SandScript 2020

“You won’t be my daughter
anymore.”
“Whose daughter would I be?”
“Well, if you married a black man,
you’d be Tyrone’s daughter.”
“What’s a black man?”
“You don’t know what a black man
is?”
“Preacher Snyder?”
“Ryan, you’re smarter than that.”
She scooted down in her seat, flushed
with embarrassment. His words, fiery
embers that shot at her fragile armor of
self-confidence, tarnished the silver vigor
that should have been much brighter, more
resilient at her young age.
“Clothes don’t make someone black,”
her father continued. “It’s the color of the
skin.” He downshifted his 1972 Volvo at
the approach of a red stoplight. He raised
an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “Who’s
that little boy in your class, the one who
played Santa Clause in the Christmas
performance? He’s black.”
Ryan thought back to her school’s
holiday recital, and of her Kindergarten
classmate, Courtney White, the lucky,
cherubic boy who had been chosen to wear
the coveted fake beard and red suit that
all the other students had been denied.
Because of this, and maybe solely this,
Courtney was now the most popular kid in
class. Ryan loved the way that he took time
during every recess to draw for her. Only for
her. Vibrant, colorful hopscotch pads, whose
squares and triangles somehow became
castles and meadows, their symmetry and
detail far more elaborate than she was able
to draw.
Now that her father mentioned it,
Ryan realized that Courtney’s skin was, in
fact, black.
“But Courtney is my friend,” she said.
“Of course he is, honey. Even I have
black friends. I’m not a bigot. But I didn’t
marry one of them and neither will you. And
don’t you dare get fat.”
William steered the Volvo into
the parking lot of a small, family-owned
“ice house”, the lone convenience store in
the small town bordering San Antonio.
Its small, dilapidated brick structure was
autonomous and determined, ignorant of its
impending demise when franchises would
soon encroach and swallow up the area.
“Stay put,” he told her and got out of the car.
The summer day had crisped and
cooled, its edges brown and mild, in search
of someone to allow it to finally rest. It was
the time of year, and time of day, when
Texans sat with their arms out, eager to
embrace the early night’s warmth, and
Ryan allowed herself to be hugged in return
by the placid, heated air of the evening’s
arrival.
She picked at a scab on her elbow
while a man walked by, his arm around a
young girl, perhaps his daughter. It was a
sight that left Ryan with both a yearning
for her own father to hold her, and an
immediate, visceral rejection to what that
might feel like. Her body recoiled as if
it were happening, the act artificial and
uncomfortable, and she instantly took back
the thought.
It wasn’t that her father was an
unlikable guy. Just the opposite. He had
been voted “Most Popular” in high school.
“Most Handsome” in college. “Most Likely
to Succeed” while getting his masters at
FICTION
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