The Waking (51 page)

“
Yo, man, who you talkin’ to up there?”

I look over at Luther or Loot or something, a new short-timer on the Pod. “Nobody.”

“
Your lips was movin’, yo.”

I smile. “I was just praying.”

“
Oh. You a Muslim?”

“
No.” I smile. “I’m a Baptist.”

He nods and walks away, and I lay back on my bunk. At least I think I’m a Baptist. I’ve spent a lot of time in the rain. I look out the window. Lightning flashes light up the river, and rain screams down mixed with thunder. It’s going to be a powerful storm. It’s going to be quite a show. I look out into the Day Room at the other inmates watching some educational show because the correctional officers control the remote. What they’d learn if they’d only look out the window.

I get up mighty the next morning and attend the Positive Life Awareness Program run by some well-meaning folks. It’s mostly common sense, like some of the self-help shows I’ve seen on TV. I listen, even though I’m fully aware of a positive life outside of these walls because of my travels.

After the meeting, I enroll in a GED class, and later that day, I take my first class. We do some math drills, and I nail them. The English part gives me some trouble until I write down the answer I
wouldn’t
say in conversation. But when it comes to American history, Dr. Taylor, a retired history professor, focuses only on white American history. I know it’s what will be on the GED test, but it’s not the whole story.

“
There are those who feel the Civil War was fought for states’ rights,” Dr. Taylor says. “There are others who believe it was fought to end slavery.”

A few of the brothers in the class raise up in their seats, but they quickly slide back down.

“
There are still others who think it was simply an inevitable clash caused by the industrial North versus the agrarian South, a war of lifestyles that was bound to occur sooner or later.” Dr. Taylor takes a breath, turning a page in his “sermon.”

I raise my hand. “So what’s the right answer?”

He squints at me. “Well, it’s a combination of everything I told you. History isn’t as easy to pin down like mathematics.” He looks back at his notes.

“
Why not?” I ask.

The brother next to me gives me a dirty look, like I’m trying to become the teacher’s pet.

I’m not. I really want to know.

He looks up again abruptly. “Because there’s so much of it. Because there are so many sources to sift through. Because none of us were there to experience it.”

“
I’ve experienced it,” I say.

I hear a squeaking of chairs and a few sighs from the inmates around me, but I don’t care.

“
We’ve all experienced it,” I say. “Maybe not the actual events, but we’ve felt the effects.”

Dr. Taylor takes off his glasses. “What do you mean?”

I look down at my notes. “Okay, you said slavery ended officially in eighteen-oh-eight. What about the folks from Africatown?”

Dr. Taylor blinks. “Africatown?”

“
Down in Mobile, Alabama. They were slaves from Ghana brought to this country in eighteen-sixty.”

“
I’m not that familiar with that.”

“
A rich Southern white man took a bet from some Northern rich white men …” And then I tell the entire story of Africatown from start to finish, and the chairs stop squeaking, many even turning away from the teacher and facing me. I even see a guy taking some notes. I can’t explain the feeling. It was like I had something to say, and it was important, and people were listening.

Maybe I should be a teacher.

From that point on, the GED class
rolls.
Dr. Taylor doesn’t look at his notes as much, and he even leaves the front of the room to walk among us. We
discuss
history, and a few other inmates start to raise their hands and ask questions. Dr. Taylor gives us what he calls the “raw data,” and we trace the effects on American life today. Information on the Reconstruction turns into an argument on Pittsburgh’s urban renewal, and the Emancipation turns into a discussion of Juneteenth.

“
You mean they didn’t know they were free?” a brother in the front row asks.

“
Lines of communication back then were nothing like they were today,” Dr. Taylor says.

“
So,” another brother says, “so they might have been slaves for
years
before they knew they were really free?”

Dr. Taylor nods.

“
That’s messed up,” says yet another.

“
Now Reconstruction did a great deal to alleviate these problems—”

“
By creating segregation,” I interrupt.

Dr. Taylor shrugs and nods. “That’s one way to look at it. Plessy versus Ferguson was—”

“
The establishment of segregation,” I interrupt again. “It led to Jim Crow laws, which led to whites-only water fountains, which led to segregated schools, which led to the Civil Rights marches, which led to Dr. King, and Malcolm X, and the Civic Center and the demolition of the Hill District.” I take a breath. “It’s all connected, all of it. Where we’re sitting, why we’re in here, why a lot of us are gonna come back here. It’s all connected. History isn’t just facts and dates. It’s causes and effects.” I look down at my hands. “And
we’re
the effects.”

And I used to be so quiet!

After class, Dr. Taylor stops me before I can leave. “I’d like you to take your GED as soon as we can arrange it.”

Probably so I don’t interrupt his class anymore. “Why?”

“
I think you can pass it. And I think you should be taking community college courses toward a degree. You can take them here, you know. I’m teaching an American history survey course that begins in late August, and I want you in there.”

“
I don’t know. I probably wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

“
Yes you would, Emmanuel,” he says. “You’re further ahead than many of the students I taught in the real world.” He smiles. “You have a grasp of history I rarely get to see. It’s a small class, so there will be plenty of time to have discussions.”

“
Okay.” I look up at this spectacled man. “How long does it take to become a teacher?”

He polishes his glasses. “I could see you as a teacher. To be frank, though, your felony convictions would preclude your finding employment.”

I sigh. Yet another effect.

“
Unless …”

“
Unless what?” I ask.

“
Unless you go on to get an advanced degree, maybe even a doctorate.”

“
I can’t see that happening.” I mean, I haven’t even passed the GED yet.

“
I can. Some of the most gifted professors in this country started their careers, so to speak, in prisons.”

“
But I think I can help … No, never mind.” I turn to leave. “Thanks anyway.”

“
What were you going to say?” he asks.

I turn back. “I can help kids like me, people like me.”

“
You could come back here.”

“
What?”

He laughs. “I didn’t mean it that way. You could
teach
here.”

“
Here?”

“
You’d have a captive audience.”

That wasn’t funny.

“
And it wouldn’t necessarily have to be here.” He pats my shoulder. “Think about it.”

And that’s all I think about for the rest of the day, and I’m still thinking about it the next morning. I like the power of being heard, of being listened to, of being understood. I could make a difference here, but I have to think about my family first. Where will my children bloom the best? Where will my family thrive? On the Hill? Or down South where there’s more room, more fresh air, more rain? I know I shouldn’t write off the Hill, but there’s so much to be done. And I’m only one man.

“
Mann?”

I look over at Baldwin, one of the black officers. “Yeah?”

“
Visitor.”

As Baldwin escorts me to the visiting area, I ask him, “Who is it?”

“
Some old lady.”

So it’s either Auntie June or my new cousin. But when I walk in, I see Mary, who looks up and sees me. A few tears fall from her eyes, sliding down her soft cheeks. And despite the other inmates and families gathered around other tables, I let my own tears fall.

“
No contact,” Baldwin tells me.

I want to tell him that we’ve already made contact.

“
One hour.”

I sit across from her, wanting so much to take her hands, to kiss those silky cheeks, to feel the lives of our children growing inside her, to hug her until neither of us can breathe.

She wipes tears from her eyes. “Manny. You look wonderful.”

I can’t speak. I just want to drink her in. She’s put on a little weight, her face a little fuller. But those eyes, those dark eyes. God, I’ve missed them. They’re like the eyes of God Himself or something.

“
I hope you don’t mind me dropping in like this.”

I shake my head.

“
They, um, frisked me, but they didn’t find the babies.” She giggles, and it’s a sound that fills my soul with hope. “Aren’t you gonna say anything?”

“
I love you.”

She drops her eyes. “You’re gonna make me cry some more, Manny.”

“
I don’t mean to. I don’t want you ever to cry again. I want to hear you giggling for the rest of our lives. I want you to be my wife.” Shoot. I just proposed to her in jail, which has to be a step worse than proposing on a collect call. “Sorry I had to say this to you here.”

“
It doesn’t matter.” She waits for Baldwin to turn away and squeezes my hand, releasing it a moment later.

I will not wash this hand for as long as I can. “Do you, um, accept?”

“
Yes.” She smiles.

“
Um, Auntie June—”

“
We’ve already discussed it, your Auntie June and I,” Mary interrupts. “We’re going shopping tomorrow. I can’t let
her
pick out the ring, can I?”

“
No.” Her eyes are full of stars, full of the Alabama night.

“
Now tell me, who’s this Olivette Somebody on your visitor’s list.” Her eyes flash like lightning. “When I got here, they said, ‘You Olivette?’ and I was like, no. I’m Mary, Manny’s fiancée. I’ve never heard of this person.”

“
Neither had I until I got to Mobile.”

“
She lives in Mobile?”

“
It’s not like that. She lives in Homewood, and—”

“
You got another girl just down the street?”

I take a deep breath. “No. Olivette is a
cousin
of mine who left Mobile over seventy years ago to come up to the Hill. I put her on there just in case, you know, she might want to come visit.”

“
Oh. What’s her last name?”

I have to spell it for her.

“
I’ll look her up for you. Maybe I can get her to come visit with me on Sunday. I’m coming on Sundays and Thursdays until you get out of here whether you like it or not.”

“
I like it, I like it.”

“
And I’ve already bought the babies a few things …”

Thirty
minutes later, my head is swimming. I didn’t know babies needed so much stuff! Whatever it costs for one baby, I’ll have to double it from now on.

An hour goes fast when you don’t want it to end, and I watch the minute hand ticking closer to the twelve. “It’s almost time,” I whisper.

“
So? We’ll just pick up this conversation on Sunday. Oh, I left you some money in the bank here in case you need anything, you know, in case you get the urge to write me. I like getting mail.”

“
I wish I could. Maybe I can find a typewriter around here.” I smile. “I’m glad you came.”

“
Oh, and call anytime. If I’m not there, Mama promises to take a message.”

“
Really? After that phone call the other night?”

She nods. “Your Auntie June is so good at calming her down. It’s like magic or something. You aren’t going to change me into a Baptist, now.”

“
I wouldn’t want to change you for all the world.”

“
Time’s up, gentlemen,” the guard announces.

“
Gotta go,” I say, and I stand. “See you later.”

She smiles. “Sunday. I love you, Manny.”

“
I love you, Mary.”

On the way back to the Pod, Baldwin asks me, “What does she see in you, man?”

I don’t answer because Mary now sees a man in me. “Why’d you say she was an old lady?”

Baldwin shrugs. “It’s something I do for fun.”

“
Oh.”

After I pass my GED the following week, I start taking a food preparation and commercial cooking class through Aramark, the company that feeds us every day. Mary says I might have a job waiting for me at the Crawford Grill since I now have so much experience in food prep from being on the
American Queen.
I try to tell her that I stirred more than I cooked on that boat, but she doesn’t want to hear it.