Grande Blond Roast, Black

Two white boys walk home in the fading light. Their identical  navy blue sports coats ,with the insignia of whatever day school they attend, highlight the posh character of this upper westside neighborhood. Their conversation is indistinct through the window I view them from,  but one can see from their loping gait and flopping hair that they are uninhibited, carefree. The taller of the two holds a  bag of popcorn and flings individual kernels at his mouth,  unbothered that much of his snack has ended up on the city sidewalk. Their heads draw back in laughter as they enter the building across the street. 

Down the block are two teenagers, ambling slowly toward the building. Night has settled now so it's difficult to see, but you can nonetheless tell that they've got the love bug. The girl lays her head against her guy's shoulder as they stroll, and the boy's mouth snaps open and shut in rapid succession. I wonder if he is talking at a frenetic pace, maybe telling a joke or recounting some story from the day, desperately trying to get it all out  in a single breath. 

 I observe an older woman and her two schnauzers amble toward the entrance. Two middle aged women in exercise clothes hurry past the doorman who gracefully steers the grand doors open.  I see several men, each with brief cases  hurriedly enter the building, their legs seemingly gliding over the pavement.  Then, its all clear. 

 I take another sip of my Starbucks grande blond roast, black. I glance at my watch. Fifteen minutes to go. I'll wait. 

The building I'm headed to is a gorgeous red-brick.  A sign that announces the building's elegant-sounding name is illuminated by dim sconces reminiscent of the Ivy League. This building is majestic but not gaudy---clearly, the monied people here aren't new to riches and have no need to show off...too much. 

From my position at the the Starbucks across the street, I've been contemplating my next move.  I absolutely do not want to arrive too early to my tutoring session. I don't want to end up dead this night,  and surprising white folk is great way of hurrying life along.  

I've told this to my white friends before, the part about not surprising white folk.  "You're being paranoid," they say, "Why does everything have to be a race issue."  Maybe. Maybe not.

Last year, in the dead of winter,  I broke my rule and arrived at a session 10 minutes early. The apartment I was going to was in a white enclave in Inwood, a quiet stretch that has somehow has managed to keep out the Dominicans that dominate the rest of the neighborhood. It was freezing outside that afternoon, and there was no Starbucks to wait it out nearby. 

As I walked toward the apartment building, I saw a teenage boy coming toward me, his arm wrapped around his girl. As they got closer, I realized that I knew this boy--- it was the brother of my tutoree. I also observed that at the rate that he and his girlfriend were walking, we would get to the apartment door at the same time.

I had met the approaching teenager on several occasions that I had been working with his brother. In fact, we had exchanged salutary remarks in passing, nearly every time I had been over to tutor. 

Nevertheless, I worried that this encounter had the potential for racial tension. After all,  I was a big black man loitering in front of an apartment building where my kind clearly didn't live. 

On another occasion, I would have waited for this boy and the girlfriend to go in. Then, after giving them time to get to the apartment, I would have buzzed up and been let in.  That day, however, the cold beat out my common sense. 

"Good afternoon," I said with a wide smile as the boy and his girl approached the door.  

"Hi," said the girl good-naturedly, her rosy cheeks flushed in the frigid air.

The boy nodded. "You need to be let in?" he inquired.  

As the three of us entered the apartment building, I remarked on the terrible winter we were having. It had in fact snowed an awful lot.  

Generally, I am silent in elevators with white folk. That day, though, I needed to say something to diffuse the mounting tension as the three of us crammed into the tiny apartment elevator. Nothing calms white people like weather talk.

As the door closed, the boy hit "7" on the elevator key pad. Then, in a tone that was overly formal, he addressed me: 

 "What floor, sir?"  

With a toothy grin, I said "7th!"

The polite smile that had played upon the boy's pasty face dropped slightly, and I could see that I was in for it. I had thought that he recognized me at the door, but now I knew for sure that he in fact had no idea who I was. I knew now that no matter how I sliced it, this exchange was going to be uncomfortable. 

What happened next was classic. 

"If you don't mind my asking," he said, his grip around his girlfriend tightening, "what apartment are you going to? Do you live in the building?"

Ah. There it was.

I laughed disarmingly.  

"I don't live here. And I'm going to YOUR apartment," I sang out, good humor punctuating every syllable.

The girl laughed uncomfortably. The boy turned a stark white. His body went rigid in terror. 

"I'm your brother's tutor," I hurriedly added, "I know, I'm a little early today."

The elevator must have been in slow motion.  

"OH!" gasped the boy in relief, "Shit!  I don't have my glasses on, man, I'm sorry, I didn't know who you were!"

Racial decorum dictates that in these racially charged moments, black folk must assuage white racism by assuring them that their terror of you is utterly justified. 

As the elevator opened up on the 7th floor, I told the embarrassed boy not to worry. I said I understood his wariness, and that his instinct to question someone  he didn't know was "right on." 

 Despite my best intentions, though,  a sliver of sarcasm dotted my words. Harmful people, I assured him, could be wearing a Jones New York peacoat, suit pants, and dress shoes as I had worn that day. I HAD changed my hairstyle recently, so I DID in fact look different than I had the last time I had seen him, days before. And anyway, he should make sure to wear his glasses more often. 

When I got to the apartment and began working with the boy's younger brother, I found my mind wandering.

 Would this boy have asked a grown white man  he didn't recognize where he was going? Would he have viewed such a person with the same suspicion?  

And, on a more grim note, had I not worked hard to quickly dispel the boy's  fear, and had he been armed, could I have been hurt?  After all, his naked terror had been palpable, and scared people do stupid things....

--------------------------

Five minutes left until my session.  I happily observe that the streets remain mostly clear---no one approaches the building of today's session. With a last slurp of my coffee, I stand up to go, moving in a slow delicate motion.  In my head, I review the rules of engagement:

1. Do not show up too early; you don't want surprise white folk. Too early is 5 minutes early. 30 seconds early is too early. You want to get there exactly on the mark. 

2. When entering a building, enter by yourself. Do NOT enter right behind white folk . You don't want to scare them.

3.  Do your best to get on an elevator by yourself, but if you cannot avoid it, smile broadly and say nothing. If someone addresses you, and you get the feeling that they're worried about your black presence,  flash a huge smile,  and comment on the weather. 

4. White folks do not know what you look like, no matter how many times you've been in their house. Therefore, you must remember that you are the big black demon of their nightmares in the first several minutes of your encounter, until you remind them otherwise. 

5. Try to mitigate any racism, no matter how blatant, by blaming the bias of white folk on anything and everything else. Whatever you do, try to avoid making white folk feel guilty. 

6. It can't be said too often, but let's get it down to talking points: Try not to surprise white folk.   Try not scare white folk.  Don't make white folk feel guilty. 

Because surprise, fear, and guilt are the things that get a nigga killed...

The Belly of Harlem (Part I and II)

PART I:

 "Leave me alone," the dark haired girl whines, running her hand through her curls. She's vain about her hair, making damn sure that every strand is in perfect order. Daring to mess all that up by running her fingers through is a gesture of frustration from her childhood that she's never quite gotten over.

 "Just leave me be, ok? I can't be dealin' with this right now," she protests again, lightly shoving the tall man crowding her at the 145th subway station. Now she runs her hands down her clothes, but immediately pulls them away as though her her navy blue and white blouse is scalding at the touch. She's remembered that the gel she's laid down to keep her hair in place is not yet dry and she can't risk smearing that on her blouse. Not today, when everything needed to be perfect.

 Her mother had given her this blouse two Christmases before. They had sat across from one another, mother and daughter, the garish white plastic Christmas tree on the table slightly obscuring each other's faces. The small, tidy apartment in the Mott Haven section of the Bronx was as festive as the the home ever got, and in the background an old style boom box played Nat King Cole quietly. The graying walls held pictures of Ayla at varying stages. Here, she was a kindergartener, accepting her "gradution" diploma. There, she was a smiling 5th grader, at St. Francis' middle school "promotion" ceremony. There were no pictures from high school graduation, but then, Ayla hadn't made it to that milestone.

 That winter had been extremely cold, and Ayla had been glad to huddle inside the large, overheated building that had once been a warehouse. She hadn't seen her mother since the summer, when, as always, they'd had a disagreement over money. and her job as a promoter. and her friendship with Terri.

 As Ayla came through the door of her mother's apartment, the scent of curry and fried grease from the meal's preparation pervaded the space. Still, a vague aroma of soot and gasoline lingered, a seemingly permanent remnant of the gross fires that had consumed the neighborhood some 20 years before.

 She'd hadn't been surprised that Ma Bailey had gotten her a gift. They'd gone months without talking before, but her mother was always sure to remember Christmas and her birthday, even through these silences. Ayla, of course, hadn't brought anything. She knew that even if she had, her mother would have refused it anyway, saying that she should spend any money she had on "improving herself first and foremost."

 From the moment she had removed the article from the Macy's blue and black wrapping paper, Ayla had hated the blouse, with it's old school, conservative cut, and it's pathetic navy blue and white checkered pattern. But for the fact that she was here on a mission, Ayla would have chastised her mother about the fact that she, in her 21 years of existence, had never, ever worn a blouse. She had never been a girly girl (save for her obsession with her hair) and she resented her mother's constant attempt to make her act more like a "proper lady."

"Ma," Ayla said, gingerly placing the blouse under the folding chair she sat on, "I'm pregnant." Ma Bailey's impassive face looked up from the curried goat she had been viciously attacking and gave her daughter her patented dead eyed stare. She chewed deliberately, her prominent jawline and long oval face making her appear very much like the quadruped she supped on.

 Like many West Indian women, she wasn't a smiley person, but she wasn't mean either. She was a dogmatic figure, firmly set in her ways, and as intransigent as amalgamated steel. Children (pronounced "chilrren") needed to avoid "rudeness" (said with a rolled "r") and "back chattin" demanded immediate and violent corrective action, no matter the situation or age of the child. For Ma, the world existed only for those whom she interacted with. The Jews she cleaned apartments for were rich and cheap but "the white people" (everyone else) were "natural evil". All the St Thomians she went to church with all the way in Brooklyn were "a lazy bunch" (herself excluded of course) and the Jamaicans and Trinidadians talked too much. The Dominicans who lived next door couldn't be trusted, but her Puerto Ricans neighbors were flat out "thieving" (pronounced "tee-vin).

 Ma didn't offer much on the subject of love, though she seemed to have a mild contempt for the male species. As a child, when Ayla had been curious about who her father was Ma had pointed to her night stand, where a small black and white picture of an exceptionally handsome white-looking man in soldier's garb rested. He had thick curly hair and light, almost translucent eyes. "He's dead, child, and it's probably better that way," she'd said in a matter of fact tone. "Now quit all your gabbin, and do your chores like I asked you too."

Now, as Nat King Cole drawled "Have Yourself a Merry Christmas,"  Ma considered her daughter, in her "OBEY" t-shirt, and her oversize baggy jeans, her short curly hair, and her septum piercing.

 "Well, " she  said, picking at a piece of Johnny cake on get plate, "is he white?"

 Ayla sighed, and put down her fork, suddenly feeling a loss of appetite. "He's Puerto Rican."

------------------------------------------
PART II:

 "Just leave me alone boy, I ain't PLAYIN' with you," says the curly haired girl with light, almost translucent eyes.

Today is her big interview, a huge opportunity. The last three years had been a blur. The sudden passing of her mother. The long  unexpected period of mourning that had consumed her.  Her rash decision to get her GED one night while putting away shots of Bacardi with Terri at the lesbian bar over in Tremont. The softening transformation that came over her as she began wearing makeup and removed her most obscene piercings. Her enrollment in community college classes while Terri stayed with the baby.  Her graduation just last week with an associates degree. And today, an interview with a dental practice looking for a hygienist.

 The man in front of her leans in and gives two sloppy kisses, sticking his tongue out in wet hot anticipation. His hands, jittery with excitement, grabs everywhere, now grazing her ass, now passing over her breast.

"Stop it nigga, go home. I ain't got shit for you " The man smiles condescendingly, and unsteadily reaches out, pulling her bag.

" No, Brandon-"

 In a flash of strength, the man yanks the satchel bag, and laughs out loud when Ayla yelps in outrage.

"GIMME BACK MY BAG, YOU CRACK HEAD!"

In an instant, the playfulness in the man vanishes and is replaced with a violent hard edge. In a swift motion, his  hands are wrapped around her wrists, digging deep into her flesh. His blue eyes glitter in malice and pleasure, and a bright sheen of sweat dots his golden skin.

 Ayla had once thought those blue eyes had been pretty. They'd always been mean, but their scariness had been enticing. dangerous. alluring. She'd met Brandon Gonzalez at Zeus, the small tattoo place on Christopher street. He'd been the tattoo artist who had worked on Ayla's first, a skull and heart from the indie band Rice. She'd tattooed the area between her toes, a decidedly uncomforatable place for needle work, but she'd been determined to appear hard and unbothered.

 He had been deeply amused by her. She was hot as fuck but, it seemed to him, determined to hide it behind a hipster/goth facade. He found out that getting into her pants was only a matter of complimenting the shit out of her. Still, he had a Catholic sense of duty in him and when he'd gotten her pregnant after a month of hooking up, they'd moved in together.

Now, as she stared into the hapless eyes of her first love, she wondered if she should have known then that this dude was hyped up on all kinds of shit. He'd lost his job long ago they'd stopped living together soon after, before her baby boy had been born.

 Still, when things were particularly bad for him, Brandon always managed to show up in her life, always at the most inconvenient times, always demanding her attention, always taking her money...

 "Listen, you fuckin dyke," Brandon hisses, his mouth inches away from Ayla's ears, "Don't talk to me that way. I will fuck you UP right here, right now."

 A young man nearby on the platform, turns his head way, pretending to be buried in a novel. A woman in her janitorial suit puts on her Dr. Beats headphones, oblivious. The high school students a couple of feet away gawk for a moment, before moving down the platform. The officer down the way casually glances over and then contently whistles to himself.

 "I'm sorry Brandon," Ayla says, taking a breath and speaking as sweetly as her voice allowed.
 "I'm just stressed out, that's all. Christopher couldn't sleep last night so I guess I'm just hype about that. He look just like you, you know."

Ayla watches her ex-boyfriend's eyes for a sign that what she'd said had taken effect. The mere mention of their son always calms Brandon down, no matter what he was on.

 "Watch yourself," Brandon says after a moment, gruffly, gradually loosening the young woman from his iron grip. "Now gimme a kiss."

Silently, she obeys as he runs his grimmy hands over her blouse, in her hair, over her body.

 "I need a couple dollars, girl," he commands, his trembling hands coming to rest over her buttocks. Ayla nods.

Gingerly, she unplucks herself from his embrace, and takes the bag that dangles over his shoulders. Reaching in, she produces a crisp 5 dollar bill.

 "Bitch," he warns, his eyes darkening for a brief moment. Sighing, she hands him another 10.

Suddenly, a low rumble can be heard down the deep tunnels, and the lights of an approaching train appear. She barrels forward at a great speed, majestic in the filthy subterranean platform; several hundred tons of elegant efficiency, a glorious electronic modern miracle.

 She does not ponder ramifications and complications. She does not wonder about justification and rationalization. She does not feel anticipation or stimulation. She just moves.

 With an almost effortless strength, she pushes out outward, snarling the shell of a man against the tracks, buried deep in the belly of Harlem.

Georgia Pines

Kane is a boss.   His emasciated figure looks impassively at the camera, his expression almost smirking. He wears the same dark tweed jacket that he always wore at University, a plaid composite blue and black pattern. His light colored eyes and carmel skin radiates  a sort of enigmatic vitality, a tribute to the tacit taboo of his mixed race heritage.

According to the  alumni magazine article, he's become a restaraunteer up in Harlem. Somehow, he's figured out how to combine reality tv with gourmet dining in a way that is  "brave" and "fresh" and "daring."

My stomach roils as I sit on the toilet reading about how his father, also a graduate of the University, had bankrolled his operation. His mother's friends in government had futhermore assisted in the endeavor by streamlining the process for obtaining the necessary licenses.

 After a few paragraphs, I get the point. Despite graduating college during the great recession and having to stave off his dream of becoming a banker, Kane is a restaurant wunderkind. Against all odds, he's made something of himself.

"James," I call through the door of the cramped bathroom, "Pass me some toilet paper."

I would have washed my bum with the magazine, but I risk getting an unpleasant paper cut that way. Holding the door barely ajar, he tosses the two ply roll in and  I excavate the  remaining pieces from my ass. Standing, I pull up my trousers, walk to the sink and wash my hands. Though I look into the mirror, nobody stares back at me. 

Outside of the bathroom, my 12 year old brother sits on a large blue beanbag chair, lost in the enormous television in front him.  Some wildly violent cartoon is on, but my brother, seeming to sink ever more into the voluminous chair, glassily stares on.

"Hey fat ass," I call to him, "did you call 911 yet?" 

 He shakes his head imperceptibly, his attention squarely on the vivid images on the High Definition television in front of him. 

Sighing, I look out at the gray skies and the towering Georgia pines that line the streets. Not for the first time that day, I wish I could roam free, out of doors, and explore this suburb of Atlanta. I can hear the wind shaking a tiny maple on the front lawn, and I wonder if Georgia has black squirrels like those at the University.

I try opening the front door and, as per usual, it's locked. I try shattering the window, but only succeed in making my arm and wrist throb. I try calling through the space in the floor where I can see the garage below us, but my voice bounces back into my face as though I were screaming into a concrete wall. 

Huddling into a ball, I begin to count down from 5. When I arrive at 0 and look around, I realize my surrounds are little changed. The room is still immaculate, the staid beige furniture in perfect place. James is now feasting on a huge steak with roasted potatoes,  smearing the grease all over his oversized off white Adidas  t-shirt.' My stomach growls and for the 100th time I need to take a dump.

"James we've got to call 911."  

Without looking, he picks up the landline sitting next to him, and dials. 

"What do you want me to say?" he asks, his voice flat and unbothered. Before I can answer, he's already talking. 

"Hi, could you come over? Cool. bye." He tosses the phone aside, and continues eating, his face reflecting the blaring television.

"Are we gonna be saved?" I ask, still huddled in a ball.

"I dunno," he murmurs, between burps. 

I remember my dad had tried saving us once. 

He had taken me and James to a church somewhere in the boonies. We'd gotten there late, of course and walked into the building as the preacher mounted her pulpit in an enormously cavernous sanctuary .

"If you turn on the news," begins the reverend, who is radiant in a white robe and large golden hoop earrings, " they'll tell you about global warming. They'll tell you about poverty and drought in Africa. They'll report the death in the Sudan, flood in Thailand, earthquake in Japan, persecution in Israel, annihilation in North Korea, destitution in Detroit, prostitution in New York City, evolution in Mississippi, and air pollution in LA. They'll tell you of death, and disease, and poisoned politicians and political poison, of regicide, genocide, infanticide, suicide."

She says this in a smooth voice that seems to crescendo with the force of an ocean tide,and the congregations' eyes shine bright as their very souls become enchanted byher words. 

I remember thinking that we were facing backwards, away from the Cross, but when I turn, I find only a chalice, half filled with water.

"MY FLOCK, WE MUST REJECT THE GLOOM AND DOOM," the priestess chants vigorously.

"RENOUNCE THE SATANIC CALL THAT WE HAVE LET DETERIORATE OUR MINDS, THE DRIVEL THAT CLAIMS TO GIVE US SIGNS OF THE END, NO NO NO NO, WE MUST LOOK AT THE WORLD AS  THOUGH WE ARE AT A TIME OF BEGINNING, OF RENEWAL, OF NEW BIRTH, OF POSSIBILITY, OF EXPECTATION, AND EXCEPTIONALISM,  OF GRACE, OF LOVE, AND POSSIBILITY. WE MUST LOOK FORWARD NOT WITH A SENSE OF GUILT AND REGRET BUT WITH A DESIRE TO BE GREAT."

At this climax, she descends from the pulpit and begins walking down the isle with outstretched arms and glides to the first row of pews.  From her deep pockets, she removes a flip phone and holds it before the congregation. 

"OWN YOUR FUTURE. RELEASE YOURSELF FROM THE BEAST!"

With a horrific crash, the terrible woman in white slams the phone against the gleaming wooden floors, punctuating  her deed with triumphant stomp on the pieces in front of her. With several steps, she approaches the chalice, and dips her hands in a ritualistic cleansing.

 The congregation is transfixed. As though in a trance, members all over the church stand and remove their phones. With devastating force, they smash their devices  to smithereens and line up to be annointed at the chalice. 

It takes all my strength not to hurl my own mobile against ground so taken am I by the sermon. I signal to my father and brother, and the three of us rise to leave.

Three train tracks stand between us and  the church parking lot. The rail signs have come down, but my brother dashes across. He is stopped in the median between the first and second track as a train pulls through.  I follow my brother, but am stopped in the center as a second long freight arrives. My dad stands helpless as a third train will not allow him to get to either of us.

The freight lines stretch toward the sea, and let off just near a huge water slide. The place is a tourist attraction because the slide lets off so high up above the water. 

"Alright, mate," says the buxom Australian, with blond hair at the top of the slide, "Where you from?"

"Nowhere," I answer truthfully my own voice carrying a trace of an Australian accent  "but my parents just moved down here."

She smiles kindly, and asks if I'd like to take off my suit and tie. 

In front of me, a blond teenage boy in yellow and blue board shorts fearlessly jumps down the slide, and seems to dive effortlessly into the water well below.

"Ready, mate?" The Australian inquires. She seems oblivious to the fact that I've stripped naked.

Slowly I climb to the top, and push off. I'm accelerating, faster and faster, feeling my heart fly to my mouth.  At an impossible speed I depart from the end of the slide and into the air, thousands of feet above the water. I close my eyes, feeling my body flip over itself again and again and again. 

"He's needs to move out" says a man whose joined the Australian at the top of the slide.  "He's going to crash onto the highway below."

"Kick out!" the Australian shouts, "Open your eyes and kick OUT!"

I open my eyes but am so far up I see nothing but blue and brown below me. My legs are entirely stiff.

"Why'd he do the slide anyway? What's he missing in his life?" says the man.

"I dunno," the Australian murmurs, "He seemed different from the rest."

The man scoffs violently. 

"Surely not. No one comes here if they have something to live for! Have you SEEN this drop?"

The beautiful blond nods, smiling sadly. "KICK AWAY MATE" she calls, "KICK AWAY! AWAY!"

I should have hit the water or the ground or something by now, but I'm still falling. Ever faster. 

"Wow" observes the man. "He's doing it. He's kicking."

"KEEP GOING!"  screams the Australian. "KICK!"

I kick wildly and continue to fall, the water never getting closer to me.  

Suddenly, the telephone rings. 

Springing from my fetal position, I race to the beanbag.  I grab the phone from my brother, breathlessly awaiting the voice on the other line.

"We need to get into the garage," says a man. 

"Are you gonna save us?" 

"We need to show the condo."

"Are you gonna let us out?"

"Open up the garage."

I walk to the sink and flip a switch, and suddenly feel the heavy door creak beneath me. 

"Hey," someone calls beneath from the garage,  "What's this place valued at?"

"I dunno," I shout. "The bitch locked us in here, man! Just let us out!"

"Who locked you in there, sir?"

"I don't... Just...GET US OUT!"

There's  a long silence, and I look at my brother, hopeful. He continues watching tv.

"HELLO?!" I  scream. 

"Chris, come to the door," says a voice.

Standing up, I walk to the front door, turn the knob, and push. A rush of air nearly knocks me over, as it swings open for the first time in forever. 

"Praise Jesus," I whisper to myself.

Squinting into the natural light at the housing development around me, I see an impossibly thin man with light colored eyes and caramel skin. He sports a blue and black tweed jacket and holds up a video camera. 

"This is gonna make great press for the restaurant," Kane laughs.