Copyright © 2021 by Nathan Jarelle
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7362248-2-3
COVER DESIGN: Robin Johnson
INTERIOR: Ian Koviak & Alan Dino Hebel
PHOTOGRAPHY: C L Tyson Photography, LLC
EDITOR: Katie Zdybel
Believers
The world appears different to believers.
Allow your dreams to ignite.
Drown away your sorrows.
Replace your worries
with determined wishes.
Hold your imagination upright.
Discover opportunity over opposition.
Through belief,
we can change the trajectory of our lives
and others around us.
Believe.
NATHAN JARELLE
Author’s Preface
Dear Reader,
Walk with me on this journey entitled Beyond Poetry, a tale of urban literature which transpires in Brooke’s Rowe, an imagined section of South Philadelphia in late 1995. Welcome to a world of nostalgic memories: cassette tapes, fly apparel, around-the-way discourse, and surviving the wild wave of high school. We watched R-rated flicks unaccompanied by an adult but still had to be in before dark. We had the hottest sneakers and music. We debated who was the greatest between Biggie Smalls and 2pac and took it personally. We had yet to unearth social media platforms like Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, etc. We barely had cell phones, at least I didn’t. You learned shit through word of mouth from school or folks hanging throughout the neighborhood. We rode in the backseat of your mother’s Chevy or your daddy’s Oldsmobile unbuckled and unafraid. The driver’s seat was covered with holes from cigarette burns. You had a bicycle, and everybody around your hometown knew you by that bicycle. I had one suit for special events and one pair of dress shoes that my mother made me keep boxed when not in use.
As I sit here and reminisce about 1995, for me, I can smell my mother’s fried chicken from the doorstep on my way home from school. I can see my father out in front of the house washing his car during the summer and raising hell about kids back in those days. I can hear my brother’s boombox blaring from his bedroom window. I can still hear artists such as A Tribe Called Quest, Nas, Queen Latifah, De La Soul, Das Efx, and other rap artists of that time. We’ve come a long way since then, you and me. Don’t you remember?
Beyond Poetry, though a work of urban fiction and suspense, for me, is a personal journey. Albeit the characters are products of my imagination, for nearly three decades, I found myself trapped in yesteryear, hoping to escape the sights and sounds of a world that has since left. I must face the reality that 1995 is gone. There will never be another year like it. I find it difficult to move on when the holidays come around and I don’t hear my brother’s stereo or see my father outside washing his Lincoln. My dearest friends are buried, some in the ground while others are buried backward in the pages of my life’s story. It’s a cutting reality of how quickly the world turns.
I was thirteen years old when I discovered writing. But back then, I couldn’t imagine the world writing would gift me. I couldn’t yet fathom how a single pen stroke could illustrate a world inside an already existing world. Throughout the years, I became immersed in the craft of writing. I wrote in journals that eventually became my friends, never realizing what was taking place.
Like many young black men in the city, I believed my destiny was to play in some kind of sport like the NFL or NBA. I thought I had to be a rapper or a musician. I thought I needed to perform comedy on stage like Martin Lawrence or star in black television sitcom shows like A Different World, Living Single, or Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. I thought it was the only way out of the city. I believed it was the only road to true success. I’m here to tell you that is not true! You’re perfect without a ball in your hand or some damn microphone in your face. You’re beautiful just the way you are, sweetheart. Your story is your gift. Your talent is you. You do not need a basketball to make a difference in your community. You are already the difference. It was through writing that I defeated these misconceptions of what it meant to be accepted by first accepting myself.
I do not envy the life of Leonard Gerard Robinson Jr., (a.k.a. “Junior”), the story’s main protagonist, a poetic scholar from Brooke’s Rowe. Throughout the book, we see Junior struggle to balance his turbulent upbringing with ambitions to liberate himself from the systemic traps placed within his path. I didn’t have a lot of the same traps as Junior, but I incurred some which qualify me to tell the story of Beyond Poetry. To many, it’s a book. For me, I’m finally free and can move on. In this novel, I weaponize writing to illustrate to the world that anything is possible.
So, why Philadelphia? The answer is simple. I wanted to tell a story where the characters felt comfortable and not me as the author. I’m not from Philly, but to be honest, there’s a Beyond Poetry in every city across the world. Somewhere, there’s a Junior in us all. My job is to convince you, the reader, to see the world through Junior’s eyes, and to persuade you of the reality of Brooke’s Rowe, where political hope is scarce and the opportunity for black equity is non-existent. I drew inspiration to write this novel from some of my own childhood experiences. However, this sort of nostalgic memoir, though relatable, is nothing more than a fictional depiction.
At the time of writing, it is March 2021 and the world is still recovering from the deadly COVID-19. Ahead of us looms a long road to recovery. Millions of Americans are hungry and out of work. Meanwhile, across the table, there’s an empty chair at dinner in some of our households due to Coronavirus. As America’s forty-sixth President, Joe Biden, and Vice President, Kamala Harris, scramble to stitch the gash left behind by past leadership, for once in the past four years, there appears to be hope in our country’s future.
To you and yours, God bless your health and family, and thank you for reading Beyond Poetry.
Prologue
LAST SUMMER
Somewhere along Joseph Boulevard on a crammed North Philly residential street in August of 1994, a group of unsupervised and underaged children fired bottle rockets into the sky as the city’s sun dipped westward. As whistling projectiles heaved into the air, leaving smoke trails in its path, little girls played Double Dutch near a spent fire hydrant. Looming in the background was the nightfall, every child’s worst nightmare, a dark and starry sky followed by the flicker of dingy streetlamps posted at every block. Nighttime in the Crawford Section of North Philadelphia was an underworld of crime-ridden turf wars over drugs and sub-section territories. Junkies carried knives, ready to puncture their cohorts and rob them as they napped in shady alleyways. Meanwhile, addicts leaned on overturned crates, fried on dope. Up the street, dirty white boys tied bootstrings around their forearms, pumping infected needles into their veins. Across the way, hordes of rotting debris junked the roadway alongside a row of tagged buildings, jersey walls, and dilapidated houses. School “Drug-Free Zones” became drug zones at night for criminals to deal drugs, supplying the decrepit subsection with filthy intention.
Beat cops, responsible for upholding the law, were just as terrified as the faithful Samaritans that lived there. In Crawford, people were robbed for their Air Jordan sneakers, Starter brand jackets, jewel
ry, and whatever else could afford dope. Happened all the time. Stone-cold addicts burglarized homes on the block, pawning whatever they could carry for money to buy drugs. Worse, the neighborhood had seen an uptick in the number of homicides over the past three years, prompting residents to take precautions.
Junior was always in before streetlight. Lawrence never was. Together, they’d make it home just in time before their daddy would flail a leather strap at the boys for being late. Like most North Philly boys, Junior and Lawrence had to be within earshot for “the call”. On any given late evening before the sky turned jet black, dozens of parents along Joseph Boulevard stood on their stoops to yell out their child’s name. If you weren’t in earshot of hearing your name, then you better be within eyesight. Rulebreakers were not permitted to play the following day.
Some kids, like Junior, thirteen, and Lawrence, ten, had more to fear than staying indoors. In August of ’94, Crawford-North Philly was a whirlwind of raging violence after dark. Naked men on PCP roamed the streets, punching out car windows. Junkies with rotting teeth bummed for change, chasing bus riders as they waited for their ride. Prostitutes worked the avenues, sucking dick in exchange for a hit of crack. Cops assigned to the Crawford beat treated blacks with disregard, confident they could get away with it. The two brothers had no intention of being swept into the bowels of North Philly’s nightlife or of tasting the strap of their daddy’s leather belt.
Junior threw Lawrence onto the back of his bicycle and raced down Joseph Boulevard. Pedaling like mad, he nearly slammed into a car pulling out in front of him. Along the way, an ice cream truck turned on its siren, signaling to the boys to stop.
“Junior, look!” Lawrence pointed. “An ice cream truck.”
“Man, fuck that truck!” Junior yelled back to his baby brother, summer winds whipping in their faces.
By the time Junior turned the corner, Senior, the boys’ father, was headed down the walkway to his truck. With Lawrence hanging on for dear life, Junior popped the curb and hurried down the sidewalk toward his daddy’s large figure. Noticing the boys, Senior stood on the sidewalk with his veiny arms folded, watching with disappointment as the boys rolled in fast. The night before, Lawrence had come home late and paid for it with his backside. He’d hollered for Jesus as Senior’s belt tattooed the skin on the back of his bony legs.
Senior was a huge man, massive. He scowled at the boys from the bottom of Joseph Boulevard, focusing his attention on Junior as his son jammed on the brakes to avoid crashing into him. Lucky for Junior, the handlebars of his bicycle just missed his father’s crotch. Senior looked down at his family jewels and slowly back up at Junior.
“S-Sorry, Daddy,” stuttered Junior with Lawrence ducking behind him.
Grunting, Senior glared at Junior. “If you’d a hit those,” he threatened. “I would’ve used yours to make a set of dice!”
Senior then eyeballed the boys, interrogating them both before granting them a pass. At one point, Lawrence nudged Junior from behind and nodded at Senior’s belt. Thankfully, it didn’t move. The boys were safe – at least for that night.
As both boys entered the house, accompanied by Senior, Junior smelled pot roast pinching at his nostrils from the slow-cooker in the kitchen. A liner of ugly, World War II-era wallpaper decorated the living room walls. Near the fire chimney, was an old box TV set that had blown out the previous summer. On top of that TV was a working TV with its antenna extended toward the ceiling. On the wall next to the family’s china cabinet was a giant wooden fork and spoon set once used by Goliath before being slain by David. Near the staircase was a family portrait of the Robinsons taken in ’84 shortly after Lawrence had been born. Near the VCR was a collection of Senior’s favorite western movies on VHS. Beside Senior’s movies was a short cabinet with a variety of old vinyl hits he and Sandy had amassed from their younger years: Curtis Mayfield, Isaac Hayes, Al Green, Minnie Riperton, Sly & The Family Stone, Jerry Butler, Bootsy Collins, Billy Paul, and more.
Resting on the dining room table was a batch full of buttery-soft cornbread and a bowl of fresh collard greens. A volcano of smoke was still whistling from every container. At the oven, Sandy, the boys’ mother, was putting the finishing touches on some homemade chocolate chip cookies, the boys’ favorite snack. Blaring from the kitchen window sill was an old portable radio with Teddy Pendergrass playing in the background.
Lawrence tried first, reaching with his germy hand for a taste of golden cornbread. As he reached in for a quick steal, Sandy bopped him on his head with a roll of paper towels.
“You little nasty dog, you!” she fussed. “Wash your hands! You too, Junior!”
Together the boys darted upstairs to the hallway bathroom to wash their hands. Hungry and impatient, Lawrence quickly splashed a drop of water onto his hands and dried his palms using his shirt. As he turned to leave, Junior pulled him back in front of the sink.
“Damn you nasty, man! Wash your hands!” he shouted under his breath.
“Man shut the fuck up!” Lawrence whispered. “I was trying to find more soap!”
“No, you wasn’t! Man, you was about to go back downstairs with your nasty ass!”
“Shut up fool, you ain’t my daddy!”
Moments later, Senior began pounding on the door like the police and ordered the boys out of the bathroom so that he could use it. Lawrence smirked at Junior on the way out.
At the dinner table, the boys and Sandy waited for Senior to finish upstairs. When Junior hinted to his mother that Lawrence hadn’t finished washing his hands, she sent his brother over to the sink to rewash them. As Lawrence took his walk of shame, Junior smirked back at him and went to work on Sandy for his Saturday plans.
“So, uh, Ma,” he began. “You know it’s the last weekend down at the movies for Sugar Hill, right? Can you take me and Lawrence?”
“Sugar who?” she asked.
“Sugar Hill!” Junior respectfully raised his voice. “You know, Wesley Snipes. Don’t you remember New Jack City? Mario Van Peebles? Ice-T?”
Sandy had always been on the fence about taking the boys to see R-rated movies. They were too violent and the short section of Crawford where they lived had enough violence to go around to make one hundred movies. Unlike your average parents, the Robinsons used the movies as a tool to teach the boys about the reality of the streets. Upstairs on Junior’s bedroom wall was a poster of his favorite movie of all time: House Party starring Kid-N-Play.
Minutes later, Senior entered the kitchen and took a seat next to Sandy. That night, it was Junior’s turn to say the blessing at dinner. He asked the Lord to watch over his family and to bless his mother’s hands for preparing their meal. Beneath the table, Lawrence signaled to Junior, tapping on his leg. Somewhere in the back of Junior’s mind, he thought it would be a good idea to include the hope of seeing Sugar Hill soon. Junior then threw in a bonus for Lawrence.
“And Lord,” he began, “please God, please…I know Sugar Hill has been out for a while now and uh…we’d love to go. Oh, and Lawrence needs a new bicycle. Thank you! Amen!”
When Junior cracked open his eyes, Senior was staring at him like a convicted serial killer eyeing down his latest victim. Junior then looked over at his mother who seemed unamused by his irrelevant call upon the Lord for a movie and a new bicycle for his brother.
“Boy, if you ever play with God like that again, you won’t live to see Sugar Hill! Don’t you play with the Lord’s name like that, Junior,” she barked.
“C’mon, Ma!” Junior bargained. “Sugar Hill been out five months – five months at the Dollar Theatre. It’s the last weekend. Me and Lawrence won’t ask for nothin’ else for the rest of the year... or next year. Promise!”
“Why don’t you ask your father?” she suggested. “I’m sure he’d just love to take y’all.”
Junior looked across at Senior who was still glaring at him and changed his mind.
“I’ll wait ‘til it comes on TV.”
“No, Juni
or!” said Lawrence. “Then they’ll bleep out all the cuss words. Remember what they did to Boyz In The Hood?”
As Sandy started serving her tasty meal to her family, Senior began to speak. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke it meant something. “I wish niggas used their heads for more than just target practice – ‘cause that’s where they get it from, those movies y’all watch,” he said, prompting the table to go silent. “You boys lucky me and your mother let y’all watch that junk in the first place.”
“It ain’t junk, Daddy,” bargained Junior. “Even Mom said it was educational.”
“And it is.” Senior cut his eyes at both boys. “Teach you niggas how to shoot and kill each other. Teach y’all how to be exactly who they want you to be. Educational. You boys sure is silly. If it’s so educational, then why so many of these young boys still shootin’ up the goddamn neighborhood every other night? Educational my ass.”
“It’s just a movie,” Lawrence mumbled under his breath.
“Th’hell it is!” Senior pounded the table, sending dishes into the air. “Everything is just a damn movie to y’all. Th’hell with Sugar Hill. The answer is no! You want to watch some dopehead shit, do you? Wait ‘til the motherfucka come on TV! No! Now, eat your food before it gets cold!”
Dinner remained quiet for the rest of the night as Senior’s words burned into Junior’s mind. He sat across from his daddy, unable to stop trembling under his father’s sudden anger and wrath. Sugar Hill was off the table and so was asking for anything else that night, tomorrow, or the next day. On the television in the living room, the news reported that police found a decomposed body in a boarded house on the street over. The body belonged to a young woman who had been shot in the head. Senior then turned to look over at the boys as Junior lowered his eyes down to his plate.
“Educational, you say?” asked Senior. “You feel any smarter, Junior?”
Don’t get so lost looking up that
Beyond Poetry Page 1
