The Evolution of Cool Cee Brown

Okay:

So, I have my daughter in one of those fancy, well-funded white public schools uptown. She's getting a top-shelf education, and her circle of friends is as ethnically diverse as an American can hope for.

The question is what to do about middle school. Never mind the sheer horror of her becoming a hormonal preteen, the development of her mind is a whole 'nother matter.

Being a school teacher myself and having worked the better half of the past decade in urban education, I am doubtful that the city has anything good to offer as far as secondary education goes. So, of course, I'm thinking private. Only it's more than a notion. Tuition at a good private middle school in DC is twice as expensive as my undergrad Alma mater. By the time she graduates from high school, it would cost well into six figures.

I did the math. We could do it if I bought one of those big SUVs with fold down seats for us to sleep in. And since Child Protective Services frowns upon that sort of thing, I'm hoping we might be eligible for a scholarship.

"You know, Claude," my stepfather says, "in order for her to get into one these good schools, you're going to have to put on a pretty good show."

"What do you mean?"

"It means you can't be you. Them white people get a good look at you and figure out what kind of nigga you are, she'll never get in. And it'll be your fault."

"I think I clean up pretty good."

"It ain't good enough, Claude. You gotta learn how to put the face on and say the kinds of things they want to hear. You can't go in there with your tattos showin', makin' funny faces and talkin' that hip hop shit. I see you at some of the school functions, lookin' all out of place. You gotta get over that shit and fit in, motherfucker."

So, after this conversation I took my daughter to the playground to teach her how to ride her two-wheeler. A friend of hers was there with her father, so I struck up a conversation with the guy. A forty-some-year-old white man wearing a Red Sox hat. We talked about work. Turns out he's a software engineer who always wanted to be a math teacher. I'm a teacher who has always regretted not having learned more about computers. We talked about "Iron Man" (which was FUCKING AWESOME by the way). Next thing I knew we were walking to his house for a play date.

My daughter has been screaming about this play date business for months now. This is apparently what parents do in that neighborhood. They make dates for their children to play together. While their children are playing, the parents get to know each other better. Drink coffee.

I know, right? Makes me want to vomit too, but that's how things are done around there.

I've always avoided it, thinking that I would be intolerably uncomfortable trying to socialize with middle-aged white housewives.

"So, what's it like sitting on your ass all day doing Pilate's and taking pottery classes?"

"It's not bad actually. What's it like teaching those scary black kids from Southeast?"

"Challenging yet rewarding. You should come volunteer. I would protect you."

It had never occurred to me that these play dates can be arranged through the fathers. Which, obviously, is less intimidating.

"Would you like something to drink? Beer, juice, coffee, water?"

"No thanks, I'm fine. Wait. What was that first one again?"

We sat in his living room for an hour or so while the girls played downstairs. We talked baseball, real estate, local politics. He even offered to help me hook up my old laptop with WiFi so my daughter can play on Disney.com while I'm working. It was one of the more interesting conversations I've had this year. He had an XBox.

"Have you ever been to one of those PTA meetings?"

"Once. Those women are insane. Way too much time on their hands."

"Exactly."

Long story short, I'm going to try to get more involved with the parent community. I'll wear long sleeve shirts and try not to say "fuck" or "pussy".


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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Innocent Question: Does this mean I'm selling out or growing up, and is there a big difference?