imani is black for faith

by jamilla vandyke-bailey

imani blanc is sitting on the aisle-edge of her seat in the middle of the bus. you both sit in the middle of the bus with the rest of the middle schoolers. but since you’re in eighth, you get to sit closer to the back. closer to the loud hum of facial hair, ripe acne, and lipgloss shine of high school.

imani is thinning out, shedding the childish pudge of single digit age, and it shows in the vibrant flush of her umber-toned skin. her thick senegalese twists, healthy and heavy with oil bounce as she speaks. and she’s always speaking. and when she does, her eyes are full of laughter, and her voice is full of light. it is middle school, you’re empty with jealousy and she is beautiful.

you remember when her nose would run and crust at the nostril in second grade, her hair barrettes cheap in pink and purple and white, and the area around her mouth sometimes dry from smiling. she was happy even back then and since you can’t remember whether or not you were mean to her, it means you probably weren’t nice to her.

sometimes you look at her when she laughs. her head cocked back, her mouth wide and open and pink, and her voice echoing. she’s not fat and always eating and always crying and always needing. she is so very much the opposite of you—that once-little dark girl with the runny nose and parents with accents.

she says, “so tell my why in social studies today, mr. sheehan tried to get us all to sit on the floor for an activity?”

bam bam says, “oh shit, oh yeah, the slavery thing?”

“yeah. why didn’t any of you tell me about it?”

“my b. i don’t even know if i did it last year. i might’ve been out or something.”

from closer to the front you hear, “what slavery thing?”

imani says, “so we get to class and mr. sheehan told us to sit down and that it was going to be an activity and yeah yeah yeah. i didn’t know it had anything to do with slavery but from jump i didn’t like him telling me i had to sit on the floor. so i said no.”

you weren’t aware that was an option. you tried to think back to your class last year and you’re pretty sure mr. sheehan didn’t say anything about saying no or not doing the activity. but didn’t you smile from the pit of yourself, eager to be participating? it was the closest you sat to so much whiteness since you were all race-less in elementary school. so didn’t you try to make yourself as small as possible? weren’t you too busy giggling like they do on boy meets world to think? it had been so long since brian or meghan or moose even acknowledged your existence, and then boom, there they all were, inches away. it felt good. it felt right. it felt like it should.

it wasn’t until at the end of the activity, when mr. sheehan explained the connection between our compliance with sitting too tightly together on the floor and slavery that everyone you were just silently existing with remembered that you were, in fact, that weird black girl they had hung out with that one time at that one field trip all those grades ago.

you hear someone say, “damn. he said you were the only one?” and find yourself blankly staring at imani. so
beautiful and so black.

and imani says, “he said i was the only student in two years to say no. and that the last one who said no was a black girl. i thought it was you,” her eyes snapping into yours. her eyes were twinkling with judgment and accusation. her eyes vibrant from knowing you sat your fat black ass on that white mans floor pretending to be a slave with a bunch of white kids who forgot about you.

you look back out to the window, shrug back tears, and say, “yeah i might’ve been out that day too because i don’t remember any of that.”

she said, “oh.”

and then the conversation continued on without you.

which was fine.

jamilla vandyke-bailey (@alli.maj) is a pro-black feminist poet and essayist. her poetry chapbook, “than we have been,” (Weasel Press, 2022) and her full-length book of poetry, “the womxn,” (Finishing Line Press, 2023) are currently available for purchase.