Annoyed and close to tears, I mumbled that I didn’t know.
Dr. Connelly looked at his watch. “That’s all for today. Think about what you want to tell me about Haiti on your next visit, okay?”
I walked out of his office relieved, wishing never to go back.
* * *
On the way home, I tried to understand why I had painted everyone’s face beige and figured it was probably because of an incident that occurred two weeks after the fight in the cafeteria. Determined not to be different from my new family, I was willing to do anything not to stand out.
Lighten up your skin!
Lighten up your life!
Be beautiful!
My heart jumped with joy when I read those words in a copy of Beautiful Black Teens magazine that I had picked up at the library. Thinking that I had found my salvation, I tore out the advertisement and carefully folded it before hiding it in my book bag. When I reached home, I looked at the ad again and again. Whatever it took, I decided, I had to look like the woman in the magazine. It was hard to tell whether she was white or black, and that was how I wanted to be. If people could not tell that my skin was dark, they would not reject me or single me out. After comparing the woman’s features to mine, I decided that I also needed to work on my nose.
Later that evening, as I helped Mom take the laundry out of the washing machine, an idea came to mind. Once I was sure Cynthia was asleep, I took out the clothespin I was hiding under my pillow. I clipped it on my nose, and though I could hardly breathe, I endured the pain and concentrated on breathing through my mouth. I woke up several times during the night, not only to breathe, but to rub my swollen nose and put the clothespin back on.
The following morning, when after a soft knock Mom entered the bedroom, I heard her say, “Jesus!” when she noticed the clothespin. “What are you doing?” Her voice was higher than usual and her widened eyes were gray. They seemed to change color depending on her mood. At times they were blue, and at other times green.
“I . . . I want a nose like yours,” I struggled to say. “Please buy this for me.” I handed her the ad that had been under my pillow.
Mom cocked her head. “Do you know what this is?”
“It will make my skin white. Buy it for me, please!”
Mom rested her apprehensive eyes on me. “No cream will ever change who you are.” She studied me for a few seconds, then asked why I needed to be white.
“To be like you, Dad, and Cynthia.”
At that moment Cynthia woke up, probably because she had heard her name. “What’s going on?” she asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“This doesn’t concern you,” Mom snapped, and turned back to me. “You are beautiful the way you are.” She ran the back of her hand across my face. “Put the clothespin back where it belongs. That ad goes in the garbage.” She shook her head as though she refused to believe what I had done. “Listen to me, Iris,” she said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “You need to look at yourself differently. Your smooth, tamarind-colored skin is beautiful. The warmth of your loving smile brings me happiness, and the hair on your head is a regal crown. Do you understand?”
I nodded yes so she would leave me alone.
“Anyway, it’s time for ballet class,” she announced, walking out of the room.
I couldn’t go to dance class that day. My nose hurt too much. I was also tired from trying to sleep with the clothespin squeezing my nostrils. So I stayed in my room, contemplating the print of a black girl jumping rope on the wall across from my bed. She looked happy and carefree, and I wondered if she, too, ever wanted to be white.
* * *
I dreaded going to my next appointment with Dr. Connelly. As I was getting ready, I walked aimlessly around the house and wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. I tried to think of an excuse to stay home, but I could not come up with one. Reluctantly I followed Dad to the doctor’s office. Once we arrived, he stayed in the waiting room.
“How are you?” Dr. Connelly asked.
“Fine.” I took a seat across from him.
“Are you ready to talk to me?”
“Yes.”
“The last time you were here, I asked you to think about why everyone in the family picture you drew had a beige face.”
“Yes.”
“Did you think about it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there a reason why you didn’t want to think about it?”
“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug, unable to hide my annoyance.
“Tell me about the dreams you had.”
“What dreams?”
“When your mother called for your first appointment, she said you had nightmares.”
“I saw a snake with the head of a man.”
“What happened then?”
“He stared at me and went like this.” I made an inviting gesture with my fingers.
“Then what?”
“I ran away from him and woke up screaming.”
“What happened when you woke up?”
“Mom and Dad came into the room when they heard me scream.”
Dr. Connelly then said something I didn’t hear because I was trying to recapture the effect of the dream. His voice suddenly reminding me I was still in his office.
“Excuse me?”
“Tell me about the other dream.”
“There was another man with fire on his body. He wanted me to come to him too.”
“Tell me about Haiti.”
“What about Haiti?”
“Whatever you remember.”
Images of Monn Nèg were engraved in my mind. But I had no idea how to explain them to a stranger. He kept his expressionless eyes on me, waiting for me to say something. The absolute silence in the room and his blank stare persisted until he cleared his throat and spoke again. “I was thinking,” he said, “the dreams you had are probably because of your exposure to vaudou. Did your family in Haiti practice vaudou?” He tilted his head and waited for an answer.
But I had no idea what he was talking about. “I don’t know what vaudou is.”
“I’m reading a book now about vaudou,” he said, sounding proud of himself. “I think it may have something to do with those dreams.”
I stared at my feet, wishing to be anywhere but in that office.
“The author of the book compares vaudou adepts to devil worshippers. But I’m not so sure of that. What do you think?”
The pressure from his questions confused me and brought tears to my eyes.
Looking back at the incident, I find it odd that Dr. Connelly would ask me to comment on the subject, when I had told him I knew nothing about it. Did he forget how old I was? I suppose he was hoping I might react in a way that would give him the opportunity to better analyze me. Whatever the reason, I decided, at that moment, that I was not coming back.
“How about