Free Blue Angel by Francine Prose Page B

sympathetically.
    â€œLet’s see,” says Carlos. “As you know, guys, I’m half Dominican. And I don’t know about Diabla . Bruja , maybe. That means ‘sorceress.’ I guess that’s a little different.”
    â€œYou could change it to the Latino Brujos,” Angela says, excitedly. “And the Latina Brujas. That would be good, too.”
    Makeesha says, “Have we finished the part about the stuff we like? Because I got some other shit to say.”
    â€œHave we?” says Swenson. “People? Anyone want to mention something they admired about Courtney’s story?” Courtney’s staring at the wall. “I thought it represented an attempt to deal with some larger social problems. Did anyone pick up on that?”
    No one speaks. No one’s going to speak. His students aren’t idiots.
    Swenson sighs. “All right, Makeesha.”
    Makeesha says, “I think it’s, like asking for it, to pretend you know shit about shit you don’t know about. Yo, like where did you grow up, Courtney? In some mansion in Boston? And you be acting like you know what’s going on inside this sister’s head when she be chilling on the street.”
    And where did Makeesha grow up? Dartmouth, Swenson seems to remember. She slips in and out of homegirl talk for the authority it gives her.
    â€œMakeesha,” Swenson says, “are you saying you don’t think it’s possible to imagine something unless it’s happened to you?”
    â€œI’m not saying that,” she answers. “I’m just saying there’s some things you can’t imagine, some stuff you ain’t got no business trying to imagine if you—”
    Angela interrupts her. “That’s not true, Makeesha. You can imagine anything if you do it well enough. I mean, like, Flaubert wasn’t a woman, and you can read Madame Bovary , and it’s amazing how much he knew about women. Kafka wasn’t a cockroach. People write historical novels about the times before they were born—”
    Carlos catches the pass and runs with it. “You don’t have to be a space alien to write science fiction, man.”
    â€œAngela and Carlos are right,” Swenson says. “If you really work at it, you can get under anyone’s skin. Regardless of its color.” Does he really believe that? He chooses to, for the moment.
    â€œYeah,” says Courtney. “That’s what I think, too. Why shouldn’t I be able to write about some homegirl if I want?”
    Hold it, let’s back up a step. Something’s gone terribly wrong if Courtney has mistaken his defense of the imagination for an endorsement of her story. To say nothing of the fact that Courtney has, by speaking, shattered the most sacred covenant of the workshop.
    â€œAll right-eeee….” Swenson draws out the word, pneumatically, letting Courtney down easy. “The question is whether Courtney’s done it. What do the rest of you think?”
    Claris says, “I didn’t believe it. Lydia and her boyfriend seemed a little…generic. They could have been any girl and boy, any city street.”
    Swenson says, “Bravo, Claris. Once more, you’ve nailed the problem. So how can Courtney fix it? How can she make us believe that Lydia and Juan are a particular couple on a specific street, not some abstract composite? Anyhomey.”
    â€œAnyhomey,” says Makeesha. “That’s the problem right there. These dudes don’t have faces.”
    â€œSo what do we do?” says Swenson.
    â€œDescribe what they look like?” Danny says.
    â€œTell us what city it is?” ventures Nancy.
    â€œThat might help,” Swenson agrees.
    â€œMaybe we should know where they’re coming from,” says Carlos. “Are they Mexican? Puerto Rican? Half Polish and half Dominican? Let me tell you, man, it makes a difference.”
    â€œSure,”