Did you read my letter where I told you some dudes jumped on me? For absolutely no reason I can ascertain. I had to get four stitches on my chin. I can’t begin to tell you the violence you see in prison. I have to take a shower with my shoes on just to be prepared to run should something go down and we have to move fast. Of course, the one time I was washing them, some dude got stabbed, which is how I got athlete’s foot. Things could be worse.
When I do leave these prison walls behind me, I’m still going to bring a lawsuit against the Attorney General of the State of California for violating my constitutional rights. (I’ve enclosed all of the documents I’m going to file just so you can see that I know what I’m talking about. It makes a good case if you take the time to read through them.)
I would like to assure you that I’ve learned that experience is the best teacher but it gives you the test first, and the lesson last. For nine years I’ve had people telling me when to wake up, when to sleep, how to sleep, how to walk, talk, and dress. They even tell me when I can study the law.
Please send me some photos and give Daddy a hug. Until next time.
Your loving son,
Dexter
P.S. I tried calling you three times last week but somebody just kept hanging up on me. Was that Daddy?
August 15, 2001
Dear Dexter: I just got a new computer and I can’t believe how it corrects your spelling and grammar (which I certainly could use help on) but this letter will not be brief and will take as long as it takes to make my points. First of all, I am not sending you $200 for any law books. I want to know how you think you can save other black men when you have yet to save yourself? It seems like all you guys either become black militants or Muslims when you’re in prison for a while and then it seems okay to blame all your problems on the white man and the racist justice system. This is probably why you haven’t passed your parole board tests or whatever they call it the last three or four times you’ve gone before them. It amazes me how you still haven’t taken any responsibility for what you’ve done. I’ll be glad when you stop blaming it on Buddy, but it’s not going to get you out of there. You have convinced yourself that you’re innocent after all these years, even after being caught. Don’t you think those parole folks can hear and see that based on your attitude you aren’t the least bit sorry for what you’ve done but more sorry that you got caught? I’ve told you this for years, Dexter. Your daddy and me did not raise you to mistreat anybody and that’s what you did. I am also sick and tired of hearing about your innocence. I also know there are a lot of men in there who aren’t guilty, and they fight long and hard to get their wrongful convictions overturned. I see them on CNN a lot. But you seem to suffer a little bit from amnesia, because you were breaking the law long before you got where you are now, so I wish you would stop playing the victim. Have you ever thought about that woman? If she has nightmares about being carjacked every time she parks her car in a big lot? How scared she was, not knowing if she was going to die or not? You may have ruined her life and yet all you can think about is your future.
Do I read your letters? Yes and no. Some of them are too long and they’re boring because all you talk about is Dexter. I don’t want to be a lawyer and I don’t understand all those legal documents you keep sending me when I’ve asked you not to. Do you remember Miss Lillian on the other side of the street where Scotty used to live? Well, two of her boys are locked up too. One’s in San Quentin, and the other one not far from here. We used to talk about how proud we were of you boys and were sure the three of you would end up in college. Now we compare what you all write about in your letters from prison, and guess what? Their letters sound just like yours. Your world is the one that stopped, not folks out here, but you act like we don’t have anything better to do than read your six- and ten-page letters where you just go on and on talking about your problems and how bad life is in prison as if anybody can do something to change it. I can’t. I’m not apologizing for what I’m saying and I’m not going to lie. You are my son. You are thirty-four years old and you have spent eleven of them behind bars. And here we go again making promises about how you plan on cleaning up your act when you get out. I want to believe you but it is hard to believe something until you see it.
So I’ll ask you again. Please stop filling up these letters describing all your fantasies of learning a new language and buying stock and all your business ideas and where you might like to live one day since the United States is not a good place for black men to make it. If this were true, Dexter, why don’t you tell me in your next letter why there are millions of successful black men in America. Did somebody just hand them a college degree? Did somebody make them eat some anti-prison food or something? And I want to know how you think you can practice law if you’ve been a convicted felon? And how in the world am I supposed to help you find a job? And especially while you’re still in prison? I’m not an employment agency, Dexter, and even if I were to ask someone, the first thing they’re going to want to know is something about your background, your education, what kind of skills do you have, but more important than anything is if you’re presently employed. This doesn’t mean I won’t keep my eye out for something.
I’ve got a lot on my plate, too, Dexter. Your sister has abandoned her kids, so Luther and Ricky are staying here until she resurfaces, but she’s going to have to be clean in order to get them back. I’ll go to court if I have to. Right now, Luther sleeps in your old room, and if the boys end up staying here, I don’t know where you would sleep. To tell you the truth, I can’t handle any more drama around here. I thought you had a choice about going to one of those halfway houses when you got out, which is where I really think you should go.
If you aren’t getting rehabilitated in there, maybe by the time you get in front of that parole board, if you were to finally show some remorse, maybe they would see that you did just exercise bad judgment, that you’re not a heartless black man, and if you can prove to them that you realize how valuable life is, that you have learned something about common decency and that the world doesn’t revolve around you, something me and your daddy tried to teach all three of you when you were growing up, maybe I’ll get a chance to see you soon. I’ll do what I can, when I can, but I can’t make folks write letters of support for you if they don’t believe you are ready to be honest and civilized when you get out of there. I’ll pray that this time things work out, and if so, I’ll be more than happy to drive there to pick you up, but until then, try writing your sister and see if you can talk some sense into her unless you’re only interested in saving black men.
As you can see, there’s no money order in this envelope because I spent it on those sneakers. They should be there next week. You might have to use that stopwatch for a while or just ask somebody what time it is because I cannot afford to send you another watch. These kids cost money, and nobody in this house is rich. I don’t even think I’m middle-class if you want the truth. It was nice of you to remember to ask about your daddy in your long letter, and just to fill you in, I’m trying to do right by him but his physical and mental health continue to decline. Everybody thinks it’s time to put him in one of those places but I’m not sure I can do that yet. Add to worrying about him, now I’ve got Trinetta’s kids here and I don’t have any idea how long they’re going to be here. These kids weren’t in my budget, which is another reason why my money is funny. If Trinetta doesn’t clean up her act I might have to go down to the county to ask for some help. Something I’m not good at.
Anyway, I’ll send what I can when I get my income tax return. I haven’t filed it yet, because I’ve been too busy to get over to H&R Block. Take care.
Love, Mama
P.S. We haven’t been taking any pictures, which is why I didn’t put any in this letter.
P.S.S. I didn’t mean to write this much, but my computer helps me say what I want to say a whole lot faster than a ballpoint.
Betty Jean
It’s only been six long weeks but it feels like a year. I live in the laundry room and kitchen. I have never been crazy about cooking, but these kids think I’m their personal chef.
“Grandma, can you make us macaroni and cheese with fried pork chops tonight?” “When you gonna make us another peach cobbler, Grandma?” And so on and so on. I am teaching them how to appreciate vegetables, and not the kind they’re used to eating, which they told me always came from a can. Broccoli scared them at first because it was green. I steamed it. Of course they could eat corn on the cob every day if I let them. And rice. Plain white bread, which they roll up into little balls. I can’t look when they do that.
I think they must stare at the soap, because it’s still dry after they take their baths, right up there with the washcloths. And toilet paper? I have had to show them how to count off no more than five sheets at a time and if there’s a lot going on, flush, and then repeat it. They now know how to use a plunger, which they don’t like, especially since they’re not strong. I’ve bought them a whole new wardrobe at Sears. That zero balance is a thing of the past now, but they’re worth it.
They also want my undivided attention, especially when I’m reading or trying to watch Access Hollywood, CNN, or Touched by an Angel. I have never heard “Grandma” so many times in a single hour, but the thing I love most is it’s because they’re curious. They want to know everything about everything. A lot of this stuff I’m clueless about, because the world changes when you’re not looking, which is why I didn’t exactly tell Dexter the whole truth about buying a computer. I bought two. I didn’t even know Sears sold computers but Lucinda from my job told me I would be making a big mistake sharing one with kids, because they lose their mind clicking those keys and the next thing you know the screen will go black, which means it’s a virus and all of your important stuff will be gone. Forever. Right now all my important stuff is in a plastic case I got from Target, but I took her advice. The boys have shown me how to Yahoo. This means Tammy and me can sell those encyclopedias at our next earthquake or tremor or regular weekend yard sale even though I’m running out of stuff to sell.
Speaking of Tammy, she’s been having her share of tremors across the street and up there in Montana. I swear family seems to cause you more problems than total strangers. Why is it the only thing people seem to fight over is money? And why is it that some folks want what they’re not entitled to? We haven’t had time to share her fears and misgivings, because she’s over there wishing on a star, hoping Montana knows what she’s doing and that Trevor, the Academy Award winner of 2025, will get a real job and the two of them will move out and live happily ever after. I’ve got ten dollars that Tammy’ll be turning Max’s room into a nursery in six months.
Although me and the kids have gotten somewhat of a routine down to a science, in the back of my mind I’m still hoping this setup is just temporary, which is why as soon as the boys finish their breakfast and Nurse Kim gets here, after I drop them off at school, I’m going over to Trinetta’s apartment to see for myself what the hell is going on.
It takes me a couple of weeks before I’m able to pull into the parking lot of Trinetta’s building because of all that occurred last month on September 11. It has been hard to accept how the world changed in a single day. I don’t know what it all means but I know this kind of tragedy doesn’t happen in America. But it did. And I’ve had nightmares of those people jumping out of those tower windows ever since. I am praying this never happens again. I am praying for all the people who died. I am praying that they catch those terrorists who planned this.
Since I don’t see Trinetta’s Taurus I suppose this means that Dante or whatever his name is must still have it, so I pull into her space. My heart is starting to pick up pace as I head toward the doorway. I used to have a key but they’ve changed the locks to this front door so many times, I just press the buzzer and wait.
The building is a bluish gray and not really all that bad, considering. There’s grass and trees and even a little playground for the kids. But this neighborhood is still rough. Bullets fly through the air around here, sometimes in broad daylight. I don’t know how Trinetta let these kids walk home from school, I don’t care if it is only two blocks. To a child, it could feel more like two miles.
No answer. I press it again. No answer. I wish I knew that Twinkle girl’s real name. Or at least her last name. What I do know is she’s on the same floor and just down the hall. When I see two hip-hop-looking guys with baseball hats on turned backwards charging down the stairs, they open the door, hold it for me, and then one says, “Hello, ma’am,” and the other one says, “How are you, ma’am?” I’m both shocked and surprised.
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking, young men.”
I look at the stairs. Then at the elevator. Trinetta lives on the second floor. I take the elevator. The way these kids have been running me ragged, I cannot afford to aggravate my knee. I’m fighting surgery as it is. I press “2” and am pleased at how clean it is. These stainless waffled walls are free of everything except shine. Some folks take pride in what little they do have.
When the doors open I walk straight to Trinetta’s apartment and stand there, trying to prepare myself for her bullshit. If she’s in there, I’m not going to say a single solitary word and I’m not going to give her a chance to say anything either. I’m tired of excuses and apologies. I’m just going to turn around and leave.
Right before I knock I realize I hear kids running around and laughing on the other side of this door. So I tap. When it opens, a civilized-looking black man is standing in front of me. “May I help you with something?” he asks.
He does not look like Trinetta’s type. He doesn’t look like a drug addict. He looks like he has a job. Whoever he is, if she let this son of a bitch bring his kids up in here when I’m taking care of hers, I’m going to slap her into next year as soon as she steps in front of me. “Is Trinetta in there?”
“She doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Since when?”
“We moved in a little over a week ago. That’s all I know. Is there a problem?”
“No. There’s no problem. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”
“You’re not the first and I’m sure not the last person who’s been here looking for her. But you look like kinfolk. And a worried one.”
“I’m her mother. And don’t know where she is. But thank you again.”
“Good luck finding her, and I hope she’s okay.”
After he closes the door I walk down the hallway and just start knocking on one door after another until a woman I know who has to be Twinkle opens hers. “Hello,” I say, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m Trinetta’s mother. Are you a friend of hers?”
“Come on in, Miss Betty Jean! I’m Twinkle. I’ve heard so much about you but never had the pleasure of meeting you. Come on in!” She opens the door for me and I am shocked at how nicely decorated this place is. I’d swap this place for mine in a heartbeat. This doesn’t look anything like Trinetta’s apartment. It’s calm in here. She also doesn’t look like a drug addict, or a ho, if there is such a look. She has on a white T-shirt with jeans and sneakers. This is why you can’t believe everything that comes out of a child’s mouth.
“Have a seat. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
She also doesn’t sound like a ho or like she’s from the streets, and if this is what a ho’s den looks like maybe I’m in the wrong field. I sit down on her leather sofa. It’s teal, a color I have always loved. She’s got a rug to match. Everything else is beige and olive green. “No, but thank you, Twinkle. I’m wondering if you have any idea where Trinetta is.”
“Indeed, I do. You mean she didn’t tell you her and Dante were moving to Atlanta?”
“Atlanta?”
“Yes, indeedy. She told me you were keeping the kids over there until she cleaned up her act—if you get my
drift—and Dante’s rapping career jumps off.”
“Oh, did she now? Would you happen to know Dante’s last name?”
“Of course. It’s the same as Trinetta’s: Luckett. You don’t know your own daughter’s married name?”
Married?
“I didn’t know she took his name.”
“How are the boys doing?”
“They’re fine.”
“Ricky is taking his meds, I hope?”
“Yes, but I’m going to get them rechecked soon.”
“That’s a good idea. Tell him and Luther that Auntie Twinkle sends her love. And bring them over anytime you need a break. My kids are about the same age.”
“How many do you have?”
“Three. All girls. But they go to Catholic school. Their daddy pays for it. You sure you don’t want a cup of coffee? It’s Starbucks Verona!”
She looks at me like she could use some company but I shake my head no and stand up. “Have you heard from her since she left?”
“Not a peep. She said she’d be in touch once they got there.”
“Well, if you happen to hear from her, would you please let her know I stopped by?”
“I will. That’s kind of low for her not to tell you she was bailing and especially not to even say goodbye to her own damn kids. My bad. Sorry for swearing, Miss Betty. But Trinetta’s been playing hard a long time and it’s about time for her to get her act together. The state was going to take my girls, which is when I decided to stop spending so much time on the street, if you hear where I’m coming from, but Trinetta seems to be having a much harder time. Dante’ll help her get it together. Even though he’s got other issues I don’t want to speak on right this minute.”
Who Asked You? Page 9
