We will write the beginning our novels during the last six days of the institute. I was going to write about boys in group homes who find themselves moving in and out of the juvenile justice system, but I decided to bring a different level of sensitivity to the gun violence occurring in Chicago. I introduce you to Khalil and his letters. I write short chapters to build and keep the momentum.
I believe violence is a symptom of a much larger problem that needs to be unearthed and addressed. I challenge each of you to use your pen to unearth something and strive for a better humanity for all. I know I am asking a great deal of you, but someone has to do the work.
Khalil’s Letters
By
Alfred W. Tatum
Chapter 1
I wanted to reach out and grab the bullet the moment I heard the bang. Too late. I heard the screams. I am now running scared trying to convince myself that a killer is not supposed to have feelings. We are supposed to hate, hate everything. Right now, I hate myself. I killed someone else’s son, someone’s brother, and someone’s nephew. I killed somebody who looks like me. I killed myself twice.
I don’t want your sympathy. I think I deserve to die for what I did. The only thing I can offer in return is my own life, the ultimate and only fair penalty for taking someone’s life. All of my fourteen years have come to this point - wasted. I am writing this because I want you to understand me. I would rather be riding a bike or learning a new language. I would like to see different parts of the world like Central America or China. For some reason, I think Chinese kids are cool. They write with those funny symbols and eat with chopsticks.
Please no pity.
Do not start feeling sorry for me.
Just read the letters and try to understand me.
Chapter 2
Letter # 1 from Khalil Upchurch the 3rd
Science
April 13. 2007
Dear Reader,
i am not from a group home and I am not a crack baby. i have two parents who love me. They always bought me new clothes and my favorite gym shoes, New Balance. Everyone else love Nikes, but i love New Balance. i always kept them clean. i had a pair on the day i pulled the trigger. As the car i was in drove away, i glanced back and saw his face slam into the concrete. He did not try to catch himself or turn away. His body simply titled forward and picked up speed as it dropped. My body jerked as if i felt the thump of the ground. Bam!
i saw his picture on the Internet the next day. He was laying slumped over in a pool of blood, and a lady was screaming in the background. The boy’s name was Justin. He was thirteen, a year younger than me. It is something about a young person being dead that is not right. A kid will be placed in a cold, hard coffin because of me. I can only imagine how dark it is when the lid is sealed shut so close to someone’s face. They will bury him in a cemetery with a lot of old people. I hope they put him somewhere in the middle, not alone near the edge of a dark road.
Not too long ago, i was in class looking at a periodic table of elements. i could tell you about all of the earth’s precious metals. AU is the symbol on the periodic table used for gold. It has an atomic number of 79. Most of my friends only know that water is called H2O, but they do not know that it is made up of two atoms of hydrogen and one atom of oxygen giving it an atomic number of 3.
i started learning about the periodic table at a university science camp held during the summer. The university is only fifteen minutes away from my house. i killed somebody over the atomic number 79, a funky gold chain. Gold and iron clashed. The symbol for iron is FE and it has a chemical property of 26. Iron has a silver color, the color of the barrel of the gun.
My granddad, Khalil Upchurch, Sr., was born in 1953. He was a follower of the Black Panther Party that started in Oakland. He wanted to join the Panthers when he was sixteen, but my great grandmother would not let him. She was afraid he would become angry like my great granddad who was mistreated after returning from the army. He wanted to buy a house in a segregated neighborhood on the far south side, but he was denied because he was Black. He eventually moved to the west side where I was born born in 1993.
My daddy, Khalil Jr, was twenty when I was born. He started and coached in the Jackie Robinson youth baseball league. I started playing for him when I was nine. Before every game, he told us, “We will win this game with our hearts, but we will win in life with our heads.” Then he would say, “Let’s go get ‘em, Malcolm or Let’s go get them Marcus, or Let’s go get them Huey, or Let’s go get them Jackie. He learned about these people by reading the books my granddad had around the house.
My dad always had a book in his back pocket. He graduated from college after earning a science scholarship. He met my mother while in college. She also earned a college degree in science. They loved science. They brought me a book about Percy Julian, a well-known black chemist, for my tenth birthday. He won Chicagoan of the year in 1950. He received more than 2 million dollars for his work in the 1960s. The money, not my parents, convinced me to become a scientist.
My dad put me in the science camp each summer. He always told me that the real revolution is in the test tube. He drilled in me that I needed to know about science because the world cannot get along without it. Dad told me that science is in the food we eat, the air we breathe, and in the medicine used to save lives. He would say, told "Everything is made up of chemical properties and that my future lies in one of those properties." The mural on my wall, my shower curtain, and the curtains in my room were all periodic tables. By ten, i knew all of the elements. I could spell them and pronounce them. Some of my favorite properties are:
Potassium (K) chemical property 19
Hydrogen (H) chemical property 1
Aluminum (AL) chemical property 13
Iodine (I) chemical property 53
Lovium (L)
The elements have symbols that spell my name. L is not a symbol found on the periodic table so I made one up – lovium. I think love should be on the periodic table so I called my new element lovium. i knew more about the periodic table than my seventh-grade science teacher.
i am writing this letter with a small i. It is not a mistake. My dad always told me that i have to earn the right to write with a big I. He told me that there is power when a person earns the right to name himself. i am afraid that i will never be able to name myself. Others will name me. Murderer. Convict. Delinquent. Thug. Monster. None of these feel like they fit me. I am still my mother’s ‘baby boy’. That’s what she calls me.
i used to be called the science boy by the other students in my class because i won the school’s science fair every year since fourth grade. Last year, I won with a project on the human brain. My granddad started calling me brains after that.
He always described the brain as a maze with so many dark places to be uncovered. He also would grandma that cooking was like a maze because he did not want to do it. i like his chili though. He puts the largest tomatoes in what he calls his homemade-super-duper chili.
i wonder when i will be able to eat his chili again. i wonder if anyone will ever call me a teacher’s pet again. Murderer, convict, delinquent, thug, and monster do not seem to fit me. But, the law of physics tells us that for every action there is a reaction. That’s the left side of my brain working again.
i am getting scared now. i’ve heard stories about what happens to boys when they get locked up. The mistreatment. Their light is dimmed forever with no hope of being lit again. My dad always talked about the light of youth when we watched the news and a story about a young boy doing something he should not have been doing was talked about. He would tell me that it is not normal for young boys to be locked up.
i have an older cousin who is praised for doing time. He seems to have a special place reserved for him in the holiday conversations. I do not like it. How can i be so stupid to fall so low so fast? i know i am rambling, but i am scared. i can hear my uncle now, “Well you did the crime, do the time. Nothing you can do about it now.”
i wonder what the funeral was like. i wonder what they dressed him in. His family probably did not dress him in a suit and a tie because he was too young. i wonder if he wore a gold chain. i wonder what other people said about him at the funeral. How did the pastor explain God taking a life so young? I’ve only been to one funeral in my life. I know the family sits in the first row as people pass by to view the body. i wonder if his mother was crying or screaming? How can you describe the life of a thirteen-year-old in one of those funeral programs? I can only think of one way – Gone too soon. I can imagine a poem that someone may have written for Justin. I am using his name like I know him, but I do not.
Gone too Soon
Justin was a bright star that no longer shines
He made us laugh with his smile to be remembered for all times
He was our young prince with dreams to explore
We will miss you Justin forever more.
Chapter 3
Letter # 2 from Khalil Upchurch the 3rd
Different
April 14. 2007
Dear Reader,
My mother and father always wanted me to be different from those other boys. Every time they told me that I needed to be different I felt like should be ashamed on my skin color. I really did not pay too much attention to what they were saying when I was younger. But, their words started to bother me when I started middle school. It seemed like they were trying to cut me off from myself. How was learning science being different from those other boys? How was reading about the brain or the periodic table different from those other boys? I started hating feeling that I was somehow different because I was extremely smart. It seemed like they wanted me to be ashamed of being who I am and what I look like. They would not even allow me to wear braids in my hair because they did not understand why I wanted to look like all the other boys in school. They wanted me to be my own man. Dad always said, “we don’t need more stereotypes."
My teacher even made a comment about my being different. He said, “Khalil, you are different from a lot of the other boys in here.” What did he mean by different? Did he mean that I was better because I earned better grades? Does God judge us by grades? He told me that I should be very careful with the company I keep. I felt a sense of pride when I first heard his comments. Then, I thought about how young people are trained early in life to treat people different because of grades. Why can’t an A student hang out with a D student? Why can’t a student who lives with both parents hang with a student whose parents are in jail? Parents and teachers were putting these differences in my mind. Be different, Khalil. Be different. Be different from what?
I wrote about being different last semester when Mr. Carusso, the language arts teacher, gave us a writing assignment. He told us to write a two-page essay about an important moment in our lives. We could write about an event or experience that we thought would stay with us forever. He told us to keep it clean though. His important moment was the night his mother died when he was in the seventh grade. He was forced to become ‘a man’ at an early age. There was no one to pick him up from band practice after school and no one for him to rush home to talk about the good or bad things that happened. His dad left his mother when she was pregnant.
Mr. Carusso told us he started hating the world and hating God. Then, he met Dr. Barnett, a language arts teacher, who was a real writer. She just didn’t talk about nouns and pronouns in school and gave kids assignments, she actually wrote. She had three novels and a book of poetry published. Mr. Carusso told us how she encouraged kids to use words like steps on a ladder. “Each word should make you taller,” she said. He began to write his way out of the hate he was having. He told us he did this all the way through college, eventually deciding to become a language arts teacher.
I did not have an important moment at the time of the assignment, but I do now. I am now one of those other boys that my father was trying to keep me away from. I am now one of those other boys that my teacher was talking about when he told me to be careful about the company I keep. I am one of those other boys because I decided to become one of them because everyone told me to be different. I pulled the trigger, but society is the real murderer.
Now I have an important moment essay:
My important moment was being born in a society that judges young people who are just trying to find out who they are. This society separates us by race - our black students, our white students, the Latinos and the Asians. This society separates us by gender – boy’s line, girl’s line. It places us in different classrooms. You go to the top class so you can become great. You go to dummy class so that other people can laugh and be cruel to you. I was born in a society that tried to make me feel different because I am smart. I just wanted to be me. I stopped it all with one shot. I know this is not much of an essay, but I am still writing my story. Damn you society. Damn you.
About Me
Monday, July 20
Friday, July 17
The Voice of Words - BA 4
The Voice Of Words
Don’t listen to the cries of a flying time bomb passing time as if a human assassin. Direct my mind to the cure of a heart, the healing of cancer. Who are the victims of actions compared to the victims of the mighty pen? Just dial 911 because the end is near, by sin. There, the pathetic whimpers of a convicted criminal’s interrogation. Fight all he will, he is not a man who upholds his fate. The world is cruel. If physical actions are too much, why shall we make the pen cry? For when death comes about, you hear the shout of guilt, not from the convicts but the convictors. Is this some type of war my friends? Let’s sit down and talk. Abruptly, I shout to the wind for I have lost a friend; his time has ran out. Ran far, far away from the hourglass bottle. He is tilting his head to see what was done wrong. But it makes no sense because his voice was as powerful as a four leaf clover luck charm. This harm which is done has stricken me. The blacklash whip pass haunting me, obscuring images cast. Will I give in? No, for the living I am. The pen is indeed mightier than the sword. So write I will; can’t mark time until with vast knowledge still. Feelings of wise men before me making visible their words so a death man can hear them. Beautiful as midday, the words speak with fulfilling knowledge . Don’t stray away from the seemingly doomed fate of God. Use the way the mighty wind speaks a mind of its own. Shown to this day barriers can be overthrown. The feelings of the pen have spoken. Softly, the words shall appear - dangerous though. As a viper searching for its prey, they’re near a better future for all. They shall whisper until you hear their voices. Listen carefully, it’s no sabotage. Worry not, God is guidance and the pen is his sword. The words are his shield, one of God’s gifts. He forces us to think for we have taken that route. Tick. Tick. Don’t let time run out. Act now brothers and sisters. We are blessed; don’t be victimized by society. Let our testimony be the pen. Don’t worry God will touch our hearts; so just write. We all have a purpose in life. So, if we write for the benefit of others not only ourselves our time won’t expire. If I could have explained to my friend, his journey I will carry out, for now I see, his words have spoken.
This I will carry from God to me as his token.
Don’t listen to the cries of a flying time bomb passing time as if a human assassin. Direct my mind to the cure of a heart, the healing of cancer. Who are the victims of actions compared to the victims of the mighty pen? Just dial 911 because the end is near, by sin. There, the pathetic whimpers of a convicted criminal’s interrogation. Fight all he will, he is not a man who upholds his fate. The world is cruel. If physical actions are too much, why shall we make the pen cry? For when death comes about, you hear the shout of guilt, not from the convicts but the convictors. Is this some type of war my friends? Let’s sit down and talk. Abruptly, I shout to the wind for I have lost a friend; his time has ran out. Ran far, far away from the hourglass bottle. He is tilting his head to see what was done wrong. But it makes no sense because his voice was as powerful as a four leaf clover luck charm. This harm which is done has stricken me. The blacklash whip pass haunting me, obscuring images cast. Will I give in? No, for the living I am. The pen is indeed mightier than the sword. So write I will; can’t mark time until with vast knowledge still. Feelings of wise men before me making visible their words so a death man can hear them. Beautiful as midday, the words speak with fulfilling knowledge . Don’t stray away from the seemingly doomed fate of God. Use the way the mighty wind speaks a mind of its own. Shown to this day barriers can be overthrown. The feelings of the pen have spoken. Softly, the words shall appear - dangerous though. As a viper searching for its prey, they’re near a better future for all. They shall whisper until you hear their voices. Listen carefully, it’s no sabotage. Worry not, God is guidance and the pen is his sword. The words are his shield, one of God’s gifts. He forces us to think for we have taken that route. Tick. Tick. Don’t let time run out. Act now brothers and sisters. We are blessed; don’t be victimized by society. Let our testimony be the pen. Don’t worry God will touch our hearts; so just write. We all have a purpose in life. So, if we write for the benefit of others not only ourselves our time won’t expire. If I could have explained to my friend, his journey I will carry out, for now I see, his words have spoken.
This I will carry from God to me as his token.
Thursday, July 16
Psychological Trauma - BA 2
Psychological Trauma
I’m driving home with my friends after partying. I had a couple of drinks with the rest of my friends Diamond, Terrell, Steve, and Robin. We’re all having a good time joking and laughing during our last time together a couple days after graduation and now we all travel down our own road into the world
“Play some music Sean,” says Diamond.
“I’m kinda busy trying to drive,” I reply.
“I got it,” says Terrell who is in the front passenger seat.
He rummages through the glove compartment looking for some CDs to play, bumping my arm innocently a couple of times. He finally finds some and pulls them out but the majority of them fall under my seat, so I quickly reach to grab them but can’t find any. So I lean forward letting go of the wheel a little searching for the CDs, then we hit a bump and the car starts to spin. Robin and Diamond are screaming as the car swerves from lane to lane, then the car seems to be off the ground and we suddenly stop.
I look around and see my friends hurt I suddenly feel very light-headed and can barely keep my eyes open. Every blurry image looks the same like looking into the sun or bright lights for a long time then looking at something.
I fall out of my bed waking up from the awful dream, but I wonder is it really a dream since it has already occurred. I think of this while I lay in bed tossing and turning trying to return back to sleep.
I turn on the TV looking for anything to watch to change the topic on my mind, but it didn’t work. As soon as I turn on the TV I see “You Drink, You Drive, You Lose” commercial and quickly turn the TV off then throw the remote.
Do the people who make these commercials ever think about people who have gone through this? Nobody wants to see a dramatization of painful experiences they have gone threw! Why didn’t the bartender take my keys so no one of us could drive home? Why isn’t any blame placed on him huh? He saw us leave bumping into others in the bar as we could not walk straight or barely keep on our feet, slurring our words as we paid for our drinks, and staggering.
But deep inside I know there is no one to blame but me, as I throw another empty beer can into a pile in the corner already. I drink to get rid of the intolerable memory of my friend’s death that was caused by drinking, but I continue to drink anyway.
I walk over to the fridge and open it looking for another beer to drink but there are no more and I notice the Chicago Sun-Times on the counter. I take a glimpse at the front page and see the car wreckage and the bold headline,
“Four Teens Killed While Drunk Driving”
The words cut each of my four hearts chambers in half and keep repeating this process until there is nothing left. M y body starts to die without any blood pumping throughout.
I start thinking about my friends again and all the adventures-outings and moments they can’t experience because of me. I took all of that away from them and I had, no I have no right to.
Doctors say I am lucky to have survived the accident and still be living, but I do not feel alive. The only difference I can tell between my friends and me is that I am not buried six-feet under. We both have the features on the outside and inside too. Their skin has not deteriorated yet, their organs are gone but mine might as well be gone too.
I pull a gun out of my drawer on the right side of my bed, place it on top and sit on my bed. I have been thinking about killing myself since I woke up in the hospital alone, but I know it will not fix everything.
Will it bring me satisfaction?
It will not bring them back to life but it will end mine.
Their families’ pain will not end but my families’ will start.
I do not feel although I deserve, so I raise the gun to my mouth and close my eyes. I start to cry. My hands start to shake and my body trembles. I can’t pull the trigger or take the gun out of my mouth as I sit on my bed stuck, as if I was tied to this position.
I gather all of the might inside of me just to pull the trigger.
I hear a deep piercing bang and then nothing…………
I’m driving home with my friends after partying. I had a couple of drinks with the rest of my friends Diamond, Terrell, Steve, and Robin. We’re all having a good time joking and laughing during our last time together a couple days after graduation and now we all travel down our own road into the world
“Play some music Sean,” says Diamond.
“I’m kinda busy trying to drive,” I reply.
“I got it,” says Terrell who is in the front passenger seat.
He rummages through the glove compartment looking for some CDs to play, bumping my arm innocently a couple of times. He finally finds some and pulls them out but the majority of them fall under my seat, so I quickly reach to grab them but can’t find any. So I lean forward letting go of the wheel a little searching for the CDs, then we hit a bump and the car starts to spin. Robin and Diamond are screaming as the car swerves from lane to lane, then the car seems to be off the ground and we suddenly stop.
I look around and see my friends hurt I suddenly feel very light-headed and can barely keep my eyes open. Every blurry image looks the same like looking into the sun or bright lights for a long time then looking at something.
I fall out of my bed waking up from the awful dream, but I wonder is it really a dream since it has already occurred. I think of this while I lay in bed tossing and turning trying to return back to sleep.
I turn on the TV looking for anything to watch to change the topic on my mind, but it didn’t work. As soon as I turn on the TV I see “You Drink, You Drive, You Lose” commercial and quickly turn the TV off then throw the remote.
Do the people who make these commercials ever think about people who have gone through this? Nobody wants to see a dramatization of painful experiences they have gone threw! Why didn’t the bartender take my keys so no one of us could drive home? Why isn’t any blame placed on him huh? He saw us leave bumping into others in the bar as we could not walk straight or barely keep on our feet, slurring our words as we paid for our drinks, and staggering.
But deep inside I know there is no one to blame but me, as I throw another empty beer can into a pile in the corner already. I drink to get rid of the intolerable memory of my friend’s death that was caused by drinking, but I continue to drink anyway.
I walk over to the fridge and open it looking for another beer to drink but there are no more and I notice the Chicago Sun-Times on the counter. I take a glimpse at the front page and see the car wreckage and the bold headline,
“Four Teens Killed While Drunk Driving”
The words cut each of my four hearts chambers in half and keep repeating this process until there is nothing left. M y body starts to die without any blood pumping throughout.
I start thinking about my friends again and all the adventures-outings and moments they can’t experience because of me. I took all of that away from them and I had, no I have no right to.
Doctors say I am lucky to have survived the accident and still be living, but I do not feel alive. The only difference I can tell between my friends and me is that I am not buried six-feet under. We both have the features on the outside and inside too. Their skin has not deteriorated yet, their organs are gone but mine might as well be gone too.
I pull a gun out of my drawer on the right side of my bed, place it on top and sit on my bed. I have been thinking about killing myself since I woke up in the hospital alone, but I know it will not fix everything.
Will it bring me satisfaction?
It will not bring them back to life but it will end mine.
Their families’ pain will not end but my families’ will start.
I do not feel although I deserve, so I raise the gun to my mouth and close my eyes. I start to cry. My hands start to shake and my body trembles. I can’t pull the trigger or take the gun out of my mouth as I sit on my bed stuck, as if I was tied to this position.
I gather all of the might inside of me just to pull the trigger.
I hear a deep piercing bang and then nothing…………
Predicted - BA 1
Predicted…
Him and his friend waiting for his mother at 51st and Kedzie. The boredom overwhelms the two black boys in an all hispanic neighborhood. Brandon and his best friend AJ search for something somewhat interesting. They seem bored but inside they’re really desperate, AJ looks over and sees a K-Mart, he feels as if he just won a medal…
“Yo, Brandon!” AJ says.
“What” Brandon says in somewhat irritated voice.
“Look!”
Brandon looks over and sees the glowing K-Mart. He feels as if he was trapped in a desert and someone has come to save him.
As the boys walk towards the store, they feel as if something serious is about to happen, but they don’t bother to really think about it. The boys walk in and employees and customers gaze at them because they were an un-likely figure in the store.
“Yo, why are all these people staring at us?” AJ says.
“Obviously cus’ we’re black” Brandon says…
They play like children in the toy section of the store, which is just another excuse for everyone to once again look at them with an arrogant look, as if they could have “predicted” that these boys would do such a thing. As the boys continue to play throughout the store, costumers try to get as far away from the boys as they can.
AJ finally says…
“Yo, I’m bout’ to steal something”.
Brandon sets his mind to do the same…They finally see what they want, two pairs of official fighting gloves…
“Even if we get caught, we won’t get in trouble…They’re only gloves” AJ says.
“Aight’…” Brandon says in a slightly doubtful voice.
They start to shove the gloves into their bags almost as if adrenaline junkies.
“Wait is that a camera?” AJ asks.
“Naw, its not, trust me” Brandon says in a paranoid like way…
They begin to walk out the store, yet asking employees about what they just stole as if looking to buy it…They finally walk out the store only to feel huge hands grab their bags…Almost as if a sudden death grab, they pull away and run…Brandon looks back to see the security guard of the store pulling out what seems to be a gun…
“FREEZE!!!!!!” the officer shouts.
Brandon stops in his tracks fearing for his life…He’s shocked, but just for a few seconds, only to feel cold medal grind against his wrists…
“Please, please, just let me go…My mother is on her way, please...I’m sorry.
Embarrassed, feels as if he let his race down, he proved the majority right…
Him and his friend waiting for his mother at 51st and Kedzie. The boredom overwhelms the two black boys in an all hispanic neighborhood. Brandon and his best friend AJ search for something somewhat interesting. They seem bored but inside they’re really desperate, AJ looks over and sees a K-Mart, he feels as if he just won a medal…
“Yo, Brandon!” AJ says.
“What” Brandon says in somewhat irritated voice.
“Look!”
Brandon looks over and sees the glowing K-Mart. He feels as if he was trapped in a desert and someone has come to save him.
As the boys walk towards the store, they feel as if something serious is about to happen, but they don’t bother to really think about it. The boys walk in and employees and customers gaze at them because they were an un-likely figure in the store.
“Yo, why are all these people staring at us?” AJ says.
“Obviously cus’ we’re black” Brandon says…
They play like children in the toy section of the store, which is just another excuse for everyone to once again look at them with an arrogant look, as if they could have “predicted” that these boys would do such a thing. As the boys continue to play throughout the store, costumers try to get as far away from the boys as they can.
AJ finally says…
“Yo, I’m bout’ to steal something”.
Brandon sets his mind to do the same…They finally see what they want, two pairs of official fighting gloves…
“Even if we get caught, we won’t get in trouble…They’re only gloves” AJ says.
“Aight’…” Brandon says in a slightly doubtful voice.
They start to shove the gloves into their bags almost as if adrenaline junkies.
“Wait is that a camera?” AJ asks.
“Naw, its not, trust me” Brandon says in a paranoid like way…
They begin to walk out the store, yet asking employees about what they just stole as if looking to buy it…They finally walk out the store only to feel huge hands grab their bags…Almost as if a sudden death grab, they pull away and run…Brandon looks back to see the security guard of the store pulling out what seems to be a gun…
“FREEZE!!!!!!” the officer shouts.
Brandon stops in his tracks fearing for his life…He’s shocked, but just for a few seconds, only to feel cold medal grind against his wrists…
“Please, please, just let me go…My mother is on her way, please...I’m sorry.
Embarrassed, feels as if he let his race down, he proved the majority right…
Black Wall - BA 8
Black Wall
By: Brother Author #8
What can you do if you get caught with drugs? You go to jail or prison, no one wants to go to jail, but a lot people make bad choices and they end up in prison or jail. Aaron Foster ended up in jail for just hanging out with his friend.
One day Aaron was at his house talking to his friends about basketball and his friend Cesar said, “Man, Michael Jordan can’t beat LeBron, real talk.”
“Cesar you don’t know nothing about Mike, so you need to go home,” Aaron said with a cocky attitude.
“Man, I ain’t going nowhere.”
As they continued to talk the police drove by really slow. They came to a complete stop and sounded the siren; the guys looked at the cop car.
“Please step up to the vehicle,” said a police officer getting out the police car.
They didn’t know what to do, so they walk up to the car with their hands up.
“What seem to be the problem officer?”
“This!” The police officer said pull out a pack weed from Cesar’s pocket.
“Ah! That’s not mine, I swear to God that not mine,”
The officer put Cesar and the rest of them in handcuffs and put them in the car. When they got out they were at the county jail. They went through the process they got fingerprinted, patted down for weapons, and put in their cell.
As Aaron walked in his cell the first thing he noticed was the toilet by the door, then when he looked down he saw about ten cockroaches crawling around his feet, when he looked forward all he saw was a black wall. Aaron didn’t know what to expect when he saw his cellmate; he looked like the Incredible Hulk without green skin. What could he do? He can’t fight him; he’ll get crush. The only thing he can do was keep to himself and not say a word to the big scary looking man. The scary came down from his bunk, it felt like an earthquake when he jumped down. The scary man looked at Aaron and said, “Hi, I’m Johnny Jefferson, but everyone calls me J.J. and you are?”
“I’m Aaron” He said with a look like he saw a ghost.
He grabbed Aaron in a headlock and gave him a nuggy. Aaron tried to break free, but J.J.’s arms were too big. J.J. got tired and Aaron let go after about five minutes of nuggies. It was getting late, it was about 10:48 pm and all the light were out, so they got in their bunks. Aaron looked to the left of him all he saw was a black wall, he looked to the right all he was another black wall, and finally he looked straight up and he saw something different he saw a black bunk. He wonders what’ll happen to him tomorrow.
By: Brother Author #8
What can you do if you get caught with drugs? You go to jail or prison, no one wants to go to jail, but a lot people make bad choices and they end up in prison or jail. Aaron Foster ended up in jail for just hanging out with his friend.
One day Aaron was at his house talking to his friends about basketball and his friend Cesar said, “Man, Michael Jordan can’t beat LeBron, real talk.”
“Cesar you don’t know nothing about Mike, so you need to go home,” Aaron said with a cocky attitude.
“Man, I ain’t going nowhere.”
As they continued to talk the police drove by really slow. They came to a complete stop and sounded the siren; the guys looked at the cop car.
“Please step up to the vehicle,” said a police officer getting out the police car.
They didn’t know what to do, so they walk up to the car with their hands up.
“What seem to be the problem officer?”
“This!” The police officer said pull out a pack weed from Cesar’s pocket.
“Ah! That’s not mine, I swear to God that not mine,”
The officer put Cesar and the rest of them in handcuffs and put them in the car. When they got out they were at the county jail. They went through the process they got fingerprinted, patted down for weapons, and put in their cell.
As Aaron walked in his cell the first thing he noticed was the toilet by the door, then when he looked down he saw about ten cockroaches crawling around his feet, when he looked forward all he saw was a black wall. Aaron didn’t know what to expect when he saw his cellmate; he looked like the Incredible Hulk without green skin. What could he do? He can’t fight him; he’ll get crush. The only thing he can do was keep to himself and not say a word to the big scary looking man. The scary came down from his bunk, it felt like an earthquake when he jumped down. The scary man looked at Aaron and said, “Hi, I’m Johnny Jefferson, but everyone calls me J.J. and you are?”
“I’m Aaron” He said with a look like he saw a ghost.
He grabbed Aaron in a headlock and gave him a nuggy. Aaron tried to break free, but J.J.’s arms were too big. J.J. got tired and Aaron let go after about five minutes of nuggies. It was getting late, it was about 10:48 pm and all the light were out, so they got in their bunks. Aaron looked to the left of him all he saw was a black wall, he looked to the right all he was another black wall, and finally he looked straight up and he saw something different he saw a black bunk. He wonders what’ll happen to him tomorrow.
Ethiopia - BA 2
Rebu 'a, Hadde Meskerem
(Wednesday, September 1st)
“Amare, Amare wake up.” My mother weakly says to wake me up.
My mother, Tenagne (gold), looks very sad nowadays ever since my little sister, Aamina (safe), died a couple of weeks ago after being born only three months prior. Daddy, Hakim (wise), told me that the infant mortality rate is 89.6. My dad is a very smart and important doctor that went to visit the United States. One day told me that there is one medical doctor per 100,000 people in Ethiopia.
“Anay degimay. (I am tired)” I reply as I rub my eyes to get the white crust out and notice my brother is not there. “Abey alo Kelile?”
Kelile is my aserte shewate (17) year older brother. His name means my protector and it fits him perfectly, since he is always looking out for me.
“Eating kursee.” My mother replies.
I walk out the room and join my family eating kursee. We live in Addis Ababa, the countries capital, in a nice downtown condo. There is some banee (bread), tesmi (butter), and tsaba (milk) on the table to eat before Kelile and I head off for school.
“Selam Amare.”
“Selam Kelile”
“Are you excited about your first day of secondary education?”
“Hagu siny. (I am happy)”
In Ethiopia the school system is primary and secondary education. Primary education is first grade through eighth grade, but at the end there is a mandatory national examine to determine if students can go to secondary education. If a student fails they must repeat eighth grade and take the examination all over again. After 2001, during secondary education students must take another examine after tenth grade to determine if they can continue their studies to twelfth grade. When a student passes they decide to focus in the Science or Arts stream, but if someone fails they have to either join the work force or go to a private college. At the end of twelfth grade they would take yet another national exam which determines if they could move onto university. With a pass, they get to choose two majors and two campuses and the government then assigns them a major and campus.
My mother always tell me to be grateful that I attend school since only 36% of children attend school, 18% reach grade 5, and 35% of the population can read. I know I am blessed and I am grateful but I want to help my country like my dad.
Kelile and I change into our school uniforms then walk to the autobus tetew tiblelu (bus stop) to head to secondary education at Dagmawi Menelik II Secondary School. Kelile buys a Addis tribune from a little boy off the streets for hadde birr (one dollar) and starts to tell me interesting stats in the articles.
Kelile ask “Do you know the school life expectancy is only 4.3 years?”, but hee’s really just telling me. “There are only 0.03 physicians per 1,000 citizens.” “16% of children are underweight.” “6% of births are attended by a skilled health professional.” “1 in 4 women die during pregnancy or childbirth.”
These stats run through my mind as we reach our stop and walk our separate ways to class. A typical morning school day started with class from 8 am (after the assembly with the raising of the flag) until 12 noon, lunch was from 12 until 2 pm, and then class again from 2 until 4 pm.
After school a lot of kids played futbol, hide and seek, and tag gefore heading home to do their chores.
Kelile and I only have to keep the house clean but most kids have to do more work. Boys have to help their fathers care for their cattle and land. Girls have to help their mothers do house work and fetch water.
My family usually eats dinner around 7:00 pm and talk about each other’s day. After that, we start to shut down for sleep and another day.
Looking back at my childhood I thank God I was blessed but can’t help to think about others who were not. I am esran shemonte (twenty-eight) now and am a doctor just like my father. I live in America now but am now sitting in Midway Airport going back to Addis Ababa for a visit. I don’t know if I will stay or not but I believe I should since many doctors from Africa leave their homelands and never return. I do not want to leave my country out in the rain but what can one man do. My plane is boarding now and I know once I close my laptop my life will change.
(Wednesday, September 1st)
“Amare, Amare wake up.” My mother weakly says to wake me up.
My mother, Tenagne (gold), looks very sad nowadays ever since my little sister, Aamina (safe), died a couple of weeks ago after being born only three months prior. Daddy, Hakim (wise), told me that the infant mortality rate is 89.6. My dad is a very smart and important doctor that went to visit the United States. One day told me that there is one medical doctor per 100,000 people in Ethiopia.
“Anay degimay. (I am tired)” I reply as I rub my eyes to get the white crust out and notice my brother is not there. “Abey alo Kelile?”
Kelile is my aserte shewate (17) year older brother. His name means my protector and it fits him perfectly, since he is always looking out for me.
“Eating kursee.” My mother replies.
I walk out the room and join my family eating kursee. We live in Addis Ababa, the countries capital, in a nice downtown condo. There is some banee (bread), tesmi (butter), and tsaba (milk) on the table to eat before Kelile and I head off for school.
“Selam Amare.”
“Selam Kelile”
“Are you excited about your first day of secondary education?”
“Hagu siny. (I am happy)”
In Ethiopia the school system is primary and secondary education. Primary education is first grade through eighth grade, but at the end there is a mandatory national examine to determine if students can go to secondary education. If a student fails they must repeat eighth grade and take the examination all over again. After 2001, during secondary education students must take another examine after tenth grade to determine if they can continue their studies to twelfth grade. When a student passes they decide to focus in the Science or Arts stream, but if someone fails they have to either join the work force or go to a private college. At the end of twelfth grade they would take yet another national exam which determines if they could move onto university. With a pass, they get to choose two majors and two campuses and the government then assigns them a major and campus.
My mother always tell me to be grateful that I attend school since only 36% of children attend school, 18% reach grade 5, and 35% of the population can read. I know I am blessed and I am grateful but I want to help my country like my dad.
Kelile and I change into our school uniforms then walk to the autobus tetew tiblelu (bus stop) to head to secondary education at Dagmawi Menelik II Secondary School. Kelile buys a Addis tribune from a little boy off the streets for hadde birr (one dollar) and starts to tell me interesting stats in the articles.
Kelile ask “Do you know the school life expectancy is only 4.3 years?”, but hee’s really just telling me. “There are only 0.03 physicians per 1,000 citizens.” “16% of children are underweight.” “6% of births are attended by a skilled health professional.” “1 in 4 women die during pregnancy or childbirth.”
These stats run through my mind as we reach our stop and walk our separate ways to class. A typical morning school day started with class from 8 am (after the assembly with the raising of the flag) until 12 noon, lunch was from 12 until 2 pm, and then class again from 2 until 4 pm.
After school a lot of kids played futbol, hide and seek, and tag gefore heading home to do their chores.
Kelile and I only have to keep the house clean but most kids have to do more work. Boys have to help their fathers care for their cattle and land. Girls have to help their mothers do house work and fetch water.
My family usually eats dinner around 7:00 pm and talk about each other’s day. After that, we start to shut down for sleep and another day.
Looking back at my childhood I thank God I was blessed but can’t help to think about others who were not. I am esran shemonte (twenty-eight) now and am a doctor just like my father. I live in America now but am now sitting in Midway Airport going back to Addis Ababa for a visit. I don’t know if I will stay or not but I believe I should since many doctors from Africa leave their homelands and never return. I do not want to leave my country out in the rain but what can one man do. My plane is boarding now and I know once I close my laptop my life will change.
Fool me once, shame on you... - BA 11
Fool me once, shame on you…
James Wilkins awoke from his 9 hour sleep on a Saturday morning at 7 am with a smile on his face with his whole day planned out. He got out of his king sized bed as he began walking toward his bathroom to take a shower and brushing his teeth with Colgate. He was out the bathroom 20 minutes later and headed down the stairs for breakfast, “ hey mom, how’d ya sleep,” James asked as he kissed her on the forehead while she read the Chicago times newspaper, “good morning sweetheart, I slept pretty well I guess, how about yourself,” she had asked him as he searched for some cereal in the pantry, he replied, “ I’m doin’ just fine mamma, where’s pops?” He asked that with a little concern in his voice, for he hadn’t seen him since he had walked out the door last night claiming he had a late shift at work. He left at 7pm the day before with his brief case in hand as he wore his black khakis with a white button up with a black tie. His leather black shoes fit comfortably on his size 13 feet. “I haven’t seen him all morning James, but I’m sure he’s fine wherever he is,” Mom had said while she kept her face in the newspaper, James looked at his watch and said, “Mom I gotta get up to the court now and play some ball, I don’t wanna disappoint Lil’ Lenny,” James had said as he grabbed his Spalding basketball from near the front door as he walked out the door with a grin on his face. He walked down the street dribbling his basketball between his legs as he walked down 5 houses to Lenny’s place. When he walked up the front steps to Lenny’s door and knocked 3 times then Lil’ Lenny finally came to the door with a white head band around his braided hair and his green Celtics jersey with the number 33 on it that represented Larry Bird. Lenny also wore basketball shorts that came down all the way to his ankles for he was only 11 years old standing only 5’5 , but he was excited to be able to play ball with the big boys for the first time, “James! Hey Big Man how’s it going?”
“I’m doing great Lil’ Man, where’s ya mamma at?”
“She went out to work, but she doin’ fine, my dad is in here though”
“Cool, you ready to go Lenny?”
“Sure am!” Said Lenny as he grabbed his big bull dog by the leash and they walked out the door.
After a good 20 minute walk, they had finally made it to the Chamber land, aka the basketball court, where 2 other boys were waiting, all James’ age (18) and all his friends.
There was Mac “Smooth Cream” Jabbar, who can always drive to the hole with no problem and can always block shots though he is only 6’1. He is known for his signature dread locks.
Moe Jackson was also apart of the crew, known for only his 3 point shooting, that’s all he does.
“Alright y’all let’s bust this game,” Lil’ Lenny said as he shot the basketball from half court, it rolled in and out of the rim. James laughed and turned his head where he found a disturbing sight. His smile quickly faded away as he saw his father with another woman on the park bench hugged up together. In anger, James threw the basketball at the back of his fathers head as it collided with a huge pop noise as the basketball ricocheted off his head and into Lil’ Lenny’s arms. James stormed away in anger back to his place. Lenny never got to play with the big boys liked he wished to. Mac and Moe barely play ball like they used too. And James moved out that night wishing not to see his father again.
James Wilkins awoke from his 9 hour sleep on a Saturday morning at 7 am with a smile on his face with his whole day planned out. He got out of his king sized bed as he began walking toward his bathroom to take a shower and brushing his teeth with Colgate. He was out the bathroom 20 minutes later and headed down the stairs for breakfast, “ hey mom, how’d ya sleep,” James asked as he kissed her on the forehead while she read the Chicago times newspaper, “good morning sweetheart, I slept pretty well I guess, how about yourself,” she had asked him as he searched for some cereal in the pantry, he replied, “ I’m doin’ just fine mamma, where’s pops?” He asked that with a little concern in his voice, for he hadn’t seen him since he had walked out the door last night claiming he had a late shift at work. He left at 7pm the day before with his brief case in hand as he wore his black khakis with a white button up with a black tie. His leather black shoes fit comfortably on his size 13 feet. “I haven’t seen him all morning James, but I’m sure he’s fine wherever he is,” Mom had said while she kept her face in the newspaper, James looked at his watch and said, “Mom I gotta get up to the court now and play some ball, I don’t wanna disappoint Lil’ Lenny,” James had said as he grabbed his Spalding basketball from near the front door as he walked out the door with a grin on his face. He walked down the street dribbling his basketball between his legs as he walked down 5 houses to Lenny’s place. When he walked up the front steps to Lenny’s door and knocked 3 times then Lil’ Lenny finally came to the door with a white head band around his braided hair and his green Celtics jersey with the number 33 on it that represented Larry Bird. Lenny also wore basketball shorts that came down all the way to his ankles for he was only 11 years old standing only 5’5 , but he was excited to be able to play ball with the big boys for the first time, “James! Hey Big Man how’s it going?”
“I’m doing great Lil’ Man, where’s ya mamma at?”
“She went out to work, but she doin’ fine, my dad is in here though”
“Cool, you ready to go Lenny?”
“Sure am!” Said Lenny as he grabbed his big bull dog by the leash and they walked out the door.
After a good 20 minute walk, they had finally made it to the Chamber land, aka the basketball court, where 2 other boys were waiting, all James’ age (18) and all his friends.
There was Mac “Smooth Cream” Jabbar, who can always drive to the hole with no problem and can always block shots though he is only 6’1. He is known for his signature dread locks.
Moe Jackson was also apart of the crew, known for only his 3 point shooting, that’s all he does.
“Alright y’all let’s bust this game,” Lil’ Lenny said as he shot the basketball from half court, it rolled in and out of the rim. James laughed and turned his head where he found a disturbing sight. His smile quickly faded away as he saw his father with another woman on the park bench hugged up together. In anger, James threw the basketball at the back of his fathers head as it collided with a huge pop noise as the basketball ricocheted off his head and into Lil’ Lenny’s arms. James stormed away in anger back to his place. Lenny never got to play with the big boys liked he wished to. Mac and Moe barely play ball like they used too. And James moved out that night wishing not to see his father again.
The Friend of the Nine - BA 1
The friend of the nine...
It’s 1954, a new school year. I’m Rex, Rex Smith. My best friend is Terrence Roberts, but he’s acting real stupid, for some reason. He’s going to that all white school, Little Rock Central High.
But why? It’s perfectly fine here. Well I guess that’s up to him. A couple days go bye, and I hear that Terrence and the rest of the nine got attacked by some whites mobs. I’m in shock. I knew this whole racism thing was bad but now that it’s really happening it’s overwhelming.
As I sit in class, I daze off and think…
“ If I was there, I would push those guards aside and TEACH THOSE WHITE FOLKS A LESSON!!!!!!!!”
Not yet realizing that I just said that out loud, I hear a burst of conversation pouring out in class.
“ Did you hear what happen with those kids who used to go to school here”…
“ I hope she’s ok”…
“ I wish some white man would spit on me, I’d nearly KILL him” random voices shout out.
Later that night I think about it, would I really think if I were there would I really fight back? I think I would, but what if fright took-over, would I still fight back?
I soon fall into a nightmare, battling white mobs with only my books in my hand, fiercely running away, but it seems as if the ground has took hold of my legs and I’m trapped………FLAMES!!!! Is all I see!
The sound of my mother wakes me up, as I get dressed I literally stumble on my thought once again thinking about Little Rock…I then run for the first bus I see. Not knowing that Elizabeth Eckford, one of the nine, was on the sitting in the back of the bus, frightened. She gets off the bus but is confronted by a white mob, when I see this I hop off the bus also. I try to push away the evil eyed white folks. She then ran to the back of the school, probably trying to go in through the back door. There’s nothing I can really do except for cry her name while praying the mobs don’t follow her…
When I really think about this it actually hurts. If I was one of them all I would do is fight back. I heard that Minnijean Brown, one of the nine finally fought back by tossing her lunch on some boy, but she got suspended for six days. Then when she came back she called this one girl “white trash” and got suspended for the rest of the school year. I would of probably done the same thing, no what I mean?
Most people don’t understand why people “fight back”. Well in our case, the black race, we are underestimated, treated like animals, and they think we need to be trained. You see, Terrence was always the “smart one”. But I was the one that wouldn’t take anything from anybody. That’s probably why he enrolled in Little Rock and I didn’t…
As the years progress, I graduate, and Terrence continued his education at California State University in Los Angeles and graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree in sociology in 1967. He then received his Master's degree in social welfare from the UCLA School of Social Welfare in 1970, and his Ph.D. in psychology from Southern Illinois University, Carbondale, in 1976.
Terrence Roberts was prominently featured on the day Barack Obama was inaugurated as the forty fourth president of the United States of America. I always knew he would grow to be bigger and better than me, and I have to accept that, after all I’m just a friend of the nine.
It’s 1954, a new school year. I’m Rex, Rex Smith. My best friend is Terrence Roberts, but he’s acting real stupid, for some reason. He’s going to that all white school, Little Rock Central High.
But why? It’s perfectly fine here. Well I guess that’s up to him. A couple days go bye, and I hear that Terrence and the rest of the nine got attacked by some whites mobs. I’m in shock. I knew this whole racism thing was bad but now that it’s really happening it’s overwhelming.
As I sit in class, I daze off and think…
“ If I was there, I would push those guards aside and TEACH THOSE WHITE FOLKS A LESSON!!!!!!!!”
Not yet realizing that I just said that out loud, I hear a burst of conversation pouring out in class.
“ Did you hear what happen with those kids who used to go to school here”…
“ I hope she’s ok”…
“ I wish some white man would spit on me, I’d nearly KILL him” random voices shout out.
Later that night I think about it, would I really think if I were there would I really fight back? I think I would, but what if fright took-over, would I still fight back?
I soon fall into a nightmare, battling white mobs with only my books in my hand, fiercely running away, but it seems as if the ground has took hold of my legs and I’m trapped………FLAMES!!!! Is all I see!
The sound of my mother wakes me up, as I get dressed I literally stumble on my thought once again thinking about Little Rock…I then run for the first bus I see. Not knowing that Elizabeth Eckford, one of the nine, was on the sitting in the back of the bus, frightened. She gets off the bus but is confronted by a white mob, when I see this I hop off the bus also. I try to push away the evil eyed white folks. She then ran to the back of the school, probably trying to go in through the back door. There’s nothing I can really do except for cry her name while praying the mobs don’t follow her…
When I really think about this it actually hurts. If I was one of them all I would do is fight back. I heard that Minnijean Brown, one of the nine finally fought back by tossing her lunch on some boy, but she got suspended for six days. Then when she came back she called this one girl “white trash” and got suspended for the rest of the school year. I would of probably done the same thing, no what I mean?
Most people don’t understand why people “fight back”. Well in our case, the black race, we are underestimated, treated like animals, and they think we need to be trained. You see, Terrence was always the “smart one”. But I was the one that wouldn’t take anything from anybody. That’s probably why he enrolled in Little Rock and I didn’t…
As the years progress, I graduate, and Terrence continued his education at California State University in Los Angeles and graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree in sociology in 1967. He then received his Master's degree in social welfare from the UCLA School of Social Welfare in 1970, and his Ph.D. in psychology from Southern Illinois University, Carbondale, in 1976.
Terrence Roberts was prominently featured on the day Barack Obama was inaugurated as the forty fourth president of the United States of America. I always knew he would grow to be bigger and better than me, and I have to accept that, after all I’m just a friend of the nine.
The Lucille Gibson Guitar - BA 5
The Lucille Gibson Guitar
As I sat in the dining room playing my $1200 base, I was lost in the music that surrounded the room. I was playing “I’ll be there” by Michael Jackson, to honor his reputation and legacy. I played with my eyes closed and thought of the sweet memories we had of Michael Jackson. Oh, how I missed him, it’s hard to lose a fellow king in the music business. I sang from my heart as I recalled those memories, blues style.
“You and I should make a pact (Oh make a pact), Oh we should bring sweet salvation back. Where there is love, (oh baby where is love), I’ll be there, (baby I’ll be there).”
As I fed off the sweet aura of the blues, I was interrupted by the chaotic noise of rapid footsteps across the floor. I stopped playing my base, and opened my eyes to see my grandson running with a long object in his hand. He looked as though he was struggling to hold that thing.
“Hey boy,” I called.
My grandson froze and entered the dining room. I swear being 83 years old has it’s trade-offs, my grandson was right in front of me and I still couldn’t see what was in his hand. I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out my glasses. I looked again, he was holding my Lucille Gibson Guitar.
“Boy bring your jive little butt over here.”
He did as told and walked over to me with a sad face on. I took the guitar away from him, and checked it for scratches fingerprints or coloring pictures.
“I’m sowy granddady, I juice wanted to play wit tit,” he said in baby talk.
“It’s okay, but this is not a toy son, this is very important to me.”
“Why?”
“You want to tell you a little story?”
My grandson’s face nearly turned white as he rushed to the couch to get a pillow. He sat the pillow on the floor in front of me, and sat.
“In 1942 I bought this guitar with the little money I had from my tractor job. Every day I’d go on that field with the tractor and work my butt off like a slave. My boss was always talking like he owned something, he barely owned that farmed I worked on. One day I ran over a rock and broke the tractor, and I knew if the farmer found out about I’d be as good as dead.”
My grandson jumped back in fear.
“How you get out there alive,” he said.
“I packed my stuff and moved to Memphis. There I got an apartment and made money off the change I got from playing on the corner, with this same guitar I’m holding right now.”
My grandson looked at the guitar and got sad again, because he thought what would’ve happened if he broken this guitar, bless his heart.
“But that’s not all. In the mid 1950’s one day I played at this dance in Twist, Arkansas. Oh, how the black culture rose in that mother snapper. But while I wasn’t looking these two grown men got into a fight over this girl named Lucille. One of them knocked over a kerosene stove, and caused a fire in the hall.”
My grandson, being the drama king cuffed his mouth and gasped as he was scared of the story.
“We all scurried our butts on out there, but I didn’t even make it the sidewalk as I remembered that I forgot my guitar inside the building. I rushed and pushed every body out the way in the crowd. I was making my way back into the burning building to retrieve my baby.”
My grandson literally shed a tear as the story went on.
“I went in ducking and dodging the flames of satin I quickly grabbed my guitar and ran back out there. Everyone hugged and kissed as they were worried about me. And because of that fire, I named my guitar Lucille to remind me to never to do something crazy like fight over a girl.”
My grandson’s face lit up.
“Now every time they call my name. (And now I give you B.B. King) I come out with my leather suit and sit on my stool playing my Lucille Gibson guitar.”
My grandson jumped and cheered and laughed. He came over and gave me a kiss on my sagging face.
“Granddady?”
“Hmm?”
“Can you a song pwetty please.”
“Sure.”
I adjusted my hands and played the power chords to my number one hit “Three O’clock Blues.
Well now it’s three o’clock in the morning
And I can’t even close my eyes
Three o’clock in the morning baby
And I can’t even close my eyes
Can’t find my baby
And I can’t be satisfied…
As I sat in the dining room playing my $1200 base, I was lost in the music that surrounded the room. I was playing “I’ll be there” by Michael Jackson, to honor his reputation and legacy. I played with my eyes closed and thought of the sweet memories we had of Michael Jackson. Oh, how I missed him, it’s hard to lose a fellow king in the music business. I sang from my heart as I recalled those memories, blues style.
“You and I should make a pact (Oh make a pact), Oh we should bring sweet salvation back. Where there is love, (oh baby where is love), I’ll be there, (baby I’ll be there).”
As I fed off the sweet aura of the blues, I was interrupted by the chaotic noise of rapid footsteps across the floor. I stopped playing my base, and opened my eyes to see my grandson running with a long object in his hand. He looked as though he was struggling to hold that thing.
“Hey boy,” I called.
My grandson froze and entered the dining room. I swear being 83 years old has it’s trade-offs, my grandson was right in front of me and I still couldn’t see what was in his hand. I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out my glasses. I looked again, he was holding my Lucille Gibson Guitar.
“Boy bring your jive little butt over here.”
He did as told and walked over to me with a sad face on. I took the guitar away from him, and checked it for scratches fingerprints or coloring pictures.
“I’m sowy granddady, I juice wanted to play wit tit,” he said in baby talk.
“It’s okay, but this is not a toy son, this is very important to me.”
“Why?”
“You want to tell you a little story?”
My grandson’s face nearly turned white as he rushed to the couch to get a pillow. He sat the pillow on the floor in front of me, and sat.
“In 1942 I bought this guitar with the little money I had from my tractor job. Every day I’d go on that field with the tractor and work my butt off like a slave. My boss was always talking like he owned something, he barely owned that farmed I worked on. One day I ran over a rock and broke the tractor, and I knew if the farmer found out about I’d be as good as dead.”
My grandson jumped back in fear.
“How you get out there alive,” he said.
“I packed my stuff and moved to Memphis. There I got an apartment and made money off the change I got from playing on the corner, with this same guitar I’m holding right now.”
My grandson looked at the guitar and got sad again, because he thought what would’ve happened if he broken this guitar, bless his heart.
“But that’s not all. In the mid 1950’s one day I played at this dance in Twist, Arkansas. Oh, how the black culture rose in that mother snapper. But while I wasn’t looking these two grown men got into a fight over this girl named Lucille. One of them knocked over a kerosene stove, and caused a fire in the hall.”
My grandson, being the drama king cuffed his mouth and gasped as he was scared of the story.
“We all scurried our butts on out there, but I didn’t even make it the sidewalk as I remembered that I forgot my guitar inside the building. I rushed and pushed every body out the way in the crowd. I was making my way back into the burning building to retrieve my baby.”
My grandson literally shed a tear as the story went on.
“I went in ducking and dodging the flames of satin I quickly grabbed my guitar and ran back out there. Everyone hugged and kissed as they were worried about me. And because of that fire, I named my guitar Lucille to remind me to never to do something crazy like fight over a girl.”
My grandson’s face lit up.
“Now every time they call my name. (And now I give you B.B. King) I come out with my leather suit and sit on my stool playing my Lucille Gibson guitar.”
My grandson jumped and cheered and laughed. He came over and gave me a kiss on my sagging face.
“Granddady?”
“Hmm?”
“Can you a song pwetty please.”
“Sure.”
I adjusted my hands and played the power chords to my number one hit “Three O’clock Blues.
Well now it’s three o’clock in the morning
And I can’t even close my eyes
Three o’clock in the morning baby
And I can’t even close my eyes
Can’t find my baby
And I can’t be satisfied…
Wednesday, July 15
The Wind You Can Feel - BA 10
The Wind You Can Feel
You can take my life and my mind too. You don't have to take my heart, I'm giving it to you. But the one thing you will never get is my pen because without it I'm nothing. Writing is the only thing I have left. My mom don't like me, my family treat me like I was a person on the street. Most of my family never wants me by their kids. Isn't that something; I cannot go next to my cousins. So kill me, let me rollover and die, but when I go don't let my writing go with me, let it stay with you. I know people are getting tired of reading about my blank life, because I am. I can't take it anymore. Someone kill me and get it over. I'd rather die and be remembered than live and be forgotten. So, when I turn to dust don't let my writing turn to ashes.
You can take my life and my mind too. You don't have to take my heart, I'm giving it to you. But the one thing you will never get is my pen because without it I'm nothing. Writing is the only thing I have left. My mom don't like me, my family treat me like I was a person on the street. Most of my family never wants me by their kids. Isn't that something; I cannot go next to my cousins. So kill me, let me rollover and die, but when I go don't let my writing go with me, let it stay with you. I know people are getting tired of reading about my blank life, because I am. I can't take it anymore. Someone kill me and get it over. I'd rather die and be remembered than live and be forgotten. So, when I turn to dust don't let my writing turn to ashes.
The Torture of Inhuman Souls by Brother Author # 12
The Torture of Inhuman Souls
Hearing about something and seeing it are two completely different things. And hearing and seeing something is completely different from hearing it, in the sense that you weren’t there to hear it when it was actually occurring. Am I making sense? I guess it doesn’t matter since nothing makes sense. So how do you make sense of nothing? I’ve asked myself that question every time I’ve awakened from a night’s sleep, or a days sleep, notice I didn’t say a good nights sleep. And there nights are even worse, I would say it’s beyond my imagination, but I don’t imagine, I witness. Do we have to die so others can live? Excuse me, correction, do THEY have to die, so that others may live.
Not others, we, do they have to die so that WE can live? I think I got it right that time. I stare into the darkness, hoping to find and answer in the crevices in my uniform. The Swastika on the arm represents a belief, my belief. Wait, whose belief? If it’s mine then the folds in the jacket must represent the wavering of the very belief the garment is meant to represent.
OOOooowwhwhHhhhaahahhhhhh!!! That’s what it sounds like.
The wailing doesn’t stop, how can it? The way they’re treated, excuse me, the way WE treat them, I can’t blame them for yelling. Though, I’m surprised they have the strength to. This place is like a graveyard, all I see are people who’ve handed over life, animate, dead bodies, not even dead bodies…but skeletons with skin. Did we do this? Why? Why are they not fit to live and we are. He told me we are the perfect race and that all others need to be eradicated, but…if we rid ourselves of the imperfect, assuming we are perfect, then won’t we be normal? If there is no superiority factor, nothing to be above, then how can we call ourselves perfect if there is no longer a sense of imperfect? I don’t believe it matters anymore, within this camp, its hard to believe that anything could matter. I could say that, and yet I’m well taken care of, from the outside looking in, the mirror reflects whatever stares at it though. I don’t expect anyone to understand, anyone who CAN’T understand, the ones who haven’t witnessed, or have been through the tunnel, can never tell what the inside TRULY looks like.
“Heinrich, you done writing in that journal of yours yet,” asked Reinhard. “We’re on patrol, and for God’s sake put on some clothes man.”
As I sat in my chair I looked around the dark room, at my desk my lamp and journal served as my only escape, my bed unmade, nailed on the wall was a hangar with a nazi uniform hanging from it.
“Those, they are no clothes of mine…give them back to Hitler, they’re his clothes.”
“Now listen here you!” Reinhard rushed me and knocked me out of my chair, then grabbed me by the throat and shoved me against the wall, if it hurt, which it did, I sure as hell didn’t show it. “Not again here with this Jewish shit, I don’t care if you are my nephew you’re gunna get this shit right if I have to beat it into you, you are part of the master race, don’t go having sympathy for those unworthy of life!”
There it was again, ‘master race’ is it because of the slick blonde hair on my head that fell unto my face, or is it because of my piercing blue eyes that glared at my so called uncle with discontent?
“Just because you deem them unworthy of life doesn’t mean I have to be the executioner!” I shouted almost too loud for anyone NOT to hear.
My uncle must have noticed the same thing because he gutted me one.
“Shut up, do you want the whole camp to know of your weakness,” he spat.
“Compassion is not a weakn¬___,”
“Shut up, you’re becoming a worthless wretch just like your mother!”
“Has this life changed you so much that now you’d even insult your own sister, your own blood, isn’t she’s considered an Aryan as well!?”
His face softened, if just a bit, no one else would have noticed it, but I’ve been around long enough to.
“You’ve still got a lot left to see boy,” he said while dropping me. “Go on and get that uniform on and you don’t have to be the executioner, just don’t be the savior.”
“If I were to stand by and do nothing, I wouldn’t be the savior, but I would be the executioner the same if I had done it with my own two perfect hands…contradiction is the very nature of humans. Be it imperfect or perfect it’s a part of our blood, it flows through us as natural as the flowers bloom in the summer. I’m not wrong to question the ideals of anti-Semitism, you are wrong not to.”
“Be that as it may, we don’t even have a choice anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ve still got a lot left to see boy,” he said as he left the room.
I could have sworn I almost heard a tiny hint of despair in his voice.
Hearing about something and seeing it are two completely different things. And hearing and seeing something is completely different from hearing it, in the sense that you weren’t there to hear it when it was actually occurring. Am I making sense? I guess it doesn’t matter since nothing makes sense. So how do you make sense of nothing? I’ve asked myself that question every time I’ve awakened from a night’s sleep, or a days sleep, notice I didn’t say a good nights sleep. And there nights are even worse, I would say it’s beyond my imagination, but I don’t imagine, I witness. Do we have to die so others can live? Excuse me, correction, do THEY have to die, so that others may live.
Not others, we, do they have to die so that WE can live? I think I got it right that time. I stare into the darkness, hoping to find and answer in the crevices in my uniform. The Swastika on the arm represents a belief, my belief. Wait, whose belief? If it’s mine then the folds in the jacket must represent the wavering of the very belief the garment is meant to represent.
OOOooowwhwhHhhhaahahhhhhh!!! That’s what it sounds like.
The wailing doesn’t stop, how can it? The way they’re treated, excuse me, the way WE treat them, I can’t blame them for yelling. Though, I’m surprised they have the strength to. This place is like a graveyard, all I see are people who’ve handed over life, animate, dead bodies, not even dead bodies…but skeletons with skin. Did we do this? Why? Why are they not fit to live and we are. He told me we are the perfect race and that all others need to be eradicated, but…if we rid ourselves of the imperfect, assuming we are perfect, then won’t we be normal? If there is no superiority factor, nothing to be above, then how can we call ourselves perfect if there is no longer a sense of imperfect? I don’t believe it matters anymore, within this camp, its hard to believe that anything could matter. I could say that, and yet I’m well taken care of, from the outside looking in, the mirror reflects whatever stares at it though. I don’t expect anyone to understand, anyone who CAN’T understand, the ones who haven’t witnessed, or have been through the tunnel, can never tell what the inside TRULY looks like.
“Heinrich, you done writing in that journal of yours yet,” asked Reinhard. “We’re on patrol, and for God’s sake put on some clothes man.”
As I sat in my chair I looked around the dark room, at my desk my lamp and journal served as my only escape, my bed unmade, nailed on the wall was a hangar with a nazi uniform hanging from it.
“Those, they are no clothes of mine…give them back to Hitler, they’re his clothes.”
“Now listen here you!” Reinhard rushed me and knocked me out of my chair, then grabbed me by the throat and shoved me against the wall, if it hurt, which it did, I sure as hell didn’t show it. “Not again here with this Jewish shit, I don’t care if you are my nephew you’re gunna get this shit right if I have to beat it into you, you are part of the master race, don’t go having sympathy for those unworthy of life!”
There it was again, ‘master race’ is it because of the slick blonde hair on my head that fell unto my face, or is it because of my piercing blue eyes that glared at my so called uncle with discontent?
“Just because you deem them unworthy of life doesn’t mean I have to be the executioner!” I shouted almost too loud for anyone NOT to hear.
My uncle must have noticed the same thing because he gutted me one.
“Shut up, do you want the whole camp to know of your weakness,” he spat.
“Compassion is not a weakn¬___,”
“Shut up, you’re becoming a worthless wretch just like your mother!”
“Has this life changed you so much that now you’d even insult your own sister, your own blood, isn’t she’s considered an Aryan as well!?”
His face softened, if just a bit, no one else would have noticed it, but I’ve been around long enough to.
“You’ve still got a lot left to see boy,” he said while dropping me. “Go on and get that uniform on and you don’t have to be the executioner, just don’t be the savior.”
“If I were to stand by and do nothing, I wouldn’t be the savior, but I would be the executioner the same if I had done it with my own two perfect hands…contradiction is the very nature of humans. Be it imperfect or perfect it’s a part of our blood, it flows through us as natural as the flowers bloom in the summer. I’m not wrong to question the ideals of anti-Semitism, you are wrong not to.”
“Be that as it may, we don’t even have a choice anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ve still got a lot left to see boy,” he said as he left the room.
I could have sworn I almost heard a tiny hint of despair in his voice.
Monday, July 13
Black Shorts Informed by Facts/Research
We will focus on conducting research to plan and write your next Black Shorts. I combined my love for baseball and for fatherhood to write the Black Short that pays attention to two of our platforms - nurturing resilience and engaging others.
The Black Short was written to do two things:
➢ Reconnect young males with their fathers
➢ Encourage young males to accept their fathers when they return
I read one book and several articles on the Negro Leagues and went to the Cubs game to:
Strengthen authenticity
Identify names
Capture real moments
Hear the sounds of the game
Record images
My Daddy’s Shrine
by
Alfred W. Tatum
July 13, 2009
9:06pm
My momma always told me that my daddy ain’t nothing, but I still decided to love him. I’m his seed and I carry his name. It’s been three years since I last saw him. It was a perfect day. I remember waking up early on my tenth birthday. The blinds failed to block out the morning’s sunlight that crept into my room. The ray of light stretched like a rope across the tiny bedroom that I shared with my little brother, Fergie. I dressed quickly when mom told me that daddy was on his way over to take me to the game. I heard the horn and I rushed downstairs. Big Gib, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, was sitting in his new Chrysler. He looked perfect to me. I was excited to go to the north side to see the Cubs. Kids in my neighborhood lost interest in the game; the parks are now empty. It is rare that I get a chance to wear my jersey with the number 37 on the back, another gift from my father. He’s fourth generation and I am fifth generation.
My great grandfather moved to Chicago from Philadelphia in the 1920s. Philly was the black Mecca of baseball for a long time. As long as I can remember, dad always talked about the famous left-hand catcher, Willie “Gibson” Wells, who played for the Grays. Stealing second base on Willie Wells was like trying to steal a piece of fresh meat from a cage of hungry lions. He went by the name, ‘It just ain’t goin’ happen’. The depression forced great grandpa to move to Chicago. He got a job slaughtering hogs. Although he never played again after slicing off two fingers and a thumb in an accident, he never could get the game out of his head. His stories were passed down to me. I began to love the game like my dad.
Big Gib knew I loved the sound of the train going through the tunnel. He parked the car close the ballpark and we rode the El train the last few miles. It was crowded. He held my hand tightly as we snaked through all the people with Cubs and Brewer jerseys. We were special, the only two fans with jerseys from the Negro Leagues – the Homestead Grays and the Kansas City Monarchs.
“Today, we’re sitting in the left infield box seats right over the dugouts.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“It’s not everyday you turn ten, Gibby.”
My name rolled off his tongue with such affection. The Cubs were up by two runs, and I was glad that I did not have to share my cotton candy with Fergie. We were having our own special day until the bottom of the third inning. This strange lady walked up to Big Gib and kissed him on the lips. A boy who looked my age followed her. I hadn’t noticed the two empty seats until they plopped down next to us. He was wearing a jersey like my dad with the number 37. There were now two Grays vs. one Monarch.
“Introduce yourself Gibby. Robby knows all about you.”
How could he know all about me and I know nothing about him? I was wondering if Big Gib shared all the same stories about the number 37. Big Gib told me, “It carries weight to wear that number on your back. Only 37 Negro Leaguers made it to baseball’s Hall of Fame.” He told me that the 37 hall of famers were not better than the rest, but they were able to breakthrough. He always called me his ‘Breakthrough Kid’. Now, there were two of us. He was sitting on Big Gib’s right side and I was sitting on the left side.
The game became a blur as I stared at the 400ft marker on the wall in centerfield. The innings went by quickly. It was the beginning of the seventh-inning stretch when I heard Big Gib say, “Time to stretch sons.”
“You mean son, right?”
“No, Gibby. Robbie is your brother. I thought it was time for you to meet him.”
“I don’t want to meet him. I wished you would have left me at home with momma.”
“I will next time. You and your mother deserve each other.”
“That’s not nice, Big Gib,” I heard the lady say.
I felt a tear roll down my face at the same time the fans around us started standing. A fly ball was heading in our direction. Big Gib managed to snag it out of the air with his huge hands.
“Can I have it dad?” Robbie asked.
“No, this is Gibby’s. It’s his special day.”
It was hard for me to refuse the baseball. Robbie may have had the same jersey, but I had the ball. The Cubs, up by six runs in the top of the ninth, needed three outs to win the game. The crowd began pouring out of the stadium, but as always, Big Gib refused to leave the game until the final out. He believes leaving early insults the game and the players. I was ready to leave, but I did not want the day with my dad to end.
Cubs win! Cubs win!
“Honey, I will see you and Robbie later,” dad said.
Dad leaned over and gave the lady another kiss before grabbing my hand and leading me through the crowd. He was all mine again just for that moment at least. I had the ball to prove that I was the special son.
That was the last time I saw Big Gib. He called and sent me a card for my eleventh birthday. We talked for a few minutes on my twelfth birthday. I did not hear from him on my thirteenth birthday. Maybe, he forgot how to love me the way he used to, the same way we forgot how to love the game. I will be ready for him when he returns. Until then, the shrine I have in my room – the jersey, the ball, the ticket from the game, the glove, and his photo – will keep us connected.
The Black Short was written to do two things:
➢ Reconnect young males with their fathers
➢ Encourage young males to accept their fathers when they return
I read one book and several articles on the Negro Leagues and went to the Cubs game to:
Strengthen authenticity
Identify names
Capture real moments
Hear the sounds of the game
Record images
My Daddy’s Shrine
by
Alfred W. Tatum
July 13, 2009
9:06pm
My momma always told me that my daddy ain’t nothing, but I still decided to love him. I’m his seed and I carry his name. It’s been three years since I last saw him. It was a perfect day. I remember waking up early on my tenth birthday. The blinds failed to block out the morning’s sunlight that crept into my room. The ray of light stretched like a rope across the tiny bedroom that I shared with my little brother, Fergie. I dressed quickly when mom told me that daddy was on his way over to take me to the game. I heard the horn and I rushed downstairs. Big Gib, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, was sitting in his new Chrysler. He looked perfect to me. I was excited to go to the north side to see the Cubs. Kids in my neighborhood lost interest in the game; the parks are now empty. It is rare that I get a chance to wear my jersey with the number 37 on the back, another gift from my father. He’s fourth generation and I am fifth generation.
My great grandfather moved to Chicago from Philadelphia in the 1920s. Philly was the black Mecca of baseball for a long time. As long as I can remember, dad always talked about the famous left-hand catcher, Willie “Gibson” Wells, who played for the Grays. Stealing second base on Willie Wells was like trying to steal a piece of fresh meat from a cage of hungry lions. He went by the name, ‘It just ain’t goin’ happen’. The depression forced great grandpa to move to Chicago. He got a job slaughtering hogs. Although he never played again after slicing off two fingers and a thumb in an accident, he never could get the game out of his head. His stories were passed down to me. I began to love the game like my dad.
Big Gib knew I loved the sound of the train going through the tunnel. He parked the car close the ballpark and we rode the El train the last few miles. It was crowded. He held my hand tightly as we snaked through all the people with Cubs and Brewer jerseys. We were special, the only two fans with jerseys from the Negro Leagues – the Homestead Grays and the Kansas City Monarchs.
“Today, we’re sitting in the left infield box seats right over the dugouts.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“It’s not everyday you turn ten, Gibby.”
My name rolled off his tongue with such affection. The Cubs were up by two runs, and I was glad that I did not have to share my cotton candy with Fergie. We were having our own special day until the bottom of the third inning. This strange lady walked up to Big Gib and kissed him on the lips. A boy who looked my age followed her. I hadn’t noticed the two empty seats until they plopped down next to us. He was wearing a jersey like my dad with the number 37. There were now two Grays vs. one Monarch.
“Introduce yourself Gibby. Robby knows all about you.”
How could he know all about me and I know nothing about him? I was wondering if Big Gib shared all the same stories about the number 37. Big Gib told me, “It carries weight to wear that number on your back. Only 37 Negro Leaguers made it to baseball’s Hall of Fame.” He told me that the 37 hall of famers were not better than the rest, but they were able to breakthrough. He always called me his ‘Breakthrough Kid’. Now, there were two of us. He was sitting on Big Gib’s right side and I was sitting on the left side.
The game became a blur as I stared at the 400ft marker on the wall in centerfield. The innings went by quickly. It was the beginning of the seventh-inning stretch when I heard Big Gib say, “Time to stretch sons.”
“You mean son, right?”
“No, Gibby. Robbie is your brother. I thought it was time for you to meet him.”
“I don’t want to meet him. I wished you would have left me at home with momma.”
“I will next time. You and your mother deserve each other.”
“That’s not nice, Big Gib,” I heard the lady say.
I felt a tear roll down my face at the same time the fans around us started standing. A fly ball was heading in our direction. Big Gib managed to snag it out of the air with his huge hands.
“Can I have it dad?” Robbie asked.
“No, this is Gibby’s. It’s his special day.”
It was hard for me to refuse the baseball. Robbie may have had the same jersey, but I had the ball. The Cubs, up by six runs in the top of the ninth, needed three outs to win the game. The crowd began pouring out of the stadium, but as always, Big Gib refused to leave the game until the final out. He believes leaving early insults the game and the players. I was ready to leave, but I did not want the day with my dad to end.
Cubs win! Cubs win!
“Honey, I will see you and Robbie later,” dad said.
Dad leaned over and gave the lady another kiss before grabbing my hand and leading me through the crowd. He was all mine again just for that moment at least. I had the ball to prove that I was the special son.
That was the last time I saw Big Gib. He called and sent me a card for my eleventh birthday. We talked for a few minutes on my twelfth birthday. I did not hear from him on my thirteenth birthday. Maybe, he forgot how to love me the way he used to, the same way we forgot how to love the game. I will be ready for him when he returns. Until then, the shrine I have in my room – the jersey, the ball, the ticket from the game, the glove, and his photo – will keep us connected.
Wednesday, July 8
Short Stories following Brother Author Visit
We were truly inspired by Brother Author Dave Stovall. He reminded and challenged the Young Brothers to find the "deeper story" and to "protect the rock." Following his visit, they penned the short stories below: (Click on comments to see the Brother Authors' writings.)
Tuesday, July 7
Black Shorts - Building Momentum
Brother Authors are off to a great start writing their short stories. After a Brother Author's Check, they posted their first paragraph (s).
Monday, July 6
Black Shorts
We will write short stories this week. The short story was the river by which many African American writers traveled, the fire that lit their way. I wrote the following short story after observing Chicago's homeless. I want others to recognize the humanity of others, even those who struggle in society. The short story is below:
Not So Strange After All
By
Alfred W. Tatum
“Get away from me you devil-loving maggot.” His name was Leon. My name was Leon. I noticed him sitting outside of CVS pharmacy jingling a green and white cup. “God, Bless. Have a nice day,” is what he said to everybody who gave him some change, and to those who refused. That’s why I was surprised with his outburst when I decided to sit beneath the large storefront window next to him. I was not close enough to offend, but close enough to chat. I circled the block several times before engaging in this strange behavior. I could not help myself; he had a striking resemblance to my father who had died a year earlier from an acute case of pneumonia. I wanted to know the story behind the man who sat spread out on Canal Avenue with a matted, salt and pepper beard. It was something about his hands and the cup that did not match. His fingernails were striking. I expected them to be dirty, unmanicured, and trouble-looking. But, they were clean and well cared for.
“Your hands. I noticed your hands are well cared for.”
He stared at me with eyes of pointed rejection. His wide nostrils were flaring, sort of bullish. I became nervous, only finding comfort in the fact that the streets were crowded during the early evening as people rushed to get home to their spouse and children. He would be crazy enough to attack me for sitting next to him.
“Your shoes don’t fit,” he said.
“What?
I was wearing black shoes with no strings; they were slip-ons.
“They are artificial. It seems like you are striving for something you are not.”
I was offended and curious at the same time. The homeless philosopher, I thought.
“Why do you believe you have the right to sit next to me in my personal space? Do I have the right to walk into your home and ask you questions?”
I remained silent.
“I hate those shoes on your feet; I really feel sorry for you.”
This came from a man wearing a pair of dirty Nikes with shoestrings that only covered the holes on the bottom half of his shoes. It seemed like he cut one shoestring in half to use for both shoes. I paid $190 for the Italian leather on my feet, but my feet began to feel uncomfortable.
“I bet you paid more than $100 for your shoes so that you can feel good about yourself.”
It was as if he reached into my thoughts without my permission.
As I begin to rise to walk away, he grabbed my arm.
“I thought you wanted to talk – to find out about me. I see your type all the time.”
My type? The way he said, “your type,” pinched me. I was trying to frantically piece together the clean hands and the dirty shoes. They told more than one story. The language he spoke did not match the coffee cup.
“Hi Leon,” I heard the lady say. I immediately responded, and she said, “No, I was talking to the other, Leon.”
“How are your wife and kids,” she asked.
“Too far away to know, and too close not to care.”
“Who’s your friend?”
Friend? What did she mean, friend? How could she possibly view us as friends? We could not appear more different.
“Or, is this just another one,” she asked.
“Just another one,” he said.
She looked down at me and said, “I like your shoes. They’re nice.”
They both started laughing as she dropped a few coins in his cup.
“See you later, Leon.”
“Bye, Ms. P.”
“You too, Leon;” this time she was directing her comments toward me.
I managed to utter a soft-spoken, bye, not really knowing how to react. I was beginning to feel trapped in a strange fog. I wanted to leave, but I did not know how to sever the ties.
“It’s okay if you leave now; you are the not the first, you know,” he said.
He read my mind again. He gave me the permission that I wanted, but I still didn’t know how to take it. The laughter, being called friend, and the lady complimenting my shoes poked at me. I stood, not really making sense of what had happened during the last fifteen minutes.
“Can you spare some change before you leave, friend?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a dollar to drop in the cup.
“On second thought, you keep your money to get a new pair of shoes.”
I walked away glancing down at my feet. I still had a chance to catch the train home.
I felt like “just another one.” After sitting down on the train, I noticed that there was more Italian leather on people's feet, than Nikes.
I sat silently on the ride home, just wondering, thinking.
Not So Strange After All
By
Alfred W. Tatum
“Get away from me you devil-loving maggot.” His name was Leon. My name was Leon. I noticed him sitting outside of CVS pharmacy jingling a green and white cup. “God, Bless. Have a nice day,” is what he said to everybody who gave him some change, and to those who refused. That’s why I was surprised with his outburst when I decided to sit beneath the large storefront window next to him. I was not close enough to offend, but close enough to chat. I circled the block several times before engaging in this strange behavior. I could not help myself; he had a striking resemblance to my father who had died a year earlier from an acute case of pneumonia. I wanted to know the story behind the man who sat spread out on Canal Avenue with a matted, salt and pepper beard. It was something about his hands and the cup that did not match. His fingernails were striking. I expected them to be dirty, unmanicured, and trouble-looking. But, they were clean and well cared for.
“Your hands. I noticed your hands are well cared for.”
He stared at me with eyes of pointed rejection. His wide nostrils were flaring, sort of bullish. I became nervous, only finding comfort in the fact that the streets were crowded during the early evening as people rushed to get home to their spouse and children. He would be crazy enough to attack me for sitting next to him.
“Your shoes don’t fit,” he said.
“What?
I was wearing black shoes with no strings; they were slip-ons.
“They are artificial. It seems like you are striving for something you are not.”
I was offended and curious at the same time. The homeless philosopher, I thought.
“Why do you believe you have the right to sit next to me in my personal space? Do I have the right to walk into your home and ask you questions?”
I remained silent.
“I hate those shoes on your feet; I really feel sorry for you.”
This came from a man wearing a pair of dirty Nikes with shoestrings that only covered the holes on the bottom half of his shoes. It seemed like he cut one shoestring in half to use for both shoes. I paid $190 for the Italian leather on my feet, but my feet began to feel uncomfortable.
“I bet you paid more than $100 for your shoes so that you can feel good about yourself.”
It was as if he reached into my thoughts without my permission.
As I begin to rise to walk away, he grabbed my arm.
“I thought you wanted to talk – to find out about me. I see your type all the time.”
My type? The way he said, “your type,” pinched me. I was trying to frantically piece together the clean hands and the dirty shoes. They told more than one story. The language he spoke did not match the coffee cup.
“Hi Leon,” I heard the lady say. I immediately responded, and she said, “No, I was talking to the other, Leon.”
“How are your wife and kids,” she asked.
“Too far away to know, and too close not to care.”
“Who’s your friend?”
Friend? What did she mean, friend? How could she possibly view us as friends? We could not appear more different.
“Or, is this just another one,” she asked.
“Just another one,” he said.
She looked down at me and said, “I like your shoes. They’re nice.”
They both started laughing as she dropped a few coins in his cup.
“See you later, Leon.”
“Bye, Ms. P.”
“You too, Leon;” this time she was directing her comments toward me.
I managed to utter a soft-spoken, bye, not really knowing how to react. I was beginning to feel trapped in a strange fog. I wanted to leave, but I did not know how to sever the ties.
“It’s okay if you leave now; you are the not the first, you know,” he said.
He read my mind again. He gave me the permission that I wanted, but I still didn’t know how to take it. The laughter, being called friend, and the lady complimenting my shoes poked at me. I stood, not really making sense of what had happened during the last fifteen minutes.
“Can you spare some change before you leave, friend?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a dollar to drop in the cup.
“On second thought, you keep your money to get a new pair of shoes.”
I walked away glancing down at my feet. I still had a chance to catch the train home.
I felt like “just another one.” After sitting down on the train, I noticed that there was more Italian leather on people's feet, than Nikes.
I sat silently on the ride home, just wondering, thinking.
Wednesday, July 1
Last Stand/Call to Action/Deathbed Broadside - Day 3
Brother Authors,
As week 1 of the institute comes to an end, we will write for the benefit of others and ourselves. To do this, I ask you to reflect on an experience that you can use to teach the rest of us a lesson. I offer a broadside below that captures the first time I was placed at gunpoint at age 11 (4015 days after I was born) in the Ida B. Wells housing projects. This experience and others, mostly positive, shaped my decision to become a teacher. We are the change agents we need. Things will not change until... The broadside is below:
Until…
By
Alfred W. Tatum
July 1, 2009
10:18 pm
Four thousand and fifteen days from my first breath
Cornered by the brown brick fearing death
Invisible in broad daylight
The wide-opened eyes closed shut by dull beginnings
Could not see me/himself
Because of what he was (mis)taught
Confused
Distraught
Blood continues to drip
On the inner-city asphalt
Until…
Until…
Until…
Facts and Names Broadsides - Day 2
Brother Authors,
The broadsides we write today will be informed by facts. I struggled over the past two days to write the following broadside for the young Haitian Brothers. The broadside was sparked by a comment made by Wyclef Jean during the BET awards. He mentioned, "There is no excuse, I was born in a hut." I decided to write to the HUT BOY.
Hut Boy
by
Alfred W. Tatum
Without common birth
I sit in my hut of hope
Unphased by my scorched feet
My mind remains in tact
*Tout moun se moun
Speaks our Haitian-born leader
As he takes up the cross for liberation
My dark soul rebels
Reminding me that
I am a good person
Phillippe, they will say one day
You are the leader of this nation’s revolution
Toussaint, would be proud
Hail to you, our son of La Saline (slum).
*Haitian proverb that means every human being is a human being
Post today's broadsides under the heading - Facts and Names Broadsides
Monday, June 29
YBA Poetic Broadsides Week 1
Brother Authors,
It's time to write. Your posts for day 1 should be placed under this heading.
I begin with the longer poem below titled, Measuring UP
Measuring Up
by
Alfred W. Tatum
How many strands of hair do I have on my bald head?
How many thoughts are there in my empty thinking?
What do you make of the word love I have tattooed on my right arm that shot a glock
What ACT score do I need to get my mind off the block where I once S.A.T as a child
Everybody wants to find the right instrument to measure me
To see if I am becoming what others want me to be
How about this?
I changed my lil bro’s dirty diaper
Combed my sister’s nappy head
Tucked my mother in her seventeen-year-old bed with no headboard
And I borrowed a roll of toilet paper
Before heading off to ninth grade to score a perfect 100 on my algebra test
What’s my score on the algebra test?
Then, I went to English and scored 97% on my quiz
Right after I borrowed a shirt from my boy so I wouldn’t look dirty in front of Monifa
Who sat in the chair behind me
Don’t ask me about the quiz and some stuff I can’t even remember
Because my mind is clouded hoping she didn’t see the hole in the back of my shoes
What’s my score on the English quiz?
Then I had to change in P.E.
With the same dingy drawers
That I am ashamed to have anyone see over the back of my pants
No drooping jeans for me
I keep going because I want perfect attendance
What’s my score for P.E.?
All the time I am thinking how I can change things
For my lil bro and nappy headed sister
Hoping my mother lives long enough to see their successes
And so my dad will be proud of them when he sees them again
I am trying to be the glue and hold it together
But I am so conflicted, restricted
Trying to measure up to people who do not know how to measure me
With their strange instruments
Off to history class to turn in my paper about democratic ideals in a global society
That I worked on all night just to get it right
After listening to more bad news on the news about me
I hope mr. Johnson uses the right rubric on the paper to get it right
My perfect and near perfect scores are adding up
But so are the sores
Where is the instrument that captures both?
Maybe being measured is not a good idea
I think I am going to focus on measuring up
But I am sure someone would like to know how to measure measuring up
I’ll let them figure that out
While I go home to feed my lil bro and nappy headed sister.
AAAMSLI Preamble
Preamble
We, the Brother Authors, will seek to use language to define who we are , become and nurture resilient beings, write for the benefit of others and ourselves, and use language prudently and unapologetically to mark our time and mark our lives. This, we agree to, with a steadfast commitment to the ideals of justice, compassion and a better humanity for all.
To this end, we write!
We, the Brother Authors, will seek to use language to define who we are , become and nurture resilient beings, write for the benefit of others and ourselves, and use language prudently and unapologetically to mark our time and mark our lives. This, we agree to, with a steadfast commitment to the ideals of justice, compassion and a better humanity for all.
To this end, we write!
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