Joey Potter Is Black, and other Ways of Coping

Joey Potter Is Black.

It was more than the mostly absent father, with the drug charges. 

It was more than the obvious wealth gap in Capeside, and which side of it she stood on.

It was more than the dark brown hair, a "brave" choice in that milieu.

It was more than her being awkward in a waterfront community. 

It was more than wanting desperately to fit in, in the place where she had been born.

It was more than the poor little rich girl next door swanning in and getting there, just like that.

It was more than wholly loving the boy who couldn't see her as more than a friend.

It was more than graciousness over pettiness.

It was more than letting pettiness win on occasion. 

It was more than the dead mom, lost to—what else?—breast cancer.

More than the unwed, pregnant older sister who had too much on her plate, much too young.

More than getting a job before hobbies.

It was more than having a doted upon curly-haired nephew.

It was more than being exceptional at school and knowing that “exceptional” was only the bare minimum she could be.

It was more than the overwhelming urge to be always correct—in tests, exams, and also just every day—because anything less would mean the armor was leaky and on the battlefield of life, leaky armor means certain death, literally and metaphorically. 

It was more than the urge to fix friends' problems, on top of an already full plate.

It was more than escaping home, and yet yearning mightily for it at the same time.

More than success as the best revenge.

It was more than hoping against hope.

It was more than bitter little half-smiles.

It was the understanding, deep in your bones—untouchable in your marrow— that in the absence of tangible fact, your brain needs someone to root for. And so Joey Potter is Black, because you needed someone to be.