Another Black History Month was coming to a close, and as part of his annual tradition, Mr. Smith was forcing all of his creative writing classes to compose an essay on influential Black figures. Instead of assigning us our persons, Smith decided to let us choose. It was nearing the end of the month, but I still hadn’t started. Mr. Smith asked our class for an update during fourth period, and it didn’t go so well for me. He forced me to stay after class to chat with him.
“What’s going on Austin? Why haven’t you begun your essay?”
“I’m having a hard time seeing the worth of this annual assignment.” I lied. Truth was, I didn’t give two squirts of piss about it. Much less about writing.
“That’s too bad. I was hoping that a guy like you would find my twist on the assignment this year fun.”
“No offense to you, sir,” I began, trying to hold composure, brushing some of my long dark hair from my eyes and crossing my feet with my well worn black high-top chucks, “I just don’t care.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve done this assignment every year since 9th grade. This is my last year. Every year, you seem to want to give me the same grade.” He raised one of his bushy eyebrows. Mr. Smith was a medium-sized light-skinned black dude in his mid/late twenties. You could tell he was the thoughtful, quiet type of guy. He went to a good school, took some good classes with some, no doubt, amazing professors and wanted to come to this suburban high school in nowhere Iowa to help us gain what he always calls a “color consciousness.”
“But this assignment is so much more, Austin.”
“What? Write a journal daily about your experiences as that person?”
“It’s already the 18th. Have you even made an entry?”
“How can I, when I haven’t even chosen a person?”
“Surely there has to be someone you have an interest in. The assignment is so open ended, I’m practically allowing you to BE anyone you have a fleeting interest in.”
“Look, can’t I just revise my MLK essay from last year and have you read over it?”
Mr. Smith looked disappointed at my apathy. I noticed the latest Rolling Stone magazine on his desk. “Hey,” I said trying to change the subject “I see you’ve got the latest issue from last week.”
“Yea, it’s a shame about that issue.”
“Oh, you mean Seymour-Hoffman’s death?”
He looked quizzically at me for a moment then snapped back. “Oh yes, that too of course.”
“What else is there?”
“The issue to which I was referring was Drake.”
“You’re upset he isn’t on the cover?” Mr. Smith could detect my confusion.
“’Drizzy’ was a little perturbed when they decided to replace his week on the cover with Hoffman’s.”
I let out a ‘psssh’ under my breath.
“Hmmm.. Why don’t you do an exposé on him?”
“Drake? What does he have to do with influential Black people?”
“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”
“Hahah. So you’re saying that you’ll let me write a couple of journal entries as Drake, and I’ll pass?”
“Yes. But I want them to be good, of course.”
I held out my hand. My long-sleeved black shirt was so baggy on me, that I had to pull my hand from my sleeve. “Mister, you have yourself a deal,” I said, as I shook his hand up and down, my spiked bracelet make clanking sounds. “This is going to be so damn easy.”
Suddenly, Mr. Smith’s eyes seemed to glow, and I felt a jolt go through his hand into my body.
“Oh Great Spirit, help me not to judge until I’ve walked a mile in my brother’s moccasins,” He said eerily, as the handshake ended.
“OooooKk… You have a good night man,” I said, as I walked out, a little unnerved by his coy smirk.
“You too, but make sure that you don’t work too hard.”
“I won’t,” I called back, as I walked away.
As I walked down the hall, I started to feel nauseous. I pulled into the boys’ room to take a leak and splash some water on my face. As I looked at myself in the mirror, my face seemed… different. Like there was stubble. Can’t be. I went to the urinal and unzipped my cock, and that’s when I almost screamed... This wasn’t my dick!
First off, my cock was now few inches longer and had hair all around it. And it was a beautiful almond brown. I touched it with a hand that didn’t resemble the freckled pale hand that I was used to for the past 17 years. My fingernails were clipped shorter and my hand seemed a little bigger also. “What the hell man?” I said… but it wasn’t in my typical voice… it was almost… like Drake’s voice?
Suddenly, all my long shaggy dark brown hair fell out. Some of it brushed my new cock as it hit the floor. My scalp itched and when I felt up there, I noticed that my hair had somehow reshaped and was short- like a buzzcut. My face itched and my body contorted – I stood there with my pants down and watched as everything about me was changing. It felt… good. I was feeling good and confident about who I was becoming. New memories filled my head- I went to the bathroom mirror to watch my transformation finish.
Sure enough, Drizzy was staring back at me. For some reason, I didn’t mind it. Just as quickly as my transformation happened, a new reality was contorting around me. My clothes changed and I was wearing expensive stylish form fitting apparel – something that lame ass Austin wouldn’t have the confidence to sport. As Drake, I was feeling a sense of my ego I had never felt before, and I liked it a lot. I was proud of this feeling, this body. It’s going to be so easy to get accustomed to this…
Feeling a vibration, I took out my new cell phone. It was Tuesday, February 18. I was at the back of a hot club, and my bodyguard was calling me, telling me to get my ass back to the limo. It was going to be a long night of preparing for my next OVO concert. Even though it’s still a couple months away, I got some moves to finalize. Not to mention, I need to write in this kid Austin's journal. Something tells me Mr. Smith is going to like what he gets at the end of the month. Or maybe sooner...
