by L. Divine
So much to think about. I hope we got some new brothas this year, ’cause the old ones are tired. I wonder what my girls are wearing, and the boys too. I also think about seeing KJ in the morning. Maybe it won’t be so bad.
Before closing my eyes I pray I can get into the bathroom in the morning without sitting on a wet toilet seat or smelling someone’s funky butt. I hate sharing a bathroom with all these dudes.
Last year I asked my mom if I could live with her. At least it would be just us girls. But, according to my mom, she’s still in the prime of her life. She dates, hangs out with her girlfriends, and goes to the gym every night after work, which means she can’t be saddled with a teenager.
“I just don’t have the time to be running after you, Jayd. Besides, what would Mama say if I took you away from her?
And brought you here, to South Central? Mama would have a fit and I would never hear the end of it. Stay where you are. Mama and Daddy can take better care of you than I can.”
And that was the end of that. There’s no convincing my mom of anything once she has her mind made up. She doesn’t have that normal mother guilt Mama has. If I beg hard enough I can usually get my way with Mama. But not with my mom. She’s rock hard when it comes to my pleading, especially if whatever I’m pleading for involves any effort on her part. It hurts sometimes.
Finally, before falling asleep, I pray for a mellow first day of school.
3
From Hood to Hood
“It’s time to take a trip to the suburb
Let them see a nigga invasion.”
—ICE CUBE
5:30 A.M.
Bliiiing!!!!” Dang, I hate that sound. If the Tasmanian devil’s little face wasn’t so cute, I think I would fling this alarm clock across the room. With my luck, it would hit Mama in the head or something. I haven’t had to hear it this early all summer long. It’s September again and the alarm clock’s loud-ass ring will again be my morning companion.
“Jayd, go on and get up now. You don’t want to be late for your first day of school.”
“All right, Mama. I’m up.”
As I crawl out of my stuffy twin-size bed, identical to my grandmother’s, I second-guess what I’ve decided to wear. My outfit is hanging on the back of the bedroom door with all of Mama’s clothes that need to go to the cleaner’s or be hung in the closet.
I picked out my outfit a week ago when I went shopping at the South Bay Galleria; Express was having a sale. Now, you know a sistah couldn’t pass that up. Being a little on the thick side, I don’t have a lot of options for clothing that will fit me good, but Express always has my size.
My outfit is tight. I got some low-waist, boot-cut jeans, a little baby-doll type shirt in lavender like the ones Free used to wear on 106th and Park, and some boots from Baker’s. You know I’m looking too fine for the first day.
As I make it to the door to get my clothes off the hanger, I remember I let Nellie borrow my sweater. It’s the only thing I have to match my outfit. I’ll have to try and catch Nellie before she leaves the house and ask her to bring it to school.
I can’t be caught in the South Bay without a sweater, as cold and foggy as it is by the beach. I used to not worry about it, just let my hair fro out until the afternoon sun melted the fog away. But after me and KJ hooked up, I began to care a little more.
“Jayd, make sure you don’t take too long in the bathroom. Bryan got a new job and he don’t need no reason not to go.”
“All right, Mama. I’ll hurry up.”
That’s the thing about living in a house with seven other people—there’s never much time in the bathroom. I also hate not having any space to myself. Not only do I have to share a room with my grandmother, but I also have no closet space, dresser drawers, or privacy. Every sixteen-year-old needs her privacy, ya feel me?
Mama and my grandfather need to go back to sharing a room and all the boys should sleep in the den. That way I can have my own room, since I’m the only girl. Mama says I’m only thinking of myself and that the boys should be with the boys and the girls with the girls. Call me selfish, but I still like my idea better.
As it stands now, Mama and I are in one room at the end of our very small hallway. The bathroom is at the other end next to the room Daddy, Bryan, and Jay share. My other three uncles, Carl, Sean, and Junior, all sleep in the den.
The house sounds big, but it ain’t. It’s actually very small and not big enough for all these folks up in here. I have to be careful as I stumble my way toward the bathroom. Bryan must’ve just turned the floor heater on to knock off the morning chill and it wouldn’t be the first time I burn myself.
I open the door to Daddy and the boy’s room before going into the bathroom. I try not to wake anybody up. Bryan, though, is already up and in his van, smoking a joint or doing something else he thinks is revolutionary.
Without any dresser or closet space of my own, I have to keep all of my stuff in my two big black Hefty garbage bags on the left side of the closet. I don’t have much, but what I do have I like to keep as neat and as orderly as possible. One bag has all my underwear, T-shirts, tank tops, and head rags in it. It also has all my toiletries, my towels, and anything else I might need to access quickly in the dark. The other bag has the rest of my clothes and my other two pairs of shoes.
I usually pick out my clothes before the boys get home in the evening. That way I can consider my outfits in peace and lay it out on Daddy’s bed or on Bryan’s bottom bunk to make sure everything matches. We don’t have a floor-length mirror, so I usually stand on top of Mama’s bed and look at my outfit in her vanity mirror once she gets up, if it’s not too late in the morning.
So, here I am, digging through my trash bags—now turned dresser drawers—looking for a clean towel and the rest of my bath stuff. In this house, if you don’t keep all your things stashed away, they’ll either end up used, abused, or in the pawn shop on Central and Rosecrans.
“Dang, Jayd. You straight look like a girl Lil’ Bow Wow with them cornrows and that thug rag on your head,” Bryan says, coming in the bedroom smelling like weed.
“Shut up, Bryan, and move outta my way. I get first crack at the bathroom. I got to catch the 6:35 A.M. bus, so step back,” I say, pushing him out of the way. My uncle Bryan is nine years older than me, but he still acts my age.
“Why you always got to be so pushy? That’s why you ain’t got no man.” And with that last stab at my ego, he goes into the kitchen to eat a couple bowls of corn flakes. Though Bryan can work a nerve sometimes, secretly, he’s my favorite uncle.
Bryan is the only one in the family to go to any type of college and is now a DJ for the independent radio station KPFK. It’s real cool having an uncle who’s a DJ. I get hip to all kinds of music I would normally never hear, like all the stuff he grew up listening to: Run DMC, Public Enemy, Salt ’n’ Pepa, KRS 1, and Sade just to name a few. But, he also plays hellafied oldies too, like Tina Turner, The OJays, Bob Marley, Marvin Gaye, and so on. Mama says Bryan has a gifted ear and mind, and that I have a gifted soul to be able to appreciate all that good music.
And appreciate it I do. The music out nowadays don’t even compare to what my uncle plays on his show. He calls it The Other Side of Compton in dedication to the history of our fine city. You see, I didn’t know this, but back in the day, Central Boulevard—which we live near—used to be the happening spot for jazz. Yes, jazz. Not gangsta rap or drive-bys, but jazz music.
Now, don’t get me wrong—we still love NWA and Eazy-E, Dr. Dre, Snoop, and all them—but it’s nice to know our musical roots go deeper, ya feel me?
“Jayd, most of them g’s in the street don’t know half the stuff I’m talking about. That’s why I do my show.”
“But you ain’t makin’ no money, Bryan. And Mama says if you ain’t makin’ no money, you gonna have to pay her and Daddy back for school.”
“Jayd, life is about more than money.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to Mama when she writing checks fo
r your student loans.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s why I got the job at Miracle Market to help Mama out. But Jayd, you gotta listen to this right here.”
When Bryan gets passionate about something, he really feels it and wants everyone else to feel it as well.
Everyone is real proud of Bryan. He got into IT&T and went for it. He always knew he wanted to be a music engineer/ producer. He went to school for two years and just graduated in June.
He plays stuff like Portishead and Pink, Kina and Lenny Kravitz. In grade school they made fun of him for being “different.” He was the kid with the “X” shirt and the Afro with a pick in his head. He was a teenager in the nineties—you know, Jodeci, Jordan, and Jeri Curls named Wave Neu-veau. But there was nothing revolutionary about Bryan’s homies.
Most of Bryan’s friends from around the block are either in jail, dead, or doing something to end up in jail or dead. Bryan’s had his share of minor run-ins with the law, but now he’s just trying to do right.
That’s why he got a job at the radio station—so he could exercise his political voice through music. Each night he has a theme. One night he might be feeling real spiritual and he’ll play some India Airie or Jill Scott. Another night he might be feeling revolutionary and play KRS 1 or Bob Marley. Sometimes he might feel soulful and drop some Nina Simone and Dextor Gordon on his listeners.
His absolute favorite artist is Sade. He swears he’s going to go to Jamaica and win her away from her baby daddy.
“Watch, Jayd. I’m gonna be a big-time DJ and I’m gonna be in Jamaica covering the annual island festival and she’s gonna be one of the artists.”
“When have you ever heard of Sade performing at one of them festivals? They’re usually dance-hall and rap artists, Bryan.”
“The year I’m supposed to meet my wife will be the year she’s there. Now, as I was saying, she’s gonna be coming up off stage after performing, glistening with sweat. And she’ll see me behind stage. Our eyes will meet. I’ll tell her she’s the most beautiful woman God ever created. And she’ll say she’s dreamed of meeting me and I’ll say . . .”
“Oh, Sade, forgive me! I usually keep my stalker identity on the low, but I just can’t help it!”
“Whatever, Jayd. It ain’t worse than you dreaming about that Black dude on CSI.”
“Oh no, I will marry Gary Dourdan and we will have beautiful babies together. I’m already knowing.”
“Jayd, that dude is old enough to be your daddy.”
“And Sade is old enough to be your mama.”
“But I’m grown. So, that’s okay. You, on the other hand, are still wet behind the ears, know what I’m sayin’?”
Bryan’s such a know-it-all. He always gets the last word.
“Jayd. Jayd! Get out the bathroom or you gone miss your bus,” Mama says from the hallway. I finish getting dressed, take one last look in the mirror, noticing Mama’s pimple potion’s worked overnight and grab all my stuff to put back in the closet.
I hate having to get up so early to go to school. Redondo Beach is just too far to go every morning, I swear. It wasn’t so bad when KJ was taking me to school over the summer. But now that we’ve split, I’m back to taking the bus.
I don’t know what I’d do without the Metro bus. My mom says when she was growing up it was called the RTD and everybody who rode it would call it the “rough, tough, and dirty” bus. I have to say it ain’t that bad now. It’s still not clean like the Torrance or Gardena buses I transfer to when I go to school, but they could be a lot worse.
I usually get to school about 7:45 A.M., ten minutes before the warning bell rings. This gives me just enough time to get to my locker, catch my girls before class, and get the necessary info for the day like which couples broke up, who got caught doing what, any dirt on the faculty. You know, important stuff that keeps me in the loop.
6:30 A.M.
The first time I took the bus from Compton to the South Bay was the longest damn bus ride ever. It was September and scorching hot, just like this morning.
As I walk down the block toward Alondra to catch my first bus, I’m already sweating from the morning sun. Mr. Gatlin is outside trimming his already immaculate lawn. Every year he gives his house a fresh coat of sparkly green paint with silver trim to match the Buick in his driveway. He used to be a marine, so he always wears his uniform. I’ve never seen him wear anything else.
I don’t speak to Mr. Gatlin. He’s the only neighbor who scares me. I’ll never forget when I was about six or seven years old and he called the police on me because I accidentally walked on his grass. Well, it was an accident the first time. The second and third time was just to make him mad. Luckily though, he lives on the other side of the street, and I can avoid passing directly by him.
I have to catch the 6:35 bus to connect to the 7:15 in Gardena, which will get me to South Bay High at 7:45. Here we go again. Another bus ride. Another year of high school at South Bay High. Cute clothes, hatin’ girls. Cute boys, more hatin’ girls. But my cornrows are in full effect, no matter what Bryan says. He really can’t talk, still rocking the Jeri Curl, even though I don’t think they sell the juice for it anymore.
I reach for my cell phone, barely remembering to text message Nellie about bringing my sweater to school with her. Since her mom takes her to school, she doesn’t have to take the bus.
7:45 A.M.
By the time I get to Redondo Beach, it’s foggy and about 10 degrees cooler than it is in Compton. It’s amazing how in the various parts of Los Angeles County the weather can be so drastically different. That’s why I usually carry a sweater and scarf in my bag.
As soon as I exit the bus, the fresh salty smell of the ocean hits me in a breeze. The bus lets me off at the top of a hill, which is directly across from the main part of the campus. There’s no crosswalk between the bus stop and the campus, so I’m forced to take the long way around.
It’s a good ten-minute walk down the hill and back up again. I do this every day, twice a day. It keeps my legs in shape. The walk also gives me a little time to daydream about living in houses like the ones lining the street across from my school.
This neighborhood is filled with big, beautiful modern homes with small yards. The houses vary in color, but all look pretty much the same: two stories, three-car garages, and immaculately manicured lawns with roses or some other kind of fancy flowers lining the property. The whole neighborhood looks like the projects for rich folks. All the houses on my block except for one are single-story homes. The Andersons started building a second story onto their house years ago, but never quite finished.
The cars parked in the driveways in the South Bay are either Range Rovers, Volvos, or Mercedes Benzs. The kids that live here are balling out of control and don’t even know it. Most of the cars also have ski racks and boat hooks on the back. These are the folks who have weekday cars and weekend cars.
As I look at these homes, I wonder about how the families living in them operate. I’m sure they all have their fair share of skeletons. It may be a different neighborhood, but the same kind of drama happens everywhere. Well, maybe not exactly the same.
I see some of my schoolmates’ parents outside leaving for work. These White folks hate seeing my Black self walk up the street. They probably think I’m gone steal one of their lawn ornaments or key their car or something. Sometimes I’ll slow down and stare at the White people coming out of their houses in the morning to put some fear in these snooty people. I know it’s wrong, but so is stereotyping. I don’t need any extra drama this morning, so I just keep walking down the hill to South Bay High.
4
The First Day Back
“No more drama in your life”
—MARY J. BLIGE
It’s my junior year and things will be different. “No more drama.” Ain’t that what Mary said? That’s what I’m going for, a smooth, drama-free year, unlike last year, my first year at Drama High, and believe me, after last year, this school has earn
ed its nickname.
As I enter the school I think I don’t want to see Misty this morning. She’s certainly a large reason this school has so much drama. I had enough of that girl over the summer. It’s weird she wasn’t on the bus this morning. Maybe she’ll miss today altogether. That would make today an ideal first day, along with not seeing KJ’s punk ass.
This morning just before I left, Mama prayed I would have a peaceful year. She also gave me a special tiny bag filled with crystals and other good-luck charms. It’s supposed to go in my purse, but I got one of them little fake Coach bags from the Swap Meet, so it wasn’t gone fit in there. I had to put it in my backpack instead. So let’s see if this “No More Drama” charm bag will work from my backpack. Hopefully this is the beginning of a peaceful day at Drama High.
7:50 A.M.
As I walk down the main hall reading the schedule I had printed out two weeks ago at registration, I notice the walls have been painted a bright, bright white this year and the gray-colored lockers are now blue. It looks hot compared to last year. That’s the difference in the schools on the White side of town. Every summer they get all kinds of improvements.
My locker’s in the middle of the main hall this year—the most crowded locker space of all. I hate going to the main hall. Before I get to my locker, I realize my schedule is wrong—again. I’m annoyed with myself for not having noticed sooner. When I first came to this school, they did the same thing. They put me on the R.E. track, instead of the A.P. track. I just don’t have the patience for this today.
My very first day at South Bay High last year was just as confusing and drama-filled. My mom didn’t want me to go to the schools in the area she lived in and my dad, out of spite—even all these years later—because my mom left him, stopped paying for my education. We couldn’t afford the private school my father had enrolled me in for sixth through ninth grades, so I couldn’t go back there.
