Still (Grip Book 2)(35)

"Maybe you'll get it tonight. They're calling for it."

"I'm not gonna count on it." He stops in front of a bookstore with a  line of people stretching from the door. "We made it, and look, your  feet didn't give out."

"Very funny." I lean into his shoulder. "I'm really looking forward to hearing Dr. Hammond."

Grip's smile drops, and he glances into the store.

"Yeah, well, Clem Ford may be an ignorant ass bastard, but he's also smart and tough. Hopefully Iz can hold his own."

He more than holds his own. I'm astounded by the sharpness of Dr.  Hammond's mind. His thoughts are agile, contorting and twisting to cut  Ford off and anticipate his arguments before he makes them. I was  impressed when I read his book that impacted Grip, but hearing him in  person, I understand why we moved to New York, why this man's ideas  swept through Grip like a hurricane.

Dr. Hammond is unlike anyone I've ever met. There is a restrained power  to him, to the force of his intellect. Physically, he's more like a  football player than a professor. Six five or so, he's not so much  wearing the dark blue suit as leashed by it. I can already tell he'd  rather be comfortable than fashionable. Picture a younger Idris Elba,  and you've got Dr. Hammond. His charisma is time-released, fed to you in  slow, sneaky doses, slipped to you with a smile that seems like it's  costing him something. His reserved demeanor, which should make him seem  aloof, instead pulls you closer. It draws you in and sits you down to  listen. I glance around the bookstore, crowded with his students and  readers clutching copies of his book. His deep voice pitches low, and  you're not sure if you're on the edge of your seat because you're  straining to hear or because what he's saying is turning the things you  thought you knew upside down, but either way, he has you on edge.

In contrast, everything repulsive in this world convenes in Clem Ford. I  want to scrub my ears after sitting through an hour of his thinly  veiled racist rhetoric. He has a brand of charisma, too, a dark pull, an  undertow for bottom feeders.

He has his own supporters here, young students who follow him to the  edge of blatant bigotry. As a businessman, he is convincing and astute.  Unfortunately, his business is prisons. I never considered that many  corporations use prison labor at a fractional cost, and having a large  incarcerated population is good for business.

And bad for prisoners.

Ford and Professor Hammond personally dislike one another; it's apparent  from their opening statements and the first questions they take from  the audience, standing on opposite shores with an impassable body of  water between them. Ford's ideas are fiscally sound, but morally  bankrupt. The professor picks apart each argument methodically,  persuading the audience with a formidable grasp of history and  philosophy, and a compelling vision for the future.

Grip still isn't happy about Professor Hammond's perspective on our  relationship, but I read grudging respect in his eyes, a reluctant pride  in how well Iz-as he told everyone to call him-represents the issues  they're both committed to. I squeeze his hand, and he turns to look at  me.

"You okay?" he asks, head bent attentively.

"Yeah." I nod and lean over to drop a kiss on his jaw. He palms my head and brings me close enough to whisper in my ear.

"Are you bored?"

The question almost hurts my feelings. I know he's just being  considerate because this isn't necessarily the world where I spend most  of my time, but I want him to know I'm on the edge of my seat along with  everyone else.

"I love it." I press my hand along his face. "Professor Hammond is brilliant. I'm glad I came."         

     



 

Pleasure widens his smile and crinkles his eyes at the corners.

"I'm glad you came, too."

He sits back and tunes in again. They're almost done with the Q&A; I  missed the last question, but I listen closely to the professor's  response.

"Don't feel bad for not knowing," he tells the young student still  standing at the mic set up in the aisle for questions. "Feel bad for not  doing once you know. The things you've heard here tonight, now that you  know about them, what will you do about them? Ignorance is a naturally  occurring state. It's not what you feel guilty about, it's what you do  something about. We are born not knowing, and our experiences feed us  information. You limit your knowledge and understanding of not only your  place in this world, but the place and plight of others by doing what  you've always done and knowing only what you've always known. Position  yourself socially and intellectually to know more, to understand beyond  the scope of your experiences. That is how we evolve as individuals and  as a society."

I want to stand up and yell, Mic drop! after just about everything he  says, and this especially appeals to me. Jade was right: there are a lot  of things I don't know and don't get about Grip's upbringing, his past.

I definitely don't get bologna sandwiches.

But I won't feel bad for not knowing. I'll do what the professor said.  I'll keep positioning myself intellectually and socially to know more.  It's no different than what Grip had to do, than what millions of people  do to understand what is unfamiliar to them but essential to learn.

When the moderator thanks everyone for coming, the crowd breaks and  splits, Ford's followers clamoring to speak to him and a line forming in  front of the table where the professor is posted to sign books.

And they aren't the only ones people are eager to talk to.

"Yo, Grip, could I get a picture?" asks a young guy with dreadlocks.

That one request sets off a chain reaction of people realizing Grip  isn't just another student, but a superstar. Within seconds he has a  line of his own and is signing copies of the program we received when we  walked in, taking selfies and listening to teary-eyed girls tell him  how much his music has touched them. Like a good little celebrity and  with much more patience than I would have, he navigates it all with a  pen in one hand and my hand in the other.

"Hey." I tug on his hand to get his attention. "I'll be right back."

His smile slips and he turns to me.

"Where are you going?"

I affect a cockney accent. "Can't a lowly servant girl go to the restroom while you hold court, m'lord?"

He tilts his head and scrunches his face up.

"I don't even know what you're doing right now."

I laugh and pull my hand free.

"Never mind. I'll be back," I tell him, walking backward. "Deal with your . . . public."

I'm still chuckling at the look of frustration on his face as I walk  beyond his reach. Bigots make him nervous, and apparently, there are a  lot of undercover ones here tonight. They hide behind their hedge funds  now, behind profit sheets instead of white sheets, but the heart is the  same.

I take my place in line behind a few other people clutching copies of  Virus. I pull mine out of my bag and wait my turn. I can tell the  professor has signed quite a few of these tonight, and his patience has  started to fray. He's not like Grip, a practiced professional used to  all the attention and demands. He's a brilliant man who wrote a book he  never expected to do what it's done. If the frown he's wearing is any  indication, having "fans" and signing autographs isn't exactly his  forte.

"Who should I sign it to?" he asks brusquely without looking up from the book I handed him.

"Make it to Bristol." At my name, he looks up sharply, his eyes  speculating if it's a coincidence or if I am who he thinks I am. "Yes,  I'm Grip's Bristol."

A slow smile works its way onto the handsome face marked with lines of weariness.

"You certainly are." He extends his hand. "A pleasure finally meeting you."

"Is it?" I accept his hand, making my tone just cool enough for him to  know I'm aware of the words he's spoken against our relationship.

"He talks about you all the time."

"I heard he left out one important detail." I pause meaningfully. "At least important to you."

He has the decency to look uncomfortable for a second, but it passes  quickly, and in no time the same self-assured, self-contained man who  dismantled Clem Ford's flawed arguments tonight stares back at me,  awaiting my next move.         

     



 

"Could you sign by my favorite quote instead of in the front of the  book?" I ask. "I folded down the page and highlighted the passage."

He turns to the page, and I know he's being confronted with his own words, words I've nearly memorized.

Too many of our American systems are built on bias. The irony is that  these biases are often inextricably, if unconsciously, connected to our  own sense of superiority. The very biases that make those in power feel  stronger, better, actually weaken them. Our biases are our blind spots,  and we need others to guide us in the darkness of our own ignorance.

He contemplates the passage for a moment before signing and handing the book back to me.