by Lisa Fenn
It didn’t take long before Juanita was certain of one more thing too: Irquois wasn’t the father.
“This one’s Arty Harris’s,” she told a friend. “Looks just like Arty, with his square head and thick body.” Juanita named him Dartanyon, maybe after the unlikely hero of the Three Musketeers, or maybe not. No one is sure, because no one was beside her to ask as she wrote “Dartanyon Davon Crockett” on his birth certificate, just in case she and Irquois worked things out one day.
Juanita and Arthur had met at the Laundromat less than a year earlier and had been living together off and on. Though they were on the outs when Dartanyon was born, Juanita took him back soon after. She appreciated that Arthur always pitched in with the cooking and the cleaning up and minding her kids while she worked. He had five kids of his own scattered across town, but Dartanyon was the first one he cared for from early infancy. As Arthur fumbled with diapers and rocked away the nights, he held his son in his palm and thought, Awful big name for a little baby. You’re going to have to grow into something strong with a name like that. With his fingertip, he connected the freckles on Dartanyon’s cheek. There were seven of them, resembling the Big Dipper, and as Arthur gazed at this boy, he felt like he held the whole world in his hands.
Unfortunately, Arthur had trouble holding on to good things. He’d be cool for a minute, then mess up with the drinking and the drugs. Juanita developed headaches after giving birth to Dartanyon, and Arthur’s lying and arguing made her temples throb even worse. By Dartanyon’s third birthday, she’d kicked Arthur out for good. He still picked up Dartanyon on weekends, along with Davielle and Dominique. Just three years separated the three brothers, who shared varying degrees of visual impairment. Juanita called them her stair steps, and if you were taking one, you better be taking them all.
To be closer to her children, Juanita did hair at home. Micro braids, kinky twists, sew-ins, weaves. Her following was faithful, and she could fill most Saturdays with twelve hours of heads lined up across the living room. Juanita started the braiding assembly line, and then passed them off to her oldest daughter, Dionna, to finish while she started the next one. If she hustled, she could pull in $1,500, even with all those boys sitting up under her. But Juanita could be financially fit on a Saturday and be trading hair for food stamps by Monday, because there are two kinds of broke in this world: the kind that comes from not being able to earn money, and the kind that comes from not being able to keep money. Juanita was the latter. She gave freely to her struggling sisters, and then there were the boyfriends whose habits depleted her as she tried to help them too. “Juanita, why you picking the same bad men over and over again?” her friends would fuss. Juanita loved the Lord, but churchgoing men never were her type. The kind of man she liked wasn’t the kind that stayed around when he finished spending her money.
As a result, she was always grappling with something that needed solving—finding the next place to stay or falling behind on the bills. Yet even when they were eating syrup sandwiches for dinner, her kids felt as though they were living like kings. The Crocketts may not have had much, but their house was a home. In that sense, they had everything. “People told us we was lucky because we kept our own place,” Dominique said. “That’s what people kept telling me about our mother. She never moved back with her mama when times were hard. She kept her own spots until the day she died.” Her children were fiercely loyal, and after long summer days of braiding, she would pile her brood into the minivan and head to the drive-in movies, splurging on caramel corn and cotton candy while they sat on the roof, waiting for Jim Carrey or Denzel Washington to do their things.
But Juanita wanted to do better by them. Sometimes they’d be driving, and she would stop off at Lake Erie on East Fifty-Fifth. “You stay in the car,” she’d tell the kids. “I’ll be right back.” She grabbed her Bible and headed to her rock overlooking the water. Her children watched in reverent solidarity as their mama prayed and pleaded from her rock to the One who was her Rock. By the time she got back to the car, a song had returned to her lips.
“Let not your heart be troubled, His tender Word I hear,” Juanita would sing to them. “And resting on His goodness, I lose my doubts and fears.”
“Why you always singing, Mama?” they would ask her.
“So no one can kill my joy,” she would reply.
Still, no dosage of Jesus could ward off those headaches that seemed to worsen each week. By the time Dartanyon started school, Juanita was up to a dozen Tylenol a day. She didn’t think about checking her blood pressure or hypertension. She figured six kids pound on your head like that. She never complained, just kept a cup of black tea near at all times.
In August 1999, Juanita gave birth to her seventh child, Danielle Crockett, even though she had legally divorced Irquois by then. Juanita brought her new bundle home, but this time her bliss was subdued by the now crippling headaches. One week later, she finally sought help. It was too late. Juanita had developed a blood clot after labor that traveled up to her brain and caused a stroke. A craniotomy saved her life but not her mobility, leaving her left side paralyzed. She entered a nursing home for rehabilitation, needing help for basic care.
Lying in bed, she sang gospel as loud as her feeble voice allowed, for though her body betrayed her, her faith would not. “I think she knew she was going to die,” Arthur said, “because two weeks before she passed, she told me, ‘I tried to walk the walk and talk the talk, Arty. Not saying I did it perfect, but I tried. Now you do the same.’” Her last words to Arthur were “Take care of my son.”
Dartanyon never had any reason to believe his mama wouldn’t recover. She told him and the others to get themselves to school and mind their business and she would be back soon. But now here they were, sending her home with her favorite hymn, “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.”
When songs give place to sighing, when hope within me dies,
I draw the closer to Him, from care he sets me free;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
—CIVILLA D. MARTIN, 1905
The minister spoke at the song’s conclusion, but the only thing Dartanyon could hear with any clarity were golf balls pinging off tees at the public course a few hundred feet away. He wondered why the whole world didn’t stop when his mother did.
As Juanita’s casket lowered into the ground, Dominique collapsed beside it. “Nooo, Mama, she can’t go!” he cried. “Take me instead!” He could neither go with her, nor did he know how to go on without her.
Dartanyon and Davielle knelt on each side of their brother, their cheeks glistening with tears as the crowd wailed around them. The boys sat bewildered until Dartanyon picked up a handful of rose petals and dropped them softly over the casket, watching in resignation as they fluttered down like butterflies. The smell of those petals just made him sad anyway, so he thought maybe his mama could take them with her, to decorate her new place in heaven. Davielle followed suit, and without a word, Dominique too. There were hundreds of petals strewn about the ground, but Juanita’s boys found a holy purpose in their struggle, and in doing what they did best: they sat up under their mama, pushing every last petal into the ground until she was blanketed in their love for eternity. And there wasn’t a soul there that day who ever forgot the way the Crockett boys slowed their tears to honor the woman who kept a roof over their heads and a fire in their hearts.
THEY SAY YOU die twice. One time when you stop breathing, and a second time, a bit later on, when you are forgotten. Juanita Crockett was still very much alive, for the first thing Dartanyon wanted me to know about him was that his mother was both gone and still here with him now.
“Her watching me is my motivation for everything I do,” Dartanyon said. “I’m hoping when I see her someday, she’ll be proud of me.” He looked away, his thoughts trailing off into solemn remembrance.
Leroy tapped Dartanyon on the shoulder, signaling his ma
tch was up soon. Dartanyon moved down a step, allowing Leroy to climb on for their trip down the bleachers. Spectators stole glances as they passed, unsure if it was appropriate to watch. Dartanyon took Leroy to an alcove on the far side of the gym where they stretched and engaged in some sort of Eastern breathing ritual, extending their arms parallel to the floor and then over their heads, breathing deeply with their eyes tight. They didn’t strike me as the yoga types.
“I’ve never seen them do that before,” Coach Hons said. “That might be new for the camera.”
Dartanyon delivered Leroy to his mat, where Robinson waited to pump him up with a hard smack across the cheek. Leroy flew onto the mat with a primal roar, frantically shaking out his hands, as though they’d fallen asleep. This dramatic entrance signaled to the gym that now it was okay to look. Leroy had pinned Jacob Simpson, his Midpark High opponent, earlier this season. But this time Jacob was more prepared to wrestle an amputee, and within ten seconds, Leroy was on his back. He rolled out, but Jacob quickly registered a second takedown, wringing the air out of Leroy’s throat with his forearm.
“Roll him, Leroy, you got this!” Dartanyon yelled from the side of the mat as Leroy grunted and gasped. He refused to succumb, battling off his back better than many kids with legs. Finally Leroy escaped, but he was denied the point. By definition, an escape ends in a standing position, and it is impossible to land on your feet when you have none.
Jacob quickly attacked again, folding his legs around Leroy’s torso, controlling his hips and shoulders. At the two-minute mark, he flattened Leroy out for good. Leroy slid back to Dartanyon, who patted him on the head as if to say he’d get ’em next time. Leroy smiled, seemingly unaffected by the loss. As he made his way back to the bleachers, wrestlers from other schools streamed over to shake his hand. Winning came in this acceptance.
Dartanyon was up soon after, and he walked to his mat with his navy-blue singlet straps down by his waist, just as Robinson taught him to do. His muscles bulged and shined like those of an action figure.
“Do you know anything about Dartanyon?” I asked one of the tournament organizers. “Does he have a chance to make it out of sectionals?”
“I have never seen him wrestle, but I’m sure he’ll get through easily,” he said.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“All these white kids see a black kid who looks like that come out on the mat, and it’s all they can do not to pee their unitard,” he said with a laugh.
But Dartanyon’s first opponent wasn’t white. He was one of the handful of black kids in the gym, as well as Dartanyon’s Senate Conference rival. Dartanyon had defeated Irayel Williams the previous week for the city championship, as well as in every match for the last two years. Dartanyon was confident; Irayel was hungry.
“Make him cry,” Leroy said to Dartanyon, who squatted down beside him.
“I’m gonna break his spirit,” Dartanyon declared. “Just gonna break his spirit.” Dartanyon rose, slapping his shoulders and releasing a guttural growl, like a lion announcing to the forest that he’s about to slaughter.
Known as Rock, Irayel was a natural athlete. His arms and legs were strong, though not as sculpted as Dartanyon’s. He knew he would have to pass through Dartanyon to get out of sectionals. He also knew Dartanyon was graduating, making this his last chance for retribution. And Rock was ready. His coach, James Greenwood, wrestled at Navy and was the best technical coach in the gym. Greenwood preached wrestling not as a way of life but as the only way. Like Robinson, Greenwood strived to shape boys into warriors, but he did it with discipline and drills instead of prayers and T-shirts. He’d held Rock in the gym till eight o’clock every night that week, watching tape on Dartanyon and mapping out strategy.
The vendetta on Rock’s shoulders pushed him low into his stance. Both wrestlers pounced at the whistle like dancing cougars. Rock attacked first, taking Dartanyon down for two quick points. He wasted no time scoring a second takedown, giving him a 4–0 lead and leaving Dartanyon with his headgear down over his eyes. Lincoln-West was known for having the worst headgear in the city, Robinson said. Having been passed down for so many years, it looked as sturdy as a set of earmuffs strung together with rubber bands. Robinson ripped off Dartanyon’s headgear and motioned to Leroy, who tossed his set to Dartanyon. Leroy was the only Lincoln wrestler with his own, thanks to his grandmother putting up the forty dollars for him.
As Robinson strapped it on, Dartanyon breathed heavily and stood a little less sure, wondering why he couldn’t shake Rock off like he had so many times before. Back on the mat, Rock worked like a military strategist, making subtle moves to gain small yet critical advantages. Occupy space and don’t give it up, Coach Greenwood had taught him. He scored again to make it 6–0. This time Dartanyon did not get up. Rock drove Dartanyon’s head into the mat for emphasis, to let him know who was in charge now. Dartanyon returned to center but quickly flopped back down, grabbing his right knee. He hobbled over to Robinson, who lifted him by the shoulders like an angry bear and pressed his forehead to Dartanyon’s. “Son, you never show your opponent where you’re hurt!” Leroy sat on the corner of the mat with his pant legs spread wide on the floor, covering limbs that weren’t there, hollering for a hope that was ebbing away. Robinson hastily shoved Dartanyon back out onto the mat.
Dartanyon let out another roar and surprised us all by lifting Rock into the air. Any other day, Dartanyon would have flipped him up and over to finish that move; instead, he landed facedown on the mat with Rock spread over his back: 10–0. He was out of gas. Rock yanked the injured leg. I covered my eyes and watched the rest from between my fingers.
Dartanyon hobbled back to center, kneeling into position. He looked for a reversal, tried a switch, but couldn’t hit a thing. The ref noticed his busted lip and mercifully whistled for time. Coach Hons hurried Dartanyon over to the trash can, where he heaved and spewed blood. Leroy had never witnessed his friend self-destruct like this.
Dartanyon limped back in for one last try, but we all knew he was finished, including Rock, who wasted no time picking him up by his right leg and laying him flat. Victorious by 15 points. But neither appeared happy. Dartanyon had suffered the disgrace, and Rock was denied the satisfaction of the pin.
Dartanyon stumbled toward Robinson and fell at his feet. Robinson picked him up by the back of his neck and walked him backward off the mat. Dartanyon winced in agony. He collapsed to the ground as they reached the wall, one hand over his eyes, the other over his knee. Leroy scooted over while Robinson tried to calm his boy.
We continued filming, and the audio tech extended that fuzzy microphone that looks like a hedgehog on a long pole to pick up their conversation. I hoped Dartanyon’s vision was poor enough that he could not see us. Leroy scowled at me for heaping on the disgrace, and with my eyes, I pleaded with him to understand that this saddling up to real-time heartache was the part of producing that I disliked as well. But Leroy was not interested in what I liked or disliked. He followed Dartanyon and Robinson to the trainer’s room and slammed the door.
COACH ROBINSON EMERGED from the trainer’s room a few minutes later. “His ego’s pretty beat up, but his leg is fine,” he said.
“Really? It looked like he could hardly walk,” I said.
“You get manhandled by a sophomore you’ve beaten before, and you need some kind of excuse,” Robinson said. “I’m not saying the boy’s not hurt some, but the only reason you put on a show like that is so people think your knee gave out instead of your heart.”
“And I’m sure he was a little nervous with the cameras,” Coach Hons added earnestly. “It’s not like you’re the local Channel 8 News. You’re ESPN, and he’s just a kid who’s going to see his worst loss ever on SportsCenter tonight.”
“Oh gosh, oh, no, no no . . . he’s not,” I stammered. “This won’t be on SportsCenter.”
“You ain’t running the highlights tonight?” Robinson asked.
“No, I’m sorry, I guess I didn
’t explain myself well,” I said. “I am a features producer. I tell longer stories that take weeks and months to put together.” Their assumptions were understandable. When working with amateur athletes, especially kids, I typically fly in a day early to get to know people before subjecting them to cameras. We sit together, casually, as I explain the filming process, the schedule, the equipment. We talk about what they are comfortable shooting and what might be off-limits. But I hadn’t had time to prepare Leroy or Dartanyon for my arrival.
“Listen, let me talk to him and ease his mind,” I said. “I feel awful that he felt that pressure.”
Dartanyon limped from the training room with an ice pack wrapped around his knee. Leroy scooted behind him, focusing on keeping his fingers out from under oncoming shoes. They settled into the bleachers a few rows below my father. I made the slow trek up their way, unsure of how to make things right. As Leroy noticed me coming, he preemptively put in his ear buds.
“How are you feeling?” I asked Dartanyon.
“I’m okay,” he said. “Split my lip and this old knee injury from lifting weights flared up again. Just gottta fight through it.” The first day of the tournament had finished. The other Lincoln wrestlers collected their things and headed toward the door. Leroy stayed.
I assured Dartanyon that no one would ever see the footage of his match. He shrugged like it wouldn’t matter to him, but his expression relaxed nonetheless.
“You know, your mother’s still proud of you, Dartanyon. If she were here, I think she would tell you that one loss doesn’t change that.”
Dartanyon lowered his head. He needed her. I placed my hand on his shoulder and felt tears in my eyes. “You know what else, Dartanyon? I’ll bet your mother is going to gather all of heaven together to cheer you on tomorrow.”
He looked up and squeezed out a smile. “Yeah, maybe. I was the mama’s boy of our family,” he said, nodding. “You gonna be here tomorrow?”
