A Seat at the Table

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The look in my eyes scared me. They belonged to a different man. Wild. Distant. Absent. I wasn’t myself. Thinking back, it was like I was watching a movie. The anger came fast. The punches faster. I didn’t hear the word, but I saw the finger. It shouldn’t have set me off the way it did. It was the audacity on his face that made me punch it.

He didn’t believe I belonged on that campus. In that cafeteria. In his seat. I looked around for the seating chart. Asked to see if that particular chair at the third table in the second row was assigned on his meal card. That made his friends laugh. Willie Nelson shirt laughed too hard. He stared at him, then remarked about financial aid and DEI. I didn’t budge. He assumed I was there on a scholarship. I agreed. He guessed basketball, I replied, Chemistry.

He turned red.

I was a Black this—black that. I showed him the whites of my teeth. That’s the problem with you people. You people. He saw the brown in my eyes up close. His friends told him the seat wasn’t worth it. The guy with long hair pulled him away, and that’s when it happened. First it was the finger, then he said, “Niggers think they own everything.”

Long hair winced, Willie Nelson stopped walking, I threw a right cross. His nose broke beneath my knuckles. I didn’t just break his nose, but the silence in the dining hall. The unspoken agreement that his words could linger without being checked. That his hate had a place at the table, next to the seat he thought I didn’t belong in.

The chaos erupted, drowning out his slur and my reply. His friends were stuck between fight and flight, caping up for his racism and the left I had cocked and ready. All of this was too much for them, but not me. I’ve been prepared for this moment my whole life.

“First, they’ll test you. Then they’ll push you. You don’t give them a chance to try you.”

My grandfather’s words echoed as he taught me to make a fist. He was a veteran of Jim Crow and Vietnam. I was a product of private school and Saturday morning SAT prep. My DNA didn’t fail.

I stood over him, nostrils flared. The blood seeped through his fingers. I waited for him to say something, do something. Give me a reason. Years of slights, side-eyes, and snide remarks were fighting their way out. The whispers from around the room were tentacles. I could feel my heart playing bass in my chest. My eyes scanned the room; my ears stood guard.

“Security!”

That one word took the moment off pause. It came from behind me. I was tempted to look for the snitch, but his friends moved. They dragged him out of my reach, their faux cool melting beneath my rage. Their Moses was on his ass while the crowd parted to let them through. My feet remained shoulder length apart, left fist protecting my chin, right waiting to jab. The adrenaline turned me into Joe Frazier.

“Look at how he leaps when he throws the left hook. He damn near comes off both feet, but he’s still on balance. Watch his head move with the shoulders.”

Granddaddy was from Philly.

The guards came in twos, trained by the same terrorists patrolling my neighborhood. One placed his palms upwards; I lowered my guard. His partner took me by the arm, and another came from behind me and went to a table near the rear, where my opponent was trying to remember what happened.

There was silence again, but the judgment was loud.

“Come with us.”

His palm disappeared into an arrow to the hallway. He was calm. His partner’s grip was firm. I followed the back of his head, eyes straight, refusing to look at the faces behind the phones. I proved their stereotypes and fears, and even those who cheered my punch would never admit so aloud.

I told my version of what happened three times. The tone. The finger. The words. The audacity. They weren’t listening. Their minds were made up once. I offered no apologies. I wasn’t sorry. Not for what I did. I was sorry for what it meant. I was sure expulsion was on the way.

“If they penalize you for protecting yourself, they never wanted you there in the first place.”

My last scholarship was to Drummond Academy for high school. Three weeks into freshman year, my parents had to meet with the dean about an essay I wrote about the welcome I received at the school.

Granddaddy told me I should’ve kicked some ass, let them get the message.

I excused myself from the room. I needed to run some water on my face. I wanted to call my grandfather and tell him I delivered a message. It would probably be expensive. But a small cost for not allowing their hate to be my burden.