The Gift

The Gift

             She sat, with her widow open, so that the warmth of the early fall day could enter and chase away the stale dreariness that had settled over the last few grey rainy days, watching the cars blow by, the squirrels and the pigeons gossiping, and carousing in the sun-drenched park across the street.

            This was her world now, all 800 square feet of it, this and the window. The boy appeared from around the corner khaki pants, and white polo shirt, a book bag slung carelessly over his shoulder, the sun seeming to beam right from his smile, surrounding him like a halo. He didn’t look up as he passed her window, he was too focused on getting to where he was getting too, but still, the energy flowing around him, like his own force field, made her smile, even as she envied how fast and far his legs could carry him without the slightest complaint.

She had long forgotten the last time she could boast of standing without a steadying arm and every one of her muscles, from head to toe, joining together in indignant protest. This boy with his skin, the same dark brown of her coffee and eyes as bright and shiny as the new minted pennies she used to love as a girl, was a long way from that.

            Every weekday in September, he flew by her window, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground, hurrying home, she supposed. Always, that brilliant smile, sometimes singing softly, sometimes, throwing a casual wave in her direction, those times always made her smile.

            She first noticed the change in October, well before Halloween. Not much at first,  just a slowing in his step, the smile not as bright, the book bag that had once hung from his shoulder with such ease, seeming to drag him down.

            In November the weather changed hardly at all, but the boy changed. He no longer rushed past her window in a burst of energy on winged feet. Now, he trudged along, head down, so lost in his own world that he didn’t notice her anymore. Instead of rushing home, he sat alone in the park, sometimes a book open in front of him, but often staring into space. The pigeons and the squirrels grew used to his company and no longer scattered, going about their own lives as if he were merely a new species of tree.

            She would always remember that it was a Monday, when she told the story later to anyone who cared to hear it. All day the news had talked about the 1^st winter storm barreling towards the city. Wind shook the window and tossed about branches. Outside her window it looked closer to 8pm than 4, but the boy came. His head bent, his skinny body bundled into a thick winter coat, hat pulled down around his ears.

He sat and opened the book, barely moving as she watched. Then, in a movement so sudden, it reminded the squirrels of his presence, he picked up the book and threw it. Afterwards, he stood staring at the book, lying on the frozen ground, but did not go to retrieve it. Instead he sank back down onto the bench, buried his face in his arms and cried.

            She wanted to go to him. She tried, made it all the way to the door, but her hands wouldn’t let her turn the locks. She couldn’t let in a world that she knew held so much evil, but she couldn’t turn away, so she stood staring at the door, her own tears falling down her face. When she turned back to the window, he was gone, but the book lay there still.

            The woman sat at the window and watched day turn to night. No one came. She paced the floor returning to window to look at the book over and over.  When the bells of St. Mary’s Church rang in midnight, with the moon high in the sky, she tore open the door fighting against the screams in her head telling her to go back, she burst into a world that she had turned her back on so long ago, raced across the street, snatched the frozen book from the ground and ran as fast as her old lady legs could carry her back to safety.

            That night, she slept with the book cradled in her arms, like the baby girl she had long since lost, her tears washing away the ice from the frozen cover. In the morning she arose, opened her closet, and dressed in the uniform that so many children would have recognized, black skirt, white shirt, black kitten heel shoes, black blazer. She scraped her hair into a tight bun, ate a quick breakfast of toast and coffee and 1 boiled egg then took her seat at the window and waited.

            The boy arrived as he always did, his head spinning around, bending over looking for the book. When his search was through, he fell back onto the bench his hands buried in his pocket, his shoulders slumped, his head hanging low.

            “Young man,” she yelled, her voice far sharper than she intended.

            He didn’t move at first, so she yelled across to him again. This time he raised his head and looked at her.

            She raised the book to the window, watching as his eyes brightened and just a hint of the smile she so missed appeared. She waved to him as he ran across the street.

            She opened the door, and he stepped inside. His strong brown fingers were careful when he took her delicate pale hand in his and introduced himself properly. They had cocoa and he told her about his failure to grasp math and the heartbreak it caused his mother. She opened the book and watched hope creep into his eyes as she interpreted what had been foreign to him.

            Years of cocoa and smores, baby brothers, girlfriends, celebrations, and frustration, rushed past as quickly as sand in an hour glass. His worst enemy became his best friend.  And now she stood at the door again. The package, delivered by courier in one hand, a golden apple, inscribed with words she could not read through her tears, the beautiful invitation, in the other. 

            College graduation, a time to spread your wings and fly fearlessly into the world. Downstairs a car horn blew for her. She pressed her lips against the shiny gold apple, turned the locks, and stepped outside into the golden June sunshine.

           

Until I Answer

Until I Answer

The morning started like most bad days start. I overslept, which meant that Simon overslept too, because at 14-years-old, he still managed to only wake up, after I stuck my head in his room and screamed like a rampaging drill sergeant.  Now we both bumbled around the too small apartment snapping at each other for every small offense, until we were finally able to make it out the door. As soon as the car door shut and I slammed the car into reverse, still hoping to catch the 7:38 train, which would still make me late, but might allow me to slide in by 8:30 without too many people noticing, Simon yelled, “wait, I forgot to feed Bonkers.”

“GOD BLESS AMERICA!” I cried, a term I had adapted when he was a baby to avoid ruining his virgin ears with cursing, that had never gone away. “She had no food left in her dish?” I asked, all hopes of making my train draining as fast as the rain I could drumming against the roof.

“No,” Simon said.

“Hurry up,” I said, trying to calm down as I threw the car back in park, knowing that word didn’t exist in this child’s vocabulary.

Ten unbearable minutes later, when Simon strolled back to the car, I peeled out the garage like I was in a drag race, for no reason, since my train was long gone.

“I’ll have to drop you at Avalon today, because I’m already late and can’t afford to miss the next train,” I said glancing at clock. “Will you be okay walking the rest of the way in the rain?”

“Yeah, mom,” he said, his tone, screaming leave me alone, as he crammed his earbuds into his ear.

I intended to talk to him about a test. I wanted to remind him to be careful coming home. I started to remind him, not to lose his lunch bag or key, but I was still annoyed and knew the grunts I could pull from a sulky still half sleep teenaged boy would not lift my mood in any way, so I turned on the radio and drove the few short blocks in silence, him listening to whatever he called music, me listening to celebrity gossip. By the time, I pulled into a parking spot at the train stop, Simon had dozed off, and I had mellowed out.

I poked him in the chest. He jumped like I had dashed him in the face with cold water. I laughed as he struggled to untangle himself from his earbud cord, shooting me a dirty look as I grinned back at him.

“Bye,” he mumbled, barely looking at me as he reached for the door handle.

 “Do you want the umbrella?” I asked.

“No, it’s just rain,” he said pulling the hoodie up over his head.

“Fine, have a nice day.” I said, my flash of good humor disappearing with his grumpiness.

 “You too,” he grunted.

As I watched him walk away, hoodie pulled up, head bent against the rain, my heart stuttered. Where had the time gone? Tears stung my eyes as an image of him at aged 5, clinging to my hand as we waited for the big kid’s bus leapt into my head, a skinny little kid missing his 2 front teeth. He was still skinny, but tall now, taller than me. It wouldn’t be long before those shoestring arms started to gain muscle. Wouldn’t be long, before the girl’s started coming around. Just yesterday he had mentioned the same little girls name three times in the same day, how long before he admitted that he had his first crush.

As I turned, to get out the car, I noticed his glasses left on the seat, and shook my head.

On the train, I burrowed into my purse then my book bag searching for my phone, and came up empty. For just a second, I considered bolting from the train to go back home and get my phone, sure that if I didn’t have it, disaster would strike. But, I just didn’t have the energy to fight against this day any longer and it was only 8:00am.

As soon as I stepped into my office, the phones started ringing and never stopped. In between the phones and more walk-in customers than I had seen in a while, I didn’t have coffee until 10:00am.

I was sitting at my desk combing through a case file, when my head exploded with a pain so fierce I had to lean forward and hold onto my desk to stop myself from throwing up. I laid there, with my face pressed against the warm wood of my desk, tears inexplicably falling from my eyes. It was 11:00am.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled myself to my feet and stumbled into my boss’s office to tell her I had to leave.

“Go. You look like death,” she said, waving me away. “Oh, they done killed another black boy.”

“God. Where, this time?”

“Right here. The news just broke. I believe it’s in your neck of the woods actually.”

“Shit. I got to go before I throw up on your desk,” I said, barely able to see as I stumbled away.

The train ride home was torture. Every step closer, I felt worse and worse, until I wanted to scream. I must have looked like a drunk as I drove home from the train stop, and prayed that I wouldn’t be stopped. I saw the police cars, 3 of them, with their lights going, no sirens parked in front of my building. I turned my head away, going around the back into the underground garage.

As I walked from my car through the garage, clutching Simon’s glasses my sweaty hands, my legs shook so badly, I didn’t think I could make it. I heard voices in the front foyer and the click of handheld radio, but I didn’t look their way as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, desperate to be inside, safe.

As, I closed the door behind me, someone called my name, but I slammed the door close.

The apartment was dark and stuffy. Simon had forgotten to turn on the air, I thought. Bonkers meowed at me. As I sunk into the chair, she leapt into my lap and nestled, like she did when I was sick. My phone lay on the table. It buzzed as I looked at it and the name Mom popped up on the screen. I didn’t answer. When it stopped I could see I had missed 50 calls and my message tab said I had 100 new messages.

The knock on the door was firm, but not loud. Three quick raps. I didn’t move. A few moments later, it came again. Tears ran down my cheeks, falling off the bottom of my chin, wetting Bonkers fur, but for once she didn’t move.

Someone called my name, a woman, but I couldn’t hear what she said, I wouldn’t.

The apartment was empty, deserted, lifeless, but until I answered, he could still be alive. 

No Black Children in America

I was wrapping up my day today, when this article from the local news popped up on my Facebook page. The headline took my breath away: RTA pursues criminal charges against student who forgot free bus pass.

Just in case you're not from here, let me explain. The Cleveland Public School System and some suburban school districts do not provide transportation to children in high school. To address the lack of school transportation many districts provide either free or reduced bus passes for students.

New high-schoolers are typically 14 to 15-years-old. For many of them this is their first time using public transportation alone. It's a big responsibility that can be scary for both the student and the parents, many of whom are forced into this situation, because of work schedules and not having someone to take their child back and forth to school.

I have one of these new high-schoolers, he's 14-years-old and typically never travels alone. I am fortunate to live on the train line that runs in a straight line between our house and the school, only 6 short stops away. Further, because of some work flexibility, I'm able to drop my child off at school in the morning, but he is on his own getting home safely.

Now I don't know about your child, but my 14-year-old has the attention span of a gnat. He forgets his house key so often, I have a sign posted on the inside of the door reminding him to take it. He still manages to forget it every now and again. He forgets to turn in his homework, and to complete his chores. Hell, he can forget something I ask of him between the short walk from the front door to his room. It's annoying, but should he face criminal charges because of it? Sounds stupid, huh? Probably, because it is, but the rules for our children (black children) are a little different than for white children.

Our children are not given the freedom to be just kids, because too often they are just not recognized as children by people in authority. It's why there was no national integrated unified outcry against the murders of 12-year-old Tamir Rice, or 15-year-old Trayvon Martin, or even 18-year-old Mike Brown. This inability to see our kids as children, the same way in which we see a white child, is killing them, literally. The idea that you could criminalize a behavior common to most kids that age and put a child in the criminal system for a bus pass, that if paid for out of pocket, would cost less than $1.75, is shocking, to say the least.

RTA's defense is they have 130 cases of improper use of student bus passes. This justifies treating a child like a criminal? How much did RTA make in profit last year? How many people ride the train each day? I do, and more than 130 others in 1 trip up and back downtown.

The idea that the only way for RTA to defend itself against a child who has lost or forgotten, his paid for by the school system bus pass, is to participate in this pipeline of black folk from the schoolhouse to the jailhouse, is despicable.

There is no dispute that this child is a student, and that he was riding the bus during school hours. Therefore, even without the actual ticket, RTA has already been paid, so what exactly was his crime? RTA sent 1 letter to this child’s parents trying to collect $25 for a ticket that had already been purchased by the school district, again, why? The idea that so little value is placed on our children's lives and their futures is incomprehensible.  

According to the story, the child's record would be expunged if he completes a program for first time offenders. "First Time Offender," that statement makes my head spin. This child is not an OFFENDER. HE IS A CHILD!

RTA states it developed this policy in conjunction with, the NAACP (huh, so did you know you were going to be targeting black folk?) and the ACLU. I wonder if the NAACP knows that you charged 45 children with a criminal offense, given 45 children a criminal record, put 45 children in the criminal justice system, for the cost of one letter and a $1.75 fare. RTA should be ashamed, and we all should be outraged.

The overcharging, over sentencing, and eagerness to place black people in the criminal justice system is this country's worst kept dirty little secret. Excessive incarceration destroys our families, robs us of our right to vote, which steals our voices leaving us powerless, makes us unemployable, leaving us little option, except to return to crime, which returns us to jail or an early grave. It starts with these kinds of sneaky foul little policies that go unnoticed until someone decides to stand up.

This 14-year-old's mother decided to fight. I hope we all stand with her, or it could be your child next.

http://www.wkyc.com/news/local/cleveland/rta-pursues-criminal-charges-to-teen-who-forgot-free-bus-pass/455775234

Why Invite Only Cabo Was So Important

A lot of people will tell you that they don't watch TV anymore, especially not reality shows, but not me. I enjoy them, talent shows like the Voice or So You Think You Can Dance, of course, but most of my favorites come from Bravo and mega reality show mogul Andy Cohen.
This summer Bravo's reality show machine introduced us to Invite Only Cabo. A simple enough premise, 1 guy invites 6 of his best friends, who don't know each other very well, on a dream vacation to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, put them in a gorgeous mansion and sit back and watch the fun ensue.
I got on board late, probably 3 episodes in, but I was lucky enough to catch a marathon that ended my plans for weekend cleaning and had me sitting on my couch laughing and falling in love with these characters instead.
With each episode, I became more and more invested, more so than any other reality show I had ever watched. I started Tweeting about it. The cast Tweeted right back. I Facebooked about it. I started talking about it to friends, co-workers, and pretty much anyone I came into contact with, urging them to give this show a try. Finally, I started actually watching it live instead of waiting for it to record on my trusty DVR (gasp). I can't tell you the last show I've done that for.
Before I knew it, it was time for the finale, I still can't believe how short the season was, but I guess a vacation can only last so long, but I wasn't ready to say goodbye!
I gathered my friends, put a call out on Twitter for people to watch with me, one of the first people to respond was 1 part of my favorite duo from the show, Jermane. The hour long finale seemed to go by in 15 minutes! I had so much fun tweeting back and forth with most of the cast, people I didn't know, and friends alike.
On Monday I was a little bummed and started to wonder why this little 8 episode show meant so much to me. I talked it over with my little sister and we agreed it was special. But it was on the train ride home today that I pinned it down. Invite Ony Cabo is special because:
1. It is the first reality show that shows real affluent black people doing affluent black people stuff, like taking a luxury vacation with our friends. We do that.
2. First show, reality or otherwise, where the entire cast were black, except for the 1 white cast member. It's usually, noticeably the other way around.
3. It was the first reality show that portrayed black people like reasonable people, with reasonable coping skills, able to resolve problems, get into an argument, without ending up rolling around on the floor yanking each other's hair out (this was a win for women and black people).
4. It was the 1st reality show where gay, bi, and straight characters intermingled without judgement, or having to have a long discussion about somebody's right to be who they were, or religion. One of the cast member tall, dark, handsome, and well-endowed (apparently), Agu, frequently disrobed in front of his housemates without any expressed fear that one of his gay housemates might become overwhelmed by his hotness and attack (refreshing).
For these reasons and a few I didn't name, I think the show, intentionally or not, was ground-breaking. In a time where part of the country seems intent on pushing us back into a time of hate and bigotry, tearing us apart, it was a beautiful thing to sit and watch Larry (the Wizard) introduce his friends, flirt with and tease the beautiful smitten Bianca, always hinting there was something more. Watching the group come to accept and care about a sometimes wild, and a little ratchet, Emily, and admire successful single mom, with the class of a queen and the looks of a supermodel, Kamani, flirt with the equally gorgeous Agu, cracking up with my besties (in my head) Malaku and Jermane with them damn onesies (love).
It was a great ride and I'm glad I was there for it. If you missed it the first time, it's now on demand. And YES I sound like I'm on the parole, honey, but it's only because I so want this show to come back, just the way it is. No added ratchetness, good only for ratings, there's enough of that.
The world needs to see us, black people, as real people, who can get angry without guns, make money without drugs, be a single parent without welfare, and who are no different in the their loves and passion than any other human being. Not only does the world need to see it, be we do too.
I'm tired of turning on my favorite shows whether its cooking, designing, decorating, or singing, and seeing 20 contestants, only 2 of which are black, and are so close to the stereotypes, that they could have been printed from a match the description of factory. IJS.
So, Andy Cohen and Bravo, thank you for introducing us to Larry, Jermane, Bianca, Agu, Emily, Malaku and Kamani. I hope you bring back Invite Only and more shows like it, because if we really want to end bigotry, first we all have to start seeing each other as humans. Why not being entertained, while we're at it.

I've Got Your Back

So, you have a friend who's a writer, or an artist, or an actor, or maybe they have a startup, that new business of their dreams. Of course you want to support them, but how. You bought their product, saw their show, frequented their new business, but you're only one person, what else can you do? So much more.

We live in an age of information. It travels as quick as lightning through our circles, so the simplest, cheapest way you can support your striving friends, is share. But before you tap that button, if you believe in what your friend is doing, take that extra step and tell people why they too should support your friend.

Tell them your favorite part of  that book. Tell them why you love what your friend is doing. Tweet it, Instagram it, Facebook it, and most importantly talk about it. Look for opportunities to spread the word.

In my community, our library has a weekly post where you can talk about what you're reading, it's a great forum to spread the word about your favorite writers. Goodreads is always on Twitter talking about books, a reply takes a second, but it can spread around the world, and most importantly, write that review! It's like handing your friend a blank check. Just think, for every  review you write, you may be giving your writer friend one more reader adding one more step on that ladder to their dreams.

Last week I had the pleasure of being surrounded by a group of people who share my dream, to find and audience to share my story, writers. I left feeling inspired, supported and more dedicated to clearing every boulder from my path.

There's room at the top for us all, so don't hold back your support, push those dream seekers in your life forward and see how much it inspires you to chase your own dreams.

The Flash

Hello world,
It's been a minute and much has changed in the world around us, but here I am still running as fast as I can to catch up with this dream called writing. It has been a year since I released my first baby, Fat Chance, into the world. Although, there is much to be done, still untitled book 2 is well underway. Look for the launch of Navah's story by the end of the year. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this piece of flash fiction.

Twitter Fingers

             My Twitter fingers have always been fast, but they weren’t fast enough to warn the world on November 8^th of our impending doom, and they weren’t fast enough today when those dark warnings of Armageddon jumped out of the minds of the street corner crazies into real life.

            When the world ended, I was exactly where I had always promised myself I wouldn’t be, at work, on the phone, listening to an 87-year-old man squawk about the loss of 29 cents from his retirement pay.
            As the man talked my eyes combed through my Twitter feed, stopping occasionally to like or retweet some inane item or other. And there it was, buried among the Ads, the cat pictures and jokes: USA drops the largest bomb known to man on North Korea.
            I re-read the headline, once, then twice, sure that I had read it wrong. Checked to see the source of the tweet, trying to convince myself the truth was a lie, praying to see the Onion, or some obscure link, probably belonging to a bored teenager from another world away, crying out in shock when I saw the MSNBC logo.
            Turning away from the screen, I reached out and pushed the end button on my phone, cutting Mr. 86-yr-old off in mid complaint. Gasps started to travel through the room, sounding like wind rushing through the trees. Someone let out a sharp yelp of surprise.
            I turned and picked up my phone desperate to get a message to the one person that came to my mind. “Noah, stay at school. I’m coming. Mom.” I watched praying for a tiny miracle as the circle spun around and around before the message, text failed, appeared on the screen.
            The gasps and whispers that filled the room had turned into voices overlapping each other, not yet panicked, but getting there fast as people processed the meaning of what had happened. The buck-naked Emperor, the Fool, the Maniac-in-Chief, he had killed us all.
            Noah. I grabbed my purse, not bothering to stop to talk to anyone as I rushed for the door. How long, before the trains stopped running? Damn me for being the tree hugger I was. All for nothing, now.
            In the hallway groups had already started to gather, waiting for the elevator, dazed eyes followed me as I made a dash for the stairway. A few peeled away from the group and followed my lead. Silence in the stairwell, except for one woman who sobbed, even as she ran behind me, her voice coming in sharp burst. I could have tried to say something comforting, any of us could have, but none of us had the stomach for the lie. The lie had lead us here after all.
            At the train station I stood, alone. My eyes jumping from my constantly searching cell phone to the empty track, praying for yet another miracle, that I wasn’t too late, sick at the thought that I might be.                                                                                                                        
           The sound of the approaching train striking the iron of the tracks, almost sent me to my knees. I clung to the pole I had been standing next to, fighting back waves of relief-born dizziness.                   
            The driver, face tense, hands clenched, barely allowed the door to close before he rocketed away, not bothering to stop at the empty West 3^rd or Flats stop. When we pulled into Tower City, it looked like the aftermath of a playoff game, or parade. As soon as the doors open a crush of people piled on. I put my bag on my lap but didn’t raise my eyes from phone, waiting desperately for acknowledgement that my text had found its target.
            At E. 79^th twitter updated flooding my feed with hysteria, disbelief, and all too true doomsday predictions. Instructions were posted. Pleas for answers. Pleas for mercy directed at North Korea, Pleas for mercy directed at God. I begged to see the message, “text sent, splash across my screen.”
            Shaker Square, my phone rang in my hand. Noah calling, the screen said. I didn’t realize I was crying until the tears touched my tongue.
            “Mom, I’ve been trying to call you for hours…”
            “Listen,” I said cutting him off, unsure of how long the connection would last. “Stay at school, I’m on my way 10 minutes,” I said.
            “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
            “I love…” and he was gone.
            At Avalon, I rushed from the train running to my car at a full sprint.           
            In the car, news anchors had replaced radio personalities. Their voices as afraid as I felt, jumbling together, fighting to be heard repeating the same info over and over, then, “North Korea to retaliate with nuclear response. God help us all.”
            The ride home from the school was quiet, Noah absorbing my resignation. As we walked from the car into our apartment, I put my arm across his shoulders. He leaned into me, the way he hadn’t since he was five.
            Once inside, I took out a bottle of wine, and 2 glasses. What did age mean anymore?
            We sat on the couch, our fat lazy cat beside him. People poured into the streets in New York, filling up Times Square, Harlem, clogging the GW bridge, trying to escape, to where?
            “Remember, when President Obama was elected and we took the Metro into the city?” I asked.
            “Yeah,” Noah said, leaning his head against my shoulder.
            In California, people stood together quietly staring into the sky, waiting. The news anchor a pretty blonde, who had already cried away all her makeup talked about how people were leaping from the Golden Gate Bridge.               
            California blinked away without warning. Signal loss, I said, the truth coming out in the tremor in my voice.
            The New York station picked up the coverage. One brave soul standing in front of the camera, bidding civilization goodbye. Tears streaming down his handsome face.
            “God Bless Ameri…” then nothing.
            “I picked up the wine, filled each glass all the way to the brim.