Advance praise for Linda Villarosa and Passing for Black
“Passing for Black is Kissing Jessica Stein meets Good Hair. The characters are outrageous and real and heartfelt. Linda Villarosa has written an important, entertaining debut. Brava!”
—Benilde Little, author of Who Does She Think She Is?
“Passing for Black weaves issues of identity and sexuality into an engaging tale of love, passion and family. Finally the story we’ve been waiting for, delivered in page-turning, finely written prose by one of my favorite writers.”
—E. Lynn Harris, New York Times bestselling author
“Passing for Black is a lively page turner that follows the complicated process of coming out as African American and female and middle class. It is a sweet, romantic, and sometimes funny tale, brushed nicely with issues of race, class, and sexuality. As Angela tumbles along her journey to self discovery, I found myself rooting for her to find the way.”
—Staceyann Chin
PASSING FOR BLACK
LINDA VILLAROSA
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
To my mother. Please call her Mrs. V.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
I am deeply grateful to my agent Barbara Lowenstein and her staff for unwavering, tireless support. Many thanks to everyone at Kensington, especially John Scognamiglio. It’s wonderful working with such a receptive and attentive editor. I promise to return the favor by learning to pronounce your name.
I owe big thank-yous to friends who provided hand holding, cheerleading, suggestions, ideas and even dialogue: Allison, Benilde, Bridgett, Erin, Hilary, Nina, Sarah, Staceyann and Toshi.
Many thank yous to several generous and thoughtful readers: Jackie, Jana, Jayme, and, especially, Kera Bolonik and Stephanie Grant, who gave the manuscript the twice over and more. Special thanks to the members of my writing group, past and present, who read bits and pieces at various stages.
Thank you to my mother and sister for all kinds of love, including the tough kind, and to the Sunday dinner crew—Jackie, Juliet and Jane—for great food and better friendship. I am grateful for the children in my life: Toshi, Tashawn and, especially, Kali and Nic, though this book is a little racy for you. Special thanks to my extended family: Carrie, Faye, Lorry, Tracey, Vickie, Arielle and the crew in Texas and Oklahoma.
Above all, thank you Jana, for listening and loving.
She wished to find out about this hazardous business of “passing,” this breaking away from all that was familiar and friendly to take one’s chances in another environment, not entirely strange, perhaps, but not entirely friendly.
—From Passing, by Nella Larsen
Prologue
A chorus of raspy moans and high-pitched screams ripped through the thin walls of the delivery room. I clamped my hands over my ears to blot out the sounds of pain. Hadn’t the hospital heard of soundproofing? Though my baby wasn’t coming for another couple of hours, I felt like joining in. I wouldn’t be screaming in pain, but terror.
With contractions every two minutes, I knew it was way too late for second thoughts. It wasn’t that motherhood didn’t interest me. But a baby hadn’t been anywhere near the top of my to-do list. Learning to play the guitar, kayaking down the Colorado River and a trip to Brazil were much higher. Motherhood was in my future—someday, a long way off. I guess my idea was to start reproducing in my late thirties after accomplishing career goals—like being the editor of my own magazine or writing a book of essays. I didn’t believe all the alarmist crap about a woman’s eggs drying up at thirty-five. That was just another ploy to make women who loved their work feel like un-pretty losers, waiting to shrivel up and shuffle away.
But all of this was academic. In the concrete here and now, there was a baby—my baby—banging its way out of the womb and into the world.
Chapter 1
The day I met Cait, a passing breeze stirred up the warm, thick air as I walked through the campus of New Amsterdam University. That cool undertow, weird on such a still, sunny fall day, felt like a sign that something was about to happen.
As I pulled open the heavy door of the Humanities building and turned down the hall toward the Kenneth Clark African-American studies wing, that’s when I saw her. She was standing on tiptoe tacking a flyer onto a cork bulletin board. It read: “Lesbian Sex Conference: We Want You to COME,” followed by an off-campus location and a date a little less than a week away.
Putting down the flyer, she turned and looked at me quizzically. Then she smiled, raising one eyebrow, a dimple denting each cheek. I stopped, midstride, and took a deep breath, inhaling a bouquet of Sharpie and pine cleaner.
She was strikingly androgynous, and looked like an older version of Ethan, the beautiful fifteen-year-old boy I had been obsessed with one summer at sleep-away camp in New Hampshire. Her light brown hair was parted boyishly on one side, and flecked with bright blonde streaks. As she turned toward me, I could see Pam Grier doing a Foxy Brown high kick on the front of her T-shirt. Sleeves cut off, it tugged tightly across her breasts.
“I’m Caitlin Getty.” Staring at me, her eyes clear gray and steady, she took my hand. Her appraisal was brazen. Thinking briefly about the ring on my finger, I shoved my left hand in my pocket.
“I’m Angela, uh, Wright.” I could feel her fingertips against my palm as we shook hands lightly. I tried to ease my hand out of hers, but she held it. Mine was warm and damp, hers, cool and dry.
“Angela, may I give you a flyer?” She spoke with the trace of a British accent; from her mouth, my name sounded like dessert. “I’d love to see you on Saturday at the sex conference.”
Finally she dropped my hand and plucked a flyer from a stack next to her foot. “Actually, I would just love to