Black Prep: Life Lessons of A Perpetual Outsider

By Kimberley Baker Guillemet

You're not good enough. 

 

You don't have to hear those exact words to get the message. That was certainly the case for Kimberley Baker Guillemet. In her intensely moving and deeply candid

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ransom & Baker Publishing House
• Release date: Dec 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798985005318

Book preview

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my fellow preps and to all those who have gone before us and prepared us.

You are more than enough.

You are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Remember this always.

********

In Loving Memory

of

Roosevelt Ray Baker Jr.

June 25, 1950 – August 16, 1997

Contents

Introduction

1 A House Divided

2 Death and Life in the Tongue

3 Ready to Learn!

4 Dancing Circles and Emotional Cycles of Rejection

5 Going on a Live-it

6 The Vultures Will Gather

7 Worries by Day, Bad Dreams by Night

8 Not an Around the Way Girl

9 (After) Sunday School Lessons

10 Girl in the Mirror

11 The Road to Ascension Is Lined with Affliction

12 Short-Timer

13 Don’t Be Ashamed of Who You Are

14 Sister Friends

15 Broken Hearts in Perfect Bodies

16 In a Race with Myself

17 Clarity through the Fire

18 Drawn to the Flame

19 All Things Are Beautiful in Time

20 An Olive Branch

21 Black Is Evil, So Is Yellow Too

22 Revisionist History

23 You Need a Date

24 Semi-Formal

25 You Didn’t Ask Me to Be Your Girlfriend

26 Well-Coiffed

27 D-Day

28 It’s Complicated

29 Prepped

Black Prep Discussion Questions

Acknowledgements

Introduction

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

—Aristotle

W here you from? the girl demanded as she brushed against me on the crowded bus.

I’d been asked this question before. That question, THE question: Where you from? seemed simple enough, but it was actually quite loaded. And for me, in particular, the true answer was, It’s complicated.

Should I answer, I’m from View Park-Windsor Hills, where my parents settled shortly after they were married? That was my first home. Or should I answer, I’m from Mid-City, Los Angeles—Wellington Square to be exact? This is where my maternal grandparents were two of the first Black homeowners on the block when they bought their house back in 1956. That was my second home. Should I give a nod to Watts, where my father lived after my parents divorced and where I went for weekend visits? Daddy’s house was my in-between home. Should I pay homage to my elders? After all, I was only an Angeleno because both my maternal and paternal grandparents migrated west from the South—Texas and Virginia on my mother’s side and Arkansas on my father’s side—in search of a better life with less overt racism. These were my ancestral homes.

What about all the streets I traversed on a daily basis as I made my way through the city? I seldom went a day of my life without traveling down Crenshaw Boulevard. Those streets were part of the foundation of who I was as well. Should I make it clear that I wasn’t from any set or in any way affiliated with a gang? Perhaps. My school uniform, glasses, braces, overflowing bookbag and general tone and cadence should have made that abundantly clear to anyone paying attention. When people asked me where I was from in other situations, I usually defaulted to a simple L.A. or South L.A., depending on the circumstances, but those answers belied the layers and depth of my story.

I finally settled on, off Washington. I hoped it would appease the girl enough to leave me alone. After all, I was in my private school uniform riding northbound on the 210 Crenshaw bus line, not southbound. She should have been able to surmise that I wasn’t a threat, I reasoned. She looked me up and down, snarled, and apparently decided that I wasn’t worthy of further inquiry.

But that question, THE question, a question that had been asked many times before in many iterations stayed with me. Really, where was I from? Who was I? A master at code-switching, I often felt a conundrum. Not fully of one world, yet not fully of another, I was adept at straddling the lines of diametrically opposed ways of being.

Was it okay that I didn’t fit neatly into one particular type of world? Would each of my different worlds—that of my private school and that of my community—be accepting of me when I came to it with the heavy imprint of the other? Was I okay with that? Was I okay with me?

***

To many, I am a conundrum. Not quite one thing. Not quite another. I am certainly an amalgam—a mixture of materials, experiences and identities. I used to believe that my potential to develop some of my less obvious gifts and interests would not be fully realized or explored because of widely held, albeit erroneous, assumptions and superficial societal conventions.

Growing up, I felt that the world was telling me that I was too Black to be smart. Too overweight to be athletic. Too kinky and brown to be beautiful. Too lower-middle class to be refined. Too imperfect to be great. But none of that was ever true. It was not true for me and it is not true for any of us. Every part of who we are, and every stumbling block we overcome, makes us better and stronger.

My journey, like that of all people, began long before I was born. The elements that converged to produce my person are comprised of my ancestors’ DNA—their struggles and their triumphs. My story is inextricably connected to and rooted in their stories. I see so much of their experiences replicated in mine. Though separated generationally, we have faced different iterations of the same oppression, the same challenges and the same hurdles, and have called upon the same resilience to advance through them.

While rooted in my family’s experiences, there is a novelty to my journey and a new hope to which I grasp as I access possibilities that they could not. I am 100 percent their legacy, but 100 percent my own person. Different. Quirky. Navigating my own path through ancestrally familiar terrain.

My experiences as a perpetual outsider are not unique. If you are reading this book, chances are you have, at some point, felt the same way. Through sharing my story of being the perpetual square peg in spaces comprised of round holes, I hope to encourage students and parents who, like me, were not gifted the privileges of access, resources, pedigree and the like at birth. We must stop viewing elite educational spaces and institutions from a perspective of survival.

We do not have to stand on the outskirts of our educational experience—so grateful to be let through the door that we are afraid to make our voices heard. We can be fully engaged, fully immersed and fully present. We can and will thrive in these environments if we have the right mindset.

Four key attributes emerge through my stories and have become the Black Prep Pillars of Success:

Embrace your unique strengths: We are all different and have our own unique set of strengths and talents. Once you have determined how and where you shine, stand ready to seize opportunities that showcase your talents.

Foster resilience: You will face rejection and sometimes fall short of your goals, but disappointments and failures should never mean the cessation of your efforts. You may need to recalibrate your approach or your focus, but there will be a lesson to learn through every tough experience. It is often during our lowest moments that we learn the most. The key is not to give up on yourself. Keep yourself resilient by being mindful of your mental and physical health.

Hold fast to your village: Your true village will always stand with you because their investment in you is not tied to one particular goal or experience. They are committed to you for the long haul and they love you enough to tell you the truth. Do not ever discount the importance of the wisdom and the love that your family (living family members and ancestors), community (faith community, neighborhood, etc.) and true friends, mentors and allies pour into you. Their experiences have laid the foundation for your success.

Be honest with yourself: No one breathing is perfect. You should not expect to be infallible, but when you do make a mistake or cause harm, it is imperative that you hold yourself accountable. You must internally acknowledge the harm you inflicted and you must outwardly acknowledge any pain you caused to the aggrieved party. Not only is this the right thing to do, but this practice will also cause you to develop a reputation for integrity and honesty, which will serve you well throughout your life.

These foundational principles exist at the heart of success for people who thrive despite their placement in unfamiliar territory. If you are intentional about prioritizing these principles as you move through your educational career, you will thrive because your journey will be about you and what you are purposed to accomplish rather than centered on everyone else’s limited expectations of what you can accomplish.

We all have our own unique path to victory. In this book, I share the lessons that I’ve learned in hopes that they will help you courageously embrace your uniqueness and unapologetically blaze your own trail through whatever terrain you traverse.

CHAPTER 1

A House Divided

My father proposed after knowing my mother for all of two months. A well-meaning colleague, Jenna Wiley, introduced them at the high school where they were both working as teachers.

Carrye, Mrs. Wiley said to my mother over lunch one day, Have you met the new math teacher?

Unsure where the conversation was going, my mother replied apprehensively, No…

Girl, his name is Ray Baker and he is a fine, young specimen. Tall, dark and handsome with a nice smile. He’s also the basketball coach. If I weren’t married … well anyway, you need to meet him. And … P.S., he’s a flirt! she said smiling.

I’ll pass, my mother said in a deadpan tone.

Too late. I already pointed you out to him. He thinks you’re cute. I told him that I would introduce the two of you at the faculty meeting tomorrow morning.

As my mother opened her mouth to protest, she thought about her mother’s recent admonition that she was on the brink of becoming an old maid at the ripe old age of 23 and reconsidered. The reality was that she had no other prospects.

Fine, my mother relented.

At their meeting the next day, Daddy asked Mommy if he could take her out bowling. She agreed and shortly thereafter, they became an item. They were married within six months. My maternal grandmother, Mrs. Jo Lozella Ransom Mars, who I would call Bam-ma, was so excited to be able to plan a proper wedding for her eldest daughter. Her wedding to my grandfather, Mr. Quentin Alexander Mars, who I would call Papa, had been of the shotgun variety. My grandmother prided herself on being the consummate hostess, and as a Texas transplant and certified southern belle, her self-imposed standards were high. My mother—who was much happier under the hood of a car, playing volleyball or reading a book—was happy to hand over the wedding planning duties to my eager grandmother.

The ceremony took place on August 16, 1975, at People’s Independent Church of Christ, a prominent African American church situated on the cusp of Windsor Hills, an upper-middle-class African American community in Los Angeles. My mother and her siblings grew up attending that church. With Bam-ma in charge, my mother had several bridesmaids, and my father had the corresponding number of groomsmen. The peach, floral-printed bridesmaids’ dresses my grandmother had designed and sewn were color coordinated with the flower girl’s dress, which she had also masterfully created. The groomsmen’s cummerbunds and bow ties also matched the dresses. And of course, everything matched the floral arrangements.

By all accounts, my parents’ wedding was perfect. Everything went off without a hitch. My paternal grandmother, Mrs. Cleophus Burnett Baker, or Grandma Cleo as I would call her, and my maternal grandparents had done their jobs well in raising my parents. They were a young, Black, professional couple, intelligent and attractive with good values. By everyone’s accounts, they should have lived happily ever after.

***

When I was born, my parents lived in a house on Rimpau Boulevard in Windsor Hills. I was the first grandchild on the Mars side, and my maternal grandparents, who I called Papa and Bam-ma, adored me. My mother’s only surviving sibling was her younger sister, Debra, known to me as Aunt Deb. Their brother, Quentin II, had died in a tragic car accident three years before I was born. Aunt Deb, a business executive, jetsetter, fashionista and my mother’s polar opposite in every way, was ecstatic to welcome a new addition to the family. After a long string of grandsons, I was (almost) the first granddaughter born on the Baker side. (My cousin Aja beat me into the world by a couple of weeks when she was born prematurely.) My birth was celebrated by the Baker family as well, especially by Grandma Cleo and my four aunts, Aunt Jessie, Aunt Ruby, Aunt Phyllis and Aunt Sharon, who had been awaiting a new female addition to the family.

During my toddler years, my parents experienced some good times. I remember Stevie Wonder, George Benson, Al Green and Marvin Gaye playing on my dad’s super fabulous 8-Track stereo. I remember all the windows being open in the house during the summer months so the fresh breeze could flow through while the Dodger game was on. I remember riding in my dad’s two-door tan Cadillac with a diamond in the back—his pride and joy. I also recall playing outdoors with our next-door neighbor, a little boy named Nate who was my age. We would race each other as we rolled down the grassy hill in my front yard.

But I also remember the times that weren’t good—the arguments, the innuendos, the betrayal and the regret. The biggest argument I remember my parents having while they were married was over whether to buy me new shoes. One morning when I was three years old, my mother had fully dressed me in everything down to my socks. I was wearing my favorite blue sundress with white trim. I had a white blouse underneath because my conservative mother would not have me out in public with my back exposed. I wore white church socks with white lace trim. My mother had perched my little sister, Sydney, on the changing table in our bedroom when I heard her yell out to my father, Ray, Kim needs new shoes!

Daddy came to the doorway of our bedroom and said, Let her go barefoot.

Mommy replied, "Barefoot?! Barefoot!? I would NEVER let my child go barefoot."

My father said, I went barefoot. It was good enough for me. It’s good enough for her. Besides, I don’t want to spend that kind of money right now.

My mother picked Sydney up off of the changing table and placed her in her crib. She turned to my father and said, This is our child, Ray. She needs shoes.

From that point, I remember my mother yelling and my father shouting back. It was scary. I wanted to disappear into the carpet. Daddy eventually stormed out of the room and a few seconds later, I heard the front door slam. Mommy gathered my sister and me and promptly took us to Buster Brown Shoes. Not only did I get a new pair of shoes, but so did Sydney. In my mother’s mind, my father was a heartless, cheap man who subverted the needs of his children to serve his own priorities. In my father’s mind, my mother was a spoiled prima donna who had been raised as a member of the Black bourgeois and wanted to indoctrinate Sydney and me with her indulgent ways.

At the age of three, I had no real understanding of why they were so mad. Of course, this argument was only the tip of the iceberg with regard to their issues. Irreconcilable differences existed between the two of them in how they viewed marriage, child-rearing, faith, finances, education and overall relationship maintenance.

My mother expressed love through acts of kindness and affirming words. She frequently told Sydney and me that she loved us. If she surmised that either of her children needed something, she would move heaven and earth to provide it. There were no ifs, ands or buts about it. Even if we didn’t need something, she would provide it, often using material items as a proxy for other unmet emotional needs—her own and ours. Growing up seeing her own mother making lemonade out of lemons—and often having to stretch resources to make ends meet on the minimal household allowance my grandfather allotted her—made my mother unwilling to accept spousal financial restriction.

My father did not feel the need to say the words, I love you. He harbored no need to spend excessive amounts of money on wants or gifts. He showed his love by being a provider of life’s necessities, which in his estimation were shelter, food and clothes—not shoes. This was a lot more than his father ever did for him. He prided himself on being a provider, which he believed constituted all that a father should be and what he wished he had as a child. Growing up in rural McGehee, Arkansas, Daddy and his siblings had to pick cotton in the fields with their mother, Grandma Cleo, after his father, Ray Baker, Sr., abandoned them. When my paternal grandfather walked away from his family, he left Grandma Cleo, who was a homemaker at the time, with seven minor children to provide for, two of whom, my Uncle Glen and Aunt Sharon, were not yet of school age. The only type of work Grandma Cleo could do was the type of work where she could bring her children on the job. Picking cotton afforded her that ability as she could watch the younger two play in the fields of the plantation as she labored. Between picking cotton as a family, and the various odd jobs maintained by my father and his brother Howard, which included selling newspapers and mowing lawns, and Aunt Jessie’s after school work of cleaning houses, the family was able to make ends meet.

Having to work to secure the necessities of life and often going without because of his father’s absence made my father very frugal. His childhood experience of poverty notwithstanding, I don’t think that my father would have categorized himself as cheap or excessively thrifty. I believe he felt that if something was a necessity, he would secure it. In his mind, shoes did not constitute a necessity. He had often gone without shoes as a child and in his estimation, he had turned out fine. No permanent damage had been done, at least as far as he was willing and able to acknowledge.

Ultimately, I’m sure it hurt my father to remember that he had to go without shoes as a child, but to acknowledge that his daughter going without shoes was unacceptable was to acknowledge a deficit in his own childhood. It would require him to say out loud that despite his mother’s best efforts, he and his siblings had often gone without. They had suffered. He was unwilling to concede this, at least to my mother.

I think that disagreement brought to light unhealed childhood wounds festering within both of my parents. The argument was fueled more by their individualized resentment toward their respective fathers than the issue of me wearing shoes. But at that point, neither of them could recognize this, and that made their spouse public enemy number one.

As my parents’ differences continued to grow more apparent, they grew further apart. My father started coming home later. I remember regularly having my evening bath and going to bed without him being home. Most of my early childhood memories in the Rimpau house include my sister, my mother and me.

My mother would tuck us into bed, but I would not be able to fall asleep right away. After lying awake for what seemed like hours, I would hear my dad enter the house through the front door. I remember that he would come into our room