An Encounter of the Racist Kind in the Girls’ Bathroom on Prom Night
I don’t have a date for tonight, but there’s a boy who seems to enjoy my company, and I enjoy his right back. I want to line dance and shake hips on the dance floor with this boy, but my bladder is almost full, and I swear I’ll only be a minute.
A drift of teen-appropriate music wiggles into the girls’ bathroom on a vibrating high when I push the door open. The floors are dancing with it, getting jiggy with the rhythm. At the mirror two pretty white girls are reapplying makeup. They see me. Their speech drops to whispers. There’s a rhythm to these whispers too, but I don’t like this one. I’m almost at a stall when I hear it.
“Pig.”
I shut the door, flip up the lid, sit on the toilet seat, and keep my underwear on. Then I hear it again. Louder. More stretched out, this false declaration.
“What a pig nose.”
It’s prom in the mid-2000s, and I’m all glammed up, my dress my body’s crowned jewel of mauve and the darkest black. My braids are artwork. I’m not rocking high heels, but my footwear make my feet feel fabulous, so they’re fabulous too.
“It is!
It isn’t, but pig noses rock, Peppa Pig’s and Babe’s, unfairly adorable. Mine though, it’s a button. So many women went bonkers wanting to boop my fleshy button when I was a kid, this nose turning them to standing mush. These prom girls don’t know anything. They don’t know me or my history.
“Pig!”
As the girls take their time with their makeup and racism I try to get comfortable, or less uncomfortable. I can wait them out. I’m no stranger to bathroom hideouts. I’m a high school dropout for a reason. Being one of the few black kids in town. Being the adopted girl with elderly parents. The quiet girl, the anxious one. It was rough being those things, among other things.
“Ha, ha!”
I’ve never seen these giggly girls before. This isn’t my prom. I’m not an intruder, but I am a tagalong. Before I dropped out, I went to a whole other school. My childhood friend invited me to her school prom. I’m wanted, and there’s a boy here who I want to keep talking to while we slow rock under stunning lights, and yet—
“Ha, ha!”
How do these girls treat those who look like me and who go to their school? And everyone else not to their color-liking? What about them?
“A pig’s!”
I breathe in through my nose, keeping the air in tight. Pigs have excellent noses. Sharp teeth too. Like, real sharp. Why are these girls so sure they can compare me to a pig and not get bit? Who let them think this? Why won’t they say this in front of my teeth?
“Ha, ha!”
The music from the dance floor flares sudden and intense, popping a new soundtrack that I can still hear here, deep in my stall. For the moment it’s still just us three girls. The music makes me want to stand up, open the stall, and do the Dougie or something. Whip my hair. Makes me think, hey, I kind of want to pop, lock, and drop my body. Yes, I’m black at prom. Yes, I have a nose. I have ears, lips, and a face. Feet too. I want to dance, dance a revolution with these feet, and yet—
“Ha, ha!”
I’m stuck, my mind tumbling skull-first down an undesired memory road to boost. Once as a little kid I went to visit a neighborhood playmate, who had an Asian friend over who didn’t want to play with black people. The friend’s mother later came to my house to apologize to my white mother, but the friend still wouldn’t play with me. Thought black was catchy.
Over a decade later and there are two girls reapplying makeup and talking about piggy features like there’s nothing else to do on prom night. I’m stuck-stuck, glue to a toilet seat. And I have so many things to do: have fun, find my friend, dance up the night with the boy of my fancy.
The boy is a friend of my friend’s boyfriend. He’s a kind, stocky, blue eyed boy who will later tell me he has family who won’t come over whenever black friends are invited to the party. After that revelation I’ll look into his eyes and say and think, oh.
“Like a pig’s!”
His hands will feel big on my waist when we slow dance on the dance floor. I’ll like it. I haven’t had a boyfriend yet. I’ve been kissed before, but I don’t think I really wanted my first one or was ready for it. The boy will hold me closely, so gentle. We’ll share a great night together long after prom ends, and I’ll secretly consider placing a love spell on the racists in his family for everybody’s sake.
But I don’t know yet that I’ll consider casting magic jimmies of love and peace. I’m still in the bathroom. What I know is confinement. I’m not contemplating miracles. It’s prom night. The music is activating the dance in me. The boy is out there. I’m all dressed up, but I’m stuck, and I’m stuck, and I’m stuck, and I’m—
“Ha, ha, ha!”
I don’t want to have to wait racism out, and yet—
“Ha, ha, ha!”
I have to go: go pee, go dance, go live, but I can’t go now. Racists, they’re real mood killers and joy stealers. The girls by the mirror keep trying to make a pig of me. I can’t move. I’m all ears. But give me another minute, and I might even be all teeth.
