“No,” she said slowly. “The problem is that they see all of this pain, but they don’t acknowledge it, they don’t deal with it. They say they don’t feel pain; that they’re not emotional, but the last time I checked, rage and anger are emotions and they seem real comfortable with them. The pain underneath threatens to drown them. Nah, they don’t feel pain. Not until they’re layin’ in some gutter with a hole in their chest. A gun is the only pain so many of them recognize until it’s too late, and then a bullet reminds them of all the pain, and all the love they’ve missed.”
Warrior heard her and saw her pain. He thought back to the previous summer, when on a hot and humid day, she had left the safety of her home, a house filled with a tight-knit collection of Carribean women—her mother, grandmother, and an aunt—to go to the neighborhood basketball court. The girls sat in the stone seats, braiding each other’s hair, drinking cold sodas and eating flavored ice as they gossipped and talked and talked, keeping an interested eye on the boys who played basketball as if their lives depended on the outcome. Late in the day an argument broke out on the basketball court which led to a fight. It was the kind of argument that happens every day on courts where boys have tied their sense of manhood to a game that holds no future for them. The fight led to friends from adjacent buildings arriving. And they brought guns. Shots were fired and one of her best friends was struck by a stray bullet and killed. He was sitting right next to her, a boy who didn’t play basketball, but sat outside with his friends to escape the chaos of his home. She had fled when the shots where fired—running for safety inside a nearby building. When she returned later, to see if everyone was all right, the yellow tape keeping onlookers at bay told her that everything was not. She could see her friend, facedown, body contorted, encircled by chalk.
Warrior reached across the table that separated them, and placed his hand over her long, thin fingers, always struck by the delicacy of her hands.
“So many of us are dying, and we think we know what life’s all about, until it’s too late.” As Warrior spoke, he remembered how many friends he had lost. Like a war veteran, he carried his childhood friends’ dog tags around in his mind. The only thing is that they had never volunteered for any war. They had simply been born. People in other parts of the city would think this was just tough talk, exaggeration, but then the bullets weren’t coming for them.
She took her other hand, and with the backs of her fingers touched his face. “The problem is that even the ones who know what life is all about, sometimes don’t make it. We have no control, no way to be safe, you know? All we can do is hope, and pray, that some of you will make it,” she said.
Warrior felt the awareness of his vulnerability creep into his thoughts. He slammed the door, quickly. He had learned to take the mask off and on, as needed. He wasn’t like so many of his friends who couldn’t be gentle and loving and emotional with the ones he loved—but even he struggled with being fully vulnerable. He felt the pain of the friends who had died from violence. He walked with it every day but did not speak of it. He knew that violence trailed them, that simple daily rituals, activities that were the provence of children in other places, could lead to death for him. He could be scared. Or he could be strong. He saw them as mutually exclusive. And so, the scars, like dulled skin, wrapped themelves around him.
“First of all, I don’t think prayin’ gonna do a damn thing!” They both laughed. “And secondly, this man can handle himself. Don’t you worry.” She smiled, and acted like she was reassured. Warrior continued, “Now, as long as we were on the phone last night, I know you didn’t finish your readin’ for next period, and I gotta get to class, so I’m gonna float.”
“Yeah, I do have to kinda read a whole book before next period, so maybe I should start now,” she said.
Warrior laughed. “Please, you know damn well that you’re gonna find someone else to talk to, and not do any a that readin’!”
“Yeah, but I might as well pretend.” She laughed, for real this time.
Warrior got up from the table and threw his bag over his shoulder. “Well I’m gonna get goin’. I’ll talk to you later, OK?”
She nodded her head as Warrior walked away. She watched as he moved through the cafeteria. Other students looked at him as he passed. Everyone knew Warrior. Some admired him. Some thought him weird. He made many of them uncomfortable. He knew the discomfort he could bring to people—due to his words, his perspective, his “seriousness.” And so he learned to keep to himself.
Just as he was about to walk through the doors, he could feel her eyes on him as he adjusted his shoulders, making snug the sword he carried on his back.
It was dark when Warrior left school. The temperature had dropped about ten degrees, and snow was beginning to fall. The flakes fell into Warrior’s eyes, and onto his upper lip. His tongue wiped clean his lip, tasting the chill of the snow. The flakes were the small kind, falling in a dense flow all around him. The concrete was covered with a thin film of white powder, the kind that warned of a serious storm coming. Music pulsed through his earphones, the beats controlling his nodding head. He picked up his pace.
As he moved through the quiet, deserted streets, Warrior became conscious of how he walked. When he walked alone, Warrior often thought about his stride. He didn’t walk like most of the other guys in his neighborhood. There was no strut, no bop. He didn’t walk smooth, he walked deliberately. He walked like John Henry swung his hammer. He remembered the stories his grandmother used to tell him. She always said that stories were one of the things that survived our trials most intact. Stories of Brer Rabbit, of High John de Conqueror, and of John Henry. Stories of slavery. Now though, Warrior remembered the tales about John Henry and his grandmother’s lyrical sound entered his head.
That man could swing hisself a hamma. He could outswing any man or machine. John Henry swung his hamma like his life depended on each blow. He swung like he was right mad. He swung as if that stone had done somethin’ evil to him. John Henry didn’t swing ragged like, he swung like clockwork. Over and over and over again. They say his soul was trapped in the middle a that mountain, an’ Ol’ John Henry had only his hamma and his arms to free it.
Warrior walked as if he could see the horizon and it spoke of his destiny. If a man knows his destiny, the twists and turns of everyday life are trivial, and he walks accordingly.
Warrior reached the train that would take him on the long trip home. He entered an empty car and sat down, stretching out his legs. He closed his eyes and let his mind soar, not thinking about any one specific thing. He let it take to the heavens, looking down at the earth, detached, removed.
To others, it may have looked as if he was sleeping, but Warrior never slept. At least, not away from home. At home in his bed, surrounded by his family, Warrior could relax. He could sleep as others know sleep. Anywhere else though, he could not afford to sleep. Even when he really slept, and when he was most relaxed, in his deepest dreams, Warrior’s eyes were open. It was something that ran in his family. Some of his people just slept with their eyes open. They felt as rested when they awoke, but they never closed their eyes completely. They would half close but that was it. His grandmother told him, “Far back as I can remember, my folk nevah closed they eyes.”
Warrior never thought much of it until kindergarten. During naptime, he saw that none of the other children slept with their eyes open. While they rested, he would watch them, he couldn’t sleep anyway. When he was young Warrior couldn’t sleep even if a friend stayed over. Their presence made him lie there, thinking.
Warrior opened his eyes as he heard someone’s feet shuffle entering the car.
He looked into the face of a soldier. It was a soldier from the other side. Warrior looked into his cold eyes and issued a warning: This here is a man. Warrior held his rage in check, hiding it behind his mask. The soldier wore navy blue. He had stomper boots on,
Warrior saw blood.
His pants had a dark blue stripe down the si
de,
Warrior laughed at the poor choice in fashion.
From his belt hung a nine-millimeter,
Warrior’s jaw tightened and sweat ran down the middle of his back.
His belt carried his long, black stick.
Warrior remembered its use over centuries, and thought that it must be painted black to cover the blood.
Under his shirt protruded the edges of his bulletproof vest.
Yeah, you got fear. Actin’ so hard, but you know what you up against. That vest won’t protect you from four hundred years. There’s a certain fear that pervades the hearts of those who are hated by an entire people. They know that no matter what they ever do, they can never pass through that hatred. Never. Your hands have spilled too much blood . . . Blood runs deep.
On his head, above his cold eyes, sat the final piece of his armor—his precious blue hat. Warrior’s eyes met those of the soldier, who was not used to being sized up like this. The watcher is never comfortable being watched.
Warrior thought of soldiers. He thought of his best friend since second grade, brotherman. He and brotherman had been enemies in kindergarten and first grade. They were the two strongest and fastest, in their class, and so they competed in everything. They were the first two chosen when teams were picked during gym hour, and they ruled the yard during recess. They fought all the time. Usually brotherman would win because he was stronger, though Warrior would never admit it.
They used to play tackle football with all the other boys during recess in the big yard. They would play eleven on eleven in a tiny, twenty-foot-wide strip of black concrete. The strip was bordered by two brick walls, and it was known as “the Alley.” The name, “the Alley,” would only be uttered with hushed tones of respect that told of the reverence held for those who played in the toughest game in “the Big Yard.”
It was mayhem more than it was a game. Only the strong succeeded. Warrior and brotherman were the best, and so, in keeping with the laws of children’s games, they were always on opposite teams. That is how children play games. There is no flexing, there is no talk, it is known who are the best, and they are given respect for their abilities. When choosing teams, all of the participants acknowledge at the beginning who are the most adept players, they are made captains and allowed to choose the sides. That is the law. Warrior and brotherman were always captains.
On the first day of second grade, everyone gathered in the yard for the inaugural game of the new school year. The teachers told the students not to play, but they would simply turn their eyes after issuing a warning, knowing that the collective will of all of the children was too much for them to match. As it had been for two years, Warrior and brotherman were made captains. They chose their teams, and the game began.
They played for an entire hour, and after the sixty minutes, both Warrior and brotherman had scored five touchdowns, all of their teams’ points. On the final play of the game, Warrior took a handoff and broke through the line. The first defenders were always the bigger, heavier, fleshier kids. They had only strength on their side, and Warrior used his speed to avoid the flailing arms of five of them. He then broke into the second line of defense. These were the most athletic kids; they were fast and strong. Warrior put his shoulder down, knocked a few over, spun on one, and threw the other into the brick wall. Running with his right shoulder against the wall, Warrior saw daylight ahead of him.
As he ran for the end zone, marked by a garbage can, Warrior saw the last line of defense out of the corner of his left eye. Brotherman was coming. Just as Warrior began to dive for the end zone, brotherman leapt too. He caught Warrior’s body in midair, and slammed him to the ground, short of the end zone.
The final whistles were blowing, signaling the end of recess. All of the other students were running to lunch, games stopped in mid-competition, as Warrior and brotherman still lay on the ground. Brotherman got up off Warrior and started to run to lunch. Then he stopped, turned around, and looked at Warrior. Their eyes met, and passed words. Brotherman stuck out his hand and helped Warrior to his feet. Warrior handed brotherman the football, and they walked to lunch together. They never played on opposite teams again. If the other kids insisted that they couldn’t play together, they simply wouldn’t play. Brotherman had been Warrior’s best friend since. Now he was locked up in jail.
As Warrior eyed the soldier still standing a few feet away from him in the subway car, he remembered the letter he had gotten recently from brotherman. They had had a confrontation with some of the blue soldiers, and brotherman had spent almost a month in the hospital. He was now in jail awaiting his trial. In his letter to Warrior, brotherman spoke of names.
Dear Warrior,
Here I sit in the belly of the beast. They believe that this is the place where they break our soldiers, that the Correctional Officers are the “nigger-breakers” of today. There are some similarities between their tactics and those of their brothers in crime of slavery times, but this is one soldier that they won’t be breaking.
It’s hard to write because my hands are sore. When I first arrived my knuckles were bloody every day. They were skinned raw from the constant fighting that I had to do. The Officers promote the battles. It’s like being in a cockfight, and you the rooster. Everyone stands around, cheering your pain. After a few fights, once I established that I would not be played with in the battles, I decided that it was time to establish that I would not be played with, period.
I began to speak to some of the other brothers in here, to let them know where my mind was. They saw that I was a soldier, but more importantly, since most in here are soldiers, I let them know that I was a general. Ideas are so much more important than words, and I told them about the “Battle Royale” scene we read about, I told them that we were puppets being played by the Officers here, that they stood by smiling as our Black blood was spilled. I told them that there is no greater sellout than the Black man who allows the system to drive him to kill his own brother. I told them that we were prisoners of war. Of a 450-year war. I told them that there had never been such a army as ours. What other army has fought for 450 years, suffered tens of millions of casualties, lived through 350 years of slavery, lost their very names, and still, are going to win the war.
This talk gave my hands some time to heal, but it also got me thrown in solitary. When the CO’s beat me, stripped me naked, and threw me in the hole, I laughed at them. I looked them right in their eyes and laughed. As they stood over me I thanked them. I said, “Thank you for putting me in here, now I will have time to think. I won’t have to waste time with pointless battles; instead, I will have solitude to think of the real battle. You have only made me more dangerous.” Then they told me that I would have plenty of time to think, years. I smiled and told them, “No, I don’t plan on being in here that long.” You would have been proud, Warrior.
In here, my name is now “Nigger.” That, or number 77131-tns. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell them that my name is not “Nigger,” they do not listen. I tell them that my name is brotherman, they tell me that my name is “Nigger.” I tell them that I am a Black man, they tell me that I am not a man, that I am number 77131-tns. I miss my name, Warrior. In this dark hole, it is what I miss most. I miss the sounds of the letters, the rhythm of the words. They have stolen my name once, stolen it so completely that I do not even remember it. I will not allow them to do it again. I sit here in this hole, and say my name over and over again. When I finally get out of this hell, I will never allow them to take me back here again. My name means too much to me. I’ll see you on the outside,
Love,
brotherman
These were the first words that Warrior had heard from brotherman in over two months. Brotherman had told his mother that while he was locked up he didn’t want anyone other than her to visit him. No one. Not even Warrior. She told Warrior the daily news of brotherman’s recuperation from his injuries at the hands of the blue soldiers, but Warrior had never actually seen him. As the
bell of the train cried out another stop, Warrior thought how good it is to know how strong brotherman is. They can’t break a man like brother.
Warrior remembered the night when they had almost succeeded in breaking brotherman. He remembered the night as if it had occurred only minutes ago, although actually it had been over three months before, early December, one of those bitter nights. The kind of night where people die from the cold, among other things. Warrior remembered what it was like to watch, frozen, as they tried to break his brother. Two brothers had almost been broken that night. They had been standing on the corner; the wind was blowing hard, cutting through wool hats and down coats. Warrior went to the bodega to buy some chicken noodle soup and beers for himself and brotherman, and some candy for the little boy who had been playing on his three-wheeler, riding up and down the street for hours. Then the sounds came. The kind that warns of pain. Warrior had just handed the candy to the little boy, who had taken it with a giant smile, when the blue soldiers rolled up.
A few of them leapt from their cars and confronted brotherman, knocking his beer to the ground, announcing the law he had broken and his imminent arrest. Brotherman told them he was a free man and stepped back—shoulders forward, feet firmly planted. He announced he had no intention of going anywhere. They attacked him and threw him to the ground. As Warrior moved to brotherman’s side, one of the soldiers pulled his gun, and aimed it at Warrior’s head. He didn’t shoot; he got his pleasure from just making Warrior watch.
They started beating on brotherman’s head until there was blood everywhere. They beat his head, his slumped shoulders, and his neck. Five batons rained down. They beat him till the night heard the sounds of skull breaking, bone jutting through skin, and brotherman’s blood pouring out onto the street. When a skull hits the concrete there’s a certain sound you hear. It’s like a pop, a dry crack. His head bounced on the concrete as his eyes rolled back into his head, deeply bloodshot. His skull opened up like a cracked coconut, but red flowed from his head, not white. His hand, which lay at his side, started twitching from the pain.
Passage Page 2
