I Left My Back Door Open (4 page)

Being a loving pretend auntie, I agreed to play electronic Wheel of Fortune with Jason before dinner. I squinted to read a tiny monitor and made my move.
Whatever happened to tic tac toe or Monopoly or checkers
? I wondered.

Sarita's voice rang out. “Jason, bring your butt down here! What is this mess from your school?”

Jason backed away from the game and trembled visibly. I could tell by the sound of Sarita's voice that he was in some kind of trouble. And Sarita was nobody to cross. She could be rough on her son. I'd even spoken to her about it before, but she'd insisted that Jason was the kind of child that you had to let know you were there.

It had been easier for Sarita with her two older daughters. She got lucky with them. They were quicker to mind. And, of course, it was different raising children in the seventies. Yet, it seemed to me that when you named a child Jason, you were asking for trouble. When I think of the name Jason, a bad boy automatically comes to mind.

“I'm scared of her,” Jason whimpered. “I'm scared of her,” he repeated.

I put my arm around his narrow shoulders. His body felt tense and small. “What did he do?” I yelled.

“Tell him to come down here and find out!”

We came down the stairs together, Jason clutching my arm.

“He says he's scared of you, Sarita,” I volunteered bravely when I saw Sarita holding a belt.

Sarita became visibly angrier. “Don't make me have to curse on a Sunday, especially after I've been to church. If he's so scared of me, why won't he mind?”

For some reason, I identified with Jason more than Sarita at that moment. Maybe because I'd never known how it felt to be a parent, but I'd never forgotten how it felt to be a child. And Sarita's matronly figure looked scary, with her big hair, blazing eyes, flared nostrils and scowling expression.

“What did he do?” I repeated.

“He knows what he did. He wasn't too scared to call the man a bitch to his face!” Sarita said, holding up a note. “I found this in his pocket. He's suspended from summer school for three days.”

“It's a man teacher?” I swallowed.

Sarita nodded. “He clowned all year in regular school. So, he had to go to summer school, just to pass. And now this. According to Phil, there's a conspiracy against black boys in the public schools.”

“There just might be some truth to that,” I said, hoping to spark a dialogue.

“Hmmph, Jason, you better make sure you're not
part
of the conspiracy,” Sarita said, wrapping the belt menacingly around her hand.

Jason turned toward me.

“We work too hard for you to show out like you do. Now it's
my
turn to clown! Get over here, boy!” Sarita shouted. “I'm part of the conspiracy against black excuses!”

I felt a lump in my throat. I didn't want to see Jason get a whipping, even though he'd done wrong. Sarita reached out and grabbed her son. I was struck by how charged the air felt, as I watched Sarita whip Jason to the floor. When Jason's body cringed against her blows, I felt like I was witnessing a violent act, instead of just a familiar scene from my childhood. Sarita was whipping the boy like he'd stolen something. Jason finally cried out uncontrollably. I instinctively intervened and caught one of the licks on my arm.

“Damn, Sarita, that hurt!” I said, attempting to pull Jason to safety.

“Dee Dee, I don't allow cursing in my house, especially on Sunday.”

I feared for a moment that Sarita might try to whip both of us. I was afraid that things could really get ugly then, because I would have to defend myself. I've never liked being hit, and I could still feel the sting.

I blocked Jason with my body. “Sarita, that's enough. You were hurting him.”

“I wanted to hurt him,” Sarita answered, looking at me incredulously. “I want him to feel it now, so he won't have to feel it later.” She stared me in the eyes. “You trying to protect him from me, but you can't protect him from what's out there,” Sarita said, pointing toward the street.

“We're the ones who hear the gunshots at night,” she continued. “We're the ones who can't even empty garbage or go outside our door after dark.” Sarita nodded toward Jason, who was cowering in the corner behind me. “This child has never even played in that alley,” she said with a hint of sympathy in her voice. “
You
try raising a child in the 'hood today.” She sighed, wearily.

“Your child
better
be scared of you,” she added. “Or else you're gonna end up scared of him.”

“I understand what you're up against,” I said softly. “I know there aren't any easy answers. People like you are trying to raise the next generation under some heavy-duty circumstances. But people like me are going to be affected, whether you succeed or fail.” I turned around and put my hand on Jason's shoulder. “We're all in this together.”

Sarita draped the belt around her neck, as if to signal that the storm had receded. “Heaven help us all,” she said quietly. “Heaven help us all.”

When I got home, I hung up the African mask that Sarita had given me as a birthday present. It fit in nicely with my multi cultural decor. At least Sarita knew my taste. I sat down with the
Tribune
and a glass of merlot and leaned back against my distressed leather sofa. I looked up at my fifteen-foot ceiling. I needed to relax.

If I had pointed out to Sarita that she hadn't even asked Jason why he'd called the teacher a bitch, she would've insisted that it didn't matter; Jason was simply wrong. What precipitated Jason's remark was therefore irrelevent. He deserved to get his butt whupped. It was that simple. But was it? Was Sarita saving Jason from the penitentiary or building her own wall between herself and her son?

You see, once upon a time, I told a teacher, “Fuck you,” loudly enough for her and the entire class to hear. I'd buried the incident in my own mind until today. I was a few years younger than Jason and it was 1961. I remember feeling embarrassed and angry because the young white teacher nudged me awake after I fell asleep during class. She wasn't a bad teacher; she was just trying to do her job. But I couldn't tell her that I'd been awakened by a nightmare the previous night. I couldn't tell her that the year before my stepfather used to mess with me. I couldn't tell her why suddenly being awakened was still scary for me. I couldn't explain my rage at being laughed at by the other kids, just because I'd felt safe enough to finally catch up on the z's I'd been robbed of the night before. So I said, “Fuck you.”

It was before we moved to Morgan Park on the far South Side. I was living in arguably the toughest neighborhood on Chicago's West Side. Anyway, just on the surface, you'd think that a child who said, “Fuck you” to a teacher wasn't any good, wasn't going to amount to anything. Well, I did amount to something. And I wasn't a bad kid. I was a hurt kid. I was confused and angry and I couldn't tell anybody why.

That's why I could relate to Jason. He was in a rough environment. I'd been in a school filled with graffiti and stopped-up toilets and kids looking for fights. And if you accidently stepped on somebody's gym shoes or looked at them the wrong way, you'd better be ready to put up your dukes. But at least in my day, scores were settled with fists and fingernails. Rocks and bottles and even pocketknives were the exception.

Still, you had to be tough in order to be respected. Otherwise you were a target. I could relate to being scared inside, but jumping bad on the outside. Sometimes, you said things in order to save face. So, when I said, “Fuck you,” to that teacher, loud enough for the whole class to hear, I gained respect. I was seen as nobody to mess with. And that was worth a whole bunch of woof tickets. Your reputation was everything.

That afternoon as I walked home from school, the toughest girl in the class marveled, “Most kids say shit like that under they breath. But goddamn, you said it loud enough for the whole world to hear!”

I was incredibly lucky that Miss Larson ignored my outburst. It didn't hurt that she was young and white and inexperienced. She could've hit me with a ruler or had me suspended. Looking back, I wonder if she sensed my pain. I heard a teacher say once that sometimes you can look at a kid and tell they're being abused. Maybe Miss Larson saw something in me that made her cut me some slack. Maybe she just felt sorry for me, because I was a Negro on Chicago's tough West Side and at 3:15 she was going home to
What a Jolly Street
. Or maybe she just felt disappointed and defeated after another day of teaching in the trenches. Whatever the reason, I'm eternally grateful. By not sending a note to my mother, Miss Larson saved me from getting one of the worst whippings of my life.

I headed for the refrigerator and stuffed myself with the plate of fried chicken and greens and garlic mashed potatoes and corn bread that Sarita had insisted I bring home. I knew that I wasn't hungry, but I just needed to feel full.

But then I felt guilty. I didn't want to pay the price in calories for my comfort food. Food was my friend, but calories were my enemy. So, I did something that I hadn't done since the holidays. I went into the bathroom, lifted up the toilet seat and stuck two fingers down my throat until the salty, chunky vomit poured down my hand and into the toilet bowl. I repeated the process several times in order to get everything out. I brushed my teeth and washed my face and hands. I looked into the mirror. My eyes were red and puffy and my face looked haggard. But I felt like throwing up was something I had needed to do.

I wasn't bulimic. I just needed to feel in control of my weight tonight, that's all. I hadn't vomited in six months. And I'd done it maybe ten times in my whole life. Maybe eleven, counting tonight. I just needed an outlet, an escape valve, every so often. But I would never make it a habit. I prided myself on my pearly white teeth. I had a smile that could light up a cave. I would never risk ruining my health.

three

I glimpsed my Africanic behind as I hurried past a storefront window near my home. I was headed for Taste of Chicago, where I planned to meet Jade from the radio station. It was Saturday at high noon and already hot. I'd broken out in a pair of shorts. My backfield was definitely in motion, but there was no way I was going back to the girdle-wearing days of my childhood. Especially not on a scorcher like today. Sweat was already pouring down my face.

I felt the warmth of the pavement through my sandals when I stepped off the curb to hail a taxi. A yellow cab pulled right in front of me. That was one of the advantages of living on the North Side. You could get a taxi. You didn't see cabs much on the South Side, except in Hyde Park, near the University of Chicago and the Museum of Science and Industry. If you were black and hailed a cab in the downtown Loop Area and you were lucky enough to get them to stop, the driver would tell you, point-blank, that he didn't want to go South.

Some cabbies have a lot to say to you. This one almost immediately complimented my lipstick.

“I like that color, especially on you,” he said, with a foreign accent. The cabbie's sweaty skin was darker than mine. Perhaps he was East Indian, I thought.

“It's Royal Orchid by Fashion Fair. It's my favorite.”

“It's nice. Are you married?”

I hesitated. I wasn't in the mood for somebody getting into my business. But then I remembered that I didn't have any business.

“No, I'm not.”

“Not yet, huh.”

“Who knows.”

“Don't wait too long. How old are you?”

Suddenly, I became aware of the lack of air conditioning and began to sweat. “Never mind,” I answered. I rolled the window all the way down.

“You're a career woman, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“That's nice,” the cabbie said, navigating through the snarled traffic on Clark Street. “But you know, you're missing out on the most important part of life.”

“Yeah, what's that?” I asked skeptically.

“Getting married and having a family, of course.”

“I've been married, but I wasn't all that happy.”

The driver groaned, shaking his dark, thick, wavy head of hair. “That's what's wrong with this country!” he shouted, slapping the steering wheel and blowing his horn. “Europe's the same way.”

“What do you mean?”

“All you think about is your own selfish happiness! That's why Mother Teresa said, ‘Loneliness is the leprosy of the West.'”

“Hmmm,” I mumbled. “That's deep. Loneliness is the leprosy of the West. Maybe that's true.” I had to agree that there wasn't the emphasis on family and community like there was when I was growing up. There was a time when any adult on the street could correct a child. Now, if you did that, you might be shot. At the least, you'd run the risk of being cussed out. Times were different, all right. In my childhood during the sixties, it wasn't uncommon for a neighbor to borrow a cup of sugar or an egg. Now, I didn't even know most of my neighbors, let alone be able to borrow something from them.

Fran, an older Jewish woman, was the only neighbor who seemed to care that I drew breath. We looked out for each other's packages and she fed my cat and I waterered her plants sometimes. But Fran didn't really count as a neighbor, because we were already friends. She's the one who told me about the top-floor condo for sale in her building. And the first-time buyer program.

“Mother Teresa said there's an old woman in London who writes letters to herself, just so that her neighbors will think that she gets mail. But really, she has no one.”

I turned my attention back to the driver. “No family, no friends?”

“No one, I tell you. She's all alone. She stands outside her door and holds the mail up to the sky, so her neighbors will think she has somebody.”

“Well, at least the neighbors still care enough to notice,” I pointed out. “Most people don't even have real neighbors anymore, just people who happen to live in their building or on their block.”