MY FATHER, ISAIAH Maxwell Thornton III, landed a position as a lawyer at the biggest bank in town when he moved back. He specializes in complicated banking cases—“investment banking,” I’ve heard him say. I’m not exactly sure what that means, but I do know all the money he deals with belongs to somebody else. I figure he must be good at his job, though, because he always has a lot of cash to spend on me.
He drives a brand-new black Mercedes with all the frills. Man, that car sure does smell good! The seats are so soft they sorta hug you. We never eat french fries in Dad’s car.
He likes to dress up. Three-piece suits. Crisp white button-downs. Cuff links that match his ties. Buttoned down and buttoned up—that’s my dad. I feel like he’s more comfortable dressed like that. He once wore a suit when we went bowling. No joke. I made him take off the tie and the jacket and roll up his sleeves.
“This isn’t the opera, Daddy—why are you always so proper?” I asked him when he picked me up from school one day.
He gave me a look, but he loosened his tie. “I thought we might stop by Target,” he said instead. “I know you like that place, and you might want to get a T-shirt or some jeans or something.”
“Yeah, that would be cool,” I told him. “But you gotta learn to chill, Dad. Maybe you can get something like ordinary clothes for yourself while we’re there. You look like you’re the president of the company or something!” I gave him the sad sad sad headshake. So he completely took off the tie. But he couldn’t bring himself to wrinkle his shirt by rolling up the sleeves. Pitiful.
Mom, on the other hand, has a dozen pairs of leggings, three well-worn pairs of jeans, and probably a million cool T-shirts. She likes shirts that have clever sayings. Last week she wore one that said, “Teach your kids about taxes—eat 30% of their ice cream!” They always make me laugh.
Dad will wear a shirt without a collar, and even jeans on weekends, but he sends them to the cleaner’s, so there’s a crease down the center of each leg, like Sunday pants. Yep. Pitiful times two.
“And by the way, Daddy, you gotta stop ironing your jeans! Nobody does that!” I told him as we walked from the car toward the giant red circle Target sign. He just laughed.
Then he looked at my torn, frayed jeans. “And you think those are a fashion statement?” he asked, smirking.
“Yep. They even sell them here. And they’re not cheap!” I reminded him with a laugh of my own.
“Hmm. You look . . . impoverished.”
“And that’s bad?”
“For my daughter, yeah.” His face grew serious. “Here’s the thing. I think it’s important we look our very best at all times.”
“We, like you and me?” I asked, even though I knew what he really meant.
He sucked his breath in slowly. “No, Isabella. Like us, like people of color, like Black folks. That we.”
I cocked my head. “Why?”
It took him a few clicks before he finally said, “The world looks at Black people differently. It’s not fair, but it’s true.”
I was already aware of this, but I didn’t think Dad had ever been so direct about it. Mom for sure would never have had this conversation with me.
So I flat out asked: “Does the world look at me that way?”
He answered without hesitation. “Yes.”
“But what about the Mom half of me?”
“To me, that’s probably the best half of you, the part that makes you smart and funny and lovable and just plain cute!” he told me with a big smile. “But it has nothing to do with skin color or race. And everything to do with the flavor of Kool-Aid you turned out to be. You understanding what I’m sayin’?”
I nodded.
Then his face got serious again. “But the world can’t see the inside of a person. What the world can see is the color.”
The doors of Target opened with a welcoming swoosh, and I was instantly distracted. Yeah. Target does that to me. I feel at home. They’ve got stuff I need. Stuff I don’t need. Stuff I didn’t even know I wanted. Neatly placed and waiting for me. I love that place. I was trying to handle what Imani calls “all the feels” I was getting right then.
Dad was oblivious to the “feels” and kept on talking. “For instance, did you know there are people in this store—in all department stores, actually—who walk around looking like ordinary customers but are really security police making sure no one is stealing?”
“For real?” I looked around. There was an old lady with a shopping cart full of cat food and three tennis rackets. Maybe she was one! Or that bearded guy who was carrying one of those red baskets. He was buying Cheerios and Coke. Dude, you need some milk!
Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “And even though it’s not fair, Black folks are followed more often than others. A friend of mine filed a lawsuit a few years ago for a young man—for this very thing.”
I slowed down. I felt like my head was popping, the Target magic fading a little. “Well, we shouldn’t shop here anymore!” I declared, as if my few dollars would make a difference.
“Won’t matter. Like I said, every single department store and grocery store—even the dollar store—has security personnel.”
“I just never thought of that,” I said, fury building inside me. “Well . . . well . . . then I’ll never shop again!”
He just gave me his You are crazy, girl look. “Ha! Not my Isabella, the shopping queen! She’ll be back.”
So, yeah, kinda sad, I knew he was pretty much right. I loved this place. I pulled the cart to a full stop near the sporting goods department. Everything was so neatly displayed. There were rackets and rods, balls and bats, and even ropes—for jumping Double Dutch or lassoing cattle, I guess. That made me giggle. I didn’t even need a batting helmet, but I saw one that was so cute I actually wanted to buy it! Yep, Target’s got it goin’ on.
We wandered around the store, Dad letting me choose anything I wanted. I got a couple of T-shirts for myself, and one for Mom that said, “My favorite child gave me this shirt!” Dad either didn’t mind or didn’t notice—he made no comment. I also picked up some hair gel and scrunchies, and a new pair of sneakers—gold ones! Imani and Heather would love them. I was looking, but I couldn’t spot anybody who might be secret security.
I wondered if my mom ever thought about this kind of stuff when she shopped. Probably not. She’s got that stupidly perfect, straight, honey-gold hair and is pale and incredibly pretty—random people have stopped her to ask if she’s a model. Nobody has ever asked me that! I can tell it makes her feel good when that happens, though. Even though she looks away, her smile tells me.
I bet she’s the type of person security folks are trained not to follow.