Tears of a Tiger Read Online Free PDF Page B

you know how sorry I am?
    â€”I know you are, Andy. It’s okay. Really. I don’t blame you. Maybe all of this was meant to be. We can’t always see the big picture, you know.
    â€”Yeah, man. But it’s rough…. Hey, that’s enough of this stupid pretendin.’
    â€”Okay. That was great. Tell me about basketball. What’s that been like for you without Rob?
    â€”How do you know about me and basketball? You workin’ from a script?
    â€”No, Andy. In my initial interview with your parents, they shared with me what they thought was important to your life—things like basketball. It was all very surface information. There’s a lot about you that they don’t really know.
    â€”You ain’t lyin’ there, man. You could talk to them all day and never find out anythin’ about me.
    â€”Do you think your parents understand your problems?
    â€”Heckee, no! Sometimes I think my parents ain’t got no grip on reality. My mother lives in “la-la land.” Do you know that she still says “Negro?” and refuses to call us black or African-American? At least she doesn’t say “colored.” She says that her skin is not black and never will be and that she doesn’t know anyone from Africa; why should she change what has worked perfectly well all of her life? I’ve given up tryin’ to convert her.
    â€”What kinds of things is she interested in?
    â€”She’s active in her sorority activities, which to me seems kinda stupid. You got a bunch of black women (forgive me, Mother), who graduated from college twenty-five years ago, who meet once a month to talk about the good old days. That reminds me—she keeps the station on her car radio set to one of those oldies stations. If I hear the Supremes one more time, I think I’ll scream!
    â€”Does she ever listen to your music?
    â€”Be for real! Anyway, they plan meaningless activities like cotillions for girls like Rhonda and Keisha. She once asked me if I would like to be an escort for one of the girls.
    â€”What’d you say?
    â€”I almost died! Me? Put on a tuxedo and dance the waltz with some pimply faced girl whose major goal in life is to master the bass trombone? I don’t think so. So me and my mom kinda stay out of each other’s way. We don’t dislike each other—we just don’t think alike.
    â€”What about your dad?
    â€”My dad is another one who can’t deal with the real world, although he doesn’t think so. He’s active in the Republican party—yes, I said “Republican.” Isn’t that disgustin’?
    â€”If you say so.
    â€”He’s got a good job workin’ at Proctor and Gamble, where his main function, as far as I can tell, is kissin’ up to white people. He’s the vice president of somethin’ or other—some office they created when affirmative action was real popular. He’s got a car phone and a fax machine—I guess he thinks he’s got it made. But he doesn’t make it to very many of my basketball games—too busy, or out of town, usually.
    â€”Does that bother you?
    â€”Yeah, sometimes.
    â€”Do you think he realizes how that hurts you?
    â€”Man, he hasn’t got the slightest idea what I think about or care about. He once told me that he hoped I’d go into the business world with him when I finished college. But I plan to use my lips for kissin’ beautiful women, not the soles of some bald-headed white man’s feet. You know, I can’t even remember the last time he was in my room. He yells at me through the door every once in a while to turn my music down, but he never comes in. I wonder why.
    â€”Why don’t you ask him?
    â€”Naw, man. I ask him a question, and I get a lecture. I gave up askin’ him questions when I was twelve years old. It’s easier that way.
    â€”What about your little brother?
    â€”Now you talkin’.