Well, that's probably not true.  More than likely, people have called me a nigger many, many times over the years.

But only once to my face.

I was seventeen and on a trip with my high school basketball team.  We were playing out in Virginia, in a small town.  And by small, I mean white.  My school district was largely black; the high school basketball team, even more so.  We kicked some ass that night, won by 32 points, if memory serves.  And on our way out of town, we stopped at a Dairy Queen for some celebratory ice cream.

My boys and I walked in, brimming with excitement, and this group of white kids near the doors watched us as we went by, scowls on their faces.  Just as we got past, one of them muttered, "Fucking niggers."

It took a minute to register.  I mean, really, I certainly wasn't expecting to hear something straight out of 1958.

I stopped dead and turned around.  Luckily for the bigots, I was the only one who caught their editorial remark.  As I said, my basketball team was almost entirely black, and given our school district, we had our share of gangbangers.  My mother was a police office, and she raised me with a healthy respect for guns -- including fear of exactly what kind of damage they can cause.  So I wasn't carrying.

But when I turned to these kids, you'd think I yanked out twin AKs from their reactions.  With what can only be described as a yelp, they cleared out of the restaurant at a dead run.

It would almost have been funny, seeing their bravado turn to gut-wrenching fear.  Except for the fact that they were terrified of me because of the color of my skin.

It's hard to be the boogey-man.

Of course, I've had plenty of experience, so you'd think I'd be used to it by now.  But it kills me a little every time I see that look of instinctual fear on someone's face.  Every time a white woman crosses the street at night so she doesn't have to walk within arm's reach.  Every time an Asian man says he'll wait for the next elevator so he doesn't have to be in an enclosed space with me.  Every time a woman clutches her purse closer so I can't snatch it.  Every time a bunch of ignorant kids assume that I'm about to jack them.

These aren't uncommon occurrences; I deal with shit like that every day.

I never expected to fall in love with someone who has absolutely no idea what it's like to be black.  I never thought I could fall in love with a white woman.

And then I met Zoey Bartlet.

Zoey is my opposite in so many ways.  Her family life is healthy to an almost disgusting degree.  Her parents -- overachievers, both -- are still very much in love with each other.

My mom raised Deena and I alone, and I am so grateful to her for providing a stable home under such poor circumstances.  My father was, among other less than honorable things, a heroin addict.  Probably still is, but he hasn't come around in five years or so.  He used to show up, jonesing and looking for cash so he could score.  He begged me for my lunch money once.  You can probably guess that he paid maybe $100 of child support. Ever.

President Bartlet couldn't be more different from my father.  It's so obvious that I won't belabor the point.  Suffice it to say, I'm incredibly glad that Zoey got to grow up with two parents who loved her.

I did have one amazing parent, though: my mom.  Loving and caring and protective.  We didn't have a lot of money, even combining her beat cop's salary with the money I made after school bagging groceries at the corner store.  It was never enough; even with governmental assistance, the three of us shared a two bedroom apartment -- my mom slept on the couch for years.  And we ate a lot of white rice.

For the most part, I wasn't unhappy.  All of our neighbors had as little money as we did, so I didn't really know better.  Those people on TV with all the disposable income, I knew they weren't like us.  They were white, first of all, and rich.  They got whatever they wanted, which placed their lives in the realm of pure fantasy.  Wanting and needing were two distinct things in our house, and my mom took care of Deena's and my needs.  Occasionally, when she worked enough overtime, she'd splurge and buy us each something we wanted.  Usually, that was enough.

But when I was eleven, I wanted a pair of Nikes real bad.  I knew how to make the money; drugs were a part of the neighborhood for as long as I can remember.  I'll never know how she figured it out, but my mom took Deena and me out to the shore that weekend, and while Deena played in the ocean, my mom talked to me.  She told me about honor, and integrity, and doing what's right.  She told me she was sorry my dad was such a piss poor example of manhood, but explained that the drugs were so strong that they overpowered his good side.  She told me he loved me, but the heroin numbed him so much that he couldn't feel it all the time.  And she said if I gave in and started dealing, I'd be helping to hook some other kid's father.  That was the last time I even considered dealing.

Actually, I do see a lot of similarities between Mrs. Bartlet and my mother; they're both strong, independent, and incredible role models.  I envy Zoey sometimes, though, because her mom is still here.  And although she's incredibly busy, Mrs. Bartlet has made it a point to spend time with Zoey and me when she can.  Her presence fills a little bit of that void in my life, but I still miss my mom every single day.  I try to visit her once a week, but my work schedule is unpredictable, to say the least.

I'm also trying to fill my mom's shoes for Deena.  It's harder than I ever could have imagined, raising a teenager -- even with the help of Mrs. Sloan across the hall.  I'm barely out of my teens, but Deena thinks I'm hopelessly bunk.  I watch her with her friends, and I worry she's going to get into something she can't get herself out of; girl gangs are just as violent as their male counterparts.  I tried to explain to Deena about honor and integrity, but I'm afraid I don't have my mother's gift for phrasing things right.  Ironic that I interact with the President of the United States daily, and I have an easier time that than with talking to my sister.

Zoey's been wonderful.  She's taken Deena under her wing, even though it took a while to get past Deena's initial resistance.  Deena's experiences with white people were about as confidence-inspiring as mine; she gave Zoey a lot of shit at first.  But now, Deena lights up whenever Zoey arrives.  I'm starting to think that with Zoey's help, I may make it until Deena hits eighteen.

Maybe then, Deena and I can be friends.  It's impossible right now, with me in charge of setting limits for her.  But watching Zoey and her sisters...  I hope one day Deena and I will be that close.  Zoey talks to her sisters a couple times a week; even if they have nothing to say to each other, they'll chat for ten minutes just to reconnect.

Zoey is a wonderful communicator.  She wears her emotions like clothes.  If she's upset, she yells at me.  If she's hurt, she cries and tells me exactly what I've done to contribute.  If she's happy, she laughs and beams at me.  If she's depressed, she demands that we go to some out of the way diner and share a milkshake.  If she's scared, her voice trembles and she clutches at my hands.

When she's absolutely terrified, she gets really, really silent.  And she shakes.

I've never seen her as terrified as she was That Night.

I don't know if growing up in my neighborhood helped to prepare me, but once the shooting started, I reacted instinctively.  Gina got Zoey down, and I helped shove her in the car, all the while staying as low to the ground as possible.  As it turns out, that shooting didn't seem much different than a drive-by.

Instead of hitting the ground, though, the majority of people I could see started running away.  Bad idea; movement draws the attention of the shooter, and if you're upright, you're an easier target.  Luckily, the shooters That Night chose pistols instead of rifles; it could have been a whole lot worse.

As it is, Josh nearly died, and my girlfriend's father -- who, incidentally, is the President of the United States -- ended up shot.  So did Ron Butterfield, and one of the people in the crowd.  The scene was utter chaos, as you can imagine.  No one found Josh for a good ten minutes after the shooting stopped.  I think Toby and the rest of them still feel guilty about that.

I didn't get to the hospital until after the president was in surgery.  I can't imagine how scared Zoey was, waiting to hear something about her father.

Actually, that's not true.  I remember when the uniforms showed up at my door.  As soon as they identified themselves, my stomach did a strange flip and my hands started shaking.  I had trouble with the locks; Deena had to help me get the door open.

As soon as I saw his face, I knew.

I knew my mother was shot.  I didn't know yet that she was dead.  I don't think they knew she was dead; they were sent to bring Deena and me to the hospital.  Even with what little information they had, I knew it was going to be bad.  I knew, somehow, that my life was irrevocably changing.

Deena and I sat in that crummy waiting room for nearly forty minutes.  As we sat there, more and more police officers showed up to join the vigil.  I guess I should've been touched by their loyalty, but all I could do was sit there and hold Deena's hand.  She was too young to really understand, and the cops' loyalty did me little good at this point -- where were they when my mom was getting shot?

And then the doctor came out, glancing over at the cadre of cops before approaching Deena and me.  I stood up, pulling Deena with me, and before the doctor could speak, I said, "She's dead, isn't she?"

He nodded.  He said a whole bunch of stuff then -- explaining her injuries, detailing the treatments they'd tried, and expressing his condolences -- but I wasn't listening.  I was trying to comprehend a world without my mother in it.

I still regret that I wasn't there, That Night, for Zoey, when she was contemplating the same terrifying possibility.  Her mother was, of course, but I don't think the Bartlets have much personal experience with violence and the subsequent terror.  I could've been there.  I could've held Zoey's hand while she was shaking.  I could've told her that as bad as the fear is, it's better than the numbness.

Zoey did go into shock, eventually, but I was already there.  She was sitting in the waiting room when I arrived, and when I walked in, she launched herself into my arms.  I caught eyes with Mrs. Bartlet over Zoey's shoulder, and she gave me a shaky smile.  Then I buried my face in Zoey's neck and thanked God for not taking her away from me too.

I didn't even realize until I saw her in the waiting room how scared I'd been.  Not for myself; it's easy to be cavalier about danger to yourself when you grow up three doors down from a crackhouse.  But the thought of losing Zoey, or of Zoey losing some of that innocence and joy that she has to a horrible, violent night, that was terrifying.

Before That Night, I loved Zoey.  But holding her in my arms in that waiting room, things crystallized.

I am absolutely, positively, crazy in love with Zoey Bartlet.

Which is, of course, a problem.

Don't get me wrong:  I love Zoey, and Zoey loves me.  I couldn't be happier with that -- it's wonderful.

But the grim reality of the situation was driven home during an assassination attempt on the president undertaken by someone who loathes the idea of a black man soiling a pure, white woman.  And I can draw only one conclusion:  Zoey would be safer if we weren't together.

Of course, no one says this to my face.  In fact, no one would tell me one way or another who tried to kill the President for an excruciatingly long time.  It's not like I couldn't draw my own conclusions, and the not-knowing is always worse.  The president himself ended up calling me into his hospital room to explain that I was the target.  In other words, Josh, a man whose wit, kindness, and tenacity got me this amazing job, and the president, whose strength, honor, and decency are a model for us all, were nearly killed because the bigots who were trying to kill me had poor aim.

I don't think I could ever adequately explain the feelings that tumbled through me then, standing in a room with the injured president, his tearful wife, and conflicted daughter.  Standing there with this family that had welcomed me into their lives with open arms, only to be shot at because my skin is black.  I had to leave the room because I was afraid that I would either scream or cry.  Anger and guilt are a potent combination.

All I could think is that it should have been me.  All four of the bullets that hit people -- in the hand, the thigh, the side, and the chest -- they were meant for me.  Four decent, innocent people were injured because of me.  Four people's lives would never be the same because of me.

I wandered down the hallway, dazed and shaking. Zoey caught up to me and pulled me around to face her.  I don't remember much then, except that she pulled me into her arms and held on to me until I stopped shaking.  I think it took quite a while.

I looked down at Zoey when I regained the power to speak, and I told her what I'd been thinking.  That it should have been me.

And that's when she started crying.  She hadn't cried at all in my presence -- not during her father's surgery, not even when she went to watch some of Josh's surgery with her mother, and Josh is like the big brother she never had.  But me telling the truth, that set her off.

"Don't say that!" she implored, her mouth trembling.

"Why not?" I demanded.  "It's true.  I would have died, probably, but then these people wouldn't have been hurt.  Not because of me."

"Because of us," Zoey said fiercely, her hands gripping mine.  "Because I love you.  And because you love me.  Don't you see that it would have been worse?"

I think I laughed then, a strange, bitter chuckle.  "How could this possibly get worse?  Josh still might die."

"Charlie," she whispered, "I need you.  Don't do this."

"Do what?  Tell the truth?  They were aiming for me, Zoey.  If they'd just hit me, this--"

"If they'd hit you," she interrupted fiercely, "this would be terrible.  You were the target, yes, but you weren't the reason this happened."

"Zoey, I don't want to talk about this now," I said, pulling away.

Luckily, she didn't let me.  She grabbed my arm and, in inimitable Zoey fashion, yelled at me right there in the hallway.  "Don't you dare walk away from me, Charlie!"

I halted, torn between leaving her for her own good, and staying so that she could help me heal.  So that we could help each other heal.  I turned back to her.  "I'm sorry, Zoey, but this is dangerous."

Her eyes widened.  "What?"

"Us," I clarified, my voice shaking.  "Being together.  I'm putting you in danger.  I love you too much to do that."

"Are you insane?" she demanded, her body colliding with mine as she gave me a fierce hug.  "You'd rather never feel this again than stand up and fight?"

My arms surrounded her of their own accord.  "Don't call me a coward, Zoey."

"I'm not," she said into my neck.  "I'm goading you."

"You're goading me?"  I couldn't help it; a small chuckle escaped.  Her words were so incredibly Zoey.

"Yes," she said, turning her wobbly smile up to me.  "I'm scared too, Charlie, but I won't let them win.  They can't do something like..." she shrugged, unable to come up with a comparison.  "They can't do this and get away with it.  And if we give up on each other, they win."

I stared at her beautiful, tear-streaked, determined face for a long moment.  "Zoey, I don't know if I can do this.  What if next time they hit you?"

She shook her head.  "We can't live worrying about 'what ifs.'  I won't do it.  The only thing that matters is that we love each other."

"In a perfect world," I sighed.  "You're right, that would be all that matters.  But your father--"

"Is going to be fine," she interrupted forcefully.  "And he'll kill you if you break my heart."

I had to look away then.  "What will he do to me if I end up getting you killed?"

Zoey pressed a kiss to my throat.  "Stop it, Charlie.  I could get hit by a runaway train tomorrow.  A plane could crash into my dorm.  We can't predict the future."

I took her by the shoulders and pushed her away.  "Zoey, I need to think about this."

Her tears started again in earnest.  "What is there to think about?" she demanded.  "Do you love me?"

"Yes," I admitted, my voice rough with tears.  "I do.  More than you could ever understand."

"That's bullshit," she argued.  "I understand, Charlie.  How do you think I felt, stuffed into that limo with no idea if you were dead or alive?  Did you think I didn't know who was doing the shooting?  Did you think I didn't know you were probably the target?"

"Zoey--"

"No, it's my turn to talk.  I was at the hospital for an hour before I heard anything about you, Charlie.  Leo found me and said the staff was fine, that he'd seen you.  Do you have any idea how relieved I was?  My father was in emergency surgery, my mother was trying to hold in the panic because--"  She stopped suddenly and looked away.  "And I had to call my sisters and update them every fifteen minutes.  But when Leo told me you were okay, I smiled.  In the midst of all of that, I was able to smile because you were still alive.  You expect me to give up that feeling?"

"No," I managed.  "I'm just -- It's hard, Zoey."

"It'll be harder if we're apart," she insisted.

Sometimes, I wish I was stronger in that moment, that I was able to walk away from her for her own good.  But I wasn't, and I pulled her back into my arms and held on to her desperately.  And right there in the hallway, it started getting better.

I still struggled, though, every day with the guilt.  I only visited Josh when he was unconscious, and even then, the look on Donna's face was almost too much to bear.  One of the hardest lessons my mother taught me was to be responsible for my actions.  And, directly or indirectly, my relationship with Zoey put Josh in intensive care.  Finally, the day before the midterm elections, I visited him at home.  When he was awake. Donna checked with Josh, making sure he didn't need anything, then excused herself.

"Charlie," Josh greeted me cheerfully from his position on the couch.  "You're okay?"

I snorted.  "Yeah.  How are you feeling?"

Josh gave me that familiar grin.  "Like I've been shot."  I must have winced, because he looked immediately guilty for joking about it.  "Charlie--"

"Zoey stopped by?" I asked, pointing to the telltale collection of stick-and-ball molecule models on the bedside table.  Zoey was not enjoying Intro to Chem.

"Yeah," he smiled, pushing himself upright with a small groan.  "She's been by a few times.  Doesn't like when I start talking about physics, though."

"I can't imagine why," I said with a grin.  "She's hating chemistry."

"So I gathered.  Whenever I bring up the Theory of Everything, she starts lecturing me about chemical bonds."

I nodded.  "Yeah, I've learned more than I care to about atomic structure."

"Interesting stuff, though," Josh pointed out.  "You feel guilty, don't you?"

I was so startled by the change in subject that I answered without thinking.  "Of course I do.  They were aiming for me."

Josh nodded.  "Right.  But they hit a Jew, so they probably don't mind so much that they missed you."

I shook my head.  "Josh--"

"They're bigots, Charlie."

"I know that."

"Do you really?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.  "Do you get that this is the responsibility of ignorant boys who chose violence as a means to an end?  You didn't load the guns, Charlie.  You didn't fire them.  You didn't even teach them to hate black people or Jews or women or... whoever's different from them.  All you did was fall in love with an incredible girl."

"Woman," I corrected with a small smile.

Josh held up a hand and gave me a smile.  "I'm going to pretend I misunderstood that."

"Josh, that's not what I--"

"Whatever, Charlie," he interrupted.  "I've talked to Zoey.  She loves you.  She's hurting.  You should talk to her."

I stared at him for a long moment.  "I don't know where to start," I admitted.  "Things have been so strange between us since..."

"The shooting?" Josh supplied.  "You can say it, Charlie."

"Since the shooting."

Josh sighed and leaned forward, pinning me with an intense look.  "Here's the deal.  From all accounts, you're walking around expecting everyone to hate you.  I could've gathered that much from the fact that you've never visited me--"

"I did," I interrupted.  "You were unconscious."

Josh gave me a half-grin.  "I've been conscious sixteen hours a day the last two months, Charlie.  But I'm getting this same impression from the people who care about you.  Donna's mentioned it.  Sam.  Leo.  Even Toby.  And Zoey tries not to bring it up, but she's worried about you too."  He paused for a moment.  "No one blames you, Charlie.  No one wishes it was you who was shot.  I certainly wouldn't wish this on anyone."  His grin reappeared.  "Not even the Senate Majority Leader."

I nodded my understanding, and for the first time, I started to believe that maybe this wasn't my fault.  "Okay."

Josh watched me for a long moment.  "Okay," he agreed.

I guess I really was seeking forgiveness from the people who were shot.  That night, I wrote a letter to Stephanie Abbott telling her I was sorry she was injured and that I hoped she was healed.  I didn't apologize for my relationship with Zoey, though.  I won't ever do that again.  I simply wanted to acknowledge that Stephanie Abbott fell victim to the same ignorance that Josh, President Bartlet, Ron Butterfield, Zoey, myself, and everyone else who was at the Newseum that night did.

The next day, I struck up a conversation with Ron Butterfield, whose right hand is still compromised, even though he has physical therapy four times a week.  Luckily, he's a lefty so he can still keep his job.  Ron seemed genuinely happy that I was making an effort, and wound up telling me a story about his sister marrying an Asian man, and how they were the target of bigotry in the small city they lived in.  "Love isn't a crime," he said.  "And I have no tolerance for those who disagree with me."

I smiled and agreed, then went looking for Zoey.  That night, she accompanied me to the polls, and then I accompanied her to her dorm.  And for the first time in a long time, I felt good.  I watched our hands, intertwined, and examined the play of colors.  My dark skin next to her pale skin.  My calloused fingers touching her soft palm.

We have many differences.

I am black, she is white.  I am orphaned, she is not.  I am an introvert, she is an extrovert.  I like action movies, she likes comedies.  I drink coffee, she drinks tea.  I like the Beatles, she likes the Rolling Stones.  I prefer Coke, she prefers Sprite.  I love Italian food, she loves Chinese.  I hate opera, she hates ballet.  I am a Capricorn, she is a Leo.

We do agree on something, though.  I am in love with Zoey Bartlet, and she is in love with me.

And that's all that matters.

THE END

02.23.01