The Secret Lives of Church Ladies by Philyaw Deesha

Author:Philyaw, Deesha [Philyaw, Deesha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: West Virginia University Press

HOW TO MAKE LOVE TO A PHYSICIST

HOW DO you make love to a physicist? You do it on Pi Day—pi is a constant, also irrational—but the groundwork is laid months in advance. First you must meet him in passing at a STEAM conference. As a middle school art teacher, you are there to ensure the A(rts) are truly represented and not lost amid the giants of Science, Technology, Engineering, Math. But as a Black woman, you are there playing Count the Negroes, as you do at every conference. He is number twelve, at a conference of hundreds. On the first day of the conference, you notice him coming down the convention center escalator as you ride up. You try to guess which letter of the acronym he is there to represent. His face and baby dreads give you equal parts “poet” and “high school math teacher.”

On the second day of the conference, you see him again at a breakout session, “Arts Integration and Global Citizenry.” He’s chatting with the presenter—a sista, number thirteen—before the session begins. From what you overhear, you glean that they know each other from their under-grad days in Atlanta in the early nineties. They have a lot of people in common at their respective alma maters. They promise to catch up again before the conference is over. You notice she’s wearing a wedding ring, and he is not.

As you’re leaving the breakout session, he notices you noticing him. His smile is brilliant; you smile back. He falls in step with you, extends his hand, and introduces himself. He says “Eric Turman,” but you hear “Erick Sermon.” And your eyes widen and then narrow because you think he’s joking, in a weirdly esoteric way.

“No, Eric Turman,” he says again, laughing. “Not the guy from EPMD.”

“Got it,” you say. “I’m Lyra James. Not to be confused with Rick James.”

Eric chuckles. “But often confused with Lyra, home to one of the brightest stars in the night sky.”

The compliment takes you by surprise, and you’re probably doing a shitty job of hiding it. “So you’re . . . a science teacher?”

He is not a science teacher, nor is he a poet. He’s a physicist and chair of the education programs committee for the American Physics Society.

You make small talk about “Arts Integration and Global Citizenry.” He asks what brings you to the conference and you tell him you teach middle school art—sculpting, printmaking, painting, fiber arts, ceramics. He asks if you will tell him more over lunch. And you do. And then the conversation continues over dinner—you learn what the chair of the education programs committee for the American Physics Society does—and then in the bar of the conference hotel, over drinks. And then on a sofa in the lobby. You each share your top five MCs. You debate Scarface vs. Rakim for number one.

You notice his thick eyelashes, large hands, and a little scar next to his right eyebrow. When he lifts his newsboy cap a few times to scratch his head, you see the baby dreads are neat and well moisturized.

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