Hope Nation

by Hope Nation- YA Authors Share Personal Moments of Inspiration (retail) (epub)

  I don’t know what motivated my father to move us to Florida when I was ten, or why things seemed to slowly change after that. Maybe because none of my father’s friends were in Florida. And there were no more weekend parties, so there wasn’t as much liquor in the house. Maybe because this house had bright white walls inside and was filled with blinding sunshine that didn’t so easily hide secrets. My father was obsessed with having the light come in. Or maybe because my dad got an interstate trucking job and spent most of his time on the road, hauling produce up and down the East Coast, which gave us a little room to breathe. I don’t know. It just happened.

  I remember being scared when we got to Florida, of starting somewhere new, but my classmates were scared of me because I was from New York and they thought that meant I was tough. I knew fear and how it could work, so I played into their assumptions, told them lies about how many kids I’d beaten up on the playground back home. And told anyone who would listen all kinds of fantastic things about New York. Anything but the truth.

  Eventually, my teacher tired of my stories and asked me one day, “What do you not miss about New York?”

  I thought about it for a second.

  “My house,” I told her. “I don’t miss my house at all.”

  “Your house?” She looked at me funny. “How can you not miss your house?”

  I shrugged and ate my fruit snacks. I wasn’t saying any more.

  My house in New York had brown carpeting that hid every stain, and wood paneling. It was dark inside, and it held our secrets. It held violence. It held too much liquor. It held the smell of hangovers and the view of my father’s car parked across our front lawn for all the neighbors to see, the door left wide open overnight. My house held my father and his anger.

  I spent summer vacations after we moved visiting and hanging out with cousins in New York. And later, when my sister got married, I spent them with her in New Jersey. The way I traveled was to catch a ride with my father in his eighteen-wheeler. I liked these trips, despite the awkwardness between my father and me. He wasn’t exactly the person he used to be, but this somehow made it harder to know who he really was. We’d stop at Waffle Houses and eat silently across from each other. I never knew what to say to him. Sometimes what I wanted was to just ask him why. Why had he been the way he had been? But I didn’t have the courage then to be so direct with him, to bring up anything from the past, so we’d get back on the road. And I’d stare out the window and watch the cars below pass me by as I wondered about the people inside. I’d watch them cut my father off and hear him curse up a storm as tiny tree air fresheners spun around wildly. I’d listen to the gruff voices on the CB radio and try to figure out what they were saying. I’d fixate on the blurry white dashes on the road.

  When we did talk, he’d ask about school, or soccer, or general things. Sometimes, we’d find ourselves mentioning something about New York, but he never brought up the things I remembered. Never admitted my memories were real. I wondered if he was pretending they didn’t happen, or if he really didn’t remember they had. In the twilight, when he couldn’t really see my face, I’d look over and study his profile as he stared at the road ahead and I’d wonder who my father was. Sometimes when we ran out of words, he’d pop in a tape to cover up any silence, and we’d listen to rancheras—songs about people done wrong.

  It wasn’t until my later teen years that I realized the extent of abuse my father had suffered as a kid, that some of the stories he’d told in a joking manner were partial confessions of a far worse reality. He began filling in the truths of those stories on those trips as I got older. He talked more about his life in Santa Rosa, and I learned of the things he had endured, that his mother had endured as a child as well. He never called it abuse, but that’s what it was. He’d get pensive and say it was just the way things were back then. I wish I had told him no, not everyone was treated the way he was. I wish I had told him he should have been loved more, better. That he didn’t deserve any of what he experienced. I didn’t say those things to him then because maybe I didn’t really know them yet. And I still had not found my voice for those kinds of conversations. All I could do was swallow my sadness as I pictured my father as a scared child.

  Those road trips with my father stayed with me through the years as our family changed. I used to close my eyes at night and picture him on the road. I wondered what filled his mind all those hours he spent driving, if he ever thought about those years in our old house or our life in New York or me and my sister scared. If he ever understood or knew the extent of our fear. I wondered what he would think if he knew that for years I dreamed of loose lions and bears in our house. Last Christmas, the time of year that long ago always began well enough but always ended violently, with yelling and screaming, crying, or a fist through a wall, my father looked at my sister and me and choked out an apology. For the fear and the memories he had created and for the ones he wished he had created instead.

  I could not find the words. I did not want, could not stand, for him to hurt. He’d transformed so much over the years, I felt like the man before me was not the same one who had existed then. He’s become a gentle man. One who worries about people forgotten and disposed, who sees the humanity in people others are afraid to approach. My sister and I looked at each other, fumbled with our responses, and fell back to the way we’d always handled things with my father. We covered up our feelings, pretended it was no big deal. Forget it, we told him. We never think of it. He looked at us like there was more he needed to say, like he needed us to say more, too, but we couldn’t hear any more, couldn’t say any more. Forget it, we insisted.

  I went home that night and cried. I went to sleep remembering my road trips with my father and the smell of diesel. And I wondered if the highway he’s driven all these years is littered with his demons.

  I don’t know why or how things worked out the way they did with my dad. But because of him, I have an unshakable belief that things can get better. It’s the truest thing I can tell you. In the darkest, scariest moments of my life, I could not have known things would be okay. I could not have believed my father could one day be a man unafraid to cry, who wouldn’t touch hard liquor, who I wouldn’t be afraid of. But he is.

  I’ve lost hope in people and the world many times. Hope is something I think you lose and find many times in life. And I know things could have gone a very different way with my father. But they went this way. And it’s why I know hope exists. Because there was nothing I wanted more when I was younger than to not be that scared little kid in that dark house anymore. There was nothing I wanted more than for the person I feared so much to be someone different. There was nothing I wanted more than to know what to do with all the feelings and secrets I kept bottled up for all those years.

  So here I am, writing to you, telling you to trust and hope and believe.

  DAVID LEVITHAN LIBBA BRAY ANGIE THOMAS ALLY CONDIE MARIE LU JEFF ZENTNER NICOLA YOON KATE HART GAYLE FORMAN CHRISTINA DIAZ GONZALEZ ATIA ABAWI ALEX LONDON HOWARD BRYANT ALLY CARTER ROMINA GARBER RENÉE AHDIEH AISHA SAEED JENNY TORRES SANCHEZ NIC STONE JULIE MURPHY I. W. GREGORIO JAMES DASHNER JASON REYNOLDS BRENDAN KIELY

  NIC STONE

  Always

  SO [SPOILER ALERT]: FOR MY entire life—as in since birth—I’ve been African American.

  Most of the time, it’s not a Big Deal, and I hardly notice. I move through my days like I assume a lot of people do: waking up, getting dressed, eating, doing all the stuff I have to do (#responsibilities), chores, showering, sleeping at night . . . And on.

  And on.

  And on.

  But.

  Sometimes it has felt like a Big Deal. And I do notice.

  There was the time in fifth grade when, a few months after moving to a new state and school, I was tested for placement in the Gifted program (do they still call it that?) and became one of two spots of brown on the pale-skinned landscape of our elem
entary school’s Focus and Challenge Math classes.

  There was the time in sixth grade when, upon discovering my love of Alanis Morissette and No Doubt—Gwen Stefani’s old band—another African American kid looked at me and said “Man, you a Oreo.” (That’s “black on the outside, white on the inside,” for the uninitiated. And it’s not a compliment.)

  There was To Kill a Mockingbird, Of Mice and Men, and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, all required reading at some point in my Gifted language arts classes where I was either the only African American kid or one of two—a position that made reading these books in particular (one about a wrongfully accused [then murdered] black man who gets no justice, one with the n-word tossed around like a Frisbee, and one where the one black character with a speaking role is an escaped slave whom I couldn’t understand half the time) more than a little uncomfortable.

  There was the time senior year when a girl in one of my classes, where I was the only African American, thought I was lying when I told her my ACT score because it was two points higher than hers. Why she was shocked, I have no idea. But it definitely made me look around and take note of my African Americanness.

  There was even a time when I didn’t notice until later: I was nineteen and on a road trip with one of my friends—also African American—and while cruising through middle-of-nowhere Illinois, we got pulled over. The officer made my friend sit inside his cruiser while he ran her license and registration. Then after a few minutes, he walked her back to the car, returned her stuff, and told her to take her graduation tassel down from the rearview mirror. “It’s illegal to have anything hanging up there,” he said. And that was it. No ticket given. We hadn’t been speeding. Neither of us had a clue why he pulled us over.

  Except now, maybe we do know. I can only speculate, obviously, but bottom line: Thinking about that experience makes me feel like my African Americanness might have been a Big Deal then.

  It makes me notice it.

  And that was thirteen years ago. Which is interesting because I find that nowadays, I notice my African Americanness more and more instead of less and less, like I would’ve expected to as we progress through time. As a matter of fact, ever since November 8, 2016, it feels like a Big-Deal-More-Often-Than-Not.

  Don’t get me wrong: There were many moments before that date—over the preceding four years, especially—when the Big Deal feeling was in full effect. Like every time the name of an African American was preceded by the “#” symbol on Twitstagrumblrbook (or social media, as we oldies say) because another black person had been killed by police. Or every time I heard a racial slur or “joke” aimed at President Barack Obama.

  Overall, though, it was fine. I felt at ease. Unfettered. The world was spinning, and I was happy with my place in it.

  Even during the lead-up to November 8, 2016—that year-or-so-long campaigning and preelection debate season—I was cool. Chillin’. Were there some instances of people saying and doing things that would’ve normally made me notice my African Americanness? Of course.

  But it was fine, because I didn’t think those people would win.

  Why would I have? There was an African American man behind the desk in the Oval Office. People of all races were getting angry about the abrupt ends to certain African American lives at the hands of individuals paid to protect and serve. African American friends and family members were going to medical school, buying homes, touring private schools for their kids. And not only did the highest-paid athletes and entertainers have skin the same color as mine, but so did everyone’s favorite astrophysicist (lookin’ at you, Neil deGrasse Tyson).

  I’d even gotten a book deal. A chance at fulfilling my biggest dreams.

  The African Americanness wasn’t a burden. It really wasn’t anything at all. Just a fact of life. A biological reality.

  No Big Deal.

  I hardly ever noticed it at all.

  But then November 8, 2016, happened.

  And when I woke up on November 9, the brown of my skin was all I could see.

  What the results of the 2016 presidential election said to me personally was You are not safe. There are a lot of people in this country who—consciously or not—care more about maintaining their privilege than seeing a fairer society. Enough of them, in fact, to elect a candidate whose policies will clearly have a negative impact on most marginalized communities.

  It said to me, Your skin color is a Big Deal.

  For months, every time I saw a white person, I wondered what they thought of me as an African American. Did they notice the brown of my skin? (How could they not? was always the follow-up question.) Were they disdainful of my presence and progress? Did they feel like the America where things were more equitable for me wasn’t as Great as the America where marginalized folks—like me—were more or less confined to the sidelines?

  I was angry. I was afraid.

  I was uncomfortable going to Stone Mountain, one of my favorite places in Atlanta, because the Confederate flags at the foot of the hiking trail seemed to stand extra tall after the election. Visiting also involved seeing the mountain’s Confederate Memorial: a carving larger than a football field of Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee, and Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson—three men so bent on keeping my ancestors enslaved, their homies seceded from the Union and then started a war over it.

  I felt a deep and abiding sense of sorrow every time I saw a bumper sticker about Making America Great Again because I would notice my African Americanness and think, Wow, that person hates me and wishes I weren’t here.

  Hope was hard.

  But I kept going. Didn’t have much of a choice, really: I have two little African American dudes—my sons—who need me to teach them how to navigate this landscape. So I settled into the noticing. I accepted that, despite what felt like eight solid years of progress, being black in this country was (is) still a Big Deal.

  But it was fine. It had to be fine.

  So whatever. New reality. Travel bans and anti-immigration rallies and desecrations of Jewish cemeteries and threats on synagogues and Klan rallies are very real things even in this progressive age. I just had to be careful. Avoid the drivers with Confederate flag stickers all over their trunks (and man, are there more of those than you’d expect). Stay away from the small towns where people fly Confederate flags in their front yards. Don’t get gas at the exit right after a “Make America Great Again” billboard.

  And when visiting little towns in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee for a writing retreat—not too far past a clearing visible from the highway where seven massive Confederate flags wave at passersby like Miss America—be on your guard when you go to the grocery store.

  And so I was.

  In March 2017, a good friend and I drove from Atlanta to a town in Tennessee for a five-day, four-night writing retreat in the mountains. On the way up, we saw billboards and fields of flags that made it clear we were passing through places where we wouldn’t be warmly welcomed.

  So on the late morning we decided to hit the store, I was acutely aware of our African Americanness. It almost felt like a “Hey, look at my blackness!” homing device.

  And people were nice enough—lots of smiles and an offer of assistance when I struggled to find the fruit snack aisle. (Why else would one go to the grocery store while on retreat in the Smoky Mountains?) My friend even bought some Girl Scout cookies from a young lady and her father who were selling them out front—but I was still wary.

  This wariness increased when we returned to our rental car and saw the pickup truck in the parking space across from ours. There was a white guy behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette with an arm draped out the open window. He was youngish (probably mid-to-late twenties). Kinda gruff looking (but a little bit cute too).

  And he was staring at us. Watching with narrowed eyes.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t utterly terrified.

&nbs
p; But.

  I also try to live by the mantra Kill ’em with kindness.

  So, I decided to try to defuse the tension I was feeling. Looking back, it was a pretty stupid move. (Who tries to “kill someone with kindness” in the face of imminent danger? It’s like telling a guy with a gun to your head that you like his shoes.) But I had to say something. Because even after we’d gotten into the car, he was still staring. Hard.

  So I locked eyes with him and smiled. Then I rolled down my window and stuck my head out: “You look like Chad Michael Murray,” I said.

  He lifted his chin in acknowledgment.

  I got scared-er.

  So scared, I froze. Couldn’t get my eyes to disconnect from his.

  His eyes narrowed a little more . . .

  And then he grinned. “I like your sweatshirt,” he said.

  And then the world exhaled. The clouds parted and the sun broke free. I looked at my friend, and we both started laughing.

  That sweatshirt I was wearing? It said “Straight Outta Azkaban.”

  I told the guy thanks and to have a nice day, and he nodded and said, “Y’all too.”

  And I drove away from that grocery store with a completely different outlook. Because despite our obvious dissimilarities, this guy clearly liked something I love.

  I’ve been a die-hard Potterhead since Prisoner of Azkaban (the book) came out a couple of weeks into my freshman year of high school. Sorcerer’s Stone and Chamber of Secrets were both brilliant, of course, but Prisoner of Azkaban did something for me that the other two didn’t, because it was the first time I got a grip on how truly alone Harry was.

  From his trip on the Knight Bus to his weeks alone in the Leaky Cauldron to his discovery of the speculation that some deranged lunatic (who’d escaped from a place said to be inescapable) was after him, the depth of Harry’s isolation—his existence in a place literally no one else could get to, let alone understand—crawled down inside me and curled up tight.