Translucent

Suddenly, a knowing feeling lifted my chest, excited my bones, as my aching arms folded my last tank into the drawer of my novel room––I was settled in. The joy crept onto my face, and I happily spun about myself to recognize just where I was. I stood at the entrance, the front door wide-open and welcoming, and then was immediately disappointed by the sight of the warmly lit  space. There were no posters of Naomi Campbell or Nina Simone, no stringed lights, and no rug on the floor. The minimal space, the interior still malleable, was startling, but I assured myself that I had done my best for today. I desperately wanted to move on. 

I never foresaw myself moving into a room on the Lawn. I was no longer separate from the urbanized Academic Village, full of faces from different places, picnics and study groups, initiations and traditions, and yet surrounded by everything rural Virginia. It was different to exist in it, the space equivalent to a new professor’s office space. My home for my last year at this university was compact. It had a door to a tiny closet, a bunk that was originally for two, and a door to the sink on my left, along with a hutch, fireplace, and a work desk. 

Shuddering off any second thoughts to my fresh housing lease, I pivoted my productivity. I owned the best location to promote the continuation of the Club of Indonesia — my front door. I couldn’t be more excited to move this organization along, as it wasn’t everyday the university witnessed a Black and Indonesian ambassador. I approached the hutch, looking for my laptop. Instead, I found Angela’s folder. To be her girlfriend meant becoming a librarian for all of her research, especially of the university. This folder was all history, including that of these 54 rooms and previous Lawnies. It was her gift to me. Now having moved in, the enchantment of the place dissolved. For example, having no toilet and only a sink hidden in a closet was a dreamkiller. 

I recognized the silver of my computer beneath the folder and moved it, carefully. I managed to find a running printer inside the music hall directly South of the Lawn, conveniently beside Room 50. I stuck my headphones in my afro and purposefully left my door ajar. 

The errand ran quickly. When I found the machine, I was greeted by bright red papers. As I gathered the fresh pages, a rumbling caught my attention. I lifted my headphones to one ear. 

Nothing. 

I left the elderly building, starting my convenient trip up the Lawn. However, my muscles were still tense, and I allowed the summer evening to bathe me in drowsiness and ease my senses. I couldn’t remember whether Manuela’s door was open as I approached it on the West Wing. Regardless, I planned to welcome myself in. 

Except, the inescapable unease returned and I silenced my music. There was a rumbling, the echo of excitement that was faintly coming closer. I assumed I was picking up on a speaker, blasting a speech instead of the normal music from Lawnies unpacking. Still, I started to even consider if the noise was approaching me. 

I turned to look behind me and saw the torches first. Burning light that attracted my eyes to its warmth, and I couldn’t help but think that Virginian summers couldn’t be hotter. The fire guided my sight to their posters and flags, plastered with symbols and colors and speech I’d only seen preserved behind expensive glass. Their chanting, primal and barbaric, flooded into my ears. The whole scene, the crowd of bodies progressing orderly like a snake, felt antiquarian. I racked my brain to remember that today was August 11th, 2017… only five days before my girlfriend’s birthday. An alternative right disturbance did not belong here. 

I found myself moving swiftly to Room 43, where Manuela’s door was wide open. I had no intention crossing onto the eastside, which was the same diameter across as the Rotunda — a fact that I only knew and remembered because of Angela. I was falling into a state of hysteria, the air escaping my lungs faster than I could catch it. I was breathless by the time I rushed into Manuela’s room, slamming it shut for our own safety. 

I've always hated how the windows were inconveniently placed on the backwalls. I had to peer through the peephole and wait for the commotion to come to view.

“I’m sorry, Manuela, but you wouldn’t believe it. I think, I think…!”

My vision blurred and wouldn’t clear. I stumbled as I squinted, unable to makeout where I was. I blinked and blinked until a cool blue lighting cleared the room. It was crowded, legs spilled from the top bed, backs hunched over large poster boards on the floor, and a woman sat across from me –– and she was not Manuela. 

The woman was central to the busy commotion, her dark skin illuminating in the deep color of the room. In her seat, she was leaning forward, reviewing sheets of paper. She was mouthing the words, almost performatively, before cutting herself off by biting her lip. She took her pen and scratched, scribbled, then discarded the paper at the end of her stack. After a long exhale, her face craning towards the sky, she fixed herself upright and continued to read. 

“He’ll want it soon, you know.” One of the members from the floor, who finished writing ‘MEET OUR DEMANDS: BLACK STUDENTS FOR FREEDOM’ in thick black marker, had gotten up and stood next to her. 

She raised her head, confused.

“There’s no need if I’m the one giving it.”

The man, similar in age to her and I, let out a sigh and titled his head with a knowing look.

Her face contorted into a mix of frustration and disappointment. Her thick lips twitched, about to speak, but instead she turned her head back to her papers. The man was caught by voices calling him from the loftbed, and he carefully stepped over criss-crossed bodies to meet them.

“And to think… as if I’d ever be the face.” 

I realized I had been holding my breath, as if I had been waiting for something. Well, I was waiting for myself to understand her. She was obviously the leader, as I watched heads lift from their work to direct all questions to her. And yet, there was someone she was working under — no, lifting up. Reinforcing someone else as a leader, the successor. I looked towards the recordkeeper of every Lawnie for Room 43, and found she didn’t even live in here. A man did.

Then, I struggled to stand. I noticed that the most recent date was 1969, which was written beside the signatures. 

The room slowly started to blur all over again, and I held onto the door knob for support. I thought to check the peephole again, and saw nothing but dark and quiet dusk. No sign of the earlier rampage. I looked back one last time and was startled by the woman looking at me.  

“Be careful, now.”

I nodded, not wanting to disappoint her, too.

My surroundings didn’t become clear until I stepped out of the room and closed the door. The first thing I noticed was the light pouring across the parallel rows leading towards the Rotunda, without the help of torches. That was good. 

My only thought was home as I walked diagonally toward Room 50. Crossing the grass, the open area empty had become eerie as I could barely see. None of the lighting shone on the Lawn itself. I didn’t see the two men who were following me until I was on the East Wing, my brown skin and their white complexion now visible in front of my closed door. 

“Can I help you?” I asked.

The stockier one looked at his friend then me.

“We wanted to know if we could help you.”

Under the disgustingly yellow light, my eyebrows creased in deep uncertainty. 

I reassured them that I was fine and turned to my door. Trying the knob, I wasn’t surprised to find it locked. I stuck my key in, but it wouldn’t budge. Over and over I turned it, began to shake it, and desperately willed for it to open. 

There was laughter behind me.

“Wow, this couldn’t be more entertaining,” the stocky one said, joy pouring from his face. “And perfect timing for Fright Night.”

My stomach curled. 

The two were dressed in khaki shorts and collared shirts, the stocky boy in emerald and the tall one in scarlet red. Nothing new, but oddly even more preppy in their combed corn-colored hair and musky-smelling cologne. Something about them stood out, made them seem foreign. 

“Do you need help getting home?” The tall man asked, speaking up behind his friend.

“This is my home.”

The stocky one almost erupted in hellish amusement again.

“Oh, man I like you,” he said, practically gasping as he grabbed my arm. “No need to pretend, we’ll get you home.”

His tall friend followed suit, seizing my other arm. Quickly, they began to walk, dragging me along with them.

“No, stop! I am home! Room 50, that’s my — I live here!”

“She’s already trouble,” the tall one noted, displeased by my natural outburst.

The stocky one nodded his head towards Room 46. 

“We’re early for the march anyways, so let’s wait.”

Swiftly, they successfully opened the door and shoved me in first. On the floor, I could barely look up and see a thing, but I heard the door shut. Lazily, the dark room, only lit by the fire, settled into view. Ignoring the rhythmic beat of my heart, I realized I no longer heard the two boys, and neither could I see them. Instead, a different white man dressed in the same uniform stood in the middle of the room, cornering a Black woman in a long, flowery dress. 

I leapt to my feet, adrenaline lighting my blood to act, until I noticed she wasn’t in danger –– at least, not by him.

“I won’t be all night, but you have to stay here. It’s tradition, a stupid tradition ––”

“That you’re leading!” She pointed at the twinkling pin on the right of his chest.

“No, that I’m overseeing,” he palmed his forehead, “I mean, that I’m supervising.”

She chuckled darkly, crossing her thin arms.

“Like the good, big brother you are. I should thank you.”

Irritated, the boy was about to retaliate before holding his tongue. Good.

“Baby, please, just do as I say.”

“I got no other choice if I want to see my mama in the morning. Suppose I’m one of the lucky ones of my kind tonight.”

He didn’t groan or sigh or run his hands through his pin-straight hair. Instead, he just looked at her, with eyes a deep, sad blue. 

“I have to go. Before it’s off to a bad start.”

“You’re keeping someone from seeing their loved ones tomorrow,” the girl whispered. 

The man gulped, searching her face. He realized he couldn’t expect reassurance from her, nor any support. He was in the wrong, choosing to step outside and contribute to evil. And she didn’t know what she was going to do about that.

So, he left, but the door slammed unexpectedly and caused both me and the woman to jump. She sucked her teeth and turned to the fire, shaking her head. She cursed under her breath and began to pace the wood floor. It was barely a moment before she collapsed to the ground, choking on her tears. I lifted my hand, reaching out towards her, but then immediately withdrew. I thought to check the record of previous Lawnies, and a newfound fear frothed my tongue. The most recent year was 1924. No wonder those boys laughed at me. To them, I had no reason to even dream about this university.  

I started to accept what was happening to me. Simply by walking in the rooms, going out onto the Lawn, I was visiting time after time. The only mechanic that I understood of this ability was how my vision would blur, and I would start to hallucinate. Really, I hoped I wasn’t hallucinating, because then I would look insane. 

After preparing my mind for what or who was lying outside, I checked the woman to see her cries had slowed. She deserved privacy. 

As I opened the door, her voice caught my attention. 

“Don’t you just roam out there, again.”

Her brown eyes were fixed onto mine as I left. 

I allowed the blurriness to overcome my sight, and I waited for the image of the Lawn to return after I closed the door. I sighed. That room would be endowed to Kappa Sigma. 

I was deflated, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. 

A celebration was escaping from Pavillion VI, music and chatter drifting from the grand doors. I walked the brick path, passed locked doors, and arrived at the scene. I stepped inside, captivated by the sound of people enjoying themselves. With caution to the wood moaning beneath me, I walked through the hallway before a wide doorway. Here lay all of the excitement. 

I must have become desensitized to my discoveries. I wasn’t surprised to find the party to be segregated, where white folks were dressed in black stiff suits and white exaggerated gowns engaging in couple-dancing and small talk. Meanwhile, there were Black men taking up the role as musicians in humble cotton clothing. There was a banjo, a single drum, a bowed instrument, and a flute. The sound was energetic, and yet their dark faces were so somber, so distant. 

All of the laughter and white joy faded as I focused on the music. A young woman, with skin the shade of moonlight, appeared, dragged by some man who placed her in front of the musicians. He gripped her arm, whispered aggressively in her ear, and checked her face for whether she understood. When he was pleased, he let her go as someone caught his attention. He looked up and jeered at whoever called out to him, joining the crowd again.

The woman, who looked to be my age, checked the grown men behind her. They all nodded, and the musicians started a new song. The music sounded like blues, in its slow rhythm, but there was a dissonance that tugged deeply at my spirit. I watched the white partygoers drift in the sleepy sound in slow dances — for them, this was a lullaby. However, there was nothing relaxing about it. I waited for the woman to sing, but instead she noticed me staring at her. 

I almost stumbled back. I had been observing, keeping my distance, but her gaze pulled me into her present, my past tense. I wished to be as far away from her as possible, not wanting to get familiar with where in time I was now and what occasion I was witnessing. 

Except, I was mesmerized by her voice, low and haunting. She stopped looking at me and closed her eyes. All five of them began to increase their volume, but not for the sake of the white folks. Their calling was loud enough to be heard from across the Lawn, echoing throughout the village. It was deliberate. 

I noticed how my face had been wet with tears, and I wiped at my cheeks. My chest was heaving as I broke away from the music, away from the laborers, and away from this time period. I didn’t want to look around for the year. I could all but guess. 

I stumbled out of the Pavillion, ignoring my blurred vision and hoping that I would end up on the Lawn. I had left even more lost than my other visits. I couldn’t even feel whether my devastation could be from hunger or thirst. I was overcome by inexplicable grief. 

Looking North towards the Rotunda, I became attracted to its beaming light like a moth. I traversed the Lawn, noticing the peak of dawn from the East. 

Each door slowly creaked open as I walked past. I would be aligned to parallel rooms, and their respective doors would peel from awfully loud hinges. White faces would appear at the doorway and stare coldly my way, investigating my presence. I could only focus on their eyes watching me, and I yearned to escape. For a second, my body jolted, about to run, until I restrained myself. I decided to take my time, sink each foot deeply into the grass. I would not be driven away. I stood at the epicenter of the university, and by all means I belonged here, and I would act like it. 

I was a parade of one all the way to the Rotunda. I didn’t look behind me to check the faces, to remind myself of their curiosity or animosity, they would always be backwards, over there. I entered the building.

Patiently, I waited for my vision to clear. The bright and clean whiteness of the interior blinded me further, and I only noticed another person in the atrium when he stepped away from the secretary desk. In disbelief, the man staggered away. He checked his surroundings, everything seemingly normal to him. Then his search found me. My blood froze, the color of my skin suddenly so obvious to me compared to his Colonial attire, full white and gray ponytail, and pale complexion. However, the blush throughout his flesh only manifested his presence. Made him alive. I acknowledged that all of his statues and paintings around campus have captured him more accurately than I’d given credit. 

Except, it was pitiful to watch the father of the university drown in his own confusion. Not after long, he rushed out the main entrance, almost plowing through me. I wondered if he couldn’t see me or chose not to see me. I shook my head, and approached the secretary desk where a wide blueprint was laid across. I couldn’t decipher the structure, but I found a note on an edge:

Memorial to Enslaved Laborers, 2020.

I was speechless. 

Finding all the doors to the ovals were locked, I wandered up the steps all the way to the Dome. I opened the cracked doors and was greeted by the usual blurriness. I blinked through the rush of light, but hands began to grab at my arms before I became fully conscious. 

I pull away, but I’m yanked towards them. I am welcomed by the familiar smell of Fae’s perfume and Tony’s droning complaints. 

It was Manuela who took me by the shoulders.

“Took you long enough! When the rally reached the Rotunda we — I didn’t know what happened to you. What could have happened to you.” 

I collapsed into her arms, gripping onto her, trying to ensure that it was real. I clung to her and didn’t plan on letting go, lest I slip away from reality. 

“I’m sorry, I know,” is all I could say, “my, God, do I know.”