it I grew up around only white people?”

“Mine,” I say. Then, “Don’t say ‘fuck.’ To your father.”

I don’t say any more till we hit the Parkway. Past the art museum, past Logan Circle. I was going to tell her a story, about how my dad’s family came to this part of the city from Ireland almost two hundred years ago, how they lived around this neighborhood until the 1950s, when the GI Bill allowed them to slip into the middle class. Driving past the natural history museum, I was going to tell the story of how my dad would take me to see the dinosaur bones, because I liked the idea of a world without humans and because he liked that it was free on Saturdays. I don’t say anything, though. As we’re stopped at a red light, our eyes meet for a second when Tal realizes I’m looking at her, then I have a green so I turn and sigh.

“You hated my sculpture,” Tal tells me. The damn two-toned cock monster is still sitting on her lap.

“I didn’t hate your piece, honey. It’s just, when you create art about race, about blackness, you have to deal with the historical weight of the images that came before. You have to understand the ways art was used to diminish us, to dehumanize us. To negotiate all that, you have be informed, not just artistically, but also culturally. You can’t just bludgeon the concept with heavy-handed imagery.”

“Sun loved it. Sun said it was, ‘as brutal as it was insightful.’ ” Tal pauses for effect, nods her head a few seconds after she finishes to make sure it’s sunk into my head. “I hate to say this, Father, but I think you’re responding this way because of me saying that you’re an ex-comic-book artist—”

“You said, ‘failed.’ ”

“I meant ex—”

“Daughter, I’m not an ‘ex-’ anything. I’m an artist. An illustrator. And I do comics. I don’t know if you noticed, but I’ve been kind of busy of late. Mostly with you.”

“Which I only said because I haven’t really seen you do any work the whole time I’ve known you.”

“You’ve only known me for a few months.” I say it. Instantly, I hate that I say it. The guy that says that, he’s a huge asshole. Three more blocks. Then I park the car. Illegally, in the tow-away zone. We’re at Irv’s corner anyway. Once the Bug is shut off, I turn to apologize to her, but Tal’s already got the door open. “Tal! I told Tosha we’d be there now. Hurry!”

Tal slams the door as hard as an angry teenager can. I feel a flash of rage with the sound because I’m in annoyed-dad mode. I yell after her, “That’s inappropriate behavior,” and I can’t help myself.

I sit in the car, waiting. I sit there, disliking myself, wanting to apologize to Tal, to restart, go back to the moment I was coming down the steps and she was brushing her teeth yet still managed a sudsy “Yo, Pops.” Spitting the paste out in her cup then giving me a sloppy, green-foamed smiled. Yes, let’s go back to that moment. I could win it from there if given a second chance.

Tal takes way too long. I stick the key back in the ignition, turn it just enough to give power to the clock I installed in the dash. 9:48 A.M. I know it’s been at least twenty minutes, probably twenty-five, probably thirty. The anger is there within me, but I refuse to recognize it. I say to it, Go sit down. Wait for ten o’clock. Because that’s when I can get mad and be fully justified.

At ten A.M. exactly, I leave the car and don’t even slam the door.

I know where the elevators are and I’m halfway toward them when a brown hand reaches out from behind the desk and pushes on my chest. He must’ve said something first. I didn’t hear him. What I hear are the words in my head — I put them there — that I’m preparing to say to my daughter without losing my temper: I thought we agreed that you would come in and out.

“I said, ‘I’m going to need you to sign in.’ ” They got this brother dressed up like a general in the Protect White People Army. He’s got the trimmed police hat, he’s got the matching military formal wear, top and bottom. It’s dark blue with a flippant sky-blue trim, a nice silly color to remind you that while the bearer of these clothes has authority, he is also subservient and nonthreatening.

I go to the desk, ask for a pen.

“You ain’t got one?” he asks. It’s then that I realize we’re enemies. I’m not sure why, maybe it’s just that he thought I was ignoring him initially. I look at his face. It’s more than that. The suit says, Welcome to Disney World , but the face and eyes shoved in it? They hate me. Does he think I’m white? No, a black man his age, and his position, would instinctively know not to show such disdain for a Caucasian. So he knows I’m black. When I remove a pen from my pocket and sign my name in, he says, “I knew you was holding out.” No way he would talk to a white boy like that. When I’m done filling out the time, he even says, “You going to let me see some ID or what?” I want to argue. But what I don’t want to know is what it must be like to be a black man working up in here in this monkey suit for decades for these wealthy white folks. I never want to know that, and this man has intimate knowledge of all that must entail. So I show my ID. He looks at it, intently, then says, “So you the one that turned out to be Ms. Karp’s father, huh?” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “I remember her mom. Sweet girl. It’s a damn shame what happened to her.”

I take my ID back, but I can’t look at him. I’m feeling a little dizzy when I hit the elevator button to go up.

The door to Irv’s apartment is open. Not just unlocked, open. My emotions are alive and shoved together, my heart is a crowded bus.

“Irv? Tal?” I say from the building’s hallway. Nobody says anything back to me, so I walk inside, through the kitchen, to the entrance of the living room. It’s not quiet. There’s a television on. Sports, or someone yapping about sports. And there’s Tal, talking. She’s watching TV. She’s up here, watching TV, laughing, having a good time, laughing at me. Even if she’s laughing at something else, knowing that I’m sitting in the damn car waiting for her, Tal’s laughing at me.

I walk in. Yeah, the TV’s on. On one of the sports channels, one of the ones where loud people talk about what’s happening on the other sports channels. Irv’s in his easy chair, feet sprawled out before him. His head’s back — he’s not even awake. The place reeks like dive-bar carpet.

“What the hell is going on?” I don’t know. I don’t yell because I don’t want to yell, but also because of Irving Karp over there. Tal’s still laughing. Hands to her face, presumably one holding a phone.

“When you say you can just be a minute, I don’t actually assume it’s only going to be a minute. I mean, I already give you leeway. As far as I’m concerned ‘a minute’ can be up to ten minutes. Maybe. Maybe fifteen. You got me down there waiting in the car for more than a half an hour for you.”