Family Matters
I’m so late reading my subscriptions that it will take
at least a week to catch up, and that only if I did nothing but read. I apologize to those writers, but I
will catch up. (Somehow.) My reasons for delinquency range from a few complex writing projects of my own to family matters. Most recently it’s family matters. Good ones.
There’s no blessing quite like the blessing of family. I’m blessed to have a large clan, but we’re a little scattered around.
Being head of my family often makes me feel like a king. My little princes and princesses are the jewels in my crown. I got
mad jewels.
My oldest daughter, Jazmyne, turned 22 years old Saturday and my son KJ turned 10 years old Monday. Jazmyne lives in Indiana. KJ lives in Florida. I live in the great state of New York, as do four of my princes (Willis, Brandon, Jonathan, Brandon, Jr) and five of my princesses (Dominique, Desiree, Vondaya, Kinyata, Shannon).
When Brandon suggested Willis and I join him, Dominique and Brandon Jr on a weekend road trip to Naptown for the occasion of Jzamyne’s birthday, I was all for it. So we loaded up and headed south west. The pics tell the rest of the tale.
It was disappointing that neither Destini or Lyndsay were able to join us. Lyndsay is in basic training with the National Guard and Destini is in Florida. At least she was able to share in KJ's birthday. we did at least get to speak on the phones werwe made to exchange birthday wishes and simply to connect.
Family Matters (cont.)
Last time I made it to Indianapolis was for Jazmyne's graduation. I had a great time then, as well, but there were a lot more civic events this time around and I got a chance to meet my ex-wife's new husband, Kenny, who is simply an awesome individual. If a was able to handpick the man I wanted to be a step-parent to my offspring, I could have done no better than to pick this man.
There's something about children that is magical. It only increases if the child is a grand-child, the magic made by one's children. To the left, Grandpa Jah mentors BJ on the finer aspects of football. To the right, father and son watch the Colts on TV while grandson contempltates the mystery of this strange sport.
To the left, BJ demonstrates his refrigerator raiding skill. Grandpa did not teach him that, but understands how important it is to develop that skill also. Who ever heard of a skinny tackle? (Oh, did we mention BJ only started walking the week before this road trip was taken?) To the right is Kenny's grandson, Miles. (He's just as handsome as Jahaka's offspring!)
Family Matters (wrap up)
Eventually it was time to head back home. Good-byes are never easy, but I'll make sure it's not another three years before I can feel the sweet vibes of Naptown. Meanwhile, I had to think about the princesses still waiting for my return:
From the left are Kinyata, Shannon and Desiree. Hovering above is Ajoya, their mom and My Earth. It's good to have somebody who can hold you down. (Or who can just hold you.)
And that's why Familly Matters.
Twice as Hard - 6th Excerpt
TWICE AS HARD - (6th)
First ExcerptSecond Excerpt Third Excerpt Fourth ExcerptFifth Excerpt
“AJ, you
can’t just quit school!” Kendra Kimbrew was beside herself. Her friend Amos was acting weird and she had no idea why. “Think about your future! What kind of life will you have if you don’t even have a high school diploma? What kind of
job will you be able to get? You’ll be pumping gas until you’re 65!”
“Actually, I found out about this program through Action for a Better Community that will let me get my GED while I’m working,” AJ said. “Maybe I can get tuition assistance or something for college somewhere down the line.”
“But you’re in the
11th grade!” Kendra wanted to pull her own hair out. It wasn't like AJ to be so obtuse. “What’s the big rush? It’s only two more years.”
“Look, Kendra, I can’t go into it right now, but I need to be making money.”
“But what about your paintings? I thought you were doing good selling them from that shop on Main?”
AJ made an angry gesture and grumbled, “Well, they’re moving a little. But that punk ass Mike is ripping me off, I think. Either way, it’s not
enough. I need a lot more than what’s coming through with him.”
“But what about your friends?” Kendra stepped to AJ and threw her arms around him, buried her face into his chest. “There are people that care about you and if you leave you won’t even think about us anymore.”
Feeling very uncomfortable, AJ just stood holding Kendra for a moment. Kendra was a year younger than AJ, and she was one of the prettiest girls at Ben Franklin High School, but she seemed totally oblivious to her own charm. To AJ, she was an earthbound angel.
The two students had met in art class the year before, when then-sophomore AJ had transferred in from McQuaid Jesuit High School, an uppity private school in Brighton, a small suburb south of Rochester. An all-male academy, McQuaid was dominated by Irish and Italian Catholics, with a smattering of Jewish people. AJ forced his parents to authorize a transfer when he threatened to quit school completely if they didn’t let him transfer to a neighborhood school. The young man had been frustrated with the social limitations associated with attending a high school with no girls and he was disgusted with the lack of African American culture. AJ had been one of only 11 black students in a student body of more than 800 kids and the adjustment was not to his liking.
Kendra was a product of the Rochester City School District, but she was of a different cloth than most city school girls. Kendra disdained boy chasing and shallow cliques in favor of sports like softball and almost any activity involved with performance arts. She was also active in a Christian youth organization: “Campus Life.”
What Kendra didn’t know was that AJ had a huge crush on her. Their friendship evolved after AJ broke a leg playing football and required surgery. Kendra would help him carry his books from class to class and she would call AJ at home to check up on him. Even before AJ was injured, he would escort Kendra to her house during lunch, as she lived a mere two blocks away from Franklin and seldom ate in the school cafeteria.
A twisted form of insecurity prevented AJ from ever trying to date his friend Kendra. He thought she was “too good” for him, or that his ghetto style would corrupt her. So he usually backed out of invitations to hang out with her, (accept for the occasional Campus Life gathering in her home) and limited his interaction with Kendra primarily to telephone conversations and school encounters.
“Just promise me
one thing,” Kendra said to AJ when they finally broke the embrace.
“Sure - just name it.”
“Just talk to Diane before you go. She’s been asking about you every day and I haven’t know what to tell her.”
AJ groaned. 'Diane' was actually Miss Diane Miller, a young creative writing teacher at the high school. Her youth and “coolness” contribute to students’ liberal use of her first name, but Miller didn’t seem to mind and none of the students ever took it too far.
“Ah, man – she’s gonna be chewing me out
forever, Kendra!” AJ complained. “I have a lotta
stuff to do today.”
“You
promised, AJ!”
“Alright, alright. I might as well do it now and get it over with. Do you know if she has a class?”
Five minutes later AJ stood in outside a classroom door in the first floor west wing of the campus, stoically receiving verbal chastetisement for not taking his education seriously, for wasting his talent and for cooperating with a system that would suppress him by not preparing him for the real challenges of life, as opposed to those AJ saw on the street. Diane Miller knew all about the challenges most of the disadvantaged students at this high school faced and she also knew about the excuses many students used to rationalize apathy. She was tough enough not to despair over the former or settle for the latter. For his part, AJ could say nothing; but hang his head silently and accept what he considered to be a verbal beat down.
Miller was an inspiration to many students at the school, but she had been particularly beneficial for AJ, helping him uncover a raw talent for writing that the young man never suspected was there. Miller first encouraged AJ to write poems, then short stories, essays - anything that struck his fancy. She encouraged him to write whatever he felt – no matter how outlandish or apparently irrevalent. She even convinced AJ to start writing a personal a journal, despite his initial protestations. )"Aw, Diane!
Diaries are for girls and sissies, why I wanna keep a journal."
Once again her ability to connect and persuade was beginning to have an effect, albeit not to the degree she wished. She wanted this young man to not turn his back on education, which he seemed hell-bent to do.
“Amos, you must promise me something.”
“What, is there a competition at this school to collect promises from me today?”
“Beg pardon?”
AJ sighed. “Never mind, Diane. Promise you what?”
“Promise me that whatever happens, wherever you find yourself, you will continue to write always.” She peered at him intensely, as if to gauge how closely he attended her words.
The teenager scratched his head, not sure exactly what his favorite teacher meant. “Uh, write what? Poems? Short stories? Daily journal notes?” AJ laughed.
“Yes, Amos.”
“Yes to
which?”
“To
all of them,” the teacher replied. “I want you to write whatever you feel, whenever you feel like it, Amos. And if you don’t know what you’re feeling, then just write until you figure it out.”
“Okaaay, but why is this so important to you?”
Miller paused for a moment. This was the hardest part. She hated seeing students drop out, especially those who showed a great deal of promise. What can you say to save these kids? They always say they’ll come back and finish school, but so seldom do return.
At 33 years old, Diane Miller had seen more than her share of promising young minority teenagers who left school for the fast buck, the shady promise, the wistful dream, or any combination of the three. Promises to return more often than not ended with Miller at home, crying; when the newspaper or television brought news of another former students carted off to jail or, worse - in the obituary section.
“Amos, you’re a very gifted young man,” the teacher said, slowly and with emphasis on each word. “And with talent always comes responsibility.”
“Talent? Oh, thank you, ma’am,” AJ grinned. “But you beter believe I’ll never quit doing artwork.” But the English teacher was already shaking her head.
“I’m not talking about your painting talent, Amos,” she said, “Although that’s a gift you should pursue as well, so I’m glad you said that. But I’m referring to your talent as a writer.”
AJ burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you said talent and writer and Amos all together. Somehow, they don’t seem to fit all together.”
“I’ve told you about the ‘ma’am’ crap. And you are a talented writer.”
“(Sorry, Diane.) Then how come my papers from you always come back so heavily decorated in red ink?”
“Oh, Amos – that’s just grammar,” Miller said. “There is a big difference between good
grammar and good
writing. Not to mention the fact that you
know the rules of English, but you sometimes choose not to follow them."
“And, anyway, I know professors who never break a rule of language, but every paper they write is pure
crap. Believe it or not, there’s something special in the way you put words together, the words you choose, even when you don’t follow all the rules of grammar. I believe you are as much a writer as you are an artist, maybe even more.”
AJ scratched his head and wondered if teachers smoked as much weed as students. But he gave Diane Miller the promise she wanted: that AJ always would keep write - whatever, whenever and wherever he could. Then, with a final hug, he left the halls of Benjamin Franklin High School, as a student, for the last time.
Twice as Hard - 5th Excerpt
TWICE AS HARD - (5th)
First ExcerptSecond Excerpt Third Excerpt Fourth Excerpt
AJ lay back on the sofa and Lois leaned against him, encircled by AJ’s long arms. They passed a joint back and forth, with AJ doing most of the puffing. It was a little chilly in Anita’s apartment and Lois wore a small pink cardigan, but AJ was bare-chested. Between the marijuana, the tequila and the heat of youth, he needed no further covering.
“Man, it’s real cool for your sister to let you stay here,” he said.
“Yeah, but it’s a temporary situation,” Lois said. “Neville is already acting like an asshole and it’s only a matter of time before he makes Anita kick me out.” Neville was Anita’s boyfriend, but apparently Neville was not the father of Chucky, the child Anita had given birth to a mere six months earlier.
Short and slender, Neville was a brown-skinned, fast-talking country bumpkin with big city ideas. AJ was first introduced to Neville when Lois visited Anita shortly after Anita first moved into her new place. AJ joined his heartthrob at her sister’s house and found Neville to be friendly and generous.
Neville often asked AJ to go to the liquor store for him, which the younger man would eagerly do, knowing he’d get a chance to imbibe with Neville. The legal drinking age was 18, but AJ’s size and his mature bearing made it easy to assume he was older. Neville would also send AJ for weed, since the teenager knew the city. AJ never questioned why Neville enjoyed having the drug around, but seldom if ever indulged in it himself.
A native of the same town where Charles Jones was a squatter, Neville had a rather complex history with the Jones family. He had initially tried to date Lois a few years before, but the match was ill fated. Neville ran into Anita in Rochester, and totally by chance, after the young woman was attending nursing classes. After a short time courting the lonely student, Neville moved into Anita’s apartment and started taking control of her life.
AJ didn’t like the situation and he wasn’t really fond of Neville, but he understood that discretion was the better part of valor, at least until AJ and Lois could get their own apartment. In the meantime, it was a convenient place to link up and his randy hormones led AJ to that door almost every day. Thinking about such things gave AJ ideas. He closed the door to the little sitting room in Anita’s apartment again and returned to the couch where Lois sat. The R&B group
Heatwave’s hit song
Always and Forever was playing over and over on a portable record player.
There’ll always be sunshine when I look at you
Something I can’t explain; just the things that you do…AJ stared straight into Lois’ eyes and slowly moved closer. He put little kisses on her face. Her back arched and AJ unbuttoned her blouse, then unzipped her jeans. The song played on, but the listeners were otherwise engaged.
Take time to tell me you really care
And we’ll share tomorrow forever…
Twice as Hard - 4th Excerpt
TWICE AS HARD - (4th)
First ExcerptSecond ExcerptThird Excerpt
Angela Williams was not in a very good frame of mind. She sat in the living room, crocheting and chewing gum. AJ knew his mother was in a foul mood as soon as he walked through the door. He could hear the staccato sound of gum popping between her teeth on every fourth chew. Angela could rip that cadence with an astounding rhythm, one that frequently made AJ want to grab a pair of drumsticks and start jamming on the nearest flat surface.
But this time, there was no cause for jamming. AJ intuitively knew that he was the focus of his mother's ire. Felix Crenshaw's pet name for his common-law wife was "
Old Ironsides". It was never clear if Crenshaw coined the phrase in honor of the historically famous war ship, the detective character that actor Raymond Burr played on TV, or both.
Either way, the nickname fit, for Angela had a legendary temper and was tenaciously aggressive in the face of any argument (not that 'argument' was tolerated from her offspring at any rate!) Her first words confirmed his fears of confrontation.
"AJ, I got a bone to pick with you".
Uh-oh. It's never good when she starts out so direct. How much does she know? He wondered. There was no way Lois would have garnered up the courage to call AJ's mother and tell her about the situation. She didn't have that kind of intestinal fortitude.
Or does she? He sat down in a chair across from his mother and mentally mouthed Angela's own Expectations Mantra: "
Hope for the best, expect the worst and be prepared for anything!"
"Yes, mother dear?" AJ combined affectionate terminology with what he felt was his most dazzling smile; instinctively understanding that charm which might not sway another was still a potent mix with one's mother.
"Don't you 'yes-mother-dear'
me, boy!" she said, shifting her crochet work. "I got a visit from a truant officer today; why have you been out of school so much lately?"
A truant officer! AJ was outraged.
How dare they! He was almost 17 years old now -. truant officers were for kids, not young men! He tried not to let his emotions show on his face. "Well, actually I've been trying to find a job, Momma."
"Why do you have to look for a job during class hours?" Angela's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Son, are you on some kinda dope or something? Why you need money so bad?"
"
Drugs? Naw, Momma!" he sputtered.
"Boy, stop
lying! I be smelling that
weed on you sometimes"
"Aw, Momma, I
been doing that! But that ain't dope -
everybody smokes weed!"
"
You ain't everybody! You are:
Amos. Jerome. Williams. Junior." Each word was punctuated with superlative righteousness.
"I know my name, Momma. "AJ spread his hands. "What I
mean is that I don't have a drug problem."
Angela looked at her son critically. "
I'll be the judge of that. But still, your answers so far ain't good enough." She started enumerating on her fingers, which was really a bad sign.
"
First of all, I know how important your education is to you - you been on the honor roll ever since you was a freshman.
Secondly, you was so excited about going to Franklin, you dropped out of that fancy Catholic school so you could - "
"
That was about
money, Momma!" AJ replied hotly. "I couldn't stand seeing all that money go to them white folks while we ate beans and franks all the time! It was money and culture, because -
"Since when is it permissible to just interrupt your mother in the middle of a sentence, without even so much as an
'excuse-me-please,' young man?" Angela snapped, sending AJ back into a respectful silence. "My point is this: nothing makes sense about you not going to school so you can look for a job. I think it's time for you to tell me what's
really going on."
"Momma..." AJ started and trailed off. "I, uh- this is hard to... well, it concerns Lois..."
"
That girl trying to tell you she's pregnant?" AJ would never cease to be amazed by how fast his mother could deduce something from nothing. He could only nod his head, numbly.
"Boy, you ain't got the good sense God gave a
gopher!" spat Angela. "That girl ain't a
bit more pregnant than the Man in the Moon!"
"Momma, there ain't no such thing as a 'Man in the Moon'..."
"How do
you know? You been up there?"
"No, Ma'am, but..."
"Then hush up; you
might learn something."
Yep, Old Ironsides
is in full Battle Mode now. Might as well batten down the hatches and ride out the storm. "For a girl to tell a boy she's pregnant is the oldest trick in the book. She AIN'T PREGNANT!" Angela's voice dropped. "And if she is knocked up, it
ain't yours."
"Alright Momma," AJ said, rising. "That's why I didn't even want to
say anything yet. I
knew you would be all about the negative. No
solutions or anything like that - naw, not from AJ's mother; not for AJ!"
Angela was futilely trying to regain control of the conversation, but her own hot blood ran in AJ's veins. It was no easier stopping the son at this point than it would have been to stop his mother. Honor had been impugned, pride stepped upon and AJ was full of self-righteous indignation.
"But here's the deal, Momma. You're
gonna have another grandbaby. You're
only son's firstborn." AJ stood near the door now. There would be no maternal rebuttal for these words. "I only hope you get used to it before my baby gets here and be able to show him the same love you show
Bonnie's kids. I just hope."
Then the door closed behind him and AJ could be heard speeding down the stairway, skipping every two steps as he often did. Seconds later, the downstairs door slammed with an angry, glass rattling bang.
Still in the living room, Angela Williams struggled with her own thoughts and feelings.
That boy tries to do everything at breakneck speed. He's smart as the Devil, but he needs to slow down - he'll make better choices. I know he's trying to avoid making the same choices his father did, but this ain't the right way. She reflected on that last thought and, being a good Christian woman, muttered: "Lord, Help Amos."
I'll have to let Felix talk to that boy...
And did another mental double take.
But he's not really a boy
anymore, is he? Every day that passed her son was less the child and more the man. That's supposed to be a good thing - but is it? Or am I the one with the problem - the problem letting go?"
She continued to think about AJ as she crocheted. The TV droned on and the sharp pops of Angela's chewing gum punctuated every fourth beat.
Twice as Hard - 3rd Excerpt
TWICE AS HARD - (3rd)
First Excerpt
Second Excerpt
“Dis will nevah sell for 75 – the best we’re gonna get is about 50,” said Mike, the pungent, disheveled and overall cagey-looking man behind the counter of the 'head shop’ on East Main Street. “Trust me, I know dis business.” AJ considered the man’s words while he studied the object of discussion, a painting titled The Band rendered in vivid acrylic colors.
A guitarist stood in the foreground of the picture, leaning back with his right hand raised high, as if for a sharp down stroke on his instrument. To the guitarist’s left, a bass player stood, half-kneeling; thumping. To the bass player’s left (far right in the painting) a trio of female backup singers shook tambourines and hips. Right of the guitarist a keyboardist leaned over his eighty-eights while a sax player and trombone player had a brass face-off to the far right. Behind all others, a drummer half stood over his stool, whacking away as if he had eight arms.
The painting was impressive, a Realist style rendition of what one might find on the stage of almost any given Pop or R&B concert. In fact, it suggested a level of mastery seldom found in a 16-year old. The Band had won “best of show” at the annual Franklin High School art competition and AJ’s three additional entries each received Honorable Mention.
“C’mon, Mike,” the young artist pleaded. “You gotta at least try. I was offered 75 on the spot by one of the parents at the art show.”
The shop owner frowned at AJ. “Well maybe you should just sell it to that parent,” he sneered. “Then you ain’t even gotta worry about my 20 percent.”
“Aw, man – ain’t nobody trying to stiff you out of your money,” AJ grumbled. “I just think I should get something closer to what I’m worth.”
“Well even Picasso had to start somewhere, hotshot.”
“Yeah, but I ain’t trying to be Picasso,” AJ retorted. “In fact, I think the only thing he has going for himself is a really bold use of colors. Beyond that, in my opinion, Pablo Pee’s shit looks like finger-painting.”
The older man shook his head, then shook his finger at AJ. “That’s the problem with you kids, no respect!” he said. “You should pray to be half as good as Picasso someday!”
“Yeah, whatever,” AJ waved nonchalantly as he walked toward the door. “Just try to sell some of my shit for a change, I got some heavy bills, man.” He pushed out of the door and set off toward Goodman Street, where he knew a fellow that sold very potent weed. Sometimes the only way to find meaning in existence is to fade back, he reasoned.
* * *
The smell was hideous, nauseating – like three-day-old garbage, which a lot of it was. AJ stood at the unloading bay of a recycling plant as Laurence, his brother-in-law, explained the job and what it entailed. Dump trucks would come and dump loads of garbage in a wide receiving area. Laurence and his coworkers were responsible for sifting through the refuse for paper, plastic, glass and metal items, and toss them onto wide conveyer belts that took them... wherever; some strange unknown place beyond the portal through which the recyclable items vanished.
“Because you’re underage, they have to pay you under the table,” Laurence was telling AJ.
“What does that mean?”
“It basically means the boss gets a cut of your pay, but you don’t get taxes deducted.” This seemed like a decent trade-off to AJ. However, he still wanted the details explained. He knew what under the table meant, but AJ didn’t trust his brother-in-law as far as he could throw a stick.
“So, after all that, how much will I be getting?” the teenager asked.
“Twenty dollars a day, and you get paid every day,” said Laurence. “Any weeks with more than five days, you get 30 bucks for each day. We always have lots of extra work.”
AJ did a few quick calculations in his head. A hundred dollars a week, plus whatever extra days he could get. He had found an apartment where the rent was $170 per month, which included utilities. His thoughts churned so fast he thought he could hear them rattling around in his head. Will I be able to buy food, maybe diapers and formula, and get transportation back and forth to work with the other $230 a month? What about the medical expenses? Hell, what about school?! Well, like Momma always said, 'we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it...'
“Alright Laurence,” AJ finally said. “It sounds like a good deal to me. When can I start?”
Twice as Hard - 2nd Excerpt
TWICE AS HARD - (2nd)
First Excerpt
The blank canvas seemed to mock AJ, defying him to put something on it that people would consider “art.” His mind was elsewhere, perhaps for the first time, struggling with the basic elements of adulthood and independence:
Where will I find a job? What will I do about getting an apartment? Will I be able to finish school? My God, how do I tell all of this to Momma?!The answers were as elusive as the image he wanted to paint, but couldn’t fix in his mind.
Finally he pushed himself away from his makeshift easel and lit up one of the cheap cigarettes that his stepfather, Felix, would buy for him. It was a big deal when the family finally realized AJ was smoking. Angela Williams was a long time smoker who bought her cigarettes by the carton. When AJ first started pilfering her smokes, he could make a pack last him about as long as the other nine packs lasted his mother, just under a week. In time he started smoking more, however, and Angela noticed her supply diminishing at a rate disproportionate to her habit.
AJ’s baby sister, Melina, was the person who finally let the cat out of the bag. She had known all along that her brother was raiding mom’s nicotine supply, but as long as AJ could drop the occasional bribe, Melina’s discretion could be counted upon. When the candies and other treats ran out, so did sibling loyalty.
Felix, however, argued against Angela’s stated intent to punish the boy. Instead, and to AJ’s astonished delight, he said that he would
support his stepson’s smoking habit. “It’s better for him to do it here at home than out on the streets, where God knows what AJ can get into,” he said. His liberalism even extended to alcohol, because when Felix found out the youngster was also sneaking libations from the ‘hidden’ stash, Felix would even give AJ an occasional drink (but only the cheap stuff). The teen smiled as he considered how fortunate he was to have such a great step dad. Then the most irritating voice in his world shook him from his reverie.
“AJ! Come get the PHONE!” It was 11-year-old Melina, as usual, being overly dramatic. “It’s your SWEETY PIE!”
“I’ll take it in the kitchen!” AJ replied, and extinguished his cigarette. Although he had permission to smoke in front of his parents, he wasn’t yet comfortable with it and seldom exercised the privilege.
“Hey, baby.” It was Lois. She called at every opportunity whenever she was in the city, because the Jones family had no telephone service at their tiny Wayne County shack. Nor did Jones have hot running water or modern restroom facilities. Water was heated in kettles on an old cast iron, pot-bellied, wood-burning stove. If the water was for bathing, a huge metal tub (just large enough to accommodate one adult, scrunched into a fetal position) was utilized. AJ didn’t really believe the horror stories Lois told him about her father’s violent tendencies, but he didn’t want a child of his growing up in the environment Jones provided for his own offspring.
“Hey, Lois – how you feeling?”
“I’m okay, just a little worried about our
situation. You come up with any ideas yet?”
“I’m thinking on some stuff.” AJ shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit it right there in the kitchen. Damn family values – this was stressful! “My brother-in-law might be able to get me work at his spot.”
“What does he do?”
“Does it
matter?” AJ snapped. “He brings home a
paycheck that’s what he does! That’s what I need to do, too.” The young man regretted his harsh words as soon as they spilled from his lips. A stretch of silence increased the tension. “Look, Lois, I’m sorry for snapping at you. I’m just a little stressed by all this.”
“I understand.” There was another period of silence. “I think my sister will let me stay with her for awhile.”
“
You told Penny?!” AJ asked, incredulous. Penny was Lois’ second oldest sister and Lois usually stayed with Penny and her husband Carl whenever the teenager came to Rochester. AJ got along okay with both Penny and Carl, but he didn’t believe Penny could be counted on for discretion in something as big as news of a pregnancy.
“No, not Penny. My other sister – Anita.”
“Ah,” said AJ, finally understanding. Only two years older than Lois, Anita had recently moved to the city in order to attend nursing classes at one of the local colleges and to care for her 5-month-old son, Chucky. Apparently, the idea of raising a child in her father’s house was no more appealing to Anita than it was to AJ. “ But doesn’t she have just a one-bedroom?”
“Yeah, but it’s only for awhile, right?” Lois’ words contained both hope and despair. “By the time the baby gets here, we’ll have something of our
own, right?”
And there you have it – back on me again. It always comes back on me in the end. AJ muttered something lukewarm, and then told Lois he was working on a new painting and asked her to call him later. The lovebirds hung up, neither feeling any more secure than when the call started. AJ wondered how he would be able to meet the challenges that seemed to rise from the very ground in front of him. Lois wondered how long it would be before her young boyfriend turned chicken and fled in juvenile terror.
Twice as Hard - 1st Excerpt
TWICE AS HARD - (1st)
Early September, 1977
Rochester, NY
Sunlight streamed through the wide window of the fast food restaurant, bathing patrons in the year’s last significantly warm rays. But as far as AJ was concerned, it could be raining buckets outside. A faint smile lifted the corners of his lips as he thought about the irony of how two little words could change a man’s life forever.
“Did you hear me?” Lois asked, with growing irritation. “I said I’m pregnant.”
AJ’s response was mere look. However, it was a hard look, a look that spoke volumes. It was a look that said: Yeah, I heard you loud and clear, but I need to wrap my brain around this before I open my mouth, so please be quiet. The nonverbal communication was effective enough that Lois said nothing further, but instead resumed biting her fingernails, a habit that drove AJ absolutely nuts.
This can’t be happening to me, he thought. I’m only 16 years old… Amos Jerome Williams (known as “AJ”) had big plans for his life, and becoming a teenaged father was not on the agenda. Amos was a highly regarded honor student and he dreamed of practicing law one day. However, because he came from a family that lived well below the poverty level, he knew that just paying his way through college would be a huge challenge. If he had to support a child at the same time, getting through college would be nearly impossible.
AJ stood nearly six feet tall and he weighed 155 pounds. Copper-brown skin and long, wavy hair contributed to the ‘Pretty Boy’ label he endured from some contemporaries, but this young man was no shrinking violet. His interests included football, wrestling and track and he also was an occasional martial arts student. AJ’s was an enormous ego and he considered himself a ‘chick magnet’ but he had never been made to contemplate the consequences of unprotected sex. That is, until now.
Finally, AJ turned to Lois. When he knew he had her attention, he asked: “So how do you know this isn’t a false alarm - like last time?” The two youngsters had just dealt with a scare a few months before, right after the first time they had intercourse together. Lois was late on her cycle and declared AJ had better prepare for fatherhood. When the delinquent menses was finally announced, the young man’s relief was indescribable. She’s probably scaring her own damn period away – didn’t I read somewhere that menstrual cycles could be affected by stress? Lois seemed to read his mind.
“Amos, I’m a woman; and a woman knows her body!” Lois retorted. AJ fell silent. He didn’t know enough about female anatomy to argue the point.
“So what do you think we should do?” He finally asked.
“Well, I sure as hell can’t let my Daddy find out,” said Lois. “He would kill me!”
Lois Jones was a ‘cutie’ by almost any standards. She stood 5’2” tall and her nubile frame carried just over a hundred pounds. Big, warm brown eyes were perhaps her most attractive feature, and a magnificent Afro surrounded her head. Lois was a few months younger than AJ and she came from a family just as economically disadvantaged as his, but her folks were rural, in contrast to AJ’s ghetto origins. Lois’ mother, Ella Jones, died from cancer when Lois was only 10 years old. She left Lois’ father, Charles Jones, with eight children to raise on his own. Lois was third youngest.
One of the people who attended Ella’s funeral was an old friend of the deceased, Honora Smith. Honora, who traveled up from the south to pay her respects, found her heart pierced when she became aware of the plight of widower Jones and his brood. Shortly after the funeral, she moved in with the family, assuming all the responsibilities of motherhood, although Honora never had children of her own. Over time she and Jones developed a romantic interest and then lived together as husband and wife, if oddly paired. The adaptable children had little difficulty switching from “Aunt Honora” to simple “Honora”. But she would never earn the title ‘mother,’ no matter how Honora dedicated herself to the Jones family. Nor would Charles Jones ever wed her.
For his part, Jones was but a shadow of his former self after his wife’s death. He started drinking more and more. He often would call his children by the wrong name; Candy for Lois and Tina for Penny. Jones more often than not called Honora by his late wife’s appellation – ‘Ella Mae’ – when he was in his cups. Occasionally, and without clear reason, Jones would physically beat Lois and her siblings. When Honora tried to intercede for the children, she’d get a beating as well. Her father’s drunken aggression was the reason Lois feared him finding out about her pregnancy.
“Lois, I love you and I’ll always take care of you,” said AJ. “But I’m still in school, I don’t have any money or a job – how will we support ourselves?”
There was never a question in AJ’s mind that it would be the two of them – like Bonnie and Clyde – not just Lois trying to be a single young mother. AJ’s own father, Amos Senior, had been missing in action as long as the young man could remember. AJ could vaguely recall a time during his preschool years when his dad had been around, but it was so long ago AJ couldn’t even trust his own dim recollection. His mother, Angela Williams, was the father AJ never had during his early years and her common-law husband Felix Crenshaw was all the dad a fellow needed, as far as AJ was concerned. Nevertheless, the young man was determined that no child of his would endure the same fatherless environment AJ had experienced.
“You don’t have to worry about it, Amos – I’ll find a way to take care of my baby!” The brave words Lois spoke were a thin veil over the layers of fear and anxiety AJ knew lurked right under the surface. “I ain’t getting no abortion – that’s for sure!”
AJ ignored the last, because the possibility of abortion had never crossed his mind. For one thing, his conservative Christian upbringing didn’t allow him to seriously consider the option, and for another the thought of being a father, even at his young age, gave the young man a stirring of pride that he had never really felt before. His cousin, Sly, was only two years older than AJ and his second child was expected during the coming spring.
“No, we’re in this together,” he said to Lois. “I won’t leave you; not now or ever. Finish your drink; we need to get out of here.”
With those words, he set his life on a course that would take him farther away from his dream the he could ever imagine.
(to be continued)
Charlie's Angels and tha Dogg Pound
It was another Snoop Dogg episode. That fool had me all over the north side last night and I can't even remember all the shit we got into, or how I got home. When I woke up, I was laying next to an empty bottle of something I didn't even want to contemplate and an unlit cigarette still clutched in my right paw. Luckily, someone has been thoughtful enough to slip a newspaper under me. In my condition, there could very easily have been an accident.
The doorbell rang and it was
Goofy and
Scooby. Scooby was trying to talk which was a stupid idea because his shit always sounds like "Scooba-rooba-roo!" and only a few dumb ass humans can ever figure out what the fuck he means. Before I could ask Goofy to interpret though, I heard a -
thunka-thunka-thunk!- and Goofy slumped against the side of my building! Holy dog biscuit - He was shot!
Scooby and I dragged Goofy into the house and closed the door - just in time. -
Thunka-thunka-thunk!- three more rounds slammed into the door just as I pushed it shut behind us. "What the hell is happening heree? I barked. Scooby had went to the window and was pointing to a house across the street. I didn't have my spectacles, so I squinted to see what he was trying to show me. "
Scooby, get down!" I yelled, and just in time.
The bullets missed us both, but I had seen the glint of chrome sticking out of one of the windows in the house across the street and I smelled the catnip on the shooter. It was crazy ass
Katanonia! I met her at on the street one day when it was raining cats and dogs. Barely saved her from being crushed under a hail of poodles. Her gratitude was great enough to merit a one-night-stand, but she started stalking me after that. She said I was a no good dog. I said: "DUH!"
I relayed my thoughts to Scooby while he was checking Goofy's injuries. Luckily, all three bullets struck Goofy in the head, which meant they missed all his major organs. He would be fine. The, the sceen came to life over my computer and I went to investigate. A weird sound wa coming from my sub-woofer. I started feeling... relaxed.
"
Get away from there!" Scooby snarled and he snatched the speaker wires out of the chassis and started tapping out a series of commands on the keyboard.. "There, that should do it," he said with satisfaction. When I asked what happened he said: "I recognized that sound. It was
Kategory, trying to hit us with a mind control signal from her evil server. I sent back a virus that will give her crazy hunger pangs and make her want to eat whatever is in her line of sight."
"Damn, Scooby, how do you
know all this shit?"
"Don't forget I was a TV detective before you were born, puppy..." Scooby said. For one, I didn't even mind his garbled up speech impediment. (Like I said, usually only a few humans can decipher Scooby's words.) "But we need to get out of here." He continued. "This is too much for a coincidence - some one is after us!. Do you know any heroes?"
Before I could respond, the back wall of my apartment disintergrated as a firetruck rammed through it and into my living room.
Snoop Dogg sat in the driver's seat and next to him, tied up with fire hose and duct tape; eyes rolling wildly, was a big ass
Dalmation. "I heard you bitches need a
hero?" Snoop said, with his patented gansta drawl.
Scooby snatched the Dalmation off the seat and I threw Goofy's still unconscious dumb ass into the back and crawled up front with my home dogs. We backed up and peeled off.
"What the hell is going on!" I barked again, for what seemed like the hundredth time.
"Why don't you call that punk ass
General Katastrophe and see what she knows?" Snoop suggested. That was the best idea so far. He flipped me his cell phone and I caught it like a frisbee. Katastrophe answered on the first ring.
"It's about time you irresponsible jackals called me," she said. "I've been expecting you."
"
Don't give me that smug super villian bullshit!" I snapped back. Why are you cats doing this shit?"
"Because we
need you," Katastrophe replied. "They cancelled
Charlie's Angels. Fortunately, Katatonia, Kategory and myself are ready to step in to fill the ladies' shoes. However, we need one of you to commit to be our
Charlie and another to be our
Bagwell -"
The rest of her spiel was cut off, because I slammed the phone down. Snoop glanced at me curiously. "What that bitch want from us," he asked?
"
Commitment!" I yelled back. "
Punch it!"
And he did. We got the hell away from there doing 85 mph, with tires squealing and sirens blaring. No way in hell a crew of fun loving dogs like us would commit to anything!
Naw, we want to keep it just like it is:
rolling down the street, smoking endo, sipping on gin and juice. Laid Back...
Hot days and cool nights
This week we spent a lot of time working to promote the first annual fund-raising dinner for CONEA and SAC, an unprecendented collaboration between major activists groups in the Latin American community and the African American community. Unfortuantely, other organizers had so much on their plate that we didn't get things out as timely as desired, waiting for approval for this or that. However the project was ultimately completed and it could be looked at as another bargaining chip from one of my investors who has acute interests in CONEA and their neighborhood rehabilitation projects.
Sound engineers are coming out of the woodwork, wanting to work on my CD project. Mark still wants to get me in Houston and my old friend Coole High would like me to let him do his thing in Brooklyn. I might parcel out the work. Coole is great with Beats, Mark has remarkable expertise with ballad type music, and Mike D is still the man for all around sound effects.
Last night was pretty decent at the open mic. A small crowd, but among them were my sister, my niece and her young ones. Gonna be interesting to see how tonight goes, since we're competing against the first day of 2K6 JazzFest.
Everybody on MySpace is clamoring for me to publish. Shit, I'm already published - just under marketed and under promoted. I'm into CDs now, baby. Peopele will more readily listen than they will read.
Hot days and cool nights. My favorite time of year and I'm CAPITALIZING on all fronts.
Hotep.
Right Where I Need To Be
Lately, I've been spending a great deal of time and energy on
MySpace. When I signed up little more than a month ago, the banner proclaimed that MySpace had 71 million members. This morning, that number was up to
82 million, and still climbing fast.
Through MySpace
poetry blogging, I've met some truly wonderful, talented and helpful people. I'm feeling very confident about pulling off a full-blown Spoken Word expo in Rochester (a weekend to start with, but maybe a full week in 2008) by next summer. I was also hoping, perhaps, to meet a noble damsel who wouldn't mind occasionally rescuing a Knight in distress,
na'ah mean?
On MySpace, I met
Jay, a Toronto resident, who is already making plans to get some of his folks down to my open mic and have us (Rochesterians) return the visit. I met
Aleki, a Nigerian who asked me for permission to post one of my poems on her wall.
Suna is a French composition instructor who wanted to use my "Arguments" piece in her class.
Mindstorm is going International and SWORD is coming with me.Then, there are my domestic friends:
John, Jennifer, David, Jane, Cloda, Big Ed... the list is practically endless (LOL! 82 million strong, actually!) Sometimes I have to almost physically pull myself away from that MySpace portal and force myself to do other things. Not that MySpace blogging and networking doesn't bring its own rewards; in addition to personal relationships, I've used MySpace for
incredible promotion of my open mic activities. But the people give me almost TOO MUCH love... I get complimented on my prose as if I were the 2nd coming of Virgil. (Or maybe the 3rd, if you count Dante's dalliance, I dunno - I'm a poet, not an historian.)
Mark has been begging me to go to Houston. "Yo, bruh - if you haven't been produced in audio yet,
you need to holla at your boy!" And indeed, I've heard his own audio productions, which aren't bad by a long shot, but
I didn't think I should have to travel so far. Rochester has more than her share of sound engineers.
And then
Mike D. contacts me. I had the pleasure of hosting Mike when we had open mics at
SPoT Coffee last year, and he is absolutely phenomenal with a guitar, and with a mixing board. In short, Mike produces the cleanest frigging audio in this whole town (click on the pic above to hit his site). He's been busy as hell, giving guitar lessons to other local pros (a statement right there about his own superiority), performing studio services for a lot of other clients and engineering sound for short video clips (PSAs, etc.)
Mike and I had discussed working together as far back as November, when I wanted this dynamic vocalist named
Chantel to lay background for some of my spoken word. Well, I think Chantel disappeared in a haze of rehab, Mike had to finish up his studies at Oneida and I moved on to other things than SPoT. But Mike and I resumed talks about a joint project after I located him on Myspace. I got a quote from him and two days later (this morning) we were in his studio, doing the damn thing.
I haven't heard
myself in 3 years, since I used to go to
Hold Your Head studio every morning, only to have my work disappear in a cloud of cannabis every afternoon. So naturally, the first thing Mike and I did was to check levels, and I spit
something (might have been freeestyle) just to warm it up.
When I heard myself, I was stunned. My first thought:
Damn! I GOTTA get this dude down to my open mic! Of course my second thought was an inward chuckle:
Shit! I already have him, under LIFETIME contract! There's been significant improvement in my delivery in three years, and I wasn't
bad then. But man,
I rocked some shit today!
To make a long story short, we completed an entire CD (18 tracks!) in three short hours. The tentative title is
Ballistic Balance, but that's extremely fluid. I've been listening to myself all day (per Mike's suggestion) but
no corrective edits are needed. Oh sure, I'll change the arrangement, add sound effects and maybe throw in a few skits, but the vocal part is
done and the results are far beyond my expectations.
As for noble damsels; yeah, there are a lot of
really cool femmes on 'Space and I've had some interesting exchanges, but nothing that would impact this poet's life more than casually. No need to go international for
that, though. As spring increases her caress on this temperate paradise, more than lilacs and roses do bloom.
(Shit. I missed making that call to
Curtis K again on the
Drum & Bugle Corps story again today! I gotta pick up the pace on that one,
Carolyn said
about... time is depending on me for that story [plus maybe another] this month and I've already got so much shit on my plate I can barely see the frigging table. Also heard that
Jim lost his father, and that was a bummer. Jim and I haven't vibed as well since he got old and cantankerous, but I still love him like a godfather.)
Overall, despite some of the damnedest twists and turns one could imagine,
life is good -very good - and now I'm certain that I'm right where I need to be.
Mark, I'll check you out in H-Town some other time, bruh. For the moment, I got work to do.
Hotep!
I’m so late reading my subscriptions that it will take at least a week to catch up, and that only if I did nothing but read. I apologize to those writers, but I will catch up. (Somehow.) My reasons for delinquency range from a few complex writing projects of my own to family matters. Most recently it’s family matters. Good ones.
My oldest daughter, Jazmyne, turned 22 years old Saturday and my son KJ turned 10 years old Monday. Jazmyne lives in Indiana. KJ lives in Florida. I live in the great state of New York, as do four of my princes (Willis, Brandon, Jonathan, Brandon, Jr) and five of my princesses (Dominique, Desiree, Vondaya, Kinyata, Shannon).
