I
Want to Be a Pen
by
Naeemah Cranston
I want to be a pen
So I can feel the orgasmic flow
Of liquid ink run through me
So I can feel the words
Instead of hearing the words
That way I can truly understand
The words of truth
And not the lies that come out
Of twisted minds
Instead of open minds
Of open eyes
And contain it all
I want to be a pen
So I can be passed around
And feel the emotion of the writer
Just by the way they grab and hold me
Or was it the way they dropped me down
When the poem reached its last verse
Or when the story reached its end
I want to be a pen
So I am always working
Always wondering who
My next employer will be
But always working
I want to be a pen
So I can be placed behind one's ear
And feel the humming of ideas
Within their brain
Temples flexing
And memories remembering
Until the thought process
Turns into the sleeping process
So I can be justly lazy
And let others do the job
I want to be a pen
So my name could be Bic or Sharpie
I would be known by all
So I can be the one who wrote
That famous speech or
That ten minute sketch on a bus transfer
I want to be a pen
So I can fall out of pockets
Roll down grass hills
And train platforms
Roll out of doors like
Meatballs that fell off spaghetti
Get lost in Italy
Or was it China?
Travel near and distant lands
More cultured than the owner
I want to be a pen
So I can be
Passed around to help
Pass numbers or even
Y2K ready e-mail address
I want to be a pen
So I can
Write that Dear John letter
Or that love poem
That created that love moment
I want to be a pen
So I can spell the words of healing
Fixing hearts
And aiding souls
Repairing minds
And creating lives
I want to be that quick fixer-upper
But
I am not that pen
I am not that pen
Because I am that writer
I am that thinker
That thinker that picked up that pen
And wrote down
I want to be a pen
^ Index
The Letter
by
Niyah Corbett
I sat looking at
the envelope as if it were an unidentified foreign object;
something from another time and place. The return address, neatly printed
in the top left corner, read:
Hattie Mae Peterson
414 Cooper Court
Gainesville, FL 32601
I knew who
Hattie was. I grew up two doors down from her house, but that was a long
time ago . That was when people called me
Junebug; I had long since shaken that name
and didn't want to be reminded of it. It wasn't so much the nickname but the
time that it represented. I was never meant to be poor
and I resented the fact that I was forced to
grow up that way. As a matter of fact, I convinced my wife to elope with me so
she wouldn't have to meet the people whom I considered
figments of a long and forgotten past. I was doing
just fine until Hattie decided to get on the Internet
and look me up. She didn't understand that whatever
dealings I had had with anyone from home were over the
day mama died. She was the only reason I would ever have gone back there and now
she is six feet under. As far as I was concerned there
was no cause for anybody from my past to know anything
about my present; just as no one from my present
needed to know anything from my past. I am Preston
Johnson, a broker at a prestigious investment firm in
Los Angeles, California, not some southern farmer's son named Junebug. I decided
a long time ago that this was the life I was meant to
live, in a big house with a pool in the back, a
beautiful wife with a perfect body, complete with long flowing blonde hair, and
a daughter who will never know what a hot comb is.
What could
Hattie possibly want, I wondered, she probably has a house full of
kids living on welfare and is asking me for a handout.
The answer would be a definite no; I refuse to
support the child of some worthless Negro who wouldn't take the
responsibility for his own offspring. I have my
own children to care for.
Imagine my
surprise when I opened the letter and read:
Dear Preston,
I know that it's been a while since we spoke and you have a new life in
California, but I fee1 it
is my duty to let you
know that your daughter is graduating. from high
school next month. I never told her about you because frankly I didn't think
she needed you. I have a husband who has been the
only father she has known. He has't once
complained that she was not his child biologically. Lately, however,
Theresa has been asking questions and I feel that it
is time for her to know the truth. So if you are willing I
will send you a ticket to her graduation. You can contact me at this
address or at my law office, 238-555-7903. I look
forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Hattie
^ Index
Soul Food
by
Akilah Knight
"So, you've decided?"
He asked, his gaze directed towards the nearby playground, where a group of
youngsters, bare-chested in the rain, were engaged in a noisy game of soccer .
"I've decided." She
answered, the words barely audible.
"Yeah. Right. So, what
about me, don't I have a say in this?"
Now she turned to face
him, a slight frown formed across her face. Her eyes quickly shifted to the
floor as if searching for a decent reply; with no luck she turned her head
towards him, avoiding eye contact. Her long skeletal fingers nervously glided
through her silver thinning hair. They stood together in the narrow storefront
doorway, as the breeze shifted the rain in their direction.
"C'mon, let's go
inside, we can't get too wet out here or you'll be calling in sick tomorrow."
She said, reluctantly changing the subject. Her voice was very deep and strong;
it
was amazing how such a confident voice bellowed out of such a frail delicate
figure. As she entered the small old-fashioned cafe, her shiny black cane made
several slight "thumps" against the concrete floor, resembling the beat of a
calm heart. He followed close behind awaiting her decision.
It wasn't just a café.
It was a home away from home meeting place, especially for the black folk in
Sweet Berry County. Everyone came from miles around to indulge in the home
cooked meals at Ma Suga's Soul Food Café; her specialties included her
juicy sweet potatoes, seasoned collard greens, golden cornbread, and her
homemade pies. Ma Suga played the role of everyone's grandmother and kept
everyone's belly full.
The café was no bigger
than a minute; six small square tables, surrounded by wooden stools, rested in
the comer of the floor. A long wooden bar stretched from one side of the wall to
the other and a window, cut along the back wall, exposed the kitchen. The gray
walls were overflowing with black and white photographs displaying beautiful,
proud black folk. A jukebox rested in the right comer spewing those oldies but
goodies tunes. You wouldn't call it a sight to see, but the love and warmth
produced by Ma Suga and the small community made the place aesthetically
pleasing.
"Ma Suga, I just want
you to know that you brought this community together.. how could you do this to
your own people?" The young boy asked, as he pulled the lid off the pie
dish, grabbing a warm sticky slice of apple pie.
"What are you talkin'
about? Do what to my people? All I did was bring those people together, but if
they can't stay together without me and my café, then there's a problem with our
own people." Ma Suga replied, as she limped her way to the small metal cash
register, the thump of her can echoing her footsteps.
"You see, that pie you
eatin' ain't nothing like what I use to bake back then, I use to put my foot all
in it... now, I got arthritis in my hands and my body's getting too tired to come
up here everyday." She said, gazing through the café window at the new soul
food restaurant across the street. "Plus dem white folks tryna put me out of
business."
"Is that what your
worried about, can't nobody put Ma Suga out of business. I've been your helper
for nine years and best friend since I was eight years old; I don't want to work
anywhere else with anyone else." Jason replied, as he devoured the last piece of
pie, wiping his hands on his crème colored apron.
"I'm sorry, Jason, but
I had a good run and I'm proud of this lil' café, but some things you just have
to let go." And with that she slid the Out of Business sign toward the boy. "Now
put the sign on the door. It's 5 o'clock, closing time...
forever!"
^ Index
All God's Chillun's Got Shoes
by
Frederick McKindra
The trees here swayed gently, tickled by a
breeze that made its way steadily
outside. The leaves joined in, rustling in fits of laughter, showing their
delight. The sun,
though momentarily hidden by passing clouds, shone brightly up there in its blue
nook.
Lionel watched the scene from his window.
He seemed to be up there too,
somewhere between those white heavenly bodies floating by. Of course, the paint
fumes
given off from the window's fresh white coat didn't do much to bring him back
down.
The parade of families outside dampened his spirits, calling up the urge
somewhere in his gut to discard his shoes. Perspiration dotted the foreheads of
doting
fathers, smiling under the weight of box after box. It seemed pulled straight
from the
pages of the novels where someone moved into college for the first time.
There'd been no gleaming parents waiting for his things at the Greyhound station
upon arrival. Only his muscled arms were there to bear the burden of seventeen
years
worth of living, packed away in a suitcase and chest. As had been for a long
time, he
alone stood ready to carry the load.
And so the shoes--nice brown loafers given to him by his grandfather last
evening-had been desperately thrown aside. His chest and suitcase both stood at
the
foot of the wooden bed frame beneath the window. He'd sunk into the springy,
blue-striped mattress that was to be his very own, and was content now to lean
against the
windowsill while he rubbed his uncovered feet against the glossed, wooden floor.
The
coolness of the wood filled him with calm, and the grooved creases seemed about
the
same width as those in the floors at home.
He looked away from the Carnival of families below and took a second glance at
the Orientation folder placed atop a desk of his very own, a desk he could now
occupy
well into the night without fear of waking anyone else. His name ran so neatly
across the
top of the glossy maroon folder. He took a moment again to scan the print--Lionel
Bartholomew Strong, Arkansas.
The orderliness of it all had captivated him for two
minutes when he'd first arrived. He'd been so amazed by the neatness, so
pristine, that
he'd forgotten the suitcase outside. The print across the folder's center,
positioned in the
exact middle of the desk, all balanced and together. He'd never known such
systematic
precision, and it came as a welcome change. He hadn't wanted to disrupt the
order, and
the folder still sat unopened on the desk.
He continued working his feet into the grooves of that floor and reveled in the
grandeur of it all. Little Lionel, quiet church boy with a heart as wide as his
shoulders,
away from home for the first time, and all the way up North, too. College boy
now, with
a folder and a desk and a wooden floor to prove it. Even the Heavens seemed to
be
offering its approval, the hosts whispering their delight through the rustling
tree leaves.
It seemed a perfect fit, and there Lionel sat, feeling the beauty and order of
his
new surroundings through the soles of his feet.
^ Index
To See Them Dance Again
by
Frederick McKindra
If I was going to hull some peas,
I knew it wasn't going to be in my kitchen; that
would have been too much. Not in the house.
The air out on the porch carried telltale signs of fall; the chill and the smell
of the
leaves lying idle on my front lawn. My nose even caught the smell of somebody's
dinner
that had sat in the stove too long.
You could hear a choir of grumbling stomachs from
one end of the block to the other. Seemed like each stomach knew Sunday
afternoon and
the meal always kept close company better than a calendar. Maybe I'd call
whoever it
was down to have some peas.
I had a whole bag full, some of Mike's finest, still hiding beneath their purple
Where they'd found such plump ones this time of year I hadn't the slightest.
Probably too many for one person, especially a little lady like me; although,
don't get me
wrong, I can still eat. But not this big ol' bag full. Buying for one was a
lesson I had yet
to learn.
My aluminum chairs were chipping a little bit. This set had seen many a season,
and rust seemed to be sneaking up on them like the nights did this time of year.
I sat in
mine, the seat closest to the door, and put the bag in the other, his chair. The
bowl I set in
my lap, and rocked, making quick work of separating peas from the hull.
That Mike was a fool, I thought, laughing out loud. Said his days hadn't been so
bright since I'd last stopped by. That little boy probably ain't had a cold day
or night
since he got some hair on his chin. Seemed like every little hummingbird at
church sang
his praises, him being the only black man in the county with his own market.
Told him, I just didn't have anybody left to cook for. He nodded, his eyes
falling
to his hands.
Truth be told, I just haven't had any taste for Mike's peas since the funeral.
There' d been so much food after the service for my Donnie, chicken and yams.
Ruth had
brought over some other macaroni and cheese, and that Eloise, who know she ain't
got
any business near a stove, brought some greens anyhow.
There was cake and pie and
cobbler to last until Jesus stopped by to pick up my soul, and a wrapped up
to-go plate.
But I never touched them peas. Donnie and I, we were peas, everybody said, peas
from the same pod. The one's after the funeral had got all cold and still in
that pot, and
Donnie and I were never like that.
We were always close and together when we were
young; both waiting to be let free. And everybody always watched us on the dance
floor
when the jukebox put on one of them fast records. They'd say, "Aw, ya'll better
move
out the way now. Here come Donnie and Dora." And' we'd sure 'nuf put on a show.
Jumping and shaking 'til we were both panting and sweating, and couldn't do
anything
but fall into each other's arms.
We'd grown from the same root, he was my strong and supple stem, and I was his
delicate bloom. Two peas, everybody used to say two peas from the same pod.
But we were never cold and still like them peas after the service; I threw them
away as soon as everybody left me alone. If I ate some peas, I wanted them to be
live
and jumping, playing around in that boiling water just the way Donnie and I used
to feel.
My water was waiting in there on the stove. The chair groaned as I stood up, and
pulled the bowl of peas into my chest. I was ready to see some peas jumping, and
if I had
to do a little jig myself, them peas was gonna dance again.
^ Index
Urban Dread
by
Nicole Mebane
You don' haffa dread to be rasta, ayyaa. It's
not a dreadlock thing. The music blared
from the plastic radio; tagged with stickers, cigarette burns and hearts that
professed high above
school love. Mark began to read the penciled etchings and think to himself.
Mark loves Julie, Mark loves Tanika, Julie loves Tanika? Wait, that's not right.
When
did I write that? I must have been tired. Hhmmm, you don't have to have dreads
to be rasta, so
then you don't have to be rasta if you have dreads, right? But I wear the colors
and listen to the
music, so I guess I fit the description. Wait, that sounds familiar. 'We're not
saying you did it,
but all we're saying is that you fit the description.' I fit the description of
what, a criminal? I'll
cut my locks the day my people are recognized as kings again. I guess that means
me and these
locks are in for the long haul. Each of my locks has a different name that
represents each of my
personalities. Benvolio, Mercutio, and Romeo; I used to have this thing for
Shakespeare. And
Juliet is for the feminine side my girl thinks I have. Juliet is the smallest
dread though, don't get
it twisted. Twisted, yeah, I do have to get my hair re-twisted. I think I'll use
Shea butter this
time. I used to date a girl named Shea. She was a freak, too. She loved my
dreads. She used to
tug on them with her soft, petite hands and scratch my scalp with her long
purple fingernails.
Ghetto fabulous. But purple is the color of royalty; of divinity even. I
remember when I believed
in divinity; well, my divinity anyways. I remember when I thought I could fly,
but my wings just
hadn't grown out yet. Wings, yeah that's what I want, with some bleu cheese. I
wonder who
delivers. They delivered in that Trick Daddy video. Who did he call? I have some
Lucky
Charms on the fridge though, so I'll be straight. I'll be straight. Right, that
was the last thing you
said to me before you drove off in that car, youngin'. You hated when I called
you that. An AK-47 and a temper worse than mine. They were your homeboys, alright. Your homeys
wouldn't
leave you to fend for yourself once everything turned to shit.
"There are lots of signs in life, some that you may not like. You may be living
this
minute, the next minute you're gone away 'ay. Hold up your heads my brothers.
. ." Mark turned
the stiff volume knob on the radio up to maximum output as he closed his almond
eyes and
drifted off to sleep. He rested in the wicker chair as the rocking soothed his
spirit. It had been his
brother's favorite chair to go to sleep in, and as he sprawled out on the worn
leather sofa, Mark
found comfort in the chair this time. He wanted to remember the time he believed
in divinity.
^ Index
Comforting Memories
by
Nyiah Corbett
I remember what if felt like when my mom greased my scalp. I used to run to the
bathroom and fetch the pink Afro comb and the bottle of Blue Velvet. Next, I
would go to my room and get a pillow. Returning to the living room I would give
my mother the utensils and place the pillow between her legs to sit on. My Mom
would then take out each pigtail, one by one, making sure to hold the top so she
wouldn’t hurt me when she caught a kink. As she parted each section of hair and
massaged the greasy substance into my scalp I wished I were outside playing or
in my room reading; getting my hair done was not my idea of fun. I’m sure my
mother was having no picnic combing through my thick hair either, but it had to
be done. Such a trivial activity may seem unimportant or pointless to write
about but whenever I feel scared, alone or just plain beaten by the world, I
think back to the comfort of that pillow, the security of my mother’s legs and
the confidence of her sure and capable hands. Drawing upon this memory I find
strength and I can’t wait for a time when I am able to give my own daughter the
self-assurance of a comforting memory.
^ Index
Daily
Thoughts of a Man without a Father
by
Jeremiah Cobra
I could feel that the water was hot enough to
sting as I rinsed the soap from my face. I gathered more water into my
hands and rinsed a second time. I felt the hot water trickle down my
face as I directed my attention to the mirror in front of me. I watched
as a single drop of water rolled from the edge of my left eyebrow to my
cheek. It rested there for a moment before continuing down my cheek, off
my chin, and back into the sink. I studied my countenance for a moment.
They tell me that I look like him. I haven’t seen him in almost fifteen
years so I couldn’t form an argument opposing or supporting what they
say, However, every time I see my reflection, I almost think that I can
see him.
Maybe we have the same eyes, I thought. I began to study
mine. Some guy once said that the eyes are the gateway to the soul. If
that is so, I am thankful for having the darkest eyes possible. They are
dark brown; almost black, which was perfect for concealment. I am sure
his are the same color. Lord knows he has a lot to conceal. I searched
my eyes for more proof that they were like his. They tell me that when I
smile, I have my mom’s eyes. When I am angry, I have his eyes. They also
say that I smile too much, so maybe, I don’t have his eyes.
Maybe I
have his nose, I thought. No, I definitely have my mom’s nose. The nose
that everyone think is too big. But I’ve never seen what everyone was
talking about. I mean, I like it. There are these tiny brown freckles on
it that no one notices but my mom and me. This is because she has them
too. He doesn’t have them. I don’t completely remember his face but I
remember he doesn’t have them.
Maybe it was the facial hair, I
thought. He had a lot of that and I’m beginning to get some too. But
then again, most men grow facial hair. In fact, maybe the only thing we
have in common is the fact that we are both men. I am his son, so I
guess I should resemble him a little. Physically. I could never resemble
him mentally. I could never think the way he must have thought in order
to cause as much pain as he did. I would never think or act like him. I
am a product of negativity but that does not mean I will produce
negatively. And so far, I am not doing too badly.
This is definitely
something to smile about, I thought. Therefore, I smiled at this and
proceeded to dry my face. This is part of my daily routine where I
strive to have a positive day.
^ Index
Diverse
Clientele
by
Nia Shaw
“Ice cream, ice cream,” the children would cry on
hearing the ringing of the bells. Everyday of spring and summer he came
to the neighborhood selling ice cream. It was amazing how, upon noticing
the faint sound of the bells, children’s participation in tag and
hopscotch was temporarily interrupted. Some of the youth only had to
reach in their pockets for change, while others had to run to their
houses.
The bells grew louder and the truck stopped in front of the
children. They created a neatly formed line in anticipation of a cool
and smooth treat. His truck was always shiny, his service impeccable. He
was the epitome of an ice cream man, always having in store whatever
they wished so there were no disappointments. Now and then an adult or
two would join the line, always giving pride of place to the children;
but you rarely saw them with snow cones or creamy pops.
Suddenly the
ice cream man stopped visiting the neighborhood; his departure abrupt
and without warning. No one knew the reason for his disappearance. In
two years since he was last seen some of the children still speak of his
absence. It was later discovered that ice cream was not all he sold out
of that truck. It was rumored that there was distribution of another
type, but nobody wanted to talk about it.
^ Index
The Bet
by
LaKesha Rhodes
The air that hung over the crowd in the bar was
thick and smelled of smoke and corn chips. There were a couple of people
lounging around at the tables, sipping on cold beers and passing the
time. The small, red jukebox in the corner was playing an old
Temptations’ song when the two guys walked in. Grant, the taller of the
two, wore a gray button-down shirt with black slacks. He had a creamy
chocolate complexion with almond colored eyes. The dim room seemed to
light up from the diamond shining in his left ear and his million dollar
smile. He frequented the gym often, which was apparent with one look at
him: his shirt failed miserably to hide his bulging pecs. Next to him
stood his lifelong friend, Joseph. Joseph, standing about five foot even
and wearing a green sweatshirt and jeans, had always walked in his
friend’s shadow. Compared to the muscular Grant, it was evident that
Joseph had never missed a meal. He was short and pudgy, with caramel
skin and dark, curly hair. When the two of them walked in, their eyes
both fell upon the same exact thing: a woman sitting at the bar, wearing
a tight red dress and matching high heels, with her hair up in a French
twist, carelessly sipping an apple martini.
“You see her?” asked Grant, straightening out his
mustache.
“Yeah, I see her. I bet you a hundred dollars I
can get her number.” Joseph answered.
“Ha, save your breath. A hundred dollars says
she’ll give me her number…when she leaves my place in the morning.”
Grant laughed.
“Whatever G, “ Joseph sneered. “I feel lucky
tonight.” The two walked over to the bar and sat on opposite sides of
the woman.
“Hey there beautiful. Can I buy you a drink?,”
Grant said in his deep, seductive voice, noticing her glass was nearly
empty. The woman smiled at him but didn’t respond. Just then Joseph cut
in.
“Umm, you know if I could rearrange the alphabet,
I would put U and I together,” he replied reaching for the bowl of
pretzels. Grant laughed to himself, knowing his buddy didn’t stand a
chance.
“Oh, is that so?” the woman remarked, motioning
the bartender over to refill her drink.
“What’s a gorgeous woman like yourself doing here
alone?” Grant asked.
“Well, I was trying to relax after a long day of
work.” She answered, apparently annoyed.
“What do you do?” Joseph asked. “I bet you’re
probably a model.” Grant tried again to hold in his laughter. With those
lame lines, he now understood why his buddy hadn’t had a date in so
long.
“Nah, you seem way too smart to be a model,“
Grant interrupted. “I bet you’re a lawyer or some big executive with a
big office making a lot of money.”
The woman rolled her eyes at Grant, “The little
guy is right. I am a model.”
She shifted her body towards Joseph. Grant’s face
stung with embarrassment.
Grant bought himself a drink, while Joseph and
the woman continued their conversation. He went over to the jukebox,
selected a song, and returned to the bar. Shortly after, Joseph got up
and walked over to him.
“So, I’m going to be looking for my money
tomorrow,” he whispered with a smile on his face.
“What? You mean she gave you her number?” Grant
asked.
“Well, not yet. But we’re about to go back to her
place, so I guess I could get it then.” Joseph winked at him and walked
out the bar, arm in arm with the woman.
Grant sat at the bar by himself, shocked at what
had just happened. For as long as he’d known Joseph, he was always the
one that got the girl. In high school, Grant was the popular jock while
Joseph presided over the chess club. He couldn’t believe that he had
just walked out of the bar with that beautiful woman. He really couldn’t
believe she’d chosen Joseph over him. His thoughts were soon interrupted
when the bartender walked over to him
“Seems like you’re friend is in for a wild
night,” he remarked.
“Yeah, real funny.” Grant snapped, believing the
bartender was attempting to rub his defeat in his face.
“Actually, the laugh is going to be on him,“ the bartender snickered,
“that woman he just left with.. is really a man.”
^ Index
Joe Blow
by
Simone S. Bridges
Joe scraped
the edges of his plate, creating that high pitched screeching sound. He
shoved the last forkful of spaghetti and meat sauce into his mouth. He
lifted the tall glass off the table and guzzled what was left of the
Brita water. As he eased back on his chair, he tilted his head toward
the ceiling and signed. He reviewed the day’s activities in his mind and
sighed again.
“What’s wrong?” Carmella asked tenderly. Joe
sighed again.
“I just had a long day, that’s all. I think I’m
going to shut it down early tonight”, he announced.
Carmella responded, “Humph, already? We just got home. Besides, we have
to talk.”
Joe looked her up and down, and then closed his
eyes. He did this every time he committed some foolish and unnecessary
offense against their relationship. He thought that maybe he could get
to bed before his infraction was revealed.
She began, “I checked our account today and my
check from last week is missing. Any idea of what happened to it?” She
knew exactly what happened to the check. She just wanted to see how Joe
would handle himself.
Joe fiddled with the fork and knife between his
fingers like a drummer would play with his drum sticks. Carmella sensed
his nervousness and confirmed it as guilt.
“What did you do with the freaking money Joe?!”
Her tone was high-strung and her patience was worn thin from his history
of paycheck squandering sessions at the uptown dog fights. Joe had
gotten them into serious debt six months earlier. Carmella was the one
to bail them out. Now they were living off Carmella’s bi-monthly
paychecks. She was determined to get on top of things again and not to
let Joe set them behind again. She slammed her fist on the small round
wooden table. She threw her question back at him.
“Answer me now Joe!” Her voice cracked as she
tried to yell but couldn’t. Joe’s eyes browsed every corner of the room,
but never met hers. Still, no words were spoken. He dropped his head and
a tear of shame dropped from his eye. He knew he was wrong but didn’t
want to admit it. His mouth was getting dry, which made it harder to
speak. He made a final attempt.
He stuttered, “I-I – just borrowed it for-”,
Carmella cut him off and let her disappointment and anger explode.
“Save it! I can’t believe this. So I guess you
have a way to pay the rent on Tuesday?” Once again, she knew the answer
to the question she had asked. The kitchen was quiet. Her tears were
running down off her face and her red silk blouse was getting damp.
“Of course you don’t”, she continued. She left
the kitchen and started to move around the house frantically, grabbing a
bag and stuffing various articles in it as she yelled. When Joe heard
her run up the steps, he thought she was done scolding him. With
Carmella upstairs, Joe thought there was hope for him to slide out of
the house, or at least to another room, with some dignity. But before he
could plan a real escape route, Carmella ran down the steps, dropped her
bag on the tan leather sofa and stomped back into the kitchen.
“Boy did I play myself marrying a sorry money
squandering man. Never again!” she hollered. At first, Joe didn’t
realize what she was doing. His look of curiosity made Carmella explain.
She shot her fiery words at him.
“I’m leaving you Joe. I told you that was it. You
had a chance. I guess you thought I was playing. But it wasn’t me
playing games, it was you.” She stood and waited for a confession or
some expression of regret from her man.
Joe just watched her. He desperately didn’t want
her to go, but he knew he couldn’t stop her. So all he could do was
stand against the peach painted kitchen walls and watch her.
Carmella finally stopped crying and crept toward
Joe. With tears still in her eyes, she raised her hand slowly, and then
with all her strength, she slapped Joe’s left cheek. The blow hit him
hard. His nostrils flared, but he didn’t flinch. His lack of response
surprised and disappointed Carmella. She stood there frustrated and
wondered if this was the man she’d met just six years ago. The same man
who seemed to have his life under control. No one knew he like to
gamble. Carmella realized the truth after she found her personal
accounts exhausted six months ago. She realized he had no control. His
entire life was a farce. It was one thing to waste his money, but he
squandered hers as well. Joe had spent more than half the week gambling
in the street. He had a different story every week to conceal his
behavior. Carmella knew the consistency she required in her life was not
with a man with gambling, and more importantly, lying habits. She though
maybe after she struck him, he would finally see how serious and hurt
she was. She wanted him to realize that he squandered her love like he
had squandered their money, and that’s what hurt her the most. She
turned around quickly and raced out the kitchen into the living room.
She snatched her bag from the sofa and finished packing.
While Joe stood there still comprehending that he
was losing his woman and that he just got slapped, Carmella yelled out
to him, “You know, I used to tell people about you. I used to say ‘you
know that guy Joe Williams, who lives in the big house at the end of the
street? The one that everyone says has money and that he’s unmarried?
The first time I really saw him up close and noticed how young he was, I
said to myself, that’s my man. I’m going to be Mrs. Williams; I don’t
know him yet, but I will.’” She giggled to herself, then begun to cry
again.
She went on, “I can see him through his own eyes and he’s who I want to
love.” Joe took his weight off the wall and ran into the living room
like the house was on fire. He grabbed her and hugged her with tense
arms. He released her reluctantly because he remembered, she was not
staying. He had struck out.
As Carmella wiped the last tear Joe would ever
see off her face, she caressed his swollen cheek and whispered softly.
“Now I’ve seen all I want to see and…” He voice
trailed off as she made a sharp turn and walked towards the fireplace
behind them. She took a deep breath and with the pace of an arthritic
woman, she slid her wedding band off her thin finger, placed it on the
mantle under their wedding picture, grabbed her bag and left.
^ Index
Politics As Usual
by
Robert "Robye" L. Anderson, II
Janet
Williams lived in the big house down at the end of our street.
Everyone said she had money and she was unmarried. The first time I
saw her, I noticed how young she was. I never thought for a second
that someone my age would have developed enough wealth to become
fully self sufficient and live in our neighborhood. Most of my
neighbors were old, black… well at least they would say they were
black, and rich. Mrs. Kelly, the older woman whom I was walking with
at the time that I saw Janet for the first time, was immersed in
conversation with me, as I helped carry her groceries back to Kelly
Place, or as I called it Kelly Palace.
"So,
young man, I just don’t understand why you decided to go to Harvard
Law instead of Howard Law,” said Mrs. Kelly as she spoke up to me in
a rather raspy voice. "Your mother went to Howard Law, your father
went to Howard Divinity, and your brother and sister are down at
Morehouse and Spellman taking classes, why do you have to be the odd
ball?"
"Like
I’ve told you, everyone in my family, and everyone in this nosey
neighborhood countless times, I’m going to live my life the way I
want to, the way I chose to, not the way everyone else…" I said in
aggravation.
"Yes
yes yes, we’ve heard that one before, too. You know Dr. Butler down
the street?"
"Of
course I know him, he’s only been lecturing me all my life about why
the Kappas are so much better then the Alphas."
"Yes,
well he went to Georgetown to get his undergraduate degree, but he
came back to the right side and went to Howard Law… and good thing
you brought up Greeks too! You can still join at the graduate level
you know, no shame in doing that… well that’s what they say anyway."
"I’m
not joining a Greek, I never met a Black Greek in my life. All the
Greeks I know are white. Isn’t it kind of dumb to call these social
groups Black Greeks anyway? I thought Greece was in Europe, not
Africa."
"With
all that smartness coming out your mouth, you’d think you’d be smart
enough to go to a Black Law school."
"Sorry ma’am for disrespecting you, it was not my intent," I said in
imitation sorrow.
"Um’hm,"
said Mrs. Kelly in a voice which sounded like she was the one with
pity for me.
I’ve
had these conversations over and over countless times throughout my
life. My parents may have gotten to my brother and sister about
which schools and Greeks they should be a part of, but not me. I
wanted to look at the world in the big picture, not the Black
picture. Even in my youth, I didn’t want to be a part of this
section of society which I was born into. It was full of competition
and alliances simply because of what fraternity of sorority one
belonged in. I always strove for a different being, a different me.
As we arrived at the white painted iron gate which was Ms. Kelly’s
row house home, her little mutt that she calls
"Precious"
started to run around gingerly when it saw its owner.
"Aw
my Precious, have you been a good girl when mommy was away?" Now
holding the rug of a dog in her weak, withered, flabby, feeble,
arms, she turned around to make sure the dog got a good look at me.
"Precious, look who I brought with me. Say hi to Daniel. You haven’t
seen Daniel all summer since he graduated from the big white school
in Maryland and decided to go to another white school for graduate
school," she said in an ancient, playful but sarcastic voice.
‘GRERR… ROOF! ROOF! ROOF!" That was Precious’ usual greeting toward
me, so I just patted the dog on the head as we entered the house.
"Now
Daniel, you can put up all the groceries in the kitchen, and when
you are finished pour me a glass of lemonade and bring my Macadamia
nut cookies to me and Precious here in the living room."
Now that’s one thing these rich old black people do, that I have
never understood. As much information as they love to give, they
sure are stingy when it came to giving anything else, unless it
benefits them in someway.
"Gee
Mrs. Kelly?"
"Yes,
son, what is it?"
"Since I did mow your lawn before I brought, packed, and carried all
your groceries, I am just a little parched. Is it at all possible
that I may have something to drink?"
"Sure
Daniel, of course. You just go ahead, get you a glass, and pour
yourself some water from the sink."
As I was just about to sarcastically ask for just a little bit of
the pitcher full of lemonade which she was having, the doorbell
rang.
"Daniel, would you go see who it is for me."
I walked over to the door and opened it. To my surprise it was the
new girl from down the street, Janet Williams, holding a cake in her
hand.
"Hello Janet," I said before she had a chance to give the formal
greeting of a new neighbor.
She was dressed in an ivy green business suit, with a pink blouse.
On her lapel she wore the infamous Alpha Kappa Alpha pin, and around
her neck she wore a beautiful golden necklace. She was obviously
politicking, as I called it, or attempting to build her connections.
"Hi,
I don’t believe we have met before."
"That’s a nice cake, did you make it?" I said.
"Yes
I did make it, I’m glad you think it looks good, mister…"
"Graves, Daniel Graves," I said rather confidently with a hint of
arrogance, but with special intent. I’ve been through this song and
dance before. My family name is a well known name. So I threw it out
there to see what she would throw back. If she was all about
politics, she would say something like ‘Ah, so you’re Mr. Graves,
and blah blah blah.’ However, if she was about more then just
getting her family name out, then she would greet me first, then
perhaps make a stupid small talk joke that would engage in
flirtation. Personally, I was hoping for option number two, because
she is a cutie.
"Oh,
so you’re Mr. Graves, nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much
about your accomplishments…" she continued on.
It was a mild tragedy, because she is a petite young woman with a
big round backside that was just waiting to get out of that ivy
business suit, and on to some Big Dan. However, that was just
another example of why I left this life behind, because it is
usually just politics as usual around here. I did not respond to
her. Instead I called for Mrs. Kelly to get her shriveled ass up an
get her own door. Of course I didn’t say it like that… well too loud
anyway. Before I left, I took the rest of Mrs. Kelly’s cookies,
drank most of her lemonade, kicked her ugly dog, took a handfull of
mints from Mrs. Kelly’s living room, and cut a slice of Janet’s
cake… okay I took almost half the cake, as the two of them looked on
in amazement at the portion I took.
"Nice
to have met you Janet… hope to see you more fully next time. Bye,
Mrs. Kelly, thanks for lunch.”
…And I left.
^ Index
Her
by
Robert "Robye" L. Anderson, II
I
remember yesterday like it was today. Wait it may have been today,
or maybe it was two days ago and it only seems like yesterday. My
memory's a tad bit off. Well, lets face it, my memory's pretty
abysmal. However if there is one thing I do remember, it's_ her.
I saw
her skate into the sunlit park about an hour past noon that day, but
I see lots of girls skate in the park all the time when the leaves
are green and the breeze is cool, so I paid her little mind. At the
time I was playing basketball in our fence caged basketball court,
commonly referred to as "Da Cage." The sun beamed on me as if I had
caught the full attention of all the gods and legions of the heavens
as I worked on my game. Usually, when this happens, in an effort to
concentrate solely on my game, I ignore every aspect of life around
me. I become so entranced in my activity, that the only feeling that
matters is the way the sound of the ball swishing through the metal
net makes me feel.
Through all my lay-ups, mid- range jumpers, and three point
attempts, I did not notice that the other Catz from the
neighborhood, who were playing at the other half of "Da Cage" were
gone. The only thing that brought me out my concentration was a
breeze that hit me hard enough to make the sweat on the back of my
neck crust up and give me temporary goose-bumps. In my pause from
action, I saw her skating around the court. She stayed on the vacant
side during my brief rest. Still disinterested, I resumed my
workout.
Suddenly, I was distracted to a point that I would not recover that
day. As I was about to leap up to throw down a dunk, a figure caught
the corner of my right eye, then the sound of skates clackering
smoothly against the asphalt turned my head and I was able to get my
first good look at this girl. She wore an orange laced bikini top
that was tied in a bow that fluttered downward toward the small of
her back. As her laces led my eyes further south on her anatomy, it
took my attention from the metal pole that held up the basketball
rim which was directly in front of me. Luckily my thigh cushioned
the impact and it allowed me to somewhat trip awkwardly but smoothly
onto the blacktop. Even luckier, the girl did not even notice I had
fallen into her path of skating, and she fell right into my lap.
Though we were both dazed from our collision, I made a point to
recover quickly because I wanted to examine her thoroughly. She had
long black hair that stretched, tickling the middle of her back
slightly. Her eyebrows were slim, arched, but gave a seductive
mystique to her. Her eyes were closed at the time of examination, so
I proceeded deeper into Dixieland. Her breasts were larger than
many, smaller than few, and perhaps the breeze made it seem as if
they were looking right at me_ well maybe her left nipple was
looking over at the ball which was rolling down the court about to
hit and rattle "Da Cage" fence_ it didn't matter.
As I
continued my hurried anatomy lesson, I noticed that she had the
cutest, well sexiest little belly button I had ever seen. It was a
small inward belly button with a little grape-like tip attempting
pointlessly to climb out of its hole.
My
eyes were starting to wander too much when her eyes snatched mine
into her focus. Her eyes were hazel and hypnotic. I was back into a
trance, but now it was over this girl. It was as if I knew
everything about her, and the trance gave me the ability to tap into
her mind and predict her future actions.
Right
before she was about to say excuse me, I jumped up and told her my
name, "Ryan! My name is Ryan_hello." As I anticipated her telling me
her majestic name, I started to ponder all the things we would do
together, like_ play basketball at "da cage," and skate together
through the park.
Then
she spoke, "Ryan_.MOVE!!! Let me up you no basketball playing, Air
Gordon wearing, Allen Iverson wannabe, probably no job having, women
groping pervert!!"
As
she hastened up to skate feverishly away from me, we both noticed
that she mistakenly dropped a hundred dollar bill onto the blacktop.
As I was going to retrieve it and give to her, she yelled to me, "Oh
so, you're not just a groper, but a thief too!!! You know what, you'
re not a man at all, you're just a little_!!!"
She
bent over, picked up the hundred dollar bill, looked at me one last
time with the most wicked gaze I had ever seen, and skated out of
the park.
But,
even thought she though I was Lucifer, I will never forget her.
^ Index
Fed Up
by
LaKesha Rhodes
The
only sound that could be heard in the room came from the old,
mahogany grandfather clock in the corner. Outside, the sky was a
dark, somber gray as the rain pounded hard against the window. I sat
alone on the bed with thoughts filling my mind. Glancing over at the
pillow near the headboard, I remembered all the nights I’d waited
for him to come home. I’d clung to that tear-stained pillow, hoping
to procure some kind of comfort as I would cry myself to sleep.
In
the early hours of the morning, he’d return to fill that empty spot
next to me in the bed, but never completely filling the emptiness in
my heart. He’d assure me that his actions were innocent and that I
was the only one; but I knew better. I knew he lied as he had done
on so many other occasions. For almost ten years now I stayed with
him, remained right there by his side. I’d made up my mind to leave
him many times. But every time he’d promise to change and, like a
fool, I believed him. Honestly, part of me knew he’d never change,
but the other part of me hoped and prayed that, just maybe, this
time would be different. For so long I’d seen our relationship going
down a dead-end road, but refused to accept it. Even though my
friends had urged me to leave him, claiming he did me more harm than
good, I ignored their advice.
On
the night stand was a picture of the two of us taken years before.
But, as the picture faded, so did the memories of the happy times we
had together. There was a time when I had thought I’d found my
prince charming, my knight in shining armor. He was the one with
whom I shared my hopes and dreams, the one to whom I poured out my
heart. Through good times and bad, he was always right there. Then,
without any warning, things suddenly began to change. What caused
the change? I suppose I’ll never know. It didn’t matter anymore
because it wouldn’t-- it couldn’t change anything. The one who used
to bring a smile to my face was now the one responsible for the
tears that clouded my eyes. The touch that used to make my heart
skip a beat, now made my heart ache.
Walking over to the closet, I retrieved the remainder of my clothes
and put them in the suitcase on the bed. I let out a heavy sigh as I
took one more look around the place that, now, felt more like a
prison than a home. I didn’t want to leave; I just wanted things as
they were before. But I knew that we’d reached that point of no
return a long time ago. As I was closing my suitcase, he hurriedly
walked in.
He
stopped in his tracks when our eyes met and then, noticing my bags,
rushed over and begged me to sit down, pleading with me not to go.
With not a single word spoken, I picked up my suitcase and headed
out the door. He made one last attempt to get me to stay as he
hurried to me and grabbed my arm. I quickly spun around towards him.
Instead of me looking at him through tear-filled eyes, the tears now
blurred his vision. He was about to speak, but my unsympathetic,
cold stare stopped him. It was then that he finally saw all the pain
he’d caused me from all his lies, the hurt from his neglect, and the
disappointment from all the broken promises.
His
lips mouthed the words ‘I’m sorry’, but no sound came out. I stared
at him for a moment, wondering if he really meant what he attempted
to say. My heart longed for the man I once knew and loved, but that
was no longer the man who stood in front of me. His eyes then
followed mine as I looked down at my clenched fist. I slowly opened
my hand to reveal the small, gold wedding band that used to adorn my
finger. His hand slowly fell from my arm as we both watched the ring
fall to the floor. He realized then that he’d finally pushed me too
far and I was fed up.
^ Index
My
Life As a Story
by
Justin A. Groves
Tears
were still streaming down my face. I sat there thinking to myself;
how could this have happened to me? I was successful at everything I
did, and suddenly it all came crashing down. Everything and everyone
who meant something to me were gone. I had no one to turn to,
nowhere to go, and no reason to live; this was my only alternative.
I took one last look at the city I had come to call home before I
stepped to the edge of my apartment building’s roof. My heart’s pace
began to quicken as I thought of what I was about to do. There was
no turning back now. I placed one foot over the edge and my mind
began to drift into the past; memories of my younger years were
invading my consciousness. The wind speed picked up. I peered over
the city skyline at the setting sun. That’s when I blanked out.
The
wind was blowing faster now. I opened my eyes to see a young boy
speed past me on his bicycle. When I looked closer, I couldn’t
believe my eyes. The little boy looked like me. He came to a stop,
jumped off the bicycle and ran to his big brother shouting with such
joy. It was the first time he ever rode a bike. I smiled, because I
remembered when I first rode my bike successfully. It was my, as
well as the young boy’s, first real accomplishment in life. I wanted
to congratulate the youth, but as I made my way over to him, my
thoughts wandered again. I was sweating; there was no breeze to keep
me cool now. I looked around and saw that I was in a packed
conference hall. Everyone was paying attention to a boy and a woman
on the stage.
“Spell, braggadocio,” she asked the boy.
Everyone held their breath as the minor flawlessly spelled the word.
The crowd cheered, celebrating the little man’s victory.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the woman said, “I present to you this
year’s Spelling Bee champion.”
The
youngster received a standing ovation for his feat. I joined in with
the crowd but soon got emotionally overwhelmed because this was also
something I had experienced. I decided to leave the building before
I broke down in tears, but instead of walking out into the parking
lot which I knew to be there, I was walking onto a soccer field. I
looked around and saw a scoreboard displaying a tied score with one
minute left in the game. I looked onto the field and saw someone
wearing a jersey with the number 15 on it, similar to the one I used
to wear, step up to kick a shot. The ball flew past the goalkeeper,
and it was obvious that the youngster had scored the winning goal.
His teammates and schoolmates ran out to him and started praising
him. This was getting too weird now. Why was I dreaming these
things?
Fear
stricken, I ran out of the stadium, only to find myself running into
my old high schools auditorium, where that same soccer star was
being rewarded for his excellence in English. Everywhere I turned, I
saw familiar images. All of a sudden, it all made sense. I was about
to commit suicide, and now my life was flashing before my eyes. I
was revisiting all the moments that meant something to me. Suddenly,
everything started moving faster. Images of my first kiss, my first
girl, my college acceptance, my first business, college graduation
and all the successes, leading up to my downfall, flooded my head.
It was then and there that I realized that I was making a big
mistake. Why was I going to kill myself? I had lived such a happy
life so far. I broke myself from the trance, only to find myself
plummeting toward the hard surface below. Then there was silence.
I lay
there, feeling a sharp pain attacking my body. I could hear people
talking, probably onlookers trying to look at my limp body. There
was a warm, wet substance on my face now. I mustered up enough
energy to open my eyes only to see two beady little eyes staring at
me. I almost jumped out of my skin, but realized that it was only
Trina, my pet Pekingese. She was licking my face, probably trying to
get me up. I looked around and noticed that I was in the living room
of my apartment. I still felt in pain, but quickly realized that it
was caused by me lying on my Playstation 2 console.
“I
must have had a bad dream,” I said to my dog.
She
just looked at me pathetically and walked away. I looked at my watch
and saw that I was going to be late for my 11:10 class. I hurried to
the bathroom, and while I was taking my shower, I thought about my
dream. Was it a form of divine intervention, a message of some sort
from God? It must have been; there was no other explanation. I was
now the master of my own destiny. I now held in my hands the pen
which I would use to script my future as I saw fit. From now on I
would write the story of my life; my life as a story.
^ Index
What’s a Hundred
Dollars between Friends?
by
Justin A. Groves
It
was almost two thirty in the morning. The night sky was filled with
clouds and the eerie glow of the moon. The wind chimes played with
the air, old friends they were. The bamboo trees whistled a sad
tune, one I never heard before. It started to drizzle again. I
stared out the window trying to calm myself down. I was on edge and
in need of a shot of cognac. Why was I going through with this? I
know; Doug was my boy, my neighbor and I owed him one. My cell phone
started to vibrate. It was Doug. He was outside and ready to go. I
downed two more shots and headed out the door. My pet dog Skippy
watched disapprovingly as I entered Doug’s snazzy little sports
coupe. He glanced at me and nodded, his eyes cold as ice. My
uneasiness returned. What had I gotten myself into?
Twenty minutes later, we were there. It was by the old airport, on
an abandoned airstrip. This is where, for the last three years, my
friends and I would meet. We would always come here on a Wednesday
night to race, just for fun though. Eventually, people caught on and
wanted in on the action. That’s when it became all about the money.
The crowds got bigger and bigger by the week, but tonight the crowd
was unusually huge. When I got out of the car, there was silence. I
had gained the respect as one of the top racers in town, maybe
because I was used to the track. I hadn’t been on the circuit in a
while, but tonight that would change.
The
night went by slowly. The novices went first, as usual; their
entrance fee was only $500. It was a good laugh seeing these
youngsters try to conquer the track on their first try, but it
somewhat reminded me of myself. However, I wasn’t mad when their
turn ended, because next up were the professionals. Their entry fee
was $2000. These were the people that had been on the circuit with
us for a year or two now and had earned some respect among the
fellow racers and fans. The difference could be seen in the style
and finesse of these racers, and as the crowd gasped and cheered, it
was merely preparation fpr the masters. That was the elite group to
which my friends and I belonged, the so-called legends of the track.
We only raced once every three months, and tonight was one such
night.
As
time neared, I strolled over to my car. It was a 1999 Mitsubishi
Evolution 5, with a V6 engine. The baby blue paintjob was glistening
in the moonlight and looked sleek and sexy with a few raindrops
trickling off its sides. I wasn’t sure if I was going to race
tonight though, because that same feeling I had was still there.
Doug, being the cocky one, put his entrance fee on his car and dared
anyone to race him. The crowd stared in awe as the neatly folded
coil of hundred dollar bills lay there on his ride. To me, that was
$5000 of easy money. I had raced Doug once before and won, but we
had vowed never to race each other again. Time was going by fast,
and nobody dared to race Doug. The crowd started to get uneasy and
looks of disappointment could be seen on their faces. Doug strolled
over to me and started boasting that nobody was brave enough to come
against him. Suddenly, I looked down and saw a hundred dollar bill
floating in a puddle. I picked up the note and Doug held my hand.
“Hey
man, that’s my money,” he blurted.
I
looked at Doug, confused as to why he would think that was his
money.
“Excuse me; you think this is yours?” I questioned him.
“Of
course it is. Come on Jus, if you wanted some money you only had to
ask,” he said mockingly.
By
now a crowd had gathered around us, and Doug was enjoying creating a
scene. I stood my ground though and refused to hand him the money.
Nevertheless, the inevitable occurred.
“You
know what, enough of this bickering,” he shouted. “Let’s put this to
an end and you race me for it”
The
crowd liked the idea and proceeded to chant us on. I wasn’t down for
this though. We had made a pact, and now it was supposed to be
broken over some petty stuff? I don’t think so. Everyone started to
tease me and say I was chicken. They even went as far to suggest
that I was no good. Even Doug joined them, boasting how he had
beaten me ten times before. That was the last straw. I raised my
hand to silence the crowd.
“I’ll
race,” I said softly, staring into Doug’s eyes.
The crowd lined up at the starting point, everyone anticipating the
biggest race of the night. I was pumped and ready for action, but
something was still bothering me. The marshall came between us and
raised three fingers; when he dropped them, it was on. I glanced
over at Doug and looked sympathetically at him. I knew what happened
in the past, and I knew that my car was superior to his, but I guess
I had to prove it to him again. As the marshall dropped his fingers
we were off, and I had the edge. I hugged the corners and swerved
around the course with such familiarity like a man writing his name.
When we came on the back stretch, heading towards the finish line, I
was half a car in front of Doug. People were chanting my name and
staring in awe at the power of my machine, and then the unspeakable
happened. Doug tapped my rear bumper, sending me spinning off the
road and flipping into the air. He crossed the finish line first and
was ecstatic, almost as if he had done it fairly. However, some of
the crowd didn’t share his enthusiasm, for they had seen what had
happened, but that didn’t phase him, he had won bragging rights.
I
emerged from the wreckage unharmed. I walked over to Doug and threw
the hundred dollar bill at him. He laughed in my face and called me
a sore loser. I paid no attention to his taunting and walked slowly
away from the crowd into the darkness of the night. I would never
speak to Doug again. The person I grew up with and shared all my
childhood memories with was now just a thing of the past. I looked
back and saw the man whom I’d called a friend basking in his glory
and I held my head in shame. He wanted to win so badly that he
almost killed me, and for what? A measly hundred dollar bill.
^ Index
The Yard
by
Raymond Ward III
Walking across the yard is no small thing for me. It takes a giant stretch of faith in oneself to have the courage to walk backwards in time and space, to be confronted with everything you once were and are now, and to realize one thing; you don’t belong here now, and you didn’t belong here then.
I’ve been here for years, and I’ve had the privilege, or the punishment, of seeing Howard’s Yard go though transitions. I was here when everyone flocked to the yard, sporting new tattoos, listening to Master P and fighting each and every single day. The Howard men all wore their jeans around their knees, and many of the athletes had the dubious distinction of having made it here despite their criminal records. This was a party place, where they drank cheap corn liquor and smoked marijuana openly, because everyone knew that Campus Police did not come out until the sun went down.
The freshmen women could be identified through their location and their dress. They were always within twenty feet of the football team, who sat on the benches by Douglass Hall and watched the young fools parade for them, faces painted like harlequins and dresses pulled up farther than their designers called for, even in 50 degree weather.
On the other side of the Yard, closer to the flag pole, you could watch the intellectuals, with their newly acquired red, black and green bandannas and even newer black militant philosophy, converse loudly about the place of the black man in the universe even as they proclaimed loudly that the revolution would not be televised. Whatever else it was then, the Yard presented a mixture of ideas and people, diametrically opposed, but still somehow getting along, more or less.
Back then I was a squeaky clean kid, barely old enough to drive. I was very skinny and very shy, so I didn’t talk to too many people, especially the militants. I had no tattoos, no criminal record, and my sport, wrestling, was not yet popular enough for me to sit with the cool kids and bask in my inherited glory. There were no women parading for me.
For about two years the Yard lost its fun. A day on the Yard meant a day watching the freshmen, who thought they knew what the Yard was about, sit and look confused. They had run everyone else out because there were so many of them, like fleas on a street born dog. It was impossible to get them out of your hair.
Gone were the criminal records and the real criminals who held them. The Yard instead was where the freshmen men sat and posed, dressed all in blue or red if they were from California, or in black with Timberland boots and hats twisted to the left if they were from anywhere even remotely close to New York. There was no more Master P, because the band practiced on the Yard, every afternoon, and all you could hear was Michael Jackson’s “P.Y.T.” If there were any conversations, they revolved around two central questions: “How can I get your phone number?” and “Who was better, Biggie or Pac?”
The militants were beaten up and forced into the valley. They were never heard from ever again. I still didn’t fit in. I wasn’t a freshman. I listened to alternative music, spoke proper English, and was never inclined to impress anyone with a made up story of how I sold more drugs than anyone in my city and spent time with all of the most notorious gangs. Not that they would have believed me. I always wore the wrong colors.
After that, the Yard proclaimed the existence of neo-soul. The Fine Arts kids played their guitars and sang in front of their building. People took their blankets and began laying on the grass for the first time. The favorite spot was the grass by the flagpole, so the band was pushed to the football field and asked to keep it down.
The athletes were still there, but in fewer numbers and for less time. There were no more criminal records, or even college thugs, but still the athletes sat by Douglass, basking in the inherited cool of their athletic forefathers. The women were still there posing, and making excuses to walk over from time to time, but there were fewer of them as well. It had begun sinking into their minds that these men were never, ever going to play professional sports, and those who did were not going to take them along for the ride.
The casual drinking ceased and was replaced by casual hits of cocaine. It was smaller and easier to conceal. If you wanted to drink, you knew you had to go somewhere else, so the Yard seemed to hold fewer people. The freshmen were put back into their place, and forced to stand or sit in the grass, while the upperclassmen sat on the benches, protected by the shade of nearby trees.
If anyone even thought that the sun was likely to come out, it was an unofficial holiday, and no one went to class. The women still dressed to advertise themselves, and the men congregated around them like puppies in a pet shop, tails waggling and tongues hanging out. A Day on the Yard meant a day the men spent trying to seduce each and every single woman who walked by, even through the use of group presentations; it also meant watching the women walk away from each and every single one.
I actually enjoyed my classes, so I always attended, even if it meant being the only one there. I had been around long enough to be inoculated against the presence of mass beauty, so I felt no special need to walk around the Yard in clothes I couldn’t afford anyway. I was an American Eagle boy.
Despite these changes, there are three statements that will always hold true for days on the Yard. The Yard will always be the Yard. I will always be me. And the two of us will never quite mesh
^ Index
Resurrection
by
Erinna McKissick
Two weeks ago, I was on my way to Pittsburgh, armed with the sole intention of thoroughly ravishing love, which for me, was personified in the adoring face of my boyfriend, Earl. After boarding the bus and flopping down in the first available space, I realized that I was one of the few passengers who had actually managed to avoid sharing a seat, and so when the honey-suckle haired woman, who was obliviously running late, boarded the bus, struggling vigorously to make her way safely down the narrow aisle with a pregnant, green duffel bag slung casually over her left shoulder, I tried earnestly to pretend that I didn’t see her plight. I watched her curiously through my peripheral vision, slightly amused as her blue, ice-chip eyes frantically searched the crowded coach for an empty seat. Determined beyond reason not to have to share my space, I quickly snapped on my headphones and turned up the volume to an obscene decibel, clinging to the fragment of hope that if I appeared to be occupied, then there was a remote possibility that she would just leave me alone. I recall that I was sitting sideways with my back pressed up against the windowsill, and my left leg draped possessively across more than half of the aisle seat. I bowed my head and desperately prayed that the woman would just walk past me and go ask some other poor, unfortunate passenger if she could sit with them, because by that time, I had already spent the last twelve hours of my day riding next to a burly cowboy named Jerry from Dallas, Texas, who was, unfortunately for me, plagued with nasty hot, onion breath. Needless to say, after enduring that tragic experience, the very last thing that I’d wanted to do right then was to be forced to once again share close quarters with another weird stranger, for the last six hours of my trip.
I peered over my slightly crooked, black, wire-rim glasses, hoping that while I had been reliving my most recent nightmare, the woman had already targeted a vacancy on the bus, and had sat down. Unfortunately for me, however, just as I had prepared to shift my gaze from her plain, pasty face back to my lap, she met my glare of smoldering resentment head-on, and then proceeded to act on it. She asked me if she could sit down in the seat next me, and so, of course, I was left with no choice but to nod reluctantly as I slowly slid my leg from its territorial position, and folded my thick limbs into the sweltering confines of my window seat. After a quick, yet efficient analysis of her face, I sadly noted that she was one of those young women who were cursed to wear decades of pain in the darkening shadows of their feline eyes, and centuries of chronic distress in their smile, and I pitied her fate.
For an entire four hours, we rode in complete silence, probably because the entire time I feigned periods of deep sleep at random intervals. In all fairness, however, I must admit that she did try to stay in her own space as much as possible; nevertheless, I knew that eventually, at some point in the trip, she would blindly cross the invisible barrier that I had so deliberately placed between us, and initiate some form of pointless conversation, because white people, in my experience, always did. For some inexplicable reason, I have discovered that white people always seem to be compelled to share intimate and utterly personal information with absolute strangers, as if they find a certain security in sharing all of their business with someone that they are sure they will never see again, and this woman proved to be the same.
She was a modest woman in stature, about 5’4’’, with sharp aristocratic features. She was plainly clothed in navy-blue Adidas jogging pants, a horribly wrinkled white tee, and scruffy, grime-encrusted tennis shoes.
“So, what do you think that noise is?” she asked me finally, referring to the loud squeaking sound emanating from the front of the bus, as she tried to focus in on my face, despite the darkness.
“I’m not sure,” I replied, inwardly rolling my eyes. It had begun, I thought; the vicious cycle of polite questions, cloaked as genuine interest, and the even more polite responses, designed to appear sociable, while at the same time exhibiting well-deserved caution about relinquishing the private details of one’s life. At that moment, I couldn’t explain why her question irritated me so much, I just knew that it did. Maybe it was because the bus had been making that same nerve-racking noise ever since we had left D.C., and she had just then decided to comment on it.
Anyway, I waited expectantly for her to continue the conversation, while I mentally braced myself for the downpour of unprovoked information that I was sure she was going to drench with me with within the next few minutes. Bingo! She did not leave me disappointed. In exactly five minutes, according to my new K-Mart brand watch, I knew this woman’s entire life story. To begin with, her name was Gladys, and she was originally from Claremont, Pennsylvania, but for the last three days she had been in South Carolina, nurturing and coddling her aging grandmother, who was unfortunately, slowly dying of cancer. She was the proud mother of three boys, ages six, two, and seven-months. Yes, she did have a boyfriend but no, their relationship was anything but ideal. She assured me however, that even though their relationship wasn’t the best, she really had missed him in the few days that she had been gone, and that she had talked to her kids every single day that she wasn’t home.
I sat there watching her, politely listening and not listening, knowing that that’s exactly what she had expected me to do when she started the conversation; to be a cooperative and compassionate listener to whatever she had to say. As she continued to go on and on, I took note of the subtle quiver of her voice, and the barely noticeable twitch of her hand as she made a series of abrupt gestures during her monologue. I became slightly irritated with myself as my attitude towards her began to soften significantly, due to the fact that I could wholeheartedly identify with the signs of a desperate woman in dire need of propping her distress on the first available shoulder presented to her. More than anything else in the world, I could see that at that particular moment she felt the need to have a mere second of relief from the hefty burden that she had been toting alone for far too long; a willing soundboard to launch her vulnerable pleas at, as she begged God to hear her cry, and waited anxiously for Him to echo a response. My first instinct as I listened to her relate the seriousness of her grandmother’s fatal condition, was of course, to convey my sympathy, and to helplessly murmur a heartfelt, yet inadequate, “I’m sorry”, because that’s what I had been taught was the proper response to any lamentable situation.
Funny enough, she never gave me the chance to even say that I was sorry, since she clearly dictated the entire one-sided conversation. In reality though, I don’t think that she really wanted to hear the words “I’m sorry” from me, or anybody else for that matter, and so she rambled on to keep me from getting one of those cliché phrases in edge-wise. I understand now that my newfound sympathy wouldn’t have really meant anything to her, and it damn sure wouldn’t have changed her grandmother’s situation. After all, she was just some random white woman baring her soul to an accommodating, black female, who just happened to be riding the bus with her, right? I mean, how could I really identify with her pain?
It wasn’t until she drifted off to sleep though, that I began to think about my own grandmother, who was diagnosed with lung cancer less than six months ago. The diagnosis didn’t surprise my family one iota, and it sure in hell didn’t surprise me. I mean, it was no secret that my grandmother loved cigarettes. She always said that smoking those cancer-sticks made her think better, that they calmed her nerves, and that they offered her guaranteed comfort with every nicotine-laden puff. In fact, I don’t ever remember seeing my grandmother without a cigarette clutched securely between her middle and forefinger, except for when she was in church, and so it really didn’t surprise me at all when the doctors said that both of her lungs had become disturbingly similar to big, black ash trays. I thought about how much my grandma had already begun to decay in her mind and spirit, and pondered how long it would be before her body followed suit. I thought about the countless brimstone-like summers that my sisters and I had spent in the aching soul of the East Side of Detroit, sitting on her front porch, clasping crisp $1 bills in our palms, and waiting eagerly for the ice cream truck to cruise through the neighborhood, so that we could buy a cool treat to replenish our waning energy. Grandma always let us get whatever we wanted, regardless of the cost, and despite the fact that there were five of us. We basked in the warmth of her lavish attention, thoroughly enjoying the fact that going to visit her was always like taking a vacation or celebrating a holiday. The truth is, she spoiled us shamefully, and we loved it.
I thought about the way she danced in her sanctified church, three-inch heels clapping and smoking as she picked ‘em up and put ‘em down, picked ‘em up and put ‘em down, her jerky movements perfectly synchronized with the boisterous organ music. That has always been my favorite part of old-school Baptist church service, especially since nobody could shout faster or harder than my grandma, and the funny part about it was that the entire congregation seemed not only to recognize that fact, but to also respect it, and so whenever my grandma would get wound up and excited, they would all just move out of her way. Even the Pastor would yield the floor to her and take a seat in his royal pulpit until finally, my grandma was panting for breath and limping with the aftershocks of sanctification, as she gingerly made her way back to her seat, her mocha-colored face soaked with Holy Ghost-incited perspiration. Afterwards, the congregation would clap enthusiastically like an appreciative audience after witnessing a phenomenal performance by their favorite celebrity, and I would smile all proud, basking in her glory and thinking smugly, that’s my grandma.
I remembered how the doctors’ seemed to be optimistic about the potential of her future if her chemotherapy treatment proved to be successful. What they’ve always failed to realize however, is that in order for my grandma to thrive in her body, she has to equally be alive in her mind, and she’s isn’t. Her faith is gone. I don’t think that she even believes that she’ll be healed of this mess anymore. I feel like she’s just giving in to it; as if she has no choice in the matter; as if dying is what she really wants. I thought about all of these things as the bus joggled past the welcome sign to Harrisburg, and then cruised lazily through the Pennsylvania turnpike. I wondered if maybe one day I’d be the weary, disheartened passenger heading home after helplessly watching somebody die a little bit each day, as I wrestled tirelessly with heaven and hell just to keep them alive. I pondered whether or not that random white woman’s story would one day become mine to tell, just with different characters and an alternative setting, and suddenly I felt a deep sadness.
When the bus reached Pittsburgh, I gathered my tattered luggage and hauled it up onto the curb as I prepared to tug it through the entrance. I looked back at the melancholy white woman as she transferred to some other bus, and I nodded to her, bidding her a pleasant farewell, this time with more sincerity and compassion than irritation. I silently prayed for her peace of mind and for God to grant her the strength to remain formidable even in the face of her adversities.
Through the fingerprint covered glass door I could see my boyfriend grinning in open anticipation, desire twinkling in the depths of his eyes, as he waited impatiently for me to amble to the exit. I greeted him with a firm kiss on the lips and tugged him towards the row of payphones that I had already spotted plastered against the walls.
“ Where are we going?” he asked, looking around the crowed bus terminal.
“
To make a phone call,” I replied in a sing-sung voice, pushing my way through the small packs of people, who were all waiting to go somewhere.
“
Who are you calling?” he continued, looking slightly confused by my tenacious stride, but obediently following me.
“
My grandmother”, I answered, as I dug into the pocket of my khaki pants, searching anxiously for loose change.
“
Is everything okay?” he questioned, concern brimming in his hazelnut eyes.
“
Yeah, everything’s fine. I just want my Grandma to know that I’m thinking about her, that’s all.”
I placed my money in the correct slot of the payphone and waited for my call to go through, then I listened impatiently, growing more disappointed by the second as my grandmother’s phone continued to ring, and ring, and ring. Finally, her answering machine came on, and I left her a short, sweet message conveying my unconditional love. I also left a number for her to call me back. I walked away optimistic that she would return my call and planned on setting up some time soon when I could go and visit with her. You see, I had decided just before getting off the bus that if Gladys’ story was in fact going to become mine, then as the author, I had the sole right to either alter or re-write the ending as I wished. Therefore, I came to the conclusion that for this particular book, only a miraculous ending would do, because I recognized that a miracle was exactly what my grandmother needed to be victorious over her war with cancer, and so, because I was determined for my grandmother to be able to continue living a full and blissful life until God called it through and beckoned her home, later on that night, in my boyfriend’s living room, I began to re-write her story, and here’s the first draft of Chapter one. I call it “Resurrection”.
^ Index
At the Green Dolphin
by
Danielle Scruggs
Lust is a hell of a drug. I had my first taste of it when I was a trumpet player in Fast Eddie Green's jazz band two years ago. Fast Eddie was the owner of the Green Dolphin speakeasy and one of the most well-known hustlers in Chicago. He runs the numbers game in Bronzeville and has one of the largest liquor supplies this side of Capone. The only difference between him and Capone is that Fast Eddie's black and Capone's a wop. Fast Eddie was so bad that when the cops put up signs about the new Prohibition law, he gave them all the middle finger and kept the liquor flowing at the Green Dolphin.
Anyway, I don't think I'll ever forget that night. Business at the Green Dolphin was booming as usual. Thick clouds of cigarette smoke cast a haze over everyone in the dimly-lit joint. The working stiffs, usually janitors, butlers, and porters, sat on barstools at the shiny mahogany bar loudly slapping their knees, telling jokes, and talking shit about their bosses over glasses of scotch, rum, corn liquor and whiskey. They were easily recognizable, in their undershirts with suspenders holding up ratty slacks and soiled, calloused hands.
Next came the high siddity pretty boys who acted like they better than everybody. It's great that Bronzeville got doctors and lawyers and bankers and dentists coming around on the regular. And not all of them are full of themselves, but most of them are. Think just 'cause they got some fancy degree from Morehouse or Howard they're thirty-two thousand feet above everyone else. They try to act sedate but give them a shot of whiskey and they show their asses soon enough.
The ladies, decked out in their flashy dresses, and glossy black hair cropped short and wavy, sat in the front of the club, close to the stage. They did that to push up on me and the other musicians, giving us their phone numbers and addresses, begging us to go home with them. All right. Let me be honest here. The women that came in there, usually went for the other musicians. No one cares about the trumpet player. It's all about Fast Eddie, the leader and sax player and then the bass player, the pianist and even the gotdamned drummer.
The ladies tend to overlook me. I don't know why. I can afford the latest European suits. My light brown hair is always conked and fresh. I used to get compliments on my green eyes but it doesn't seem to matter so much no more. I guess now that everyone has this Marcus Garvey nonsense in their heads, they don't want to be bothered with someone who…well…who looks like a white man. But is it my fault my mama's half-white?
Anyway, it was a Thursday night when I saw her float through the glass door. Myra Jones. We were playing "My Funny Valentine" and at that moment, it seemed as if that song was written especially for her. It was actually kind of cold that evening so I was surprised that she wore a sheer, sleeveless white dress. It stopped just before her knees and her legs, covered only by silk stockings seemed to go on forever. She had cocoa colored skin, a short black bob, and a fiery red mouth twisted into a bemused smile, as if she was in on a private joke. She had a mole under her plump lower lip and a strand of shiny white pearls wrapped around her long, slender neck. I never took my eyes off her. She took a seat at an abandoned table and she never took hers off mine during the whole set.
We played this game every night for the next six months. Everyone knew she was with Fast Eddie. Been with him for a couple of years, actually. But she always stared at me. Smiled at me. Flirted with me. She tempted me. And she knew exactly what she was doing.
After we wrapped for a ten minute break Myra walked toward the stage, her wide hips swaying seductively side to side. She was staring straight at me. I thought she was coming to talk to me but Fast Eddie grabbed her waist and kissed her full on the mouth in front of everyone. Damn. I wiped my sweaty forehead with a cloth and ran a hand through my hair, shaking my head. Fast Eddie ain't even good-looking. What's she want with him? Money, of course. That's all any of these heffas want. Then she opened her eyes and stared at me while she kissed him. I tore my eyes away, walked to the bar, and ordered a double scotch on the rocks. I drank it all in one greedy gulp, letting the amber liquid burn my throat and stomach and distract me from these ungodly thoughts about Myra. Finest broad in Chicago and she's Fast Eddie's. I shook my head. He'd slit my throat if I did anything with her.
" What's wrong with you, Fred?" Calvin, the tall, portly bartender asked me while drying out a water glass. "Woman problems?"
I sighed. "Something like that, man. Can I have another?"
He cackled. "You'll be too drunk to play that horn if I give you another shot, kid."
I shrugged. "I can hold my liquor. I mean, what's the point of being in a bar without drinking no liquor, man?" He furrowed his brow just like my old man did when I told him I was dropping out of Illinois State to join Fast Eddie's band. Calvin shook his head but poured me another glass anyway.
I drank the scotch in another quick gulp and dug a cigarette out of my trouser pocket. I searched my jacket pocket for my lighter but to no avail. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there she was. God, Myra was beautiful. She held up a silver lighter, the gold flame already flickering from it and smiled at me, revealing rows of teeth as white as her pearls. "Looks like you could use this, Fred," Myra said.
" Thanks," I said. I took a long drag of my cigarette. She just kept batting her huge brown eyes at me.
" How long are we gonna do this, kid?" she finally said.
" What do you mean?"
Myra looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening. "You know exactly what I mean, Fred. I know you want me. And I know I like you. So, let's make something happen."
My face grew warm. "I'm, uh, not sure---"
&n
