The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough

by Neta Jackson

Denny pulled something out of the inside pocket of his sport coat. “Oh. You mean these bookmark thingies?” His dimples gave him away.

  “Denny!” I punched him on the shoulder. Hard. “Don’t do that to me! I’m already so nervous I’m sweating right through my antiperspirant.”

  He laughed and gave me a teasing hug. “Why so nervous? You don’t have to do anything. After listening to half a dozen boring speeches, Josh will walk up there and get his diploma, we will completely embarrass him by yelling ‘Yea Josh!’ at ten decibels, and then we can duck out! After all, he’ll go up with the Bs.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes and lagged a few steps behind us. “You guys are nuts, you know that? I’m hungry. Wish we’d eaten supper before sitting through Torture 101.”

  “Suck it up, kid,” Denny said. “You’ll need lots of room for Ron’s of Japan later.”

  Sitting on stadium bleachers was not my idea of a good time, but at least the graduation ceremonies started at seven o’clock sharp. The Lane Tech concert band launched into the processional as a parade of teachers, administrators, and dignitaries filed into the stadium, followed by the senior class—all one thousand of them, give or take fifty or so—to resounding cheers all around the stadium.

  “There’s Josh! I see him!” Amanda pointed excitedly as the students, shiny green robes flying in the stiff June breeze, crossed the cinder track and filed into the rows of chairs on the grassy playing field.

  As the ROTC color guard presented the flags, a lump of gratefulness caught in my throat. We’d been so fortunate that both Josh and Amanda had been accepted at Lane Tech College Prep when we’d moved into Chicago two years ago. The school drew students from all over the city and applications had to meet a wide range of “college prep” standards. Denny had been impressed by the diversity of the student population: Hispanics and Caucasian made up about 70 percent of the population in roughly equal proportions, and Asian and African-American students equally shared the remaining 30 percent. One of Josh’s teachers once told me that at least 90 percent of graduates went on to college.

  Not that Josh is going to college, a nasty little voice whispered in my ear. And then I heard Nony’s voice in my other ear: “God has plans for that young man. Not your plans. Don’t stand in His way.”

  I put my hand over my heart and heartily sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” with the Lane choir, all in matching blazers, trying to drown out both voices in my head.

  We politely listened to the valedictory speech, the citizenship awards, and presentation of the class gift in spite of aching spines. Amanda sighed loudly. I bumped her affectionately with my shoulder. “Two more years, and it’ll be your turn,” I whispered. “And we’ll be just as proud.”

  “Shh,” Amanda said. “What’s that guy saying? I thought he said Josh’s name!”

  My head whipped up. One of the vice principals was at the microphone on the stage set up on the stadium playing field. “—a student opinion piece in the last issue of The Warrior, our student newspaper. This is a bit unusual, but we have asked the author, Joshua Baxter, to read what he wrote as a graduation challenge to all of our students—and not only our students, but to us as parents, teachers, and administrators.”

  Denny and I stiffened in complete shock as the tall figure of our son rose like a leaping trout from the sea of square green “lily pads” and made his way to the platform. The vice principal shook his hand and sat down. Josh leaned toward the microphone and said, “Good evening.” That was all. He fished under his robe, pulled a folded piece of paper from a pocket in his dress slacks, and unfolded it. A quiet born of curiosity settled over the stadium.

  Josh cleared his throat. “Three weeks ago, I learned something I didn’t really want to know. And that is: words have power. So does silence. Words can be used for good or evil. So can silence. And we are responsible for how we use both.” My eyes riveted on my son. The paper shook slightly in his hand—or was it a breeze? “In this great country of ours,” he read on, “we have been given many rights, including the right of free speech. To say what we think and believe. But we don’t often talk about the fact that exercising that right has consequences. And how we respond—or don’t respond—to those exercising that right also has consequences.”

  I saw Denny lean forward, elbows on his knees, chin on his fists, listening to Josh describe the events of three weeks ago: a “free speech” rally organized by a local hate group, a university professor who knew the power of words to affect attitudes, an angry crowd—and then a cowardly act in the middle of the night that left that same university professor in a coma.

  “I went to that rally full of idealism; I went home thinking nobody is going to listen. Nothing is ever going to change. What I think or say or do won’t make any difference. I wanted to chuck it all. Just look out for myself. That’s what everyone else is doing.” Josh looked up from his paper. “But I was wrong.”

  I could hardly breathe. My heart pounded in my ears. I strained to listen.

  “A courageous man lying in the hospital taught me that to remain silent is to allow evil words and evil attitudes to fill the empty spaces. An angry student at that rally, who assumed I was a racist skinhead—” Josh ran a hand over the fuzz on his head, looked up from his paper, and grinned. “Well, not so bald now,” he quipped. Laughter rippled over the stadium. “That student taught me that if I don’t correct wrong assumptions, they become bigger than life and actually become true. Because silence speaks.”

  Josh looked down at his paper. “There’s an old saying from my parents’ generation”—I poked Denny and mouthed, “Old?”—“ ‘If you aren’t part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.’ I didn’t want to believe that. Because it demands that I stand up and be counted for what I believe, just like Dr. Mark Smith. Just like many other brave men and women who have shown us the path to brotherhood against the forces of prejudice and fear. And many paid for their courage with their lives. I don’t know if I’m that brave. But there is no middle ground. Silence is not an option, because the voices of hate and division and violence are growing stronger.”

  The mortarboard on Josh’s head tipped up, and he looked toward the west bleachers, as if he were talking directly to us. “I want to be part of the solution. I want to follow in the steps of that courageous man, Dr. Mark Smith, who believed one person can make a difference. My attitudes. What I say or don’t say. What I do or don’t do. It has to begin with me.”

  Josh folded his paper. He started for the steps of the stage. Before he reached the ground, a swell of clapping brought the students of his class to their feet. The dignitaries on the stage followed. Parents and families in the stands rose all around us. The senior class began to chant, “Bax-ter! Bax-ter! Bax-ter!”

  Tears dripped off my chin. Somewhere deep in my spirit I heard Nony saying, “God will use your Joshua like the Joshua of old, to fight a battle that the older generation did not fight.”

  40

  Becky Wallace was waiting for me on the back porch when I got home from school the next day. “How was graduation?” she asked, stubbing out her cigarette and flicking it into the unused flowerpot. “You guys got home kinda late last night.”

  “No kidding.” I resisted the urge to wave away the last vestige of stinky smoke and flopped down on the porch swing while Willie Wonka wobbled down the back steps. What I really wanted to do was beg off from our Bible reading date and take a nap. By the time we’d pried Josh away from clusters of giddy classmates last night, snapped pictures, and inched our way out of the parking lot, it was already after ten. And we still had to eat.

  I yawned. “We took him out to celebrate, kind of a fancy place. Ron’s of Japan.” I saw Becky’s face wrinkle up in that never-heard-of-it expression of hers. “It’s a Japanese restaurant where they cook your food right at the table. Good thing we’d made reservations, because the place was really packed last night. Gotta admit, it was fun. I think Josh had a good time. Oh!” I pushed out of the swing. “
A really neat thing happened at graduation.”

  I popped into the house and came back out thirty seconds later holding a copy of The Warrior folded open to Josh’s opinion piece. I tapped my finger on the newsprint. “Josh read that during graduation. Big surprise to us.”

  Becky frowned as she read, tucking a tuft of stray hair behind her ear. She finally looked up. “Your kid wrote this?”

  I nodded.

  “Man! He sure used a lot of big words. But I like what he said. ’Specially that bit about if you ain’t part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.” She heaved a sigh. “Guess that’s my trouble. Been part of the problem too long.”

  She wouldn’t get any argument from me, though I didn’t think Josh was talking about Becky-type problems. I let it pass, thumbing the pages of my Bible until I got to the Gospel of Matthew. The sooner we got started, the sooner we’d get done; and maybe I could still sneak in a nap before supper.

  Becky was fishing in the flowerpot for her cigarette stub. She pulled it out, relit it with her cigarette lighter, and blew out a satisfied puff of smoke. “Say, ain’t this a Yada Yada weekend? Where we crazies meetin’ up, anyway?”

  “Oh, uh . . .” I stared at her. “Did you say ‘we’? Becky! Did you—”

  She grinned and blew another puff of smoke at me. “Yep. Parole officer called, got it all squared. Jus’ hafta give him a couple of days’ notice where I’m gonna be—address, phone number, time in and out, stuff like that.”

  Now the cigarette really had disappeared down to the nub. She flicked it back into the flowerpot, still grinning. “That ain’t all. Andy’s caseworker called me, tol’ me she set it up so I can have Andy every Sunday till five. All worked out, ’long as somebody willin’ to go pick him up for me.” She rolled her eyes. “’Cause his grandmama sure ain’t gonna lift a finger to get my baby here.”

  “All right, Becky!” Laughing, I gave her a high-five. “Got plenty of drivers under this roof. Four, counting Josh. I think we can make this happen.”

  DENNY WAS IN A BIG HURRY to get out the door the next morning to Uptown’s monthly men’s breakfast. He seemed disappointed that Josh didn’t want to go with him, but Josh had made his priorities clear for this particular Saturday: sleep in till noon and then hang out at the beach the rest of the day. “Might be my last chance to do either, once my internship at Jesus People kicks in,” he groused.

  As Denny went out the door, I saw him grab a copy of The Warrior, the one with Josh’s opinion piece. Uh-huh. Josh wasn’t dumb. He knew his dad would be bragging on him to all the guys, and he definitely wanted to be someplace else.

  Both kids were still asleep when I left the house to grocery shop and run errands. Well, let ’em. Amanda was done with final exams and just had to show up Monday and Tuesday to officially end her sophomore year. Me, I still had a third of my end-of-year reports to write. “No fair,” I grumbled to Wonka, as I scribbled notes to the kids and taped them where they’d be sure to see them—on the bathroom mirror. “I’m the last one with homework.”

  I glanced at the kitchen calendar on my way out. Today was the first day of summer. Why the school year ran so late this year was beyond me! But the day was too gorgeous to be down in the mouth. The weather guy on channel 7 had promised midseventy temperatures with low humidity. Couldn’t get any better than that!

  Well, yeah, it can. I grinned in the rearview mirror as I backed out of the garage. Denny and I had gone up to the hospital last night to see Mark. Nony said the nurses had had him up out of bed earlier that day, but he was so weak and disoriented that he only lasted five minutes. “That ought to steadily improve,” Nony had added, as if giving herself a pep talk.

  “You bet!” Denny had said. “I’ll come back on Saturday and walk him around a bit. Maybe play a little touch football in the hall.” Even Nony had burst out laughing.

  “Thank You, Jesus!” I laughed aloud with renewed hope as I headed the minivan toward the Rogers Park Fruit Market. Second stop, the big Dominick’s grocery store on Howard Street. It was my turn to restock paper goods in the kitchen at Uptown—paper plates, napkins, plasticware. I felt a twinge of anxiety as I waited in the long checkout line. Hope the guys didn’t run out of supplies for their breakfast this morning, especially if some of the men from New Morning came. Too late now if they did. But if I hurried, I could at least drop off the stuff at the church while the door was still unlocked.

  As I pulled out of the parking lot with my groceries, I noticed a large, butcher-paper sign in the windows of one of the large, unoccupied storefronts in the big new shopping center. Bold, black letters declared FUTURE HOME OF NEW MORNING CHRISTIAN CHURCH. I stomped on the brake. I knew that New Morning was looking for space to lease somewhere in the Howard Street area, but I had no idea they’d found space in the shopping center. It would need a lot of work. But the space was huge! Twice as big as Uptown’s meeting space. Wow, I thought. Pastor Cobbs must plan on doubling in size. But what a great location for outreach. I felt a little envious. Uptown was already feeling scrunched in our space.

  Five minutes later, I found a parking space on Morse Avenue near Uptown’s front door, hauled out the plastic bags with church paper goods, and quietly slipped up the stairs, hoping I could sneak in and out of the kitchen without disturbing anyone. A quick glance into the main room showed a larger group of men than usual, chairs drawn into a circle, a number of them African-American. They were praying, and I thought I heard Mark Smith’s name mentioned, along with a lot of “amens” and “hallelujahs.”

  I smiled as I ducked into the kitchen. So some of the New Morning men had actually taken up Denny’s invitation last Sunday! I was glad. Denny would be so pleased. And it was a good thing. If our two churches were going to share building space for a while, it was important to develop some personal relationships.

  As I stored the last of the paper plates, I thought I heard Denny’s voice. I opened the kitchen door a couple of inches but remained a few steps inside. “—feel like God is saying something to me this morning, if . . . Could I have a few minutes, pastors?”

  “Go on. Go on, brother.” Pastor Cobbs’s voice. I strained to listen.

  “No one is happier that Mark Smith has turned a major corner than I am. Well, maybe his wife would argue with that.” General laughter. “But a certainty has been growing in my spirit—I have to admit, this is new language for me—that this whole business isn’t just about Mark Smith. A certainty that God wants to use this terrible event to do something new—with me, with my church, maybe with all us guys here. In fact, it was my son who put his finger on it and helped put it into words for me. Do you mind if I read something he wrote for his school newspaper?”

  I leaned against a counter in the kitchen, listening as Denny read the now-familiar words from The Warrior. The novelty had worn off, and the words twisted deeper into my spirit, like a corkscrew slowly embedding itself into a cork. “ ‘—who believed one person can make a difference. My attitudes. What I say or don’t say. What I do or don’t do. It has to begin with me.’ ”

  I held my breath. What would the reaction be? To my surprise, a long silence yawned after Denny quit reading. Didn’t the guys like it? Did they think Denny was just showing off? And then I heard Peter Douglass’s voice puncture the stillness. “Well, I’ll be! Kicked in the butt by a teenager.”

  His comment seemed to pull a plug. Immediately there was a babble of men’s voices. “Got that right!” “Can you read that again?” “What I’m thinkin’ is—”

  I slipped out the kitchen door and down the stairs . . . but later that day, when Denny and I had a chance to meander down to the lake towing Willie Wonka, Denny told me that Josh’s essay had kicked off a heated discussion among both Uptown and New Morning men.

  “Like what?” We stopped to get a couple of snow cones from a vendor in Loyola Park and found a bench so encrusted with layers of paint it would probably stand up by itself if the wood ever rotted out underneath. Wonka flopped
, panting, under the bench, giving up hope that one of the snow cones might be for him.

  “A lot of feelings about what happened, for one thing. Anger that the police haven’t made an arrest. Some of the African-American guys admitted that they’ve felt more defensive around white folks since Mark was attacked.” Denny crunched thoughtfully on his flavored ice. “A lot of us admitted we’ve felt helpless, not knowing what to do with our fear and frustration. And hopeless, like Josh said. That nothing has really changed.”

  I set my paper cone on the ground and let the dog lick it. “What about Pastor Clark or Pastor Cobbs? Did they have anything to say?”

  “Yeah, well, Peter Douglass kind of put both of them on the spot.” Denny laughed. “For one thing, his reaction to Josh’s essay was—”

  “ ‘Kicked in the butt by a teenager.’ Yeah. I know.”

  Denny squinted at me suspiciously. “How do you know that?”

  I confessed. Told him I’d snuck in to put away the paper goods. “But that’s all I heard. Honest! Don’t stop now. What did Peter say?”

  “Well, it was really something, Jodi. I don’t know what’s going to come of it, but it’s sure something to pray about. Gave us all a lot to think—”

  “Denny!” I punched him on the shoulder, making him drop his paper cone. “What did Peter say?” Willie Wonka crawled out from under the bench and finished off the snow cone in two gulps.

  “All right. All right!” Denny threw up his hands in mock defense. “Two against one. No fair.” But he leaned forward, scratching behind Wonka’s ears affectionately. His early-summer tan glowed in the late afternoon sun. “Peter reminded us about Joseph in the Bible. How what his brothers meant for evil, selling him off as a slave to Egypt, God turned into a greater good. He said maybe we should look at this whole hate group thing that way. If those White Pride people are responsible for what happened to Mark, they certainly meant it for evil. But maybe God wants us to look for ways to turn it into a greater good.”