Buck (6 page)
Authors: M.K. Asante
“Dayum,” Ryan says as she walks by, “I’d tear it up.”
“Excuse me? Tear what up?” She stops, spins. Ryan just stands there, shook. “You wouldn’t know what to do with this, little boy,” she cracks, sizing him up, laughing as she swishes away. We all bust out laughing.
“Little boy? I got your little boy, all right. Got your little boy right here,” he yells, grabbing his sack. But he knows she can’t hear him or see him.
“She played you,” I say.
“Man, I’d have that jawn screaming my name, calling me daddy and everything.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Fucking real.” He faces the wall and acts like he’s fucking her against it. He folds his arms and lets his fingers crawl up
his back as if they were hers. “Have her like, ‘Oooh, ah, oooh, papi chulo, give me that big dick, this is your pussy, daddy.’ ”
“Look, look, look,” Kam says under his breath, pointing where I’m already looking.
I spot her getting off the bus. Her skin glitters in the after-school sun. Gentle eyes—I catch them.
“Holla at her.” He nudges me.
“Who, her?” I say like I can’t see her. But she’s all I see.
“Yeah … with the uniform.”
Her face is soft, round and golden like my grandma’s pancakes. I glance down at my sneaks. Jawns always peep your footwear first; Kianna taught me that. A few scuffs on my Timbs ain’t stopping this train.
Feel the good vibrations
So many females, so much inspiration
*
I’m learning how to talk to girls. There’s an art to it. It’s not about spitting some recycled lines. Philly girls hear the same lines all day like the chorus from a radio single:
Shawty, let me holla at you for a minute …
How you doin’, baby?…
What’s up with me and you, sweetheart?…
Let me get them digits, yo …
What’s good, ma?… What’s really good, ma?… What’s really really good?…
I’m saying, though, I’m tryna see you like that …
Excuse me, miss. Let me whisper in your ear
.
All that shit is dead. Getting girls is really about Ginga.
Ginga is what separates the Brazilians from the rest of the world in soccer. Uzi broke it down for me one day when we were watching
SportsCenter
. They were showing highlights of Brazil’s team.
“Peep the way they play, peep their rhythm. That’s Ginga! It’s an attitude, a way of life, like soul, style, and swag all rolled into one. It’s not just how you move, it’s when you move, where you move, and why you move. Ging-ga! Nig-ga!”
When it comes to girls, you gotta have Ginga. Ginga gives you that bop in your step. Uzi told me: “Approach everything—the way you walk, talk, dance—with the right combination of toes, heels, and hips and you’ll be in there like swimwear.”
She floats down into the subway tunnel.
“Ging-ga,” I say to myself as I jog down the stairs after her. As I approach, we catch eyes and suddenly I’m nervous.
“Hey, what’s up,” I say, my voice cracking like a piano. I can feel my homies peering from above, waiting to see if I’ll be shot down.
“Hi … and bye,” she says as the southbound Orange Line rumbles in. “This is my train.” She swipes her TransPass and keeps moving.
I look up and see my boys laughing, pointing at me. I see the girl getting away, boarding the sub.
What if I never see her again?
I flash my homies the peace sign and hop the turnstile …
“This is my train too,” I say, sitting next to her. “What’s your name?”
“Nia. You?”
“Malo,” I tell her as the train kicks, bucks, and clacks over the tracks.
“Malo?” she says, surprised. “I’m taking Spanish … You know what your name means in Spanish?”
“Nah, what?”
“Erie Avenue,” the conductor’s voice crackles through the speakers. “Erie Avenue.”
My full name—Khumalo—means “prince” in Zulu. My parents changed their names back in the day.
“We didn’t want slave names anymore,” is how my dad explains it. “When black people came to America, we didn’t have names like John and Bill and all that. They sold us like beasts, counting our teeth, feeling our testicles, testing the luster or dullness of our skin, changing our names, our religions, customs. Carrying the names of those who enslaved your ancestors is a constant reminder of a lack of self-determination, a badge of conquest. Having an English name and not looking like an English person plagued me most of my early life. I resented it since I can remember. Mature people give themselves names from their history and culture; others are like pets that are given names. We can name ourselves.” So they went from Arthur Lee Smith and Carole Ann Welsh to Chaka and Amina Asante. And just like they chose their name, I choose mine—Malo.
“It means ‘bad,’ ” she says. “Are you bad?” She laughs. I just look at her.
“Girard Avenue. Girard Avenue.”
“Can I get your number?” I ask as the train screeches.
“Nope.” My heart nose-dives into my stomach.
“Damn, it’s like that?”
“I can’t have boys call my house.” A smile curls. “So give me yours.”
“Paper?”
“Write it here,” she says, and holds out her hand. I take her hand and kiss it with the Paper Mate. The ink doesn’t show. Her hand feels soft and warm, like clothes fresh out of the dryer.
“It’s not writing,” I say, trying to form an
M
as the train slows.
“Press a little harder,” she says. “It works. And you gotta hurry, this is my stop coming.” I finish writing but don’t want to let her hand go. She pulls away.
“Okay, I’ll call you sometime.”
“Spring Garden Street. Spring Garden Street.”
“When?”
“Tonight,” she says, running off the train.
Dear Carole,
Chaka’s abandoning me and I’ve given up hope that he’ll reflect on his role in abandoning the family even as he preaches about the black family. What is that? Why is that? The whole black community loves Chaka and they don’t know the internal rhythms of pain and destruction that are happening in the family. I don’t know either.
The house is quiet, expecting, and waiting. I can hear Chaka coming up the street and pulling into the driveway. He will come in and I will pretend to be asleep. He used to
stop in Malo’s room when he was little but he no longer does that. Just as well—Malo is not in his room. The quiet of the street belies the anxious stirring of teenage boys who are deep into their mischief. Malo is acting out in a secretive way.
I hear and see my car pull out of the driveway. Malo is on the prowl. He thinks that I don’t know. I don’t use my car every day but when I get into my car, I notice that things are different. Is this a rite of passage? I wouldn’t know, as I didn’t grow up with access to a car or even thought of driving. Maybe I’ll say something to him in the morning. Malo may or may not admit to it but he won’t apologize. This is a child who doesn’t know how to say “I am sorry.” What is that about? It’s so interesting. He is an old soul in a young body. It is as if he has the right to do whatever is necessary and I am supposed to understand that. He loves to say, “Don’t worry, Mom.”
Where is he going? Is he seeing some girl? Is he hanging out with his friends? Is he drinking, drugging, or what? He will be home with the sunrise. I won’t be awake when he drives back into the driveway. Is he running away from me? Did I run away from my mom? Well, I did, but in a different way. I was a difficult teenager, and like Malo, I felt as if my destiny was entirely in my hands. I “outgrew” my mother before I reached my teens. Malo will leave soon, like I did, and never come back.
My sister already caught Malo in his room with some girl that she called a “wench.” I found nude photos of some girl in his room. Different girls call for him, LaTasha, Toya, Shanika, Alisha, too many to remember, at all hours of the night.
Everything is a secret. I am sure that he does this because he doesn’t want to hurt me. It does hurt, but worse, it further divides Chaka and me. Chaka thinks that both boys’ behavior points directly to me. He says I’m not strict enough and I give them too much. True, I am not strict and I probably have given them too much. But if it takes two to tango, then I am a solo dancer trying to raise two sons alone!
This is a house of secrets. Malo’s nightly forays into the streets, Chaka’s nightly forays at the office or out of town, and my nightly forays forgetting, escaping, and wishing pain away.
The house is quiet. My heart is racing. I want to touch Chaka and wake him. How is he doing, what is he thinking, what does he want? Can simple questions be that difficult? I am silent too; quiet! The night is still and I can hear Chaka’s breathing (snoring). Daudi is away but I can hear his cry too. “Mom!” I can hear Malo’s unspoken voice. He looks at me and proclaims; “I am a man. You won’t have to worry about me like you worry about Uzi.” Not true. Malo is my love child in more ways than one, but we don’t talk.
My soul and heart are in flight. I am looking for me. I am looking for the “me” that I lost somewhere along the way. Morning has come. Malo is home, Chaka is up and I am pretending to be asleep. My oldest son is away and my home has become the house of secrets.
God, give me strength.
Amina
*
“93 ’Til Infinity,” Souls of Mischief, 1993.
Phone Tap
The phone rings. Maybe it’s Nia? My heart beats, rings with fear.
But as soon as I hear—
You have a collect call …
—I already know.
… from … “Uzi” … an inmate at the Arizona State Prison Complex … To accept this call press the star key—
* * * * * *
Your call is being connected
.
“Hello?”
“Malo!”
“Uzi! What’s up?”
“I fucked up, bro.”
“What happened?”
“I got knocked. I’m in jail.”
“For what?”
“Can’t really talk about it right now, man, shit is crazy … put Mom on the phone.”
“She’s not here.”
“Damn, where she at?” Uzi doesn’t even know she’s in the psych ward. Should I tell him?
“When you getting out?”
“I can’t even call it, Malo.”
“But you’re a minor. Last time—”
“This ain’t like last time. They tryna charge me as an adult.”
A hollow silence.
You have ten seconds left for this call
.
“I love you, man.”
“Love you too.”
“And yo, Malo?”
“Yeah?”
“Get me outta here!”
Dear Carole,
I took Daudi to the airport this morning. It was difficult. After all of the drama and situations, this tall skinny boy pleaded with me not to send him to Arizona. He is a baby inside and I had to be resolute. Only I wasn’t. Was I doing the right thing? Daudi has been through his share of troubles with schools and run-ins with police, but why can’t Chaka and I get a grip on things? Daudi is bright but seems to be unable to do well in school. Perhaps there was some kind of attention disorder. Now he is totally swept up in what his friends are doing, and unfortunately they’re also up to no good.
Didn’t black people always send their children to the South to give them some training or to get them straightened out? I’m following a tradition, or am I? Arizona isn’t the South and my brother has problems of his own. This is a Hail Mary pass and even as I put Daudi on the plane I had my doubts. My brother has problems of his own. Right now he is sober but I don’t know how long that will last.
Daudi looked so small in his long lanky body and his eyes glistened big and wet. What am I doing? Am I doing this to please Chaka? Truth be told, Daudi and Chaka never bonded. In the beginning it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t love my son. He loved me and promised to take care of my son. I took him at his word. But it wouldn’t be so easy. Chaka is not a child’s person. He barks orders and expects little people to obey. He doesn’t play or get down and dirty with children, so I guess that there was very little bonding for Daudi and him to do.
But I am Daudi’s mother and I am responsible for him. He came into this world fighting and had an uphill battle healthwise. I remember saying to the doctor when I had to have surgery while he was still in my womb, “Please save my baby.” He was so tiny when he arrived but he was fighting and I just knew that he would be this incredible child. I was right, but something happened.
I leave the airport feeling so sad. It is not a good day for me. In my heart, I know that I have let my son down. Am I doing this to lessen the stress in a house that is already filled with quiet tension? Am I doing this instead of
doing something else, something more radical, like … what?
Malo will miss his brother. Will this make it better for Malo?
I am so full of doubt today when I should be more positive, but looking at Daudi walk down the hall to the plane reminded me when I put him in nursery school when he was three years old. It was in Buffalo and it was his first day. I dropped him off and he stood at the gate crying for me as I walked away. At least then, despite my aching heart, I knew that I would return to get him that evening. He isn’t so sure now as I leave him; what is he thinking?
What am I thinking? I wish I could really talk to Chaka. But it is all pronouncements and sermons. He doesn’t have time to really think about Daudi and doesn’t give Malo any time either.
I can’t dwell on this now but I want to go home and sleep for seven days and seven nights. I don’t know how to deal with yet another pain. I want to scream while I dance and dance while I scream. I want to forget that pain can be so intimate. I want to travel beside Daudi on his collar, whispering in his ear, soothing his shoulders, kissing his cheeks, and telling him, “I love you.”
If nothing else, I am a warrior. I must get stronger so I can be there for my sons. I have to resist going into a black hole and never seeing light. My strength is my light and both of my sons need me.
I can’t say what the weather is like today or how the sky is tinged. All I can say is that I took Daudi to the airport
to put him on a plane to Arizona. He cried, and as I walked away, the tears that were raining inside of me began to fill up the spaces in my eyes and then envelop my face until I couldn’t see. I can’t say how the weather is today but I know that inside me, it is raining.
God, give me strength.
Amina