"No! I ain't goin' to bed wif' you. You here me? It ain't happenin'."
"Aw, come on girl. Wu's up wich you lately? You on' the rag o' sum'p'n'?
Rachelle didn't answer. She knew better than to make him mad, but she'd had it. She'd had it with him, this neighborhood, and this...life. After years of trying to make it work, Rachelle knew this life was no life and she was done with it. If what had worked for Oprah and for the president of the United States, why wouldn't it work for her, too? It would work because she'd make it work.
"I jes' don' feels good. That's all they be to it. Now git on up outta here," she told him without even looking his way.
He was so pissed off he snatched up his sweatshirt and slammed the door on the way out.
She picked up the phone and stared at it for a long time before dialing the familiar number.
"Hello, Momma? Kin I comes home?"
—————————————————————
"So what brings you here, Ms. Williams?"
"I done heard you does tutoring and I wants he'p."
"Help with what exactly?" he asked.
"Okay, I was sittin' in my old crib watchin' Oprah when my boyfrien' was out. An' she wuz talkin' 'bout black folk who can't git ahead cuz they talks like black folk. I moved back home las' week and my momma says Oprah be right cuz jes' look at her and successful she be. And den you kin looks at da president and he wife and how good dey done. Oprah say a black woman need to learn to talk white...sorry, I means talk...good...so she can git hersef a good job. But then she can go home and talk like she want. So I wants to learn to talk, you know, like she do and like my president and he wife do."
"Okay, that makes sense. And I have to agree with Oprah. Being able to speak well—and by 'well' I mean speaking standard English correctly—can open up a whole new world. I wholeheartedly agree we should be ourselves at home, but you and your mother are right. Sometimes the professional world demands a different standard, and this is something I can definitely help with. Let's start with the concept of subject-verb agreement. Have you heard of that?"
For the next six weeks, Rachelle Williams worked very hard on developing proper diction. She was a smart young woman. She'd graduated from high school when most of her friends had dropped out. Many now had children and sadly, many were involved with drugs and live in gang-infested neighborhoods like she had until desperation forced her to make some changes. After a particularly brutal shooting in her apartment complex, Rachelle knew she had to get out and although she had no idea where to start, making things right with her mother and moving back home seemed like her best choice. In fact, it was her only real choice. Her mother had welcomed her wayward daughter back with open arms and didn't even demand she attend church with her anymore. She was just thrilled to have her prodigal child back home again.
Her mother didn't have a lot of money, but she was able to help pay for Rachelle's training as a physical therapist which, along with a government grant, was enough to cover nearly all of her costs. Rachelle also worked part-time in order to be able to help out and she was now spending a good chunk of that money on learning standard English. Watching that Oprah show had inspired her. She wanted more from life and even though she loved many parts of her life—she was very proud of being a black woman—she wanted to master the English language the way those two famous black Americans had and she was determined that nothing would stop her.
Several of her friends criticized her for it when she told them what she was doing, and one called her a traitor even after she explained this would a work-only thing. Her friend was having none of it and told her that black folk needed be themselves at all times and the hell with anyone who didn't like it. Rachelle politely told her that if it was good enough for Oprah Winfrey, the president of the United States, and his beautiful wife and their two girls, then it was good enough for her. It stung when her friend quit spending time with her over Rachelle's decision, which to her friend meant a 'sellout' or 'trying to be white' but she had a larger dream and this was a first step to achieving it. So...the hell with her friend who couldn't have been much of a friend if doing something this important to her was a deal breaker.
By the end of the sixth week, Rachelle's progress had been phenomenal. She'd quickly learned that all she needed to do in many cases was just reverse the order of her subject-verb choice. 'He need' became 'he needs' while 'I needs' became 'I need.' She actually knew how to make the subject and verb match. She'd learned to do it consistently; she'd just learned it differently than in standard English. A few other changes such as replacing ain't with isn't and making sure to annunciate the 'g' at the end of many verbs and the correct choice of the articles a, an, and the, made a world of difference.
She also learned the importance of speaking without what many people called 'an attitude.' That word alone used to send her into fit of well—attitude. "Attitude? I ain't got no attitude. Oh, you keeps dat up an' I'mma show you a attitude!"
It had been difficult to accept that much, if not most, of what she'd internalized growing up where she did had been wrong. Well, 'wrong' wasn't the right word. Were she to stay in that environment, what she'd learned was essential to her survival. But if she wanted to move up and out of where she grew up, the things that worked there didn't work well anywhere else. Admitting these things had been hard, but once she realized no one was to blame; that this was just how life was where she was raised, then moving on became a whole lot easier. After all, she wasn't giving anything up. She was just putting a new tool in her kit to make life better for her and her future children. And for Rachelle, a good, decent, caring husband was going to come before any kids came along.
As a final exercise, she'd prepared a ten-minute speech and her tutor was duly impressed. "That was amazing, Rachelle. I'm not sure I can do anything more to help you here. As much as I'd like to keep taking your money, it would be wrong for me to do so."
She thanked him and said, "It was worth every penny. I can't tell you how grateful I am for your help. You really have opened up a whole new world to me while allowing me to keep my old world alive and well at home. But now, I can navigate my way through places that would have been closed off to me before just because of the way I spoke. So thank you for that—and for everything else."
"You're welcome," he told her. "You know, I've never said anything before, but I wanted to tell you you're a very beautiful young woman. Don't misunderstand. I'm old, married, and most definitely not hitting on you. I'm just not blind and it's been a pleasure um...seeing you each week, Rachelle. Between the looks the good Lord gave you, your willingness to work hard to get ahead, and your new skill set, there's nothing you can't do." She smiled, thanked him for the compliment, then they shook hands before she left.
Rachelle spent the next two years finishing her degree and soon found herself working for a private hospital as an at-home physical therapist. She loved working with the diverse clientele that came her way. She often found herself going from the home of a very well-off family who spoke standard English to a home where a single mother lived with her children where she could relate using her own beautiful, rich patoi.
The first time she went to a million-dollar home, she was embarrassed about having been surprised to learn the owners were black. However, she was very proud of herself when she was able to carry on a conversation with them as if she were Oprah herself. The homeowners told her they were very impressed with her and asked her to come work for them. The wife explained how she and her husband had just started a new physical therapy company called Neurological Sport Therapy and that they were looking for qualified physical therapists. The woman also told her that just between them, she was looking for well-educated, professional black women—like Rachelle. As flattering as that was, when she told her the new job came with a 30% increase in pay along with full benefits and that she could declare her mother as a dependent, the deal was sealed. "Okay, sign me up!" she told them.
Rachelle Williams had been with NST for almost two years when she was told about her newest patient. "His name is Cale Davis. Have you heard of him?" her boss asked.
"No, the name doesn't ring a bell. Should it?" she asked.
"I guess that depends. Cale is one of the biggest names in the sport of NASCAR and he was involved in a pretty bad crash last month at The Atlanta Motor Speedway during a big race called Fields of Honor, Quick Trip 500. He's going to need a lot of PT (physical therapy) and since the next job is yours.... Here's the address and his contact information. I gotta warn you, though. His grandfather can be um...well...cantankerous."
"Ah, okay. I understand," she said. "I've been dealing with...cantankerous people...all my life. In fact, that description fits my own grandfather to a tee. So no worries."
The next morning Rachelle drove into the most upscale suburban neighborhood in all of Atlanta. "Damn!" she said out loud as she passed one multi-million dollar home after another before arriving at what looked like the largest sprawling ranch-style home she'd ever seen. She parked along the side of the very long driveway and walked up the sidewalk in her green scrubs. She rang the doorbell and waited.
After almost a minute, she rang it again then heard a voice, "Hold you goddamn water wagons, already!" A few seconds later the door opened up and a thin, elderly man with even thinner white hair said, "We already got us a cleanin' lady," and went to shut the door.
Rachelle held out her hand to prevent it from closing and said, "Sir? I'm Rachelle Williams with Neurological Sport Therapy. I'm here for Mr. Davis."
"Well, I'm Mr. Davis and I don't need no damn therapy so...."
"Are you Mr. Cale Davis?"
A man who looked to be about 50 walked into the very large foyer and said, "I've got it from here, Dad, okay?"
"Are you sayin' I can't handle the help around here?" the older man grumbled. "I already tried explaining how we ain't got no need for no more cleanin' women, but you know how them people are."
The younger man looked visibly embarrassed and said, "Come on, Dad. Let's get you a cup of coffee." He turned toward Rachelle and mouthed the words, "I'm so sorry" as he pointed to the back of his father while he lead him away. He called back to Rachelle, "I'll be right back. Please come on in and give me just a minute, okay?"
Rachelle let herself in and closed the huge door behind her. She'd been inside a lot of nice homes, but this one was nothing short of fabulous. She wandered over to a wall that had a lot of framed pictures on it. All of them were connected with racing in one way or another. It didn't take her long to figure out which one must be Cale Davis. "Dang!" she said out loud to herself in her at-home voice. "That boy be cute!"
She was right. From what she could tell, he was at least 6-feet tall and had an amazing smile. He was wearing a ball cap or a racing helmet in nearly every picture but she finally found one of what appeared to be his extended family and she couldn't help but notice he had gorgeous, thick black hair and an amazing smile. "Not too bad for a rich white boy," she thought to herself.
Once the son got his father settled in the kitchen, he came back out and found Rachelle looking at the photos. "You ever been to a NASCAR event, Ms. Williams?"
"Oh, no. Loud noises don't really interest me," she said politely but firmly.
"There's a lot more to NASCAR than the noise, but the noise itself is pretty amazing. In fact, it's one of these people love the most about it once they get hooked. You should come out sometime and watch."
"Um, thank you, but I think I'll pass," she told him still smiling.
He then suggested she come with him to meet Cale. On the way he told her, "Sorry about my dad. He's...from another generation."
