Two Faced

It wasn't until many years later, after I'd come to know my dentist
quite well - a friendship due in part to our niece's brief interest in
dentistry and yet still surprising to me to the extent that generally
one does not get to know one's dentist - that I realized what he'd
meant when he said in one of our early conversations that he would
rather be either black or white. He was young at the time, new to his
profession and so wielded confident phrases about dentistry, himself
and the world. He'd said, as a kind of afterthought during a
conversation about neighborhood policing, that he would like to be
either white or black, but not in between. It's more honest, he'd said.
At the time I'd simply took the statement to mean almost nothing, a
moment of insecurity or a desire for an alliance. He'd said the words
to himself and did not look for a response. I remained silent. Soon we
moved on to another topic. But though I didn't take it seriously, his -
what I have come to call - confession stuck with me, so much so that I
thought of it almost weekly for many years after he ceased being my
dentist without ever asking him the meaning. Time and again hope would
swell inside me during conversations when I thought I detected a move
to the topic of race and thus to some hint of his earlier comment. I
strategically steered our words to recent events covered in the news,
fielding a need in myself to set a context in which he might confess
freely. We would meet in a group and I would, at times near
desperation, try to guide the conversation to an appropriately related
topic, surmising that he would feel more comfortable with this person
or that person, and would come out with some pronouncement. In fact, I
pictured myself as a kind of conversational Svengali, manipulating the
movement of dialogue to my own ends. There were minor victories, but
unrelated to my real aim. I'd fooled myself into thinking this strategy
would work. Looking back now I can see that the victories were more
likely a result of chance occurrence that I attributed to my own
acumen, bending what I heard to suit my increasingly questionable
means. I was certain that a simple and direct question would offend him
and yet I could not get away from the feeling that I was somehow
disrespecting him by not coming out with it. As he aged, however, this
behind-the-scenes work grew more difficult. He appeared to grow less
willing to declare his understanding of the world or make enigmatic
statements for effect. On the face of things, the youthful confession
was passing quickly into maturity. I'd often wondered why I couldn't
just ask him. Perhaps it was they way he'd said it. Perhaps it was my
own insecurities in broaching the subject. Then again, there is no
doubt that my supposition, that the confession was insignificant,
contributed to my reluctance. I was surprised, then, when, last
Thursday, he suddenly said, I once told you that I would rather be
black or white, but not in between. I take it back now. See that woman
over there, so blond she's white. You could easily mistake the back of
her head for her face. And it was true, although bizarre, that the
woman he pointed out had hair the same whiteness as her skin. The
ponytail appeared like a nose. In between her tightly pulled strands of
hair were two shadowed eyes, angled in rage. The mouth was a set of
white needle-like teeth, stretching up from her collar. She wore two
faces. He then turned to me and said, And that coming from a man whose
father was so black they called him Skillet.