Page 1 of You've Got a Place Here, Too
Whatever Gods May Be
Kai Harris
My granny once said to me, “Ain’t no granddaughter of mine gon’ spend her whole life living ’round nothing but white folks,” and it was those exact words running through my head that first week as a transfer student at Fisk University. Granny also once said, “You ain’t like ya momma, and that’s what’s so hard for her; it’s also what’s so proud for me,” and this had nothing to do with that, but it’s what made me fall in love with my granny right from the start of our story.
I pulled open the dark wood doors of Fisk’s Cravath Hall and landed in a mural-filled rotunda with vaulted ceilings and towering stone pillars. After two rotations, I spotted the door for the registrar. As I sat and waited to meet my adviser, I wished on the freshly 11:11 clock on the wall that everything would go smoothly. Otherwise, I would have upended my entire life for a fantasy, a bedtime story, a chance at a fresh start that I’d maybe never have.
“Myra Rose?” The woman who stepped into the lobby of the advising office and called my name was frowning, as if I had somehow disappointed her already. Smiling, I followed my new adviser—a war vet who filled our stroll with tales of her sacrifice—down a dim hallway that seemed to stretch on forever, focusing entirely on matching the rhythm of her slow striderather than obsessing in my mind over whether I’d made the right choice by coming here.
My granny was the person who taught me about HBCUs, though she had never stepped foot on a single college campus before traveling with her only daughter on move-in day. That day was Granny’s first time leaving her native Georgia, my mother’s college graduation being the second and last. College, travel, any experiences outside the South, Granny did not have. But what she did have—as a traditional Black granny and the matriarch of her family—was an opinion. And her opinion said I would be more than a token Black girl on anybody’s white college campus. So, halfway through my sophomore year of college and after an extremely contentious attempt at getting my parents on board, I relocated to the setting of my dreams, Music City USA—less interestingly known as Nashville, Tennessee—in search of a version of myself that could only be discovered here, 547 winding miles south of the perfect dreams my parents had made for me.
“Alright, let’s see,” my adviser said, gesturing for me to sit across from her. She introduced herself as “Florence McFloyd, but everybody calls me Miss Flo,” a nickname she seemed proud to own. “You’re a transfer, right? This is the second semester of your sophomore year?”
I nodded. “I did freshman and half of sophomore year at the University of Michigan, but then I— Well, I had to leave.” I bit my lip, wondering if I should say more.
“And what was your major there? Were you in good academic standing? I’m looking for your transcripts…” She squinted at her computer screen and clicked her mouse several times.
“Performing Arts Technology. I’m studying to be a sound designer. Like, for movies and stuff.” I became suddenly aware of my hunched posture and straightened in my seat.
“So, performance?”
“No, not performance,” I said too loudly. “I don’t perform. The major is focused on music production, recording, composition, stuff like that. I picked it because of all the music majors at UofM, it was the only one where I didn’t have to perform—”
“We don’t have that here,” spoke Miss Flo with a straight line for a mouth. “We have majors in Music and Performance. Both of which will require you to audition. Vocally,” she added with eye contact. “So, you can either schedule an audition or tape it. Or you can pick a new major.”
“Well, I did some research,” I said, pulling the printed evidence from my backpack and attempting to steady my rapidly increasing heart rate, “and it says on the website that transferring music majors can apply with either an auditionora placement exam. So, I was thinking I could—”
“One of these days somebody is going to update that,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t know what the website says, but I know the music department chair personally, and I can assure you”—she smiled conspiratorially—“she’s not letting you in the department unless you sing for her.” Her tone was casual, nonchalant, as if she wasn’t attempting to stamp out the flame of my hope.
“Wait, what? Why? It says here that if I’m transferring from an NASM-accredited institution, which I am, then my applied study and theory courses can be validated by a placement exam upon evaluation by the—”
“Exactly,” she cut in. “Upon evaluation,such as an audition.” She sighed and sat back in her chair, which emitted a loud creak in protest. “Look, Myra. I know this isn’t what you want to hear. And believe me, I try to do everything I can to get my students what they want. But this is just how things work here. You’ll getused to it. Now”—she sat forward again, hands poised at her keyboard—“I’m happy to show you a list of available majors to choose from—”
“You don’t understand,” I said, my breath quickening. “I can’t switch majors. Music is everything. And I’m already switching so much!” My usual calm tone turned upward into a shriek.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Miss Flo responded, not affected by my despair. “No audition, no music major. But if music is truly everything, then maybe you should audition.”
I only half comprehended the words, instead imagining the big fat “I told you so” that I’d be hearing from my parents once they learned of this unexpected twist. UofM had been their choice. The school they had both attended as first-generation college students, where they had met and fallen in love. I knew it was my future school when I was six years old and they made me memorize the lyrics—with dance moves—to the fight song, “Hail to the Victors,” for Saturday football games. It was no surprise, then, when I started applying for colleges and they found clever ways to limit my search until it was narrowed down to just one, their choice, which happened to be a short forty-five-minute drive from the two-story modern in Southfield where I grew up and where my parents still lived. I had already broken their hearts when I decided to transfer schools. I couldn’t now come to them and explain that thanks to an outdated website—which they’d likely describe as my own lack of preparedness—my plan for an easy transition was flawed.
“I’ll audition,” I said, cursing my voice for trickling out like a petrified kitten’s purr.
“Are you sure? Just a minute ago, you made it seem like you wouldn’t be able to perform under any circumstances. Which is understandable,” she added, attempting empathy. “Even I havedealt with a bit of stage fright here and there. Back in my army days, my unit got assigned—”
“I can do it,” I interrupted, holding eye contact for three long seconds, just like my granny taught me.Look people in the eye when you speak,she would say, staring into my childish gaze.It shows them they matter to you, but more important, it shows them you’re worth listening to.
“Okay,” she responded briskly. “If you’re sure, we can work on getting you scheduled.”
“Thank you,” I said, pasting on a forced smile.
“Good luck,” she replied, with an optimism that made me feel less hopeful. “And if you need to practice, there’s a cozy little soundproof room in the library I’d recommend. Good place to clear out some of those cobwebs and jitters! How long has it been, anyway, since you’ve sung in front of anyone?” She clasped her hands together, turning them into a stand for her chin.
My eyes dropped to my lap, where my hands were shaking. “I never have,” I replied calmly.
The truth was I had once dreamed of coming here and singing in front of everyone. A dream that felt so far away, like another lifetime and another version of me entirely. Which is why I still had no clue how I got here, now, seated in a rectangular forest green armchair, which I’d dragged close to the room’s only window, in the soundproof room my adviser had told me about, in the John Hope and Aurelia E. Franklin Library, the most unremarkable building on campus.
I pulled out my planner, where on the blank page at the start of this week I had written:First week at Fisk!I’d decorated thepage with stickers and romanticized with rainbow-colored fineliners the decision I was now questioning. With a red Sharpie pen, I added the date and time of my vocal audition in all caps. Just two days from today. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, replacing the urge to call my granny with a recalling of one of our best stories.
Granny had told me about the Fisk Jubilee Singers when I was still young enough that the story sounded like a fairy tale. As she told it, she’d seen them perform at her church, where her father was pastor and her mother first lady. That Sunday, in place of their choir was the Fisk Jubilee Singers, dressed in all black and fresh off a European tour. She’d fallen in love that day, and from then on, she’d always dreamed of coming to Fisk and joining the Jubilee Singers. Except the dream was never more than that, because her parents planned for her to run their church one day, and besides, college wasn’t a dream she was allowed to have. So, she’d learned all the songs on her own and performed them in her fluffy bathrobe for her parents and stuffed animals. Then, when she grew up and married and had a daughter of her own, she told her daughter about the Singers.
