Shauna's Paper

A white man ventures into black academia to help his biracial daughter escape expulsion

 

 

            I love my kids, I really do. Even so, I would hate to be them. I sympathize with the strange identity crisis’ they have on a regular basis, but most of the time when they do, I direct them straight to their mother, Pamela. I don’t do this because she’s black, but rather because she doesn’t tolerate their antics and always has one-liners to throw at them that nip the complaining in the bud. Things like: Just be glad we’re not in slavery times, ‘cuz those darkies really would hate your “house n****r” attitude, or (when they were younger) I will beat the little color you have off of you if you don’t…(fill in appropriate blank). She always makes me look so good when I come behind her and pick their sad, sorry faces off the ground. This is why I was surprised when she finally stuck me in a situation I’m not at all equipped for.

                Two days ago she came to me with a dilemma. Pamela really needed to speak to a teacher who had questioned the authenticity of one of Shauna’s research papers. It was serious business and she was being threatened with expulsion, but she just couldn’t get away from work and since I am a writer wouldn’t I have more influence anyway? The idea of this really is ridiculous to me because this is college. I thought I’d gotten out of the all the parental appearances when she was handed her high school diploma last May, but unfortunately, Shauna is only seventeen and she is not yet legally responsible for herself.

                Did I mention that she goes to Clark Atlanta, a historically black university where, when someone like me shows up, cool stares bounce off the walls?

“Don’t you realize what kind of predicament you’re putting me in?” I said to her.

                “Why?!”

                “Here comes the white man to save the day!” I said hotly.

                “Oh, why does it always have to be about that,” she said exasperatedly.

                “Do you know how this guy is going to look at me? Like she’s a privileged kid who always had everything done for her, which she is. Like I never taught her right from wrong, which must be a reflection on my whiteness.”

                “Now you’re really being ridiculous.” She was shaking her head in that tsk tsk fashion that worked so well with the kids, and me, apparently. This didn’t seem to trouble her at all, and she continued walking around the marble island in our large kitchen, sweeping. I think that’s what really got to me, her sweeping, not even looking at me while I was talking. If I had just shut up then I might have got out of it later, but the sweeping pissed me off and I had to say something else.

                “Alright, maybe your right,” I acquiesced, “but you have no idea….”

                She looked up at me quickly then, with a fierceness that said: Do you really want to go there? I didn’t. I hung my head in defeat and trudged out of the room. It was settled; I had to go.

 

 

 

 

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                I had to park near the dorms and walk halfway through the campus to get to the humanities department where Dr. Brown’s office was. The beautifully manicured lawn I walked across relaxed me for a moment. In a weird way, it made me feel safe. Thankfully, it was during the late afternoon, and there were only a few stragglers to look me up and down suspiciously. Once there, however, I became tense and nervous. The large brown door seemed to have an ominous presence about it, so much so that I softened my knock, hoping there’d be no answer.

                “Come in,” a baritone voice commanded. I cleared my throat.

                “Hi,” I said, sounding squeaky in comparison. “I’m Shauna’s father.”

                “Ah, Mr. Scherbatsky, please sit down,” he said, gesturing to the chair sitting across from his desk. I glanced around the walls, noticing the necessary degrees in consecutive order. A BA, MA and Phd., all of them proudly sporting magna cum laude insignias. Despite his commanding baritone and the authoritative degrees, his office looked….well, puny. The room looked as if it couldn’t be more than 5 x 8 feet, and his huge desk left only a wedge of space about a foot wide from the wall for exiting. He was a large man and I imaginged it was difficult for him to be cramped into this small area day after day.

                “The reason I wanted to speak to you today is your daughter turned in a paper that does not parallel her cumulative efforts to date. This paper has qualities not previously exhibited in her writing which caused me to question its authorship. I have responsibilities to the standards to of academic honesty as I am sure you know.”

                “Yes. I certainly understand that, Dr. Brown. This whole thing, it’s actually quite my fault.” I let out a small scared laugh. He raised an eyebrow, but did not change his stoic stare.

                “You see, sometimes she comes to me for help, being that I am a novelist, though I don’t imagine my work would hold up to the standards of modern academia.”

I wanted to imply that a novelist surely didn’t have the skill that academics possess, but I knew that kow-towing would not further my case.

                “So would you say that you wrote this paper for your daughter, Mr. Scherbatsky?”

                “No,” I nearly shouted, “nothing like that. Just a few helpful words and directions.”

It seemed the verdict was already in, and he was scribbling madly on a yellow legal pad.

                “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to recommend suspension, and the dean will decide from there.”

Suspension! It could be worse, I decided. I nodded and shook his hand, and backed out of the door gratefully. Why had my wife sent me here? Didn’t she realize I was a complete mess in these situations? This probably was a just punishment for my involvement, but I continued to kick myself mentally as I pondered the situation. The embarrassment of being an inept dad surpassed the uncomfortable issue of race, and I didn’t want to go home. The reality is, in my life, the white guy rarely saves the day.

Reviews

[Judy]

Interesting topic. Brave topic in fact. And I can tell you're writing from the heart. It kept me interested. I would watch the flow from the explanation to the jumping to conclusion of the verdict. Also, I am surprised that father didn't put up a little fight. The struggle between being a dad, feeling uncomfortable about his skin color, and the fact that his daughter's academic career is on the line. I don't know. I feel as though there should be a little more explanation as to why he feels the urge to back down so quickly. Was there some previous history or run-in he may have had that would cause him to not fight for his daughter?

[Wildecat]

It has to be tough being a white dude married to a black woman, but he knew what color she was when he married her. Marriage and raising children are both a two way street. I personally think he gave in too easy. And besides love doesn't have a color. Nice write.

[Author C. Rance Redman]

White guilt? Certainly uncharted territory for a black author...