Beyond Poetry

by Nathan Jarelle

  “Hopefully your new school,” she told him. “I really hope you can come live with us, J.”

  Admiring the inside, Junior hoped so also. Looking down at his watch, his stomach began to boil as he realized school at Medgar had just let out; he pictured Sandy out front waiting on him. He knew he’d be a dead man when his parents found out about New York. In the meantime, however, with Casey by his side and a tour of Langston at his fingertips, he relished the moment. His tour guide was a bushy-gray-haired man named James. He greeted Junior with a firm shake and walked over to Casey and hugged her.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, gleaming. “Thank you so very much, Miss Haughton, for bringing your son to us. I’m sure he’ll love the tour.”

  The second James turned his back, Junior looked over Casey.

  “Son?” he whispered.

  “Play along!” she muttered back.

  The school was nothing short of a phenomenon to Junior. Glass doors encased in marble that opened at the push of a button. Computers in every classroom and at every student’s chair. Vending machines that actually worked and were serviced daily. A built-in help desk for both student and faculty members’ technological needs. Not to mention, the staff members were all pleasant, including the school’s dean, Roberta Evans. She shook Junior’s hand with her own two hands and hugged Casey as if they were friends who hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years.

  The inside lobby looked like the headquarters of Chase Manhattan Bank. Langston had two floors with a theatre, library, cafeteria, and basement. It serviced approximately 134 high school kids, and every classroom had two full-time teachers. The building was patrolled by one security guard, an older black gentleman with a steep accent like Morgan Freeman. His weapon of choice was his intellect and a long flashlight, and he didn’t carry cuffs or pepper spray. On every floor was an elevator that was accessible to students and every floor had a large television that ran nonstop with world events, stock market lapses, and other daily news to keep students and faculty abreast.

  “Big-ass TV,” Casey said under her breath to Junior. “Can you believe that?! Fifty inches!”

  As Junior and Casey followed James throughout the first-floor hallway, Junior saw illustrations of some of the most brilliant black minds of the twentieth century: James Baldwin, Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass, Nelson Mandela, Dr. King, Malcolm X, George Washington Carver, W.E.B. DuBois, Marvin Gaye, Sam Cooke, and more. Under each illustration was an inscription of their accomplishments. Strapped for time, Junior breezed over a few before returning to Casey and Mr. James near the first-floor elevator.

  “So, what’s it like here?” Junior asked the man. “Are the kids nice?”

  “Well, at the end of the day, they’re kids,” said James. “I’ve been here since ’89, and I can count on one hand how many fights I’ve seen. The rules are strict here. If you fight, you’re gone. Misbehave? You’re out of here. The accountability tends to deter the kids from getting into too much trouble. For the most part, the kids are respectful, well-behaved, and get along well with other students and faculty.”

  As James led Junior and Casey out of the elevator onto the second-floor, Casey chimed in with a question of her own.

  “Can you elaborate just a little more on the environment here, sir?” she asked him. “Sorry if I sound pushy. But what’s a typical day here like for a student?”

  “Classes start promptly at 7:55 a.m., not a minute later and ends at 4:10 p.m.,” said James. “Each class has about six or seven kids with two teachers in each. It’s an art school for talented kids but still a high school. The students get one hour for lunch with breaks in between.” He then pointed to a menu on the wall. “The food here is not what’d you typically see on a high school menu. Bison, lamb chops, venison, organic vegetables. Stuff like that. The kids wear uniforms Monday through Thursday. Fridays are dress-down days – with limitations, obviously.” He winked at Junior. “For Saturdays, we have a tutor available from 8 a.m. to 2 p.m., and a shuttle service which runs every day from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. The library is available at the same time.”

  Casey looked at Junior; Junior looked at Casey. Not a word was exchanged, but the look on Junior’s face said it all: If he could, he’d move to New York tomorrow.

  As the recruiter led Junior and Casey onto the second-floor known as “Artist Way”, Junior peeped into room 219 where acting was being taught. Across the hall in 234, another teacher taught playwright for African-American film. Down the hall in 239 was Junior’s favorite: African-American Literature and Contemporary Poetry. With drool sliding from his pitiful face, Junior stood at the door pane of 239 and watched as students dissected poetry and debated music. On the agenda for that day, written on the board was a poem by Tupac Shakur. Back and forth, the students deliberated as they tried to come up with the meaning of their hero’s artistry. Loud and somewhat obnoxious, they argued in good fun as their teacher shushed the class, allowing every student a chance to speak. Unlike Medgar, they didn’t bash, name call, or threaten to pull out razors from beneath their tongues. The only weaponry used for that day was their brilliant and spongy minds. Junior could’ve fainted.

  “Casey, look! 2pac!” Junior pointed. “They’re studying 2pac!”

  “What?!” she said, shoving him. “Let me see!”

  What was also shocking to both Junior and Casey that afternoon was the number of black students in attendance at Langston. On his way down the hall, Junior expected to see a surfeit of preppy white kids with moussed hair and cream-colored sweaters tied around their necks. He was happy to learn from his recruiter that Langston was a diverse populace with black students dominating at a 54% majority. As classes let out for the afternoon, Junior stood in the center of the hallway next to Casey and watched as kids who looked like him blew by him and out the door.

  “Now do you see what I was tellin’ you earlier, J.?” Casey asked him. “Man, look at these kids runnin’ at us. They ain’t no different than you – or me when I was your age.”

  Aside from Langston’s charming glamour, James assured Junior and Casey the staff was all pleasant and proud to serve as members of an elite school. Not to mention, Langston was slated as having an 83.6% scholarship ratio to some of the nation’s top art institutions in the country. Down in his office, James computed the average G.P.A. at Langston was 3.587. Every quarter, recruiters from colleges and the armed forces came to speak with students about possible career paths. James handed Junior a brochure with his card attached and pitched Casey a breakdown of Langston’s tuition. Her eyes exploded inside her head as she stared down at the price: $7800 per semester. At roughly eight grand per year, Langston was a no-go. At home, Junior’s parents went to war for far less. Junior looked down at the circled cost at the bottom of the form and walked out of James’s office, leaving Casey there by herself. Another dream diminished. Outside, Casey found Junior leaning against the wall. The instant he saw her, he began firing away at his big sissy.

  “Man, what’d you do that for?!” he asked, irritated. “You know my parents can’t afford for me to go here. Eight g’s?! Thanks for gettin’ my hopes up for nothin’!”

  “You think all this is for fun?” she asked him. “You think I’m just bullshittin’ you – pulling your arm when I tell you how special you are and that things can happen for you? I believe in you, Junior. I’ve always believed in you.” She patted on her chest. “You think I’d bring you up here just to throw this in your face? Well, I didn’t! Good things can happen sometimes.”

  “How?!” Junior clapped back. “My parents can’t afford no fancy Langston education. We’re not exactly rich, Casey. Don’t you get it? All these ideas and stuff you come up with sometimes, I can’t do them! You’re just wasting your time on me.”

  “STOP TALKIN’ LIKE THAT!” Casey howled at him. “Stop saying things like that to me! You’re not a waste of time, J.!”

  “Look, I’m just trying to be realistic about this,” he wolfed back. “Eight g’s per year is a l
ot of money when your parents ain’t got shit. You should’ve never brought me here, Casey. I can’t move to no New York. There’s no way.”

  The cab ride back to Rockefeller Plaza was awkwardly silent. Junior sat in a slumber, playing with a string on his jacket. Beside him, Casey looked out into the dense air, hurt by Junior’s rhetoric on Langston. The two siblings sat for close to a half-hour without a word. Junior sulked and tossed on his headphones to drown out the silence around him. Closing his eyes, he laid his head back on the seat and exhaled. Before long, he felt one of his earplugs removed and Casey’s voice inside his head.

  “I’m sorry about earlier,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean for our trip to be such a disappointment, J. I didn’t want any of this, especially since this could be one of the last few times we get to hang out, you know?”

  “No, Casey.” He shook his head. “I’m the one who’s sorry. You’re so good to me. I loved New York, and I loved Langston, too. There was no disappointment. I just wish there was a way for me to go, that’s all. Sorry for being such a jerk to you earlier.”

  As the two waited by the bus terminal for 808, Casey came up with another idea.

  “What if I were to help?” she offered. “Could that change things? I could pay part of it.”

  “No, Casey. I can’t let you do that,” said Junior. “That’ll just hold you back. It’s too much.”

  “But I want to, J. What if we split it down the middle? I take half, and your parents do the other? That could work, right?”

  Junior looked down at his watch and noticed it was 5:02 p.m. – well past his pickup time from Medgar. His scheduled execution was not a matter of ‘if’, but ‘when’, the moment his parents found about New York. Accepting his fate, he turned down Casey’s invitation to sponsor him. As they boarded bus 808 in Times Square, Junior kissed his big sissy on her cheek.

  “Casey, you’re the sweetest big sissy any kid could dream of,” he told her. “But I can’t ask you to pay part of my tuition at Langston. It’s not fair to you. New York was a dream and experiencing it all next to you made it even better. But as much as I hate to admit it, Philly is my home. I’ll never forget you.”

  Holding onto her hand, a tear rolled from Casey’s eye down her cheek.

  “You love me, don’t you?” he asked her.

  Gasping, Casey wiped her eyes. “With all my heart,” she chuckled away her tears. “Fuck man, you got me cryin’ again. You’re like the little brother I never had. I’m really… fuck…hold on. God this is hard…I’m gonna miss you, Junior.”

  “Not like I’m gonna miss you,” he told her.

  You can fix broken. But you can’t fix done.

  LEONARD G. ROBINSON JR.

  The Last Son

  Halfway home, just after 7 p.m. that evening, Junior was sleeping on Casey’s shoulder when he was awakened by the sound of her cell phone going off in her bag. Casey missed the call before it went to voicemail. Checking her phone, Casey looked down at the screen and noticed six missed calls from Junior’s residence. Concerned, she showed Junior his home number on her screen.

  “Shit! Six miss calls!” she griped. “Hope everything is OK!”

  As Casey went to dial back Junior’s house, he grabbed her cell phone and closed it.

  “Casey, wait a second,” he sighed. “I have to tell you something.”

  “Well, can you tell me afterward?” she asked him. “This could be important.”

  As Casey reached for her cell phone, Junior pulled it away from her reach.

  “C’mon, J., stop!” she snapped. “Gimmie back my phone, man!”

  Closing his eyes, Junior looked up to the heavens and sighed again, anticipating his impending doom. The jig was up. In less than an hour, he would be executed by guillotine by none other than his undertaker for a father, Senior. With six missed calls in the last two hours, his parents were more than just concerned; they were on the verge of losing their minds. As Casey continued to give Junior hell, he finally cracked and gave back the phone. Casey got halfway through one ring to Junior’s house before he came forward with the truth.

  “They don’t know I’m up here.” He sagged his head.

  Casey closed her flip phone immediately. “They what?!”

  “I asked; they told me ‘no’. I should’ve told you earlier.”

  Soon after, Casey’s cell phone began to ring again. The number was from Junior’s house. Disappointed and with her hands on both hips and her mouth flying open, she dropped her cell phone into Junior’s lap. Her arched eyebrows were slanted in evil anger. “There you go! You got yourself into this shit – you get yourself out!”

  Junior looked down at Casey’s cell in his lap, knowing what fate awaited him on the other end of the phone. He lifted the small box and then turned off the ringer, leaving his parents in the dark about his whereabouts.

  “One day,” he said to her. “I just wanted one day to hear ‘yes’, instead of being told ‘no’. If it wasn’t for you, I would’ve never got to see a city as beautiful as New York. I’m sorry I lied to you, Casey. I hope you can somehow forgive me for all of this.”

  Scowling at Junior, Casey’s phone rang once again. As Junior looked down at her phone resting on his lap, Casey took back her phone and placed it back inside of her bag.

  “You were right,” she told him. “This is a waste of my time.”

  By the time Junior and Casey arrived at Brooke’s Rowe terminal and arrived at her car, Casey was still not speaking to him. She said little to Junior on the way back to his house as he rode in silence, staring from the car window at what was his reality: Brooke’s Rowe, the decrepit bowels of South Philly. There was no BuBoy’s Café & Lounge, holiday parade, or piano man playing “Clair De Lune”. There was no Langston Hughes School of Art. The only school Junior was accustomed to was the School of Hard Knocks. Kids carrying razor blades for protection and a janky police force that would continue making poor folks into an example.

  As Casey’s Toyota turned onto Kennedy Street, Junior’s stomach bubbled with intensity. The game was over. After a day that meant a lifetime to him, he wondered if he’d ever see Casey again for lying to both her and his family. As her car came to a stop in front of the house, she turned to him.

  “This hurts us, J.,” she told him. “I thought taking your father’s gun was bad, but this takes the cake – the fact that you lied to me. I’m crushed. I wish you all the luck with your writing and everything. But I can’t…I just…I can’t do this anymore…”

  “I understand.” He sagged his head. “I had a great friend in my life, and I fucked it up. Just like I did with Lawrence.”

  Junior slithered out of Casey’s car and up the sidewalk to meet his doom. His lips began to quiver as he attempted to make up with Casey as she waited next to her car, teary-eyed.

  “Casey, I’m sorry. Please…” he apologized.

  “…Go, Junior.” She waved him on.

  The second Junior stepped foot on the front porch, the outside light came on, and Sandy opened the door. As the makeup on his mother’s face began to melt at Junior in the doorway, Senior came marching down the steps, half-twisted on alcohol and remembering Lawrence. He then jacked Junior by his jacket and slammed him into the living room wall. Unable to control his rage, he slapped Junior hard across the face, knocking him down onto his backside.

  “Where you been, huh?! You think you’re grown?!”

  WHAM, Senior slapped Junior across the pus again, lifting him onto his feet and tossing him over the sofa as if he was a pro wrestler. Meanwhile, standing at the door, Sandy howled and cried for Junior as if her son had been sold away to a new slave owner. WHAM, Senior slapped Junior again, tossing him back onto the floor as Junior’s mother attempted to stop Senior from killing him. Soon after, Junior recalled Casey running over to the door in place of Sandy. The second she got there and saw the Robinsons entangled on the floor, she sobbed with the agony only a true friend could muster.

  “Please, it’s
my fault! I should’ve known better!” Casey hollered. “Don’t hurt him!”

  The neighbors on Kennedy Street thought someone had died inside the Robinsons’ house the way both Sandy and Casey cut up, worried Senior was on the verge of killing Junior. He picked up Junior by his jacket collar again before smacking him down onto the floor one last time for good measure. Standing over his son, he roared.

  “This is my fuckin’ house! I run this motherfucka – not you!” Senior screamed at Junior as he laid beneath, a trickle of blood coming from his mouth. “Hang up on me? I’m your father, nigga! New York? Huh?! You think you can go to New York without our consent?!”

  Reeking of alcohol and rage, it took all of Sandy to cart away Senior long enough to allow Junior onto his feet. By then, Casey had intervened in the Robinsons’ affairs, forgetting Junior’s empire lie, taking on the role of his big sissy. With Senior pinned to the closet door by his linebacker wife, Junior wiped away the trickle of blood from his swollen mouth.

  “I’m sorry, y’all…” He cracked in half. “Man… I’m sick of Brooke’s Rowe! I’m sick of Medgar – and I’m sick of Philly, too! I HATE IT HEREEEE!” He shook with indignation before racing past his parents and up into his bedroom. With the door shut to his room, Junior crumbled onto his bed, biting into his pillow to drown out his wretched cries. He was done with life in Philly and wanted out. Downstairs, Casey was inconsolable. The gruesome sight of seeing Junior knocked around by his daddy destroyed her. Before leaving she handed Sandy a pamphlet to Langston Hughes School of Art in New York. It was soggy with creases.

  “I thought he’d like the school.” Her voice hoarsened. “Please don’t be mad at him.”

  From his bedroom window, Junior watched as Casey trudged down the sidewalk and into her car. As she closed her car door, she folded onto her steering wheel and cried again before pulling off. Shortly thereafter, Junior pulled his curtain closed for the night.

  I was once blind, now my eyes can see,

  this wondrous world, and all that was waiting for me.