The Stars and the Blackness Between Them

by Junauda Petrus

  Sometimes this book is real hard, but it’s worth it. Not hard as in reading it, but hard as in feeling it, the unfairness of life and how it impacts people who could be something else to this world. I had never read a book that had so many feelings in it and it made me think of all kinds of things and mainly not think about being sick.

  I thought of this one time my dad came home from picking up Sahir from daycare and was stopped by cops and Sahir wouldn’t stop crying because he was teething and my dad was afraid to turn around and soothe him in case the cops reacted with bullets. The traffic stop was just to tell him that he didn’t signal and he was getting a warning. But I think something about Sahir being in the car with him made it so that he couldn’t stop shaking after the cops were done. He was still shook even when he got home. My mom started cursing up a storm and rocking Sahir, who was still hysterical. I remember going over to my dad to kiss his forehead and he looked at me and was crying. And I just hugged him and started crying too.

  MABEL

  IT’S MY SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY and I feel like shit. My parents must have blown up at least one hundred purple balloons; our house is swimming in them. They made an epic meal of tacos with all kinds of fixings and toppings and cremas and salsas and roasted chicken and sweet potatoes and black beans. They made watermelon juice and limeade. My mom made a homemade banana cake, my favorite.

  Ursa, Jazzy, Audre, and Terrell were all invited to celebrate. Not my idea. I wanted to stay in my room and chill by myself as usual, like any other day, and wait for snow to fall on Black Eden and listen to music. But my parents kept insisting that I celebrate my seventeenth birthday with a party, even when I told them I didn’t see the point.

  So now the homies and I are in the living room amid the balloon flood my parents created. I’m feeling awkward and in pain and wearing my du-rag to cover my hair, which is falling out from treatment. I look sickly, and I could tell that Ursa and Terrell were shook but trying to be cool. Terrell started crying a little bit when he saw me but then got it together when Jazzy pulled him aside for a pep talk.

  And I swear I’m trying but I can’t really figure out how to be nice to anyone. I’m not being mean, but I’m not able to fake the feeling of happy or grateful. I can’t seem to muster up pretending I’m into this birthday party for the convenience of everyone’s good time.

  I switch up the music to play Frank Ocean. It’s my birthday and I’m feeling emo, so I’m playing that dude.

  “Hey, Mabel, you look like you are doing okay.” Terrell approaches me, lying from his sweet little concerned face. My armpits start stinging with sweat. “How do you feel?” He looks scared that I’ll tell him the truth.

  “I’m fine.” I hate people being sorry for me. I don’t know why he even asked, but I guess everyone feels like they have to.

  “Hap-pyy Birth-day to ya. Hap-pyy Birth-day to ya. Happy BIIIIRRRRTHDAY! HAAAAAAA-PYYYYYYY, BIIIIIRRRRTH-DAYYYY!” My mom comes holding my cake, sanging loud as hell the Stevie Wonder version of “Happy Birthday” (of course) with Sahir dancing in behind her and my dad filming on his phone. I blow out the candles unenthusiastically.

  The whole thing just felt kind of extra—as well as disappointing and kinda depressing. I feel my eyes wanting to cry and that makes me feel dumb on top of sad. I hang out for a couple of minutes and then make an excuse to my mom about not feeling well. I go to my room to cry alone.

  I know folks are trying to act like everything is normal, but that only makes things more awkward, because everyone knows I’m sick. And celebrating my birthday just reminds me this is probably my last one. I hear the rustling of people leaving the house, and I’m relieved.

  Someone knocks on the door and I tell them to enter. My mom enters the bedroom with a piece of cake that she puts on my side table. She sits on my bed and starts rubbing my leg. Her gentleness makes me cry harder, and I feel bad for not liking everything that they did.

  “Mabel, I love you, honey. I love you too much.” She combs her fingers through her Afro, like she does when she’s thinking. She leans down and kisses my head. The tears are pouring out my eyes and are thick in my throat.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “Don’t be, Mabel. You told me you didn’t feel like having a party and I didn’t listen. I just wanted you to feel how loved you are.” She sighs. “Mabel, I’m going to do everything I can do to be the best mom to you, and please forgive me when I don’t get it right. As soon as the party started, I could tell you weren’t feeling it.” She laughs to herself. “It actually reminded me of your first birthday party. You hated that one too, girl. The noise, the people, the decorations! You cried so much we had to kick everyone out early then too.”

  I smiled through my wet face, imagining my baby self, being emo then too.

  “Mom.”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “I’m afraid. A lot.” It’s all I can get out of my mouth to say.

  My mom sighs and nods her head at me, as I snuggle closer to her. “Baby, I can’t imagine how you feel. I love you so much. I feel afraid too.” It’s the first I ever heard her speak about being afraid of what’s happening to me.

  “I don’t know how to feel, Mom.”

  “You just need to feel how you feel, girl. You don’t need to do nothing but be you.” She looks down at me and strokes my forehead.

  “Mom, can you snuggle in bed with me a little bit?” I ask her, and she laughs.

  “I would love to.” I make room for her and soon her Afro is on my pillow, smelling like amber and rose.

  “Snuggling with you like this reminds me of your very, very first birthday, the actual day you were born. I remember having you lie on my chest, and I just couldn’t believe how perfect you were. Your eyes, your fingers, even your little lips and nose. You were such a mellow baby. Like this regal old woman in a little baby.” She pulls me closer. “Mabel. You are still perfect, baby. Remember, that. No matter what.”

  We spent the rest of the night chilling in my room and just talking. I took a bite of the banana cake and it was bomb as usual.

  SAGITTARIUS SEASON

  hood blocks are auction blocks

  he took the noose off his own neck

  he knew he deserved a gold chain and a Jupiter ring

  b-boy philosophers

  tenure on the corner

  on blocks

  ghetto institutions of knowledge

  local community college

  writing notes in his head and back pocket notebooks

  hoofing through cement streets

  Mansa Musa descendant got gilded memories in his blood

  and asks every day, how many dime bags

  does it take to bring back

  stolen abundance?

  how many dime bags does it take

  so everyone can have gold dangling from them

  and Jordans on they feet?

  how we gon’ cash checks earned

  over infinite Black lifetimes?

  she said stars bring everyone back to they own Mecca

  satisfaction come from outsmarting the riddle

  and she knew they hunted our bodies

  and they would make us pay

  if she ain’t make them pay first

  she utters under her breath

  strategy

  hunter of the mind, soul architect

  she got pull like Ganymede and she use her fire for alchemy

  harnessing the thin line between tool and weapon

  let the fire become lava and it will create lands for Eden

  MABEL

  I WAKE UP AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS, but the room is dark and it is dark outside. I feel confused, twisted up inside, and dry. Before I’m all the way awake, I remember the moments before I fell asleep and the fight I had with Mom and Dad. They
came into my room with an envelope, demanding to know why I was getting a letter from an inmate—a letter they decided to open, even though it was for me.

  “Y’all was the ones that had his book and told me to read it. Did y’all even read it? And now y’all seem almost mad that he is alive,” I shouted, my body shaking in anger.

  “Baby, don’t be upset. We ain’t mad at you,” my mom replied, obviously lying because they clearly was feeling some type of way and that’s why they came up in my room all rah-rah, talking about it.

  After another minute of arguing, I told them I was tired and, like that, I was asleep. One of them must’ve turned off the lights.

  I sit up and turn on my lamp. My eyes focus on a rectangle of white that I realize is the letter from Afua. I grab it and look at it closer, it is heavily stamped and already opened. I see A. Mahmoud and his handwriting in blue ink. It is square and tight and orderly. Neat. I see my name written out by him in this same blue ink and it gives me chills. That the words that have been sacred to me and the man that is its source knows I exist and wrote me. It hadn’t ever occurred to me that he would actually write back, and now this envelope is in my hand. I open it up.

  Dear Mabel,

  Thank you for your letter. It meant a lot for me to receive it and hear about your current journey and the challenge you are facing. Whoa. So heavy, young one. Honestly, I don’t think I know what to say, but I knew I needed to write you to tell you that you and your family are in my heart, meditation, and prayers, which may not feel like much, given what you all are going through, but still I give it fully.

  I don’t necessarily know what I should say about dying. I been “dying” so long, I must be good at it (laugh). I guess, in a lot of ways, I try not to think about it too much, ’cause it is a fact: We all die, we all gonna die. I remember when I was first sentenced, death scared me. Death felt like it was the clothes I wore every day. And someone so special to me, my friend, was taken from me and that felt like my death too. I guess life has a lot of little deaths before we leave this planet officially.

  I remember what it feels like to be young and feel like you are alone in this world. I used to feel alone even before I was in here. And in ways we are always alone, and in other ways, we never are, since there are feelings and beings that are unseen and unknown in this world that are around us and protect us. All the old heads will say that there ain’t nothing new under the sun (or moon or stars), which is true in a way. But still your life is new for you. How you deal with something for the first time and the way you feel about it is new and yours and sacred.

  An old head, Rashad, who was on death row when I got here and is an ancestor now, told me, no matter what, to never let them institutionalize me. It took me a while to understand that but then I realized I been doing it my whole life. I never let this system take my mind and spirit and shape it into whatever lie they designed for me to become. Even when I was out on the block, I knew it was ’cause I was helping my mama out and saving to go to Africa. I decided after about five years in here that I may be locked up, but this is still my life and no one else’s. Not the police, this country, these guards, these judges. Even my family, who loves me even through everything, it ain’t their life, it’s mine and I get to cherish it. I hope you feel that your life is yours, even in this sadness.

  I am so sorry that this diagnosis is a thing you have to hold. Nothing in life prepares you for death, and the certain promise of it. Whether it is your own death or someone you love. And nothing in life prepares you to live, truly live, knowing that death is near. Another thing to remember is, you alive until you ain’t, so live in any way you can. I know that may not seem that deep, but it is just what I have learned. I been on death row for longer than I haven’t, meaning I have been told I was a dead man before I ever even became a man. I got diagnosed with death as a boy of nineteen. I had to find life on death row and I will live until my moment comes to reunite with the essence of the divine.

  Mabel, you have the power to live your life with attention and intention. Whether any of our souls continue to journey into other stars and worlds (which is what I believe) or if this life on this beautiful and bitter rock is all there is, you get to choose your relationship to life. And it don’t got to look like no one else’s. I’m happy you have someone like Audre, who makes you feel like you are not alone and who brings joy. Enshrine that in your heart, it’s a gift.

  And Whitney Houston is the greatest of all time, still to me and I’m an old man! I’m glad the young people still feeling her. She a wild and limitless Leo queen. She forever in my heart, looking like a goddess and sanging like an angel. Man, I used to have a crush on her! I always thought her smile could command ships and her voice, whooo, it could melt knees . . . nothing like it. When I first got in here, I wore out my cassette tape of “Where Do Broken Hearts Go?” It was my favorite of hers and really spoke to me and how I was feeling in here. I remember it was a single tape (Do you know what that is? It’s when a tape got only one song on each side). I don’t even remember the B-side. Your parents know what I’m talking about. Anyway, that song is an old one—and kind of sappy, now that I think about it —but that song made me so emotional (pun intended).

  And all of these years later, the question still stands, don’t it? Where do broken hearts go? In this country some might say prison. To be honest, in my life I have met a lot of broken hearts, inside and outside these fences and walls. We stay wondering where we will go. The answer I found for myself is that we must go within. Within us is a universe that no one can touch. When you can find that inner spot, even for a moment, that is Goddess.

  I hope that you can feel solace and joy in this moment and every moment. Thank you for your spirit and being so honest.

  Blessings,

  Afua

  P.S.

  Do you know your sign? Get your astrological birth chart and study your stars and what they have to say. Your friends and family too.

  I read the letter three times back-to-back. I feel a lot of emotions—from the letter and my argument with my parents. I couldn’t explain why I needed to write this man, but now that I got his letter, I’m so glad he is alive and wrote me. I think about the stars and living with attention and intention as he said. Ever since I got diagnosed, I haven’t known how to be with life. Life had become my biggest fear. But I’m still alive, even if I’m dying. In this moment, I am breathing and my heart is beating. I put on my speaker and found “Where Do Broken Hearts Go.” I turn off my lamp and let Whitney’s and Afua’s words fill the darkness.

  MABEL

  “I THINK THIS WILL WORK; let’s just try it, eh? We will keep track of any changes,” says Audre from the other side of my closed eyes. It’s warm for late fall in Minnesota and it hasn’t snowed yet, so we decided to head outside and absorb the feeling.

  She has me lying in Black Eden in a bed of dirt that we didn’t get to plant tulip bulbs in this year after I got diagnosed. It’s in a secluded part of his garden, farther from the house and in an area with a little shade. She is bent over me and holding me around my shoulders and head and breathing slow and I’m relaxed by it. The air is warm and a little crisp. The leaves are changing color and have started falling flamboyantly to the earth. My last fall. I’m so nauseous and weak, I can barely think. Every time I have to go to the hospital for a treatment, I come home feeling sicker and less like me. But, as I lie here, I feel Afua’s letter in my pocket and it makes me feel strong.

  “As you lie in the dirt, imagine that the land can hold all of the feelings. All of the sickness and hurt. Confusion. The earth can take it all. Don’t feel like you is too much. You are okay and loved by creation.” Her words come slowly and her voice is a little shaky.

  Audre always kicks it with me after chemo. After the first couple treatments, she created “dreamo” treatment for me. Her and her witchy concepts . . . It’s supposed to help heal me
from chemo, help me remember dreams, and also dream myself healed. Her grandma Queenie taught her some of these techniques, and she said she is going to figure it out. It’s kind of an experiment of healing, and I don’t mind being an experiment of hers.

  Even though I think this dreamo stuff is weird and doesn’t always make sense, I do end up feeling something different after each dreamo session. I feel less scared and more alive. Or maybe that’s just Audre. Either way, I’m just glad she cares enough to try the healer stuff she saw her grandma doing as a kid. (And if half of Audre’s stories about her grandma are true, she’s got as much swag as Whitney did back in the day. No complaints from me about having her techniques help me out.)

  I feel how tender the dirt is beneath me. I love dirt—always have. I feel Audre hovering over me, and I smell her scent mixed with lavender, Florida water, rose water, bay rum, and some other things we got at the botanica together on a day I was feeling up for leaving the crib. She presses into the insides of my feet with my thick wool socks, and starts rubbing them. A good feeling comes all over my body, even though I don’t know how she ain’t grossed out by my feet.

  “Queenie always say I was the best at rubbing she feet. I always like she feet,” she tells me. I open my eyes and see the shake of leaves that are sheltering us, and Audre attentively bent over my feet. “It just seem like she was always made from nature anyway; they were her roots. She told me her feet was like that ’cause as a kid, she had to walk everywhere barefoot ’cause she could only wear her shoes for school and church.” She softly kneads her knuckles into my heels, and I relax more. “They are also dancer’s feet. She the best dancer. I stop wearing shoes as a kid, because everything she do, I wanna do like she.”

  My body is tingling all over. Audre’s hands are gentle, and they are putting me in my feels. I want to tell her how nice this all feels, but I don’t trust myself to form the words right now.