Chapter 2

August 1995

When I arrived at Duke, there were decisions to be made. Not about dorm rooms, roommates, or even food—all that was taken care of already. The decisions that I faced were more subtle, choices that I knew from experience would shape my social life for the near, and possibly distant, future. Back when I lived in Evanston, I’d been one of the popular guys. I’d slept with any girl I wanted at my private school. I’d been invited to all the parties given by white kids who felt liberal and rebellious counting a honey-colored black guy among their best friends. But not too liberal. I was familiar with the line of thinking that I was not a real black person. I was an exception to the rule they saw played out on the eleven o’clock news. I did not live on the south side of Chicago. I did not curse, carry a gun, kill. I was not threatening. In fact, I was whiter in spirit than many of my whitest friends, if white meant straightlaced, responsible and wealthy. My mother was the star anchor of the hottest gossip show in Chicago. When she died, people were whispering rumors about her being the second coming of Oprah. This conveyed a certain social status to me, and with my looks, I managed to glide through most of high school without any of the adolescent scars my sister seemed to collect like stamps.

So I knew about cliques, and I knew what it took to find the right one. The problem was that I no longer cared about social standing, cliques, or popularity. I knew that college would be different than high school, but I suspected that the social habits lasted long past the time when adults should know better. I was soured on the idea of popularity and its value once I moved to Durham. There, I attended a mostly black high school and I’d been an outcast, an Oreo. Not black enough.

At Duke, I just wanted to study and succeed. I wanted to be left alone. But I soon realized that this university—perhaps all universities—was designed to force interaction. The setting denied the loner what he wanted most. It demanded that I play the game.

The first decision to be made involved my roommate. The college assigned freshman roommates based on common interests and backgrounds. Race was not a factor, but I doubted that it was coincidence that my roommate was black, smart and middle-class.

“Ralph, right?”

These were the first words Jason Davis uttered to me. I had arrived at school early to escape my father, but not early enough to beat my roommate to the bed near the window. The room was larger than I expected, and I would soon learn that it was part of a coveted suite. Our room was connected to the one next door by a private bathroom, and the suite featured a small sitting room as well. There were only a few of these suites in my freshman dorm, and they were doled out carefully.

I was startled. “No, I’m Ellison. Am I in the right room?”

The roommate smiled. “No, I know. You’re named after Ralph, right? Ralph Ellison.”

I nodded. I never knew what to say to people who brought up the source of my name. My name was just a part of me, not a connection to a writer whose work I’d never read.

“I loved Invisible Man,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Jason.”

I nodded. I was not about to reveal my ignorance. “Nice to meet you.”

Jason Davis was several inches taller than me, and I topped six feet. He wore his hair shaved close to his head, and his dark skin was just a bit pockmarked on his jaw, perhaps evidence of a battle with acne. Jason wore the kind of clothes that I could never pull off: baggy pants, oversized T-shirts, sweatshirts, football jerseys. The latest sneakers, dark sunglasses, a single diamond earring in his ear. Jason looked like hip-hop. I wore sport shirts with Ralph Laurent logos, shirts I’d had for years, since I couldn’t afford them anymore, with khakis and loafers. Jason looked like he was going to a club or a party. Somewhere cool. I looked like I was going to a recital. I wore the uniform of white, Midwestern suburbia, not because I thought it was stylish, but because it was the only thing I knew. I envied Jason upon sight. He wasn’t good-looking, not in a conventional sense, but his eyes were intelligent.

We sat down on the beds. Jason offered me the one near the window, which I refused.

“So we got the suite. Surprise, surprise,” Jason said.

“What do you mean?”

Jason explained about the suites and showed me around.

“Yeah, it’s nice, but why is it a surprise that we got the suite? Don’t they just hand them out randomly?”

Jason laughed. “Are you serious?”

I shrugged. “I guess I am.”

“Wait, you don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Are you famous?” I couldn’t keep a tinge of sarcasm from creeping into my voice. Jason either didn’t catch it or chose to ignore it.

“No, but my dad is. He’s Grant Davis. NBA basketball coach. Baltimore Bombers.” Jason was incredulous. “Got to the second round last year?”

My face remained blank. “The second round of what?”

I liked sports okay, most sports. Except basketball. I didn’t get basketball and knew nothing about NBA coach Grant Davis and his son Jason.

“This is one of the biggest basketball schools in the country,” Jason added, watching my face. “Wow, you really didn’t know.”

I smiled. “I thought you were just being an egomaniac.”

Jason held up his hands. “I’m not like that, seriously. It’s just that, growing up as Grant Davis’s son, you get used to people knowing who you are. It comes with the territory.”

There was something in Jason’s tone that made me suspect that being Grant Davis’s son was not altogether a good thing. I was curious, but didn’t want to pry.

“So, son of Grant Davis, I guess I got lucky in drawing you as a roommate.”

Jason spread his arms wide and laughed. “I guess so, Ralph. I guess so.”

Jason took me to my first college party the Friday night after classes began. He already seemed to know lots of people, judging by how many greetings he gave and received as we walked the quad.

“Maybe you really are famous,” I joked.

Jason shook his head. “My dad’s been coaching in the NBA for ten years. All the players make sure he knows who they are. Recruiting.”

Jason also knew where the best parties were.

“Chris and Bryan are having a party tonight at their apartment. That’s the one to go to.”

I had already decided that the best way to appear less ignorant was to stay quiet. I was uncomfortable about the idea of the party. My social life had pretty much ended when my mother died. I’d forgotten how to have small talk, how to look casual standing around listening to music, how to flirt. The popular Ellison who was invited to every party in high school seemed like another person together, a stranger whose mannerisms and emotions were foreign to me.

I liked Jason, so I agreed to the party.

“Who are Chris and Bryan?”

Jason laughed. “I keep forgetting you’re not a fan. They’re players on the team.”

I cleared my throat, trying to think of something to say that would make me seem cooler.

“Are all of your teammates close? I mean, do you guys hang out?”

Jason smiled again, but his lips were pressed tight and he averted his eyes. “You got it wrong, man. I’m not on the team. I don’t even play basketball.”

I wondered why an NBA coach’s son didn’t play, but I could tell from the tightness of Jason’s shoulders that I shouldn’t ask. I watched as he rummaged around for his wallet and keys. Jason had the door open and was a step down the hall before he spoke again.

“You ready?” he called back.

No. I stood. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Someone once told me that the on-campus apartment village was originally low-income housing that Duke bought cheap and then used to house some of its students. This theory was supported by the fact that most of the inhabitants of the little campus village were black students. The implication, I realized, was that Duke was steering its black students toward the university’s version of the projects, a fact which I doubted. Why would the administration even bother? A ghetto isn’t just about the buildings, it’s about the attitudes bred throughout generations. If you think you’re low-class, you will be, no matter where you live.

At that first party with Jason, I didn’t know Central Campus was a black neighborhood, but I did notice that most of the faces at the party were my color or darker. The most conspicuous white face was that of Chris, the team power forward and co-host of the party. I stood to the side while Jason greeted Chris as soon as they stepped onto the tiny front lawn of the ground-floor apartment. I looked around while Jason and Chris engaged in a long, complicated handshake involving a partial hug and mumbled words I couldn’t hear. Taking in the massive group of people swarming in and out of the apartment, I was struck by the smell of beer and sweat, the core-rattling thump of the bass coming from speakers, the haze of smoke that wafted from cigarettes. I watched as couples danced, some pressed against each other, others standing separate and dancing alone. The only clues they were couples were occasional eye contact and nodding. I looked at the girls; there were twice as many girls as guys, I thought. I knew it was probably just the thrill of being at my first college party, but I could swear that I’d never seen girls this lovely. Girls I knew must be smart, girls who probably studied chemistry or literature during the day, then came out at night in tight baby T-shirts and low-slung jeans, showing their bellies while they danced with their arms in the air.

For the rest of my life, I would remember that smell, that bass thump, that haze. It would always remind me of this first party, the first time in a long time I had felt hope and a sense of simple pleasure shared with other people. I closed my eyes and tried to make out the song that played, but the words were indistinguishable from the beat.

“Ellison, this is Chris.” Chris gave me a small nod and we slapped hands. I was relieved that I wasn’t expected to participate in the full handshake-hug thing.

“Welcome to the party.” Chris smiled and spread his arms wide, as if to take in the entire scene.

I nodded. “Hey.” I was trying to think of something else to say when a girl walked up to us.

The girl was tiny. The top of her head came up to my shoulder, and her head was covered with a cap of twists and curls that added another few inches to her height. Her features were doll-like: pouty, full lips colored with dark pink lip gloss, a round, upturned nose, prominent cheekbones. Her eyes were sharp hazel beacons shining out of a dark chocolate face. I bet that every man she met commented on her eyes. They were impossible to ignore. But it wasn’t just the color or the shape, like perfect almonds. Her eyes spoke for her, told what she was thinking even in her silence. There was laughter there, something knowing and sharp. She saw through me with those eyes. I could never lie to this girl. Those eyes would know. The eyes, they were the eyes of a woman, even though she had the narrow shoulders and thin arms of a girl.

She raised an eyebrow and smiled at me. I didn’t realize I’d been staring until I noticed Chris’s broad grin and Jason elbowed me in the side.

Chris raised one eyebrow at me before turning to the girl.

“What’s up, Angela?” I might have described Chris’ look as a leer. I wasn’t sure whether it was ironic or not.

“Whatever, Chris. Don’t start with me. You were a dog last year, and I hear you haven’t changed.” She sniffed and turned her back to him.

Chris put on a look of faux innocence, and Jason laughed.

“Damn, man. Classes just started and you’ve already started in on the girls?” Jason said.

Chris shrugged. “I’m a senior. There’s no time to waste.”

I was silent. I felt like I needed to study people as carefully as I studied my biology textbook. There was so much I needed to know before I could feel as comfortable in my own skin as Jason seemed to be.

Angela rolled her eyes at Jason and looked at me. “I hope you’re not going to let these gentlemen be a bad influence on you.”

“Hey, hey, now. Don’t put me in with Chris—I’m just standing here, minding my own business,” Jason protested. “I am, in fact, a perfect gentleman.”

She stared at Jason but said nothing to refute his claim. I thought she was teasing, but she looked so serious.

“I’m incorruptible. Plus, I hardly know them.” I waved at Jason and Chris as if to dismiss them. They both hooted, accusing me of being a traitor before they wandered off to get beer. I met Angela’s gaze. What did those eyes see in me?

“Incorruptible, huh?” Finally, she smiled.

I felt something shift inside my chest. I knew I was a romantic, though I would deny it if ever accused. I knew I had a way of seeing things in terms of what I thought they should be instead of what they were. It was impractical, and had led to trouble all my life.

But when I met Angela, there was this connection, like a thin line of gossamer silk leading from my chest to hers. It was so light as to be invisible to others, and I was sure Angela didn’t know it was there. But I felt it, and I saw it.

At that moment, I didn’t want to spend another day without her. If I could have, I would have followed her home and simply watched her from morning until night. What did she eat, how did she sleep, what did she dream? I wanted to know. I needed to know. The need felt desperate—it would not be ignored. This wasn’t something I’d ever felt before.

Angela might never talk to me again, might not even remember we’d met. But I knew right then that I would love her.

“Absolutely.” I smiled, although I knew my own grin was no match for hers.

She nodded. “We’ll see.”

* * *

That party was a start. The start of my social life, the start of my being accepted, not as a token dark face or a light-skinned oddity, but as myself. At least, the self I created for Duke. The new Ellison was quiet but not morose. I was funny but did not strive to be beloved. I studied hard, went to some parties (but not all—being at every social event would make me an altogether different type of person), and I was commonly thought to be Jason Davis’s best friend.

I wasn’t sure that was totally accurate, although it served my social purposes to be associated with Jason. Jason was the consummate diplomat, friendly enough so that no one had a bad word to say about him. Sometimes, I wanted to ask Jason about this. How had he mastered this persona by his eighteenth birthday? And, more importantly, was it real?

Jason and I shared our living space and talked about the parts of our lives we could risk sharing. Neither of us mentioned our fathers, or family in general, except to give basic information. This was just fine with me. I wasn’t sure what Jason was keeping to himself, but I knew my own secrets, and I’d just as soon keep them as such.

Instead, we talked about classes and parties and girls. There was no shortage of attractive girls who seemed willing as soon as I was ready to make a move. Jason and I discussed these prospects at length, more for the conversation than to make any real plans. We agreed that freshman year was no time to hook up with a serious girlfriend. But I was lying. I did want to be with one girl. Angela. She was perfect and out of my league, which only made me want her more. But I was embarrassed to tell Jason, so she was the only one I never talked about.

And so, choices were made. I began to carve out my place in the Duke social structure. I should have felt relieved to finally find my place after more than a year of feeling displaced. But all I felt was worry.

* * *

Calvin on becoming a writer:

Where I’m from, being a writer isn’t an actual career choice. I remember telling my fifth-grade teacher that I liked to write stories. She patted me on the head and told me that I should enjoy it now, because when I was older I’d have to choose a real job.

The way they taught reflected this thinking. English class was about diagramming sentences and learning correct grammar. We rarely read books, and when we did, it was some old boring story from a textbook that had been used by hundreds of black kids over the last twenty years.

I complained. “Can’t we read something more interesting? They have lots of books in the library downtown in Raleigh.”

The teacher was a young woman, certainly not older than twenty-five. She wasn’t what people in rural North Carolina thought of as pretty. She had dark, ashy skin, wore thick, round glasses and had the kind of narrow figure that inspired people to say she was built like a broomstick.

She had left our little town to go to college, and God knows what brought her back. Now, I imagine that she came home to take care of a sick parent and never quite made it back out. Or maybe she had a bad relationship, came home to her people to heal and was afraid to leave again.

Whatever her reasons for teaching school in our rural Southern town, that day when I asked about reading books, she was worn out from a day of trying to educate thirty country kids, most of whom wouldn’t make it past the tenth grade. Strong young men got jobs when they were old enough. School was viewed as a luxury that we couldn’t afford.

The teacher had two choices. One, she could encourage me to keep learning, feed my lust for knowledge, smile at my enthusiasm. Or, she could shut me up—asking too many questions made her job harder. She was putting in her time—wasn’t that enough?

“Calvin Emory, you went all the way to Raleigh and back to tell me how to do my job?” she drawled. She stretched her lips back over her teeth as the rest of the class laughed. It wasn’t like any real smile I’d ever seen.

The other kids teased me.

“Calvin’s a nerd!”

“Why are you trying to make more work for us?”

“He must think he’s white.”

“High yella, more like it!”

I waited for the teacher to reprimand them, but she didn’t. She just gave me that same lips-stretched-over-teeth thing that she was pretending was a smile.

That was the moment I decided to become a writer.

—From Save Me: A Memoir by Calvin Emory