This story still breaks my heart to read it; here is the final installment of ‘Coconut’ complete with my pup KT sighing in the background.

When Satya came to the door and saw me standing there, she didn’t seem surprised or happy. She just looked like she was expecting me. She let me in and sat back down…the room was still except for smoke drifting. Satya turned and looked out of the curtain-less window.
—Everybody at school is calling you a coward, I said out of nowhere. You really should come back and stand up for yourself.
—You know what they call you, Satya said, Laksmi and all those other Indian kids? They call you ‘Coconut.” You know, brown on the outside, white on the inside.
—Coconut, I repeated aloud. So what, so what, I whispered to myself.
—I really thought I could be happy here, Satya said.
—Coconut, I said again. It felt slick and rich in my mouth.

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Still loving new voice author Heidi Durrow, with her fresh takes on the complexities of race. Visit her here at Light skinned-ed Girl

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—You two could be just like sister, Papa said to me later that evening. I could see how much he approved of Satya, with her too long hair, and the clothes my mom might wear. She really is a beautiful young lady, he said. Then he hugged me, tightly, but it felt like he was hugging that other girl.

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To receive notices of new posts on Jocelyn’s Stories, click ]]> http://jocelynjohnson.com/?feed=rss2&p=3398 0 —You two could be just like sister, Papa said to me later that evening. I could see how much he approved of Satya, with her too long hair, and the clothes my mom might wear. She really is a beautiful young lady, he said. Then he hugged me, tightly, but it felt like he was hugging that other girl. Or subscribe to the podcast on I-tunes here To receive notices of new posts on Jocelyn’s Stories, click —You two could be just like sister, Papa said to me later that evening. I could see how much he approved of Satya, with her too long hair, and the clothes my mom might wear. She really is a beautiful young lady, he said. Then he hugged me, [...] http://jocelynjohnson.com/?p=3366 http://jocelynjohnson.com/?p=3366#comments Fri, 27 Aug 2010 14:26:05 +0000 Jocelyn Johnson http://jocelynjohnson.com/?p=3366

Does anyone ever feel like they really fit in? Maybe so, for a moment or two, but as for me, I mostly feel just a bit out of place. This is the second installment of ‘Coconut’, a story about wanting to belong, but cherishing those shirt-tail parts of one’s self that come untucked at the most inopportune moments, exposing our true hearts.

We were halfway through our unit on Asia and Mrs. Gracie wrote ‘India’ on the board in her newly shaky script. So I sunk in my seat, waiting for what always happens to happen. Whenever they bring up India in school, everybody looks over at me. Me in my t-shirts and jeans from Regency Mall, right where their clothes come from. Me who like plain cheese pizza and hanging out with my friends. They stare as if waiting for the Real-Indian-Me to burst through like a song and dance in a Bollywood movie. As if I will start bobbing my head like Abu on The Simpsons or chanting with my eyes rolled way back. Even though I have lived here since I was a baby; I’ve known most of these kids since grade school, for Christ’s sake.

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The first installment of ‘Coconut’, one of my favorite stories from ‘The One You Remember.’ This short was a finalist for the Jane’s Story Annual award in 2/2009. It begins:

I was a nice girl before Principal Jackson ushered Satya into our English class. ‘Her family just moved her from India,’ he told our teacher, loud enough for us to hear. When he said ‘India’ he brought his hands together and squeezed and predictably, half the class looked over at me.

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Here is the final installment of Jarrod, his mother, and their days of judgment.

Jarrod’s mother is holding up the backpack between them, like a trophy. Her cheeks sag even as she smiles at him. Her shirt is stretched open in front between the buttons, the fabric pulling. Her skin looked boiled and pink like canned meat.

-I was straightening up, she says, And look here what I found by the door…

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I have a secret love for TV judge shows: Judge Judy, The Judy, The People’s Court. I know its wrong: all those people airing their dirty laundry for a few dollars and my entertainment, but I can’t help myself. And those judges with their TV smiles, highlighting the chaos then making order from it, like a perfect short story. Here is my story, The Episode, which starts with 13 year old, defendant Jarrod.

Jarrod knows that his mother is big, but on the episode she is chunky, hefty, obese. The camera adds pounds to her massive breasts and bulging stomach. In pans to better show her thighs: pink rolls of flesh of flesh beneath a frayed jean mini-skirt.

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She showed me the bruises on Monday in the locker room. They were mostly on the soft part of her upper arms, dark shadows shaped like giant thumbs. I tried to look away, back at her face, but the thin skin around her hairline had broken out in tiny red bumps. her gym clothes were rumpled and dirty. She pressed deeply into her bruises with pale fingers.

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I always marvel at where stories come from. This story started with real students eating lunch in my classroom and talking innocently about casting spells. I imagined whole new girls, older and innocent and dark at the same time, with complicated desires.

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Momma, Amber said…You told me, you promised me, it would be different once we moved here.

It’s not so easy, Mrs. C said roughly. she pulled off that visor, her red hair matted in a ring beneath it. Its not so easy, girlfriend, she repeated, and I felt like she meant this for me too—like I was included, even though I no longer wanted to be.

do what you want, she said. But its not so easy. You’ll see.

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As far as our spells went, we had a special way of doing them. We’d sneak around gathering our regular tea candles, making sure the coast was clear. Amber would grab a beer from the fridge. It makes the spells more potent, she’d say. Sometimes I’d take a sip or two in my mouth. Never more. Always Amber would squeeze my hand tightly, and we’d hold the spell with our free hands between us.

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