LITMIR.BIZ

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else, but I’m looking forward to this meeting.

      Once we’re all settled with our lunches in tow, we immediately get down to business. With only thirty minutes left in the lunch period, there’s no time to waste. Nigel enters the classroom with a sullen look on his face, and Mickey is nowhere in sight. That can’t be good.

      “Nigel, what happened to the meeting?” I ask, settling back into my seat, ready to get this meeting underway. I open my bag of Hot Cheetos and begin the smacking fest. I don’t know what it is about me and these chips lately, but whatever it is has got me sprung.

      “Man, they only let me state my case and then told me to bounce. They’ll talk to me about my role in Mickey’s pregnancy later.” Sounds like some typical divide and conquer bull to me. The last time Mickey and Nigel were in the office together during the ditching investigation, they were tighter than Beyoncé and Jay-Z. But now Nigel’s here and my girl’s not. Something’s definitely wrong with this picture.

      “How did Mickey feel about you deserting her?” I ask as Mr. A reclaims his post on the corner of his desk. The rest of the group files in, readjusting themselves in the warm room, ready to reengage in the creation of our new club. I wipe my red fingers on my napkin, take a drink from my water bottle, and continue my smacking. There’s a lot of ground to cover, but I’m still going to get my grub on like everyone else. Just as I anticipated, the majority of the class isn’t present, but much to my surprise KJ and his crew are here.

      “I didn’t desert her,” Nigel whispers. “And Mickey said she could handle it and that she’ll meet us back here when she gets out of the meeting.” Nigel won’t admit it, but he’s scared for our girl. I am, too, especially considering that I’ve already witnessed what will happen if Mickey leaves the main campus to attend the continuation school on the other side of the football field. She was jealous, paranoid, and made my and Nigel’s lives a living hell. I’ll be damned if I go there again with her.

      “There’s power in identification,” Mr. Adewale says, his baritone voice silencing our chatter and officially beginning the meeting. “So, what’s our group’s name?” he asks, taking a drink of his bottled water. He already inhaled his sandwich and apple like it was going out of style. Now he’s downing the water so fast it doesn’t even look like he’s swallowing. I wonder if eating fast comes with being from a long lineage of Ogun priests? Having a warrior as his head orisha or personal path of the creator who is also a great ancestor, must be very different from having a sweet orisha like Oshune crowning your head. Like Mr. A said, it’s all in the name.

      “Black People United,” Money says. I’m actually impressed with his forethought in coming up with the name, especially considering he’s always renaming himself something silly. Just last month his name was CMoney. Now he only goes by Money. Next thing I know he’ll be calling himself Dime or something else like that. I wonder if he feels more powerful with each incarnation?

      “That’s a good suggestion,” Mr. A. says, writing on the legal pad in front of him. His honey brown skin flexes with each stroke of the pen, making me wish I was the yellow-lined paper in his hands. “Any other suggestions?” he asks, snapping me out of my wishful thoughts.

      “How about ‘AHP’?” Shae suggests. “It stands for ‘Authentic Hood People.’” She gets a good laugh from her South Central crew. Even her quiet man, Tony, lets out a giggle at that name. They’re not taking the club seriously. But, unlike me, Mr. Adewale still has hope for them.

      “Okay, I’ll write that down,” Mr. A says, smiling as he scribes. I guess you’ve got to love our people no matter how ghetto they can be sometimes. “Let’s have one more suggestion,” he says, looking around the packed room. Half of the black students in the debate class are here. Chance, Emilio, and Alia are also present, solidifying their being down for equality, I assume. Fifteen members is a good start. It’s also fewer people to argue with, and that’s always a good thing.

      “How about ‘The African Student Union,’” I add. “Just like the groups on college campuses.” KJ automatically rolls his eyes at my suggestion, but Mr. A seems to like it. KJ’s probably mad he didn’t come up with it himself.

      “I think that’s a good idea, linking our group to the ones at most universities. There’s power in unity,” Mr. Adewale says. KJ and his crew eye me like I’m the teacher’s pet and that’s just fine with me. I’ll happily wear that crown.

      “I agree,” Emilio says, winking at me from across the room. “It’s also more inclusive of other African cultures that may not identify themselves as black, and that’s important.”

      “Man, what would you know about being African? Mexico is south of the border, nowhere near Africa last time I looked at a map.” Del thinks he’s so slick, no matter how dumb he may sound. KJ and Money give their boy dap while Mr. A shakes his head, embarrassed at their behavior.

      “I am from Venezuela and I’ve never been to Mexico,” Emilio says, leaning back in his chair and smiling coyly. He’s so sexy in a self-assured sort of way. “But I do know there’s African blood present in Mexican culture as well.” Emilio wears his intelligence for everyone to see, which makes it hard to believe he’s only a sophomore. “We are a part of the African diaspora. Maybe you should look more closely at the map next time.” The veins in Del’s neck are really popping now. If his brown skin weren’t a shade darker than my mother’s, we’d all be able to see how red-hot he really is. I finish off the last of my lunch, waiting for the next move.

      “And maybe you should learn to speak English so that other people understand what you’re saying before trying to act black, man,” KJ says, coming to his boy’s defense—but it’s no use. They’ve been punked by Emilio and we all know it.

      “We’ll talk about acting black at the next meeting. By the way, everyone needs to think of one good day a week to meet. We’ll vote on that next time,” Mr. Adewale says, glancing at the wall clock. We only have a few minutes left in our lunch period and we should be able to agree on at least one thing before our first meeting is adjourned. “Let’s vote on the name before we go any further. Write down your choice on a piece of paper and put it in here.” Mr. Adewale takes an empty coffee mug off his desk and passes it around the room. When everyone’s submitted their ballots he counts them and announces the winner.

      “The African Student Union,” he announces, obviously pleased with the result. I’m surprised they voted for my suggestion, but glad they had enough sense to choose the right one. Money’s suggestion was good, too, but I’m with Emilio. We need to include all of the African diaspora in the group’s identity, not just people from the hood as we know it.

      “Now that we have a name, let’s define what the goals are,” Mr. Adewale suggests, forcing us to think seriously about what we want to accomplish on our lunch break. He puts the mug back in its place and reclaims the legal pad I’m still quietly envying.

      “I think it should center around surviving this place. South Bay is nothing like Westingle, man, for real.” Nigel’s right about that. His old school is very diverse. Rah still attends that school and receives most of the same educational and social perks that we do, while being closer to home. The students are bougie as all get out, but black is black and it’s nice to be around our people on the regular.

      “What do you mean by that?” Mr. Adewale asks, tapping his pen against the notepad in his hand.

      “What I mean is that I can walk around my old campus and find us anywhere. Here, unless in the South Central clique, it’s like we don’t exist. And we never read black books in class either. My teachers at Westingle always taught with an Afrocentric twist.”

      “Well then, that’s the first goal: to read more about black culture,” Mr. A says, writing down the bullet points on the board. We all take notes like we’re in class. Mr. Adewale inspires us to work when any other teacher would get the gas face for assigning more work outside of our required class reading. Ms. Toni walks into our meeting, ready to add some points of her own. I smile at my school mama, even though I think she’s not pleased

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