Heart or Mind

by Patrick Jones

  “This was a bad idea, Rodney,” Jawahir whispers. “Maybe it’s best if we—”

  “I’m like this train, Jawahir. I may stop, but I will get where I’m going. And where I’m going is to you. Screw this, I’m going to turn around, sit next to you. This is stupid and—”

  “No, it’s a mistake, somebody will hurt you.”

  “It’s worse being this close to you but not being able to see you, touch you, kiss you.”

  “Don’t say that.” Tension rises in Jawahir’s voice because she feels the same, but can’t bring herself to say the words. She’s afraid not of her family or her friends, but of her out-of-control heart.

  “Farhan, his friends, Ayaan, bring ’em on. Not being able to be with you is worse than death. Just turn around and look at me, Jawahir.”

  Jawahir whispers, “No.” He can’t see her blushing and starting to cry. “Don’t, please.”

  “Fine, I’ll do anything you ask,” Rodney says. “You need me to walk across hot coals, I’ll do it. I don’t have much, but I’d risk it all if you just say the words. Jawahir, say that you love me.”

  Jawahir presses the book against her forehead and closes her eyes. “I want to, but it’s too quick. It’s like lightning that flashes and then disappears before you can say, that was lightning.”

  “Maybe it’s lightning for you, but for me, my heart is thunder exploding out of my chest.”

  Jawahir rises as the train pulls into the Lake Street station. “I didn’t expect you to say those words to me, Rodney. I need time. Tomorrow, after school, outside the garage. I will have my answer.”

  Rodney stands next to her. As the train stops, there’s a slight jolt. Rodney presses up against Jawahir, she presses back. Her five senses overflow in the split second they touch.

  “Love isn’t an answer,” Rodney whispers. “It’s a promise. And I promise it to you.”

  11

  RODNEY

  “So that’s the story, Larry,” Rodney says. Rodney’s uncle Larry sits across from him in a small apartment near the airport where Larry works. Larry didn’t react as Rodney told him about Jawahir.

  Larry smiles, but Rodney’s not sure if he’s happy for him or thinks he’s a fool, and he’s afraid to ask. Larry smokes, smiles, smokes, and keeps Rodney guessing. “So what do you think?” Rodney asks.

  “Honest, Poe, I think you’re making a big mistake,” Larry says. He calls Rodney “Poe,” short for poet. While all of Rodney’s friends were writing raps in middle school, Rodney was writing poetry. The name didn’t stick with his friends, but Larry adopted it. Rodney likes the name, but at this moment he hates his uncle’s words.

  “I’m sorry you think that. I thought you of anyone . . .” Rodney points to the picture of Larry’s ex, Valentina. Her family was also members of a rival gang to the ATK.

  “And how did that end up?” Larry inhales deeply, then puts out the smoke in the full ashtray.

  “But that doesn’t mean for me—”

  “You came here, and I’m always glad to see you Poe, but you came here out of nowhere and told me this story about you and this Somali girl. I got friends. I know what’s happening on the street. I heard about the fight at your school, everybody treating it like it was big news, but it ain’t. This is old.”

  “You mean back in your day?” Rodney asks. Larry is twice Rodney’s age.

  “Blacks and Somalis been going at it almost since day one,” Larry says. “But if you study your history, you’ll know that’s just how it works in this country.” While in prison, Larry earned a history degree from the university, although because of his own history, he’d never found a job where he could put it to use. Still, Larry is one of the most educated people Rodney knows.

  “We should be on the same side.”

  “Should is way different from are,” he says. “Besides, we got rival gangs in our own community who should be coming together, but instead they’re tearing the north end apart. But like I said, it’s old news.”

  “But maybe if Jawahir and I became a couple in public, maybe that would—”

  “You ain’t just a poet, Rodney, you’re also a dreamer. This is the real world we live in.”

  Rodney says nothing. He sips the root beer his uncle gave him.

  “Arabs and Jews, Sunni and Shia, Hatfields and McCoys, Bloods and Crips, forever wars.”

  “Why do people hate so much, Larry?” Rodney asks.

  “Because hate is easier than love, and most people choose what’s easy.”

  Rodney finishes his beverage, stands up from the small table, and walks toward the window. He looks at the airplanes taking off and landing. The window vibrates with their noise. “It’s not a choice.”

  “What’s that now?”

  Rodney turns back to face Larry. “That’s what nobody understands, I don’t have a choice.”

  Larry laughs. “That’s true for a young black man in—”

  “No, that’s not what I’m talking about, Larry.” Rodney walks toward his uncle. He puts his hands on the table, leans in, smells the lingering smoke and his eyes start to water. “I don’t have a choice about Jawahir. I know it’s sudden and I know it’s crazy, but I love her and want to be with her. I could no more choose not to want her than I could choose not to breathe. I could no more—”

  Larry laughs and motions for Rodney to sit back down. “Alright Poe, I hear you.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s like a drug in my blood. You know?”

  Larry nods. “So do you want my blessing, is that it?”

  “And a place for us to—”

  “I get you, Poe,” Larry says. He scratches his shaved head, tugs on his ear.

  “I have nowhere else,” Rodney says. “And like I said, I don’t have a choice.”

  Larry says nothing, deep in thought like the professor or teacher he wanted to be before the streets swallowed him up and then spit him into Stillwater State Prison for five years. “Like a drug, huh?”

  “The kisses from Jawahir are the track marks on my heart.”

  Larry laughs loudly. “That’s enough Poe, that’s enough with the sweet stuff. I’ll help you out.”

  “Thanks Larry.”

  “But I just want you to know something.” Larry pulls out another cigarette with his right hand, picks up his lighter with his left. He flicks the lighter but doesn’t light the Salem 100. Instead he holds it in front of Rodney. “Rodney, love isn’t a drug. It is a fire and it consumes everything in its path.”

  12

  JAWAHIR

  “Ayaan, you’re family, that comes first,” Jawahir whispers to her cousin. They’re in her dad’s van on the way to school. Since the brawl, her father has insisted on driving Jawahir, Ayaan, and Farhan to school each morning. Farhan sits in the passenger seat talking with Jawahir’s father, acting like he’s interested in her father’s war stories about the homeland. Jawahir cares about nothing in the past, only about her future with Rodney.

  “I don’t approve,” Ayaan responds, sensing what Jawahir is about to say. “You’re blind to give up Farhan for that thug.”

  “I don’t need your approval, I need your help,” Jawahir whispers almost in a hiss. “We’re family. We’re supposed to be there for each other. I would do anything you asked me to do if only—”

  “If you would do anything, then stop this nonsense with that thug who only has one thing—”

  “He’s not a thug, why do you say that? You don’t even know him.”

  “I don’t need to know him,” Ayaan replies. “Open your eyes.”

  “I have open eyes, but also an open heart.”

  “An open heart’s not all he wants.”

  Jawahir slaps her cousin’s face.

  “What is going on?” her father shouts from the front seat. Farhan turns toward the girls and breaks out what Jawahir thinks is a hundred-karat fake smile.

  Jawahir stares at her cousin, whose eyes are starting to water. “Nothing. Right
, Ayaan?”

  Ayaan says nothing. For Jawahir it’s a test of trust.

  “Ayaan, you okay?” Farhan asks.

  Ayaan nods and smiles back at Farhan. “Everything’s fine.”

  “I’ll pick you up right after school,” Jawahir’s father reminds everyone.

  “Ayaan and I have to study for a test, right, Ayaan?” Jawahir says quickly, hoping the rush of words will cover up the lie. She’s never lied to her father before; she never even imagined doing so.

  “Right,” Ayaan mumbles. Farhan looks confused, but turns back to Jawahir’s father. Her father has started telling a new story about the honor and bravery of war, but Jawahir tunes him out. Her father lives in the past; she wants to live in the future. A future without war, a future filled with love. A future with Rodney.

  13

  RODNEY

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” Rodney says to Jawahir as she joins him at the corner of the school parking garage. “I was worried you’d listen to what everyone’s saying, decide it wasn’t worth it.”

  “Don’t say such a thing,” Jawahir says.

  “Look, I have a place.” Rodney tells Jawahir about his visit with Uncle Larry, including Larry’s warning about how love is like fire. Jawahir cools his talk of fire with a kiss. Rodney wants to say more, but he can’t break away. With his back against the wall, Rodney breaks the kiss and pulls Jawahir tight to his chest. His heart beats louder than any bass. “Can you say the words? Will you make the promise?”

  Jawahir stands on her toes to get her mouth even with his left ear. “I love you.” She repeats the phrase over and over.

  “Tomorrow night, we will—” Rodney starts.

  “You’ll do nothing,” Farhan says. He stands six feet away. The rage in his normally steely green eyes burns like a molten lava. Ayaan is two feet behind him. “Take your hands off her.”

  Jawahir starts to back away, but Rodney pulls her even tighter.

  “I said take your hands—”

  Jawahir turns her head toward Farhan. “Farhan, this is none of your business.”

  Farhan takes a step closer. “You dishonor all of us. You betray your family.”

  Rodney leans down and whispers into Jawahir ear, “I love you. Run!” Rodney releases Jawahir and takes off running away from school toward the street. Jawahir follows, with Farhan and Ayaan close behind. “This way!” Rodney shouts when Jawahir catches up. He grabs her hand and they run together.

  They run hard against the wind, but Farhan and Ayaan are only steps behind. Rodney directs Jawahir toward a park a few blocks away from the school. A park he used to know well. As he’d hoped, when they arrive at the park, Marquese and a few others are mixing basketball and business.

  “What the hell, bro?” Marquese yells when he sees Rodney and Jawahir. He bounces the ball in front of him as the two get closer to the court, but then he stops. Rodney and Jawahir reach Marquese and stop running. Rodney bends over and takes a deep breath, and then he sees Farhan. But behind him is no longer just Ayaan, but a small group of Somali young men. Most carry weapons they must have grabbed on the way: a piece of pipe, a broken bottle, and assorted other makeshift tools of destruction.

  As Farhan and his group close, Marquese directs everyone to stand behind him. Rodney wonders if Marquese or any of the others are carrying.

  “This is our park,” Marquese yells at Farhan.

  Farhan puts his hands in the air as if surrendering. “This isn’t about turf. It’s about them.” Farhan points at Rodney and Jawahir, who stand directly behind Rodney, both breathing heavy.

  “Truth is, I don’t like it any more than you,” Marquese says. “But he’s blood, so—”

  “This isn’t between you and me.” Farhan walks slowly toward Marquese. “It’s between me and Rodney. He’s taken something that was promised to me. He’s soiled something innocent. He has—”

  “Man, just shut up and get the hell out of my park.”

  Farhan cocks his head, gives Marquese a crazed look. “Not until we settle this.”

  “Settle what?”

  Farhan takes off his jacket and lays it on the ground. He takes a switchblade from his pocket and sets it on top of his jacket, then points at Rodney. “He wins, he keeps her. Except he won’t.”

  Marquese turns to stare at Rodney, who isn’t moving an inch other than to pull Jawahir closer to him. “No, I’m not fighting him,” Rodney says to Marquese, shaking his head. “I’m not getting violated and going back inside. I’m not—”

  “Where does all this fighting get us? It needs to end sometime. That time is now,” Jawahir says.

  “Looks like there ain’t gonna be no fight,” Marquese says, “so get your—”

  But Farhan cuts him off with a string of slurs and swears directed at Rodney. “You best bounce,” Marquese says, but Rodney pushes pass him. Jawahir tries to stop him, but Rodney steps forward.

  “Come on, you heard her. Where does all this fighting get us? It needs to end sometime. That time is now,” Rodney says. He imagines Jawahir smiling at him for using her words, but Farhan isn’t smiling. His sneer screams hate.

  Rodney puts his hand behind him. “Jawahir, we’re leaving, together.” Jawahir steps forward, takes Rodney’s hand and clutches it so hard that Rodney winces in pain. They start to leave, but Farhan stands in their way. Rodney says nothing and tries to step around him, but Farhan cuts him off.

  “Just leave us alone.”

  Farhan answers by spitting in Rodney’s face. Rodney wipes the spittle from his face onto Farhan’s shirt. Farhan responds by pushing Rodney down. Jawahir throws herself on top of Rodney to protect him.

  “Get out of the way!” Farhan shouts, but Jawahir won’t budge. Farhan grabs her arm and pulls her up, pushes her away, and then balls his fists. He motions for Rodney to stand. Rodney stands, takes a deep breath, and stares at Farhan with an icy glare he learned on the streets, but Farhan doesn’t blink.

  Rodney looks back at Marquese and his friends, all of them yelling at him to fight, but then he gazes at Jawahir. She mouths the word “no.”

  Rodney reaches his hand toward Jawahir, but Farhan knocks it away. Three times, Rodney reaches his hand out, and three times Farhan chops it, each time harder. “You can do that a hundred times, Farhan, and the answer’s the same. I’m not fighting you. This stupid war, for me, is over.”

  Farhan pushes Rodney’s chest hard, backing him up until he’s forced him against the fence. The two crowds of young men converge, but keep their distance. “A thousand times, Farhan, and I won’t—”

  “Screw this MLK crap!” Marquese steps forward. “You want to fight someone? Let’s go!”

  Farhan turns his back to Marquese and walks back toward his jacket, but he doesn’t pick up the jacket, he picks up the blade. Rodney hears the blade come out and tries to get between Farhan and Marquese, but they’re both charging forward. Farhan pushes the blade toward Rodney but misses. His hand goes underneath Rodney’s arm and stabs Marquese in the chest. Marquese cries out in pain.

  Rodney grabs Farhan’s wrist and slams it against his knee. The bloody blade falls to the ground next to Marquese. Blood squirts from the wound in Marquese’s chest. Still holding onto Farhan’s wrist with his left hand, Rodney’s right forms a fist that breaks Farhan’s nose with the first blow, loosens his teeth with the second, and knocks him out with the third. Even as Farhan is falling toward the ground, Rodney keeps throwing punches until he hears Jawahir yell at him to stop. Her yelling seems louder than the rest of the shouts from the park, which has erupted into a brawl, but the sounds of police sirens soon drown all other noise.

  14

  JAWAHIR

  “Back to back,” Jawahir whispers as she and Rodney board the southbound train. Behind them, in the park, the brawl rages on. Farhan’s and Marquese’s injuries were the first, probably not the worst.

  “Are you hurt?” Rodney asks. “Tell me you’re okay.” Jawahir’s knees are scraped, but there’s no
blood. That’s not true, she knows, for Rodney. His knuckles are bloody and his hand is probably broken.

  “I’m fine,” Jawahir lies. Love has consumed her ability to tell the truth. “Where are we going?”

  “My uncle Larry’s place,” Rodney says. “We can hide out there until—” Rodney stops.

  “Until what?” Jawahir asks, but there’s silence between them even as the everyday sounds of light-rail commuters surround them. Jawahir doesn’t know how to finish the sentence either.

  “I’ll call him,” Rodney says. Jawahir stares ahead, her hands covering her mouth. No one looks at her or out the window, all of them focused on the two-by-three inches of screen in front of them.

  Jawahir’s heart beats so fast she feels like it is about to jump out of her chest and run away, and she knows that’s the only answer: for her and Rodney to run away. She can’t go back to school, back home, back to where everybody will have heard what Rodney did to Farhan. For a second, the fear of her future overwhelms Jawahir when she realizes she has nowhere to run, nowhere to turn, and nowhere to hide. Sooner or later they’ll have to get off the train. “Rodney, what are we going—”

  “It’s all over the news,” Rodney finally says. “The fight.”

  “Did they say anything about Farhan?”

  “No, nothing about him or Marquese,” Rodney says. “There’s only one person named. Me.”

  Jawahir’s heart feels as if it jumps from her chest to her throat and stops her ability to speak.

  “Don’t worry, Larry will help us figure out something,” Rodney says, unsure if he believes it.

  “But it wasn’t your fault! You were protecting me,” Jawahir says. It sounds like she’s on the verge of tears.

  “They’ll call it an assault, which violates my parole. I’ll go back inside, but I’d rather die—”