The White Side
By Endria Isa Richardson
This is how you become white. You watch what your friends do. Because you live in Worcester, a working-class, Irish Catholic city in the middle of Massachusetts, you practice the “Our Father” and the “Hail Mary” in secret; you follow your friends to catechism at Christ the King Church and to Christian camp right across the northern border in New Hampshire; you sing Alanis Morissette more than you sing Lauryn Hill.
When, in the seventh grade, your best friend—who was practically raised in Christ the King, who tried Christian camp but was allowed not to like it, who was baptized and belongs in Worcester in a way that you never will—tells you her dad is taking her to Vermont for the weekend to go snowboarding, you begin to scheme. You sign onto America Online to search the (new, toddling, magical!) internet to learn whether “snowboarding” is a thing that can be learned, or something, like belonging, you must be born into. Your search yields mixed results. But if there is a chance that you can learn, you will take it.
This is how you become a snowboarder. The summer you turn 14, you get a job at McDonald’s, the only place that will take a chance on the questionable diligence of 14-year-olds. You, unlike your best friend, are still going to Christian camp for one week each summer on scholarship. During the weeks you are not at Christian camp, you are taking orders for fries, Big Macs, shakes, and apple pies for slightly more than $6 an hour. You save your money.
That fall, your best friend and her mom take you to the annual Sale & Swap at Wachusett Mountain. You have been to Wachusett Mountain many times; your family used to hike the Pine Hill trail to the summit on autumn weekends. But you have never been to this side of the mountain—the ski and snowboard resort side. The white side. You half expect alarms to go off when you step inside the lodge. You are careful not to touch the racks of red, yellow, blue, and pink skis stacked precariously in freestanding metal racks. You don’t want anyone to think you are stealing things, breaking things, or coveting things you can’t have. You follow your best friend and her mom toward the used snowboards, and you make yourself relax. You have a pocketful of cash. If anyone asks, you’ll take it and wave it at them. This is my ticket in, you will say. I wasn’t born into this world, but I can pay my way.
The snowboard you choose is lime green on top with a yellow, pink, and orange pattern on the bottom. You pay $143 in cash. It is bright and ugly, and you love it. You slap a Jesus Ska sticker next to what you learn is called a stomp pad. You shell out another $150 for a weeknights-only season lift pass and spend Friday evenings sliding down Sundowner, Indian Summer, and Ralph’s Run on your ass, until, on your last day of the season, you finally execute a frontside turn without toppling.
You learn, that day, that there is something about flying quickly downhill that makes you feel happier than you have ever felt in your life. For at least the duration of one or two rides, you forget that you are trying to be white. You feel only as free as you have ever felt. You sing “Ironic” under your breath.
The next season you sing “Forgive Them Father,” but the Lauryn Hill version. You sing “Everything Is Everything.” You fly down Conifer Connection and Roper’s Road, and you even more or less fly down black diamond-studded Smith Walton.
You learn to turn with style, arching your back and dragging your left hand in the snow behind you. You try ollies and kind of land them. You try manuals. You try a method and never try one again after you land on your face and the sharp edge of the board slams into the back of your head. You laugh and laugh and laugh to be alive and unconcussed.
This is how you become you again. You fly down snow chutes faster than you’ve ever flown before. You leave the “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys” behind in the slush. Your Jesus Ska sticker peels away over the years. You ride with a style all your own. You ride in Tahoe and Mammoth and June Lake, but Wachusett is always your favorite mountain. You get a new snowboard, slick and purple. You forgive yourself for wanting to be white. You didn’t know what you were doing. What you wanted was to be happy. You didn’t know you could be happy just being you, frozen cheeks grinning down the line.
Read The December 2020 Edition