Champaign

“It‘s chaos, be kind” (Michelle McNamara) 

Red and white linoleum. Mr. Newsom still wears only black. Shoes, pants, shirt, as if his complete morning routine is about fighting the windmills of everyday life and I tell him that: “Are you still white under the mask?”

He turns and needs a while to find me in the melange of family size packages and LED lights until he finally has the awareness to buy himself some time. “Mask?” he replies.

“Hi,” I say, actively confident, pushing my grocery cart containing four bottles of eggnog to the side and take a step towards him. “Mr. Newsom.”

“Aurora,” he says. “Call me Noah, please. Or are you still in school?” His mouth smiles, his eyes a little less. I got my degree ten years ago. 

“The Class of 2019 was my favorite,” Mr. Newsom stays in the same, mildly ironic tone. “Do you still live in Champaign?”

“Nope, I am visiting the family,” I gesture to the eggnog. 

“Good,” he says, sounding relieved. 

His glance strays to the cereal aisle. Before the holidays, Costco is a stifling swamp of elbows, college sweatshirts, and combat-ready siblings in the candy aisle. 

“Noah, ok. But honestly, I don‘t feel comfortable with that. Can we stay with Mr. Newsom?”

“No!”, Mr. Newsom surprises me with an insistence that he immediately tries to correct. “I mean, I would appreciate we not, thank you.”

“Ok.” Theatrical pause. “Noah.” I can’t resist an ironic tone. “Nice to see you.” Why am I flirting with my former English teacher? 

“Likewise.”

Moving forward, the formalities continue. He isn’t a teacher anymore; he flips houses now. After the incident at the assembly, he was let go and he went as far away as he could imagine. He left the midwest, lived a few years in California and rides on the of the “monster of gentrification,” as he calls it, back into the countryside. 

“And you?” he asks, but the biographic box-ticking exhausts me, so I keep it short and tell him in one-and-a-half sentences about college. Specific enough to not be polite and vague enough to get out of it. Only the year in Europe I mention in more detail. I still want to impress the White Man. At least when he is polite. Instead, I’d rather talk about him, how he thinks about it now, a few Christmases later. His sudden disappearance, in the middle of the school year, turned him into a myth. To ease the pain of irrelevance at East High (Go Tigers!), we embraced every form of gossip. 

And we're standing side by side / As your shadow crosses mine

“As sad as it is that we have to gather today, we can’t avoid it,” is how the superintendant, whose name I can’t remember, started the assembly. “This is, I sadly have to say, the world we, I have to say, live in.” Yes, he said”‘I have to say” twice. 

I must have been 17 years old because I sat with all the juniors in our corner of the gym. I remember the smell of dried sweat and decade-old dust that mingled in the mats. Next to me was Jonas, one hand on my knee, the other under my shirt, his fingers creeping over my underwear. Maybe he wasn’t doing it that Friday before Christmas. It is the image of his attraction and tenderness towards me that follows him, whenever I remember him. I liked that he liked it. The things that are important to a 17-year-old girl that her parents named Aurora in Champaign, Illinois. 

That’s how we sat there and pretended we were listening. I don’t remember what was said. I remember the look of the seven men in the middle of the gym. All white, all with the need to show off “I’m Important!” body language without knowing how. Six of them in khakis, five of them in polo shirts, four of them with a gun around their hips. I remember seeing this image of manhood through the eyes of Jonas, although I couldn’t articulate it at the time. That neurotic struggle to evoke ideas of strength within their mediocrity, that doesn’t know how to dress nor knows what it really wants. I remember that vague feeling that something is wrong here and remember the loneliness that was based on the belief I was alone with this assessment. I remember the obscenity with which the theater girls threw pencils at one of the men (khakis, polo shirt, and gun), who then, to the joyless, cruel laughter of the assembly, sunk to his knees while playfully holding his face. I remember the small anger I already allowed myself back then, that they weren’t allowing us to use role-pens but simultaneously were discussing to arm the teachers. I remember the bleak feeling of not being appreciated and how we reacted to that by being equally uninterested. At the time cell phones were still allowed in schools. I know I shared this feeling with my fellow students. What separated us was my inner attempt not to accept that without a fight. I remember the mat on which one of the men laid at end of the event (khakis, polo shirt, no gun) and how he demonstrated which body part we should hit once we’ve taken away his semi-automatic. They only spoke about the Bad Man and me, who just read Gillian Flynn, thought that was patronizing and at the very least totally uncreative. I still do. I remember that mom texted me during the assembly and told me to get some Bisquick at the store after school. I remember that the bus was late that day because it had started to snow suddenly. I remember all the names of the other eight African-American students at East High (Go Tigers!). I remember that feeling to be at a high school, in Champaign, Illinois. 

Shine a light through an open door / Love and life I will divide

At the checkout, I get the usual look, even when the man behind the cashier is trying to avoid it. Normality is always a question of majority. At the Costco in Champaign, Illinois the garish orange college sweatshirts are the majority. My designer wallet isn’t, out of which I pull mom’s membership card. Neither are my coat and my designer boots. The guy at the cashier sees my four bottles of eggnog and can’t make sense of anything anymore, so he makes jokes. “Ready for the holidays, I see!” I give a response he will forget soon and take my credit card back. If I envy the White Man, for one thing, it is that he can just be. Or he doesn’t. He doesn’t need to do his hair and he doesn’t need to ask himself what to wear going to Costco. He doesn’t need to be careful with his words, not when pulled over, not on the first date. At least he is not facing the same consequences. I never experienced this state of mind. You learn that quite early in Champaign, Illinois. But it took me quite some time and location changes to accept it. I cannot not decide who I am. Not here, not in New York and not in Europe. Therefore I got good at deciding. My closet is full, you can step into it. My eyeliner has been the same for years without being any less striking. I have learned to make everything I own my own. I would feel as uncomfortable in a college sweatshirt as I did back in high school. But for different reasons. At the time I tried to be someone I wasn’t allowed to be. Today I am not that someone. If I had to pick the one thing I am thankful for that my parents did for me, it would be that they named me Aurora. I can’t fit in. So I have to stand out. I believe a lot of black parents think like that. 

We found love in a hopeless place / We found love in a hopeless place / We found love in a hopeless place

Mr. Newsom stands in line for a hot dog. 

“I understand if not, but: wanna grab a drink?” I ask boldly.

He pretends to think about it but he can’t hide that he is flattered. “I would like that.” Maybe he is tired of games too. 

We carry our groceries to our cars and agree on a bar that is in the neighborhood for both of us. When I arrive he’s already there but waits in front of the door. We walk in together and I like that. On the inside, Newsom is still a teacher. He still tries equally to protect and to demand. He still hasn’t lost the last, endearing glimpse of hope that he has an impact on the ones he is in contact with. I resist the thought that pity is why I’m not letting him go home to his family yet. But can’t debunk that theory completely. 

Again, the bartender looks at us a little too long. It’s a similar look I’d get from Jonas’s dad. He then tries to hide it as well. And maybe it’s the age gap between Newsom and me, but let’s not kid ourselves, it’s not. Normality is always a question of majority. The walls have more TVs than empty spaces. It’s afternoon, a time when sports channels fill with two to four men who sit at a table and argue about who is the best athlete right now. In between them sits a blond Cool Girl and asks things. Everybody is recorded form the hip up. Whether they wear khakis or guns is up to me to imagine.

“So, what are your plans for the next few days?” I try an icebreaker. 

“Well, I hope some distance. I don’t know how you feel about it, but when I come home, I…” he looks at me and sees something that stops him. 

“Hmm? You what, Noah?”

“It’s really hard for you to call me that, isn’t it?”

“You’re still my teacher. Even while I make more money than you once did.”

“Good, so I brought you into this world with the right virtues.”

“YOU didn’t bring me into this world.”

That hits him. It’s not the message itself; he seems to share it. It looks more like the way he holds his Miller Lite as a shield, that his hubris caught up to him. With anything less than Savior of The Universe, he isn’t satisfied. 

“There were two moments in which you really got to me, as a teacher.”

“Two? Cool. Did any of them have to do with Steinbeck?”

“God, no!” I can’t tell if he is being sarcastic. “And also, two moments are two more moments than most teachers achieve, so shut up. I wanna tell you something nice.”

“Ok, hit me.”

“The first moment was as a sophomore. You put Derek in his place. Playful, but it was obvious that you really despised him. Especially because it was obvious to him too.”

“Derek? There were a lot of moments. What was it about that time?”

“I don’t remember how it started. He bragged with his ignorance. ‘I can insult people, because free speech, bla bla ...’”

“… with every high-schooler you hear what their parents talk about at the dinner table, but with Derek you could hear the exact sentences. ‘Thanks, Obama.’” The bartender looks up.

“Exactly. And it ended with you telling him and the whole class that we shouldn’t say ‘foreign’ film but Italian, Mexican or Korean film.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well, I do. It was always a good thing when Derek was cut down. But what stayed with me was the sentiment that there is a world out there we don’t know and that this world can be exciting. It was an expression for humility, humility for the other. Just one short expression. And it was a swing at American Exceptionalism, you don’t hear a lot in high school. 

“I pledge allegiance, to the flag...” Newsom mumbles, deep in thought. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“That’s crazy. It meant so much to me, I still think about that scene today and well, I like it.” On TV they are in a commercial break. Pickups, beer, insurance and when you’re lucky: Cialis.”

“And the second moment?”Newsom asks and shakes his Miller Lite at the bartender. 

“The assembly, of course.”

“Of course,” Newsom says. “What a childish scene.”

“Well, it wasn’t strategically your best move. But it was important.”

“For whom?”

“For me. For us!” I realize how my voice gets louder and just to do something I take the straw out of my cocktail and dry it with my napkin. 

“It was a vain moment for which I paid a very high price. It helped nobody. It did no good to put my anger and weltschmerz on Larsson.” Larsson! That was the Superintendent's name. But Newsom isn’t done yet: “Everything just to paint that specific picture of myself. Pure vanity! My fiancee had left me shortly before the holidays and I thought, when I stick it to them, all of them, then…” 

Again, that feeling of endearment that opens up a certain attraction. Newsom is completely unable to be diplomatic and in the midwest that is a superpower leading to nothing but complete downfall. His self-pity is unsexy as hell, but at the same time, it is wonderfully kind and hopelessly romantic. Until today, Newsom hasn’t learned to fake it. He doesn’t allow anyone to be fake, especially himself. He is the shy, insecure side of the White Man. He can’t help himself to be himself. Always, all the time. To act and to be authentic are his antidotes in his binary system that I want to call privilege. Painful privilege, that Newsom is ashamed of. A shame that produces a lot of chivalry. In every interaction with him, you have to balance your comfort and his own. So I’m trying my best and explain. “You said ‘It’s not the world.’”

“Sorry?” Newsom realizes that hasn’t even heard my side of the story. 

“To Larsson. You told him that it is not the world we live in but the country, we live in.” 

“English teacher. Always nitpicking words.”

“Well, yes.” I won’t allow him to fall back on his social strategy. “But it meant a lot to me. It still does. We, not just me, liked what you did. It was… honest. You respected us in that moment. Ok, it went of the rails, yes, shit happens. My stakes in that are smaller, I get it. But it wasn’t for nothing. I didn’t want to say more.” 

Newsom opens his mouth to talk again, but I jump in front of him. “But I didn’t want to say less either. Ok.” 

“Thanks,” Newsom says and looks at the TV. The ticker asks, “LeBron – can he stay Governor if he purchases the Cavs?” The White Man next to the Cool Girl seems skeptical. 

The short break between us is filled with the chatter of other guests, although the moment doesn’t need it. We let it breathe and it doesn’t even feel awkward. 

“So, tell me, what is the last ‘foreign film’ you watched?” Newsom asks. The joke is a little forced. Yet, with the desire for ease, ease has a chance, and we are almost forgetting the kind of roles we know each other in. Newsom later tells me that his mom is sick. I’m polite but he understands quickly that this isn’t the place nor I’m the right one for this. 

As we step out of the bar we realize that it started snowing. The streetlights throw patterns on the floor and SUVs. We hug and wish each other “Merry Christmas.” Newsom says ironically that we should say “happy holidays” and that he still nitpicks words. I try to offer him a warm smile. 

In my car, I start the seat warmers first and then the engine. Mom texts and asks where I am. Champaign, Illinois profits, like so many places, to be hidden under snow. I drive and as I turn the car, the eggnog bottles fall against each other and their sound becomes the reverberation of the evening. The radio plays Rihanna. Whatever we do, we are alone. Sometimes we crash into each other. But it isn’t up to us what others take away from us. It is not up to us what others see when they see us. The only thing you can do is to do the right thing, as often as possible, and you can hope that here and there someone changes their view. You can only hope that people remember your name. You can only hope that when they remember your name they have an image in their head that tells a story of someone who mostly tries to do the right thing. 

Lukas Wilhelmi