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Overview
Growing up black in 1960s Chicago, Jean “Stevie” Stevenson came of age amid the tumult of the civil rights movement, learning to value not just her race and gender but her sexuality as well. Now, nearly a decade later, Stevie is a college graduate enjoying a week of vacation in San Francisco. After getting a taste of the bohemian life, she can’t bring herself to return home to her family and journalism career in Chicago. Instead, she’s determined to spread her wings and discover her true self, experimenting with free love, gay pride, and vegetarianism; forging a friendship with a gay disco queen; and taking a job at the feminist Personal Change Counseling Center. As she falls in and out of love, Stevie takes time to observe both the absurd and the liberating qualities of the West Coast hippie lifestyle—and is constantly reminded that the journey to self-discovery likely has no end point.
Written with the same bright wit and endless charm that made Coffee Will Make You Black such a beloved book, Ain’t Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice is a delightful continuation of Stevie’s story that was hailed by Salon as “ripely funny, unpretentious, and sincere.”
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504018661 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 08/18/2015 |
| Series: | Stevie Stevenson , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 324 |
| Sales rank: | 277,006 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
April Sinclair is the acclaimed, award-winning author of three novels. Her debut, Coffee Will Make You Black, was named Book of the Year (Young Adult Fiction) for 1994 by the American Library Association, and it received the Carl Sandburg Award from the Friends of the Chicago Public Library. The sequel to Coffee Will Make You Black, titled Ain’t Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice, was published in 1995 followed by the novel I Left My Back Door Open. Sinclair has been a fellow at the Djerassi, Yaddo, MacDowell, and Ragdale artist colonies. She worked for fifteen years in community service programs, and has taught reading and creative writing to inner-city youth. Born and raised in Chicago, she currently lives on an island connected by bridges and a tunnel to Oakland, California.
Read an Excerpt
Ain't Gonna be the Same Fool Twice
A Novel
By April Sinclair
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1996 April SinclairAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1866-1
CHAPTER 1
"You meet the same peoples over and over again in life," Grandma warned from the doorway.
I didn't give her my full attention. I was too busy cramming wool sweaters into a suitcase full of jeans. Despite my sweaty, well-toasted skin, I knew I'd need warm clothes in a month or so.
"They names and they faces might be different. But they will be the same peoples," Grandma insisted. Her words hung in the humid Chicago air like the smell of chitterlings cooking on a stove. She pulled a paper towel from her apron pocket and wiped the sweat off her fudge-colored forehead. Grandma wore one of those serious aprons that you had to stick your arms through. There was nothing prim and proper about her.
I was the first person in my whole family to go away to college, and I was excited. But I knew that "book learning" wasn't everything. Grandma says experience is the best teacher. And she is no one to take lightly.
Mama joined Grandma in the doorway. The two of them could barlely fit. They were both big women. Neither of them were fat, just big in the way grown women are supposed to be, according to Grandma. She'd often say, "Chile, don't nobody want a bone but a dog." But I was content with my slim figure. Thin was in, especially in white America, where I was headed. After all, Twiggy was the model of the hour. And besides, I certainly wasn't anywhere near that skinny. I did have titties and booty to speak of.
There sure were a lot of memories in this bedroom. The walls had been yellow, pink, and finally blue, my favorite color. I shook my head at the now worn-out-looking white bedroom furniture that had looked so magnificent the Saturday afternoon they carried it home in my uncle's truck. Mama and Daddy bought it used from a house sale in Lake Forest, a rich northern suburb. I'd thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Aunt Sheila took one look at the gleaming white furniture and declared that we'd arrived.
I gazed at my bed. The quilt that Grandma made me years ago was almost in tatters now. I'd bought a brand-new, lime-green corduroy bedspread with some of the money I'd made this summer helping Grandma at her chicken stand.
Mama looked sad, like she hated seeing her only daughter go. You'd never know by her puppy dog expression that Mama had swung a mean switch in her day. She'd also done a lot of preaching over the years. And I'd been the mainstay of her congregation. My two younger brothers could never be held hostage long enough to listen to her sermons. Boys were "outside children," they "liked to go," as Mama would say. I wondered if David and Kevin would finally have to help her out in the house. She might make them wash a few dishes, but that would probably be about it.
"Well, Mama, you won't have me to kick around anymore," I teased.
"Just don't let some man make a fool out of you and you'll be all right." She sighed. Her smooth pecan complexion only showed wrinkles when she frowned.
I didn't have a boyfriend right now. I'd gone to the senior prom with a dude from the school band who'd asked me at the last minute. I'd barely known the shy, husky trumpet player drew breath until he'd mumbled, "Stevie, will you go with me to the prom?" They call me Stevie at school. My family calls me Jean. My name is actually Jean Stevenson. I'd swallowed and answered, "Yeah, I'll go with you." Paul was shy and quiet, but kind of cute. At least he wouldn't expect me to put out, I figured.
Our date had been pleasant enough. I even had fond memories of resting my head on Paul's shoulder as we slow-danced to the prom's theme song, "We've Only Just Begun." It was a white tune by the Carpenters; and our class of 1971 was all-black, except for a couple of Puerto Ricans and a Chinese girl. Some people had complained about the honky theme, but the prom committee prevailed. Only three other white songs were played during the prom, Carole King's "It's Too Late" (which everybody agreed was hot, white girl or no white girl); Bread's "I'd Like to Make It with You"; and Bob Dylan's "Lay, Lady, Lay." Of course no dudes could complain about the last two.
Paul and I had gone to the Indiana Dunes for the senior class picnic the day after the prom. And Paul had been a perfect gentleman, lightly brushing my lips only when he'd said goodbye. It would give me a sweet feeling, just thinking about it. Something might have come of our connection if we'd had more time to get to know each other. But we didn't; Paul's draft number was pulled. He jumped up and joined the navy and shipped out right after graduation. Paul figured if he was in the navy, he'd have a better chance of staying out of Vietnam.
"Jean," Grandma said, interrupting my thoughts. "We're expecting great things outta you."
I chuckled as I stuffed underwear in the inside pocket of the large suitcase. "Grandma, I'm just going away to a state university, so don't y'all expect me to come back a Rhodes scholar."
"I know you'll do us proud," Grandma said, dabbing her eyes.
Suddenly, I felt a lump in my throat. I was sad to be leaving everything familiar, even Mama.
"You just keep your head in your books," Mama admonished. "And don't let men distract you. Men are nothing to get excited about, remember that." It was obvious that Daddy no longer excited Mama. The two of them reminded me more of business partners than lovers. She often passed Daddy like a vegetarian walking by a steak house. I wondered if the earth had ever moved.
"I don't know what you talking about." Grandma winked. "Men are too something to get excited about! Jean, if you can't be good, be careful."
Mama folded her arms. "You oughta be ashamed of yourself, talking like that at your age!"
"You the one who should be shamed," Grandma insisted, stepping into the bedroom and swinging her full hips.
"Chile, there might be snow on the chimney," she laughed, pointing to her Afro. "But, there's sho' nuff fire down below!" She snapped her fingers and did a boogaloo step.
"Get it, Grandma!" I laughed, clapping my hands.
"Poppa must be turning in his grave," Mama sighed.
Grandma rubbed her nose. "My left nostril is itching. Some man is talking about coming to see about me right now. And if he cain't cut the mustard, he kin least lick the jar!" Grandma rushed out of the room.
Mama shook her permed head in horror.
Grandma said her good-byes in Chicago. She shoved a twenty-dollar bill in my hand and then we hugged for the longest time.
As soon as my brothers, my parents, and I were out of Chicago good, we saw corn for days. I don't mean that literally; it was only a four-hour drive. But I don't care if I ever see another cornfield again, no matter how much I like eating it.
I've been assigned to a coed building, modern twin towers with twenty floors. Mama says she would've preferred for me to be in an all-girl's dorm. Daddy agrees with her, like he usually does on matters involving us kids. I don't know why Mama's tripping. We're on two different sides of the building. We even have different elevators.
It got a little emotional in the parking lot for us and plenty of other families. Everybody hugged me, Mama, Daddy, tall, lanky David — who will be a junior on Southside High's basketball team — and cute, chubby Kevin, who I can't believe will be a freshie this fall.
There wasn't a dry eye among us, including my father's narrow dark eyes. He's due for a dye job, I thought, noticing the gray around his temples. But Daddy still looked strong and athletic in his bowling shirt.
Grandma says white people are born actors. So, I'm not sure how my roommate and her family really felt when they discovered that I was black. I'd moved into the room first. My family was long gone by the time Barbara, her parents, big brother, and little sister trooped in with her stuff. Everybody was cordial; none of them tripped out like they'd seen Godzilla or anything. But who knows how they really felt?
Anyway, thank goodness, my roommate seems like the sweet type. Maybe because she's so homely. She probably figures she has to be extra nice. I hate to be cold, but the girl's face is hurting. Barbara is tall and skinny, downright gawky. She's got long, stringy, brown hair and pinched features. I don't have to worry about any latent homosexual tendencies being aroused by the sight of her, that's for damn sure.
I know that I can be attracted to a girl. I got a crush on the school nurse back in high school. Nurse Horn said it was normal for adolescents to develop same-sex crushes. But it still bothered me that good-looking girls turned my head.
Barbara is from a small town — Quincy, Illinois. She goes to bed at nine o'clock and plays a lot of Barry Manilow and even some classical. I'm thankful that she plays it real low. I try to be considerate, too. I don't blast my Motown sounds unless she isn't here. I made up a riddle. Why do white people go to bed so early? The answer is, because they're "tired." If you don't get it, that means you're "tired" too.
Today, I finally found the ivy. I'd always pictured a college having old, stately, brick buildings with ivy hanging from them. But I've only seen one place like that on this campus. The newer buildings outnumber the older ones, about two to one.
I like most of my classes. Only one of my teachers seems racist. Not anything overt, just a feeling I get. But that's nothing new. I can't trip on it. I have to keep my eyes on the prize, like Daddy says.
In class, my answers better be right. I feel like I have to represent my race. If I look dumb, we all look dumb. It's a burden. Sometimes I envy the white students, who can just blend in.
It's a trip suddenly to be surrounded by wall-to-wall white folks. And it's really strange living in the same room with one. It's a mindblower to look over at a pink face sleeping in the bed across from me. I keep waiting for the girl to go home, but then I remember she lives here.
In the cafeteria, when I sit with white girls from my floor, I cut my chicken with a knife. And I surely don't suck on the bones. I pretty much avoid watermelon altogether.
In the second week of September, I made my first trip into town. The place reminded me of that song "I Wanna Holler, But the Town's Too Small." There are no signal lights or busy intersections. But there is a statue in front of the courthouse of some dude on a horse. Every small town probably has one, I thought.
I was sitting on the bench waiting for the campus bus. I'd just finished buying a flashlight and some tampons. The weather was perfect, about seventy-five degrees and very little humidity, for a change. Suddenly, I heard somebody shouting "Nigger!" Then I felt wet spit on my arm. I looked up as a truckload of men passed by, leaving a cloud of gravel dust. It all happened so fast, I was stunned.
I felt anger, fear, and humiliation all rolled into one. The white people walking by and the campus bus pulling up to the curb became a blur. Since I couldn't kill the assholes in the truck, I simply wanted to disappear. Somehow, I gathered my composure and boarded the bus. And, I was able to stare out of the window at the postage-stamp-size town just like anybody else.
But tears ran freely down my face when I told Mama on the phone what had happened. She said in a calm but concerned voice, "Baby, I'm sorry that happened to you, but you will just have to tough it out. Lord knows, we as a people have come through slavery, survived the KKK, and the dogs being set on us in Birmingham. And you will just have to survive getting a college education in rural Illinois; so long as they're giving you a four-year scholarship. It's too bad, but that's just the way it is." Mama paused. "Sometimes, your soul looks back and wonders how you got over."
I'm thankful for the camaraderie I feel with the other 500 or so black students on this campus of 20,000. Most black folks speak to one another, whether we know each other or not. The few who don't are scorned as "Uncle Toms" by the rest of us.
I met a sistah named Sharlinda in the dorm bathroom. She had Noxzema all over her face. We nodded and introduced ourselves before I brushed my teeth. Then Sharlinda said that it was hard getting used to not seeing roaches running every which way when you turned on a light.
I could've turned my nose up and acted insulted. Just because I'm black doesn't automatically mean I'm acquainted with roaches, does it? But despite Mama's vigilant efforts, we keep us a few roaches in residence. Not to mention occasional mice and a rat every blue moon.
So, instead of copping an attitude, I laughed and said, "Girl, I know what you mean."
Sharlinda confided that she'd never slept between two sheets before in her life. She said it had taken her a whole week to figure out what the second sheet was for. I laughed and told her I could relate.
It seemed like by the time I'd rinsed the toothpaste out of my mouth, Sharlinda and I had become fast friends.
Sharlinda is cute and "healthy," not a size eight like me. She's light skinned with sharp features and curly hair that you could barely call a 'fro. You might think she was born to purple until she opened her mouth. Sharlinda talks like a stone sistah. She can butcher the king's English with the best of them. She was probably raised on a boot and a shoe.
Sharlinda grew up on the West Side of Chicago. I came up on the Southside. She says the West Side is the baddest side of town. I don't disagree with her.
I'm a journalism major. Sharlinda's major is undeclared. She's in the "Reach Out" program. Mama would say that they had to reach way out to let Sharlinda into somebody's college.
Mama seldom likes my friends, and I know she wouldn't approve of Sharlinda. She prefers seddity people and I don't. I like it that Sharlinda is funny and down-to-earth. I'm often drawn to people like her. Mama would say that's my downfall.
Anyway, it's nice having a friend to hang out with. Especially since I don't have a boyfriend yet. The competition for brothas is a little stiff because more than half of the black students are female. A few of the dudes have been checking me out, especially a handsome, clean-cut type named Myron. But so far nothing has materialized, just a couple of smiles and one long, lingering look in the campus bookstore. Maybe I'll give Myron some play soon. Blood seems nice, I just hope he isn't too square for me.
Yesterday, Sharlinda and I went shopping in town. I was nervous, but at least I wasn't alone. Besides, I knew I had to conquer my fear. There were almost no other black people in sight. We felt like aliens until we found this cool store run by hippies. Sharlinda bought a black light and a reefer pipe. That's how I know she smokes dope. I've still never even tried it. But I'm ready to.
I bought two posters for my room, one of a woman with a big rainbow Afro and another of a peace sign.
Speaking of peace, I marched in my first demonstration against the war last night. A few dudes even burned their draft cards. That's when the campus police ordered us to disperse. When we didn't disband fast enough, they sprayed us with tear gas. I hated that shit. My eyes and throat were burning all the way back to my dorm.
There was a long-haired photographer taking pictures at the demonstration. I told Sharlinda that I might end up in Life magazine. She said, I'd be more likely to wind up in a CIA file. That worried me a little. But Sharlinda said, "Don't trip. You're small potatoes, ain't like you're Bobby Seale or somebody."
Tonight, my roommate and I were interrupted from our studying by a big commotion outside. We stuck our heads out the window into the warm Indian-summer night to find out what the deal was. I thought it might be another antiwar demonstration.
But to my surprise, what I saw was as traditional as the Fourth of July. I'd heard about panty raids but I never thought I would actually witness one in 1971.
Girls were sliding the window screens open and panties were raining down on white boys' heads. They sniffed them like they were fresh-baked rolls.
They talk about us being wild, I thought. I swear, white folks are something else.
"I have half a mind to throw my funky drawers down there," I said aloud. I forgot I was talking to square-ass Barbara.
"Let's do it!" She smiled wickedly.
I was as surprised as if a nun had invited me to an orgy.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Ain't Gonna be the Same Fool Twice by April Sinclair. Copyright © 1996 April Sinclair. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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