by Nic Stone
ceremoniously and the single wheel on the front of the stroller hit the table just as he’d planned.
“Oh my goodness, ma’am!”
And he straightened quickly, slipping the extra phone in his pocket on his way up.
“I’m so sorry!”
Lay it on thick,
Trey had told Quan.
Really sell it.
And he did. He swears he did. The lady was asking if he was okay.
He made it out the mall and halfway up the hill to the bus stop. But then a small SUV pulled up alongside him.
Mall security.
Petty theft was the charge.
Delinquent was the proclamation. (After career criminal, of course.)
Twelve months in a regional youth detention center was the sentence.
And Quan came out…different.
Enlightened. To darkness. His own, and how it
affected things.
There was Antoine (about as dark as him), age thirteen—doing eight months on an aggravated assault charge.
DeAngelo (a little darker), age fifteen—ten months on “trafficking of a controlled substance.”
Alejandro (not as dark, but still brown), age twelve—twelve months on “participating in criminal gang activity.” (And he hadn’t actually done anything. Guilty by association.)
And then there was White Boy Shawn (Black Boy Shawn—sixteen—was headed to a juvenile section of the adult prison for his involvement in a drive-by shooting that left two guys dead).
Seventeen.
Stabbed his dad eight times with a butcher knife.
While the man was sleeping.
Shawn’s final charge and sentence?
Simple assault. Sixty days.
And not even in detention. At a Youth Development Campus.
There was a part of Quan that wished his awareness had a knob he could just crank down to zero.
But for Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr., there was no
not noticing
the number of brown faces
that came and stayed
compared to the number of not-brown ones
that came and left.
* * *
—
Twelve months in before he was out.
And Trey had also had an interesting year.
His grandma had passed.
And his mom hadn’t taken it well.
(So he hadn’t either.)
When he tripped over a desk at school and it was discovered that the clear liquid in the bottle he constantly swigged from wasn’t water, they expelled him.
(He’d been on his final strike.)
(Not that he really gave a damn about school.)
(Or so he said.)
“That was the final straw for Moms,” Trey told Quan as they sat outside the rocket ship—they’d gotten taller and couldn’t both fit inside anymore—passing a vape back and forth between them.
(That was another thing: Quan had sworn off blunts. Something about carcinogens.)
“Her ass moved to Florida and wouldn’t take me with her.”
“Wait, for real?”
inhaaaale…
exhaaaaaale.
“Yup.”
“Damn, bruh. So where you livin’ now?”
inhaaaale…
exhaaaaaale.
“Here and there. Speakin’ of which—” Trey looked at a watch on his wrist. “I gotta go meet my boys.” It was…sparkly.
Trey noticed Quan noticing.
“Shit fire, ain’t it?” He turned the thing back and forth so it caught the light.
“Where’d you get it?”
“New, uhh…business venture,” Trey said, pushing to his feet. “Matter fact—” He looked down at Quan. Rubbed the patch of hairs that had appeared on his chin since Quan last saw him.
He looked a little too calculating for Quan’s liking in that moment, and Quan’s muscles tensed of their own accord. It’d been a long time since Quan was in the presence of someone he considered a friend. He didn’t really know how to act.
Trey nodded. “Yeah,” he said, answering a question Quan wasn’t privy to. “Come on.”
“Where we going?”
Trey smiled. “It’s some folks I want you to meet.”
Quan is nervous as hell walking up the “Hallowed Hallway,” as he’s heard the guys call it. He’s been on the porch before, but to be invited inside?
Huge.
It’s different than he expected, though he can’t articulate how, even in his mind. He’s been kicking it with Trey and them for a minute now, and has pieced together bits about the inner workings of their crew and their operation. But seeing framed images of ancient Egyptian kings and queens hung across from a poster that reads The racist dog policemen must withdraw immediately from our communities, cease their wanton murder and brutality and torture of black people, or face the wrath of the armed people. —Huey Newton…
Well, Quan don’t really know what to make of that.
There’s no one in the living room when he gets to it, but within a couple seconds, a deep—and he’ll admit: smooth—voice comes from somewhere else in the house:
“Have a seat, young brutha. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Quan does as he’s told, choosing a spot on a well-worn sofa. Then he takes in the room. It smells…flowery? Quan is suddenly smacked with a memory of the first time he stepped into Ms. Mays’s classroom in seventh grade. The scent inside was so different from anything he’d ever smelled before, it made him feel like he’d stepped into another world, as corny as that sounds.
Turns out, Ms. Mays had this flower-shaped device plugged into her wall that had these interchangeable glass bulb joints filled with liquid fragrance.
Quan spots one sticking out of an outlet opposite him.
And now he’s really confused. Especially since it’s plugged in beneath a framed poster of a beret-wearing dude sitting on what looks like a woven throne. Homie’s holding a spear in one hand and a shotgun in the other.
“Quan, right?”
Quan jumps and a yelp slips past his lips.
Standing beside him—and chuckling—is a bearded brown-skinned dude in white pants and a V-neck shirt that looks like it came straight outta Africa. He hands Quan a glass bottle, then goes to sit in a round chair that looks like it’s made of bamboo. He’s holding a glass bottle too.
Quan peeks at the label on the one in his hand: JAMAICAN GINGER BREW.
“Drink up,” the man says.
So Quan does. It’s…good. Kinda spicy, but also soothing in a weird way. He relaxes a little.
“That your given name?” the man asks.
“Huh?”
“Quan. That’s what’s on your birth certificate?”
Quan shakes his head. “No, sir.”
“Dispense with the sir, little homie. You can call me Martel or Tel. Take your pick. What’s your given name?”
“Uhh—” And Quan falters. He never tells anyone his given name. “The whole thing?”
Martel chuckles again. “Every part that’s given.”
“Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr.”
“Junior, huh? So you got your daddy’s name?”
“Yeah.” And Quan drops his eyes.
“I’ll take it he ain’t in the picture?”
“He’s incarcerated.”
“And you?”
“Huh?”
“You been incarcerated?”
Now Quan’s jaw clenches. “Yeah.”
“You mad about it?”
This gives Quan pause. It’s a question no one’s ever asked
him, case managers included. He meets Martel’s gaze. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”
“Why? You did the crime, didn’t you?”
Now Quan gulps. Last thing he wants to do is start sounding like some of the dudes in lockup who constantly complained about how “unfair” the system is. “Always take responsibility for your actions, Junior,” Daddy used to say. “I know the potential consequences of what I do, and I choose to do it anyway, so if it comes down on me, I don’t get to complain.”
But that was the thing: as uncomfortable as the complaints always made him, Quan couldn’t deny their ring of truth. The system is unfair. Quan saw that with his own eyes. Hell, he lived it.
“I mean, I did, but”—he fumbles around in his head for the right words—“they gave me a YEAR in detention for trying to steal a cell phone. Which, yes, was wrong…” Quan’s mind flashes to White Boy Shawn, aka the Dad Stabber. “And I’m not complaining about having to suffer some consequences for my wrongdoing. Just seems like the ‘time’ was…excessive. Considering the ‘crime.’ ”
Martel’s eyes narrow just the slightest bit, but it doesn’t give a single clue as to what he’s thinking.
“What else you mad about?” he says.
That’s certainly not what Quan was expecting. “What you mean?”
“You what? Fifteen?”
“Yeah.”
Martel nods. “My master’s thesis was on the trajectories of African American adolescent males raised in impoverished urban environments by single mothers.”
Which…“HUH?”
Now Martel laughs in earnest. “I got a master’s degree in social work, li’l man. Dudes like you are my ‘area of expertise,’ if you will, and frankly, the shit I learned is the reason I came back home and do what I do now. You know who that is?” He nods toward the poster with beret guy.
“Nah,” Quan replies.
“That’s Huey Newton. One of the cofounders of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense. I came across a quote of his while working on my thesis: Black Power is giving power to people who have not had power to determine their destiny. And there it was: a summation of my research findings, and what I needed to do about it. So I’ll ask you again: What else you mad about, Vernell?”
Quan is stunned. Not only by the blatant use of his “given” name, but also by just about every word that came out of Martel’s mouth. Quan is fully aware of what Martel does now, and he’d be lying if he said he was expecting dude to be college-educated. Also, that quote hit Quan right in the chest.
But where does he even begin?
“Start with home,” Martel says as if Quan’s question has appeared on his forehead. “I know you been spendin’ a good bit of time with my guys. Which means home ain’t really a place you wanna be, am I right?”
Now Quan has a knot in his throat. When he left “home” this morning, Mama and Dwight were all boo’d up on the couch, watching TV. Mama with a fading bruise on her left jaw and her wrist in a brace that got way too much use from a person who didn’t play sports or have carpal tunnel.
Shit was sickening.
And he tells Martel so.
He tells Martel everything. (Almost.)
At one point Martel goes to get him another ginger brew, but this time he gives it to Quan iced in a glass with something bitter added that burns a bit going down but makes his muscles unclench.
When Quan is done, Martel tells him how the organization functions and offers Quan an in, provided he can abide by the rules.
(Quan does notice there’s no explanation of what happens if one breaks said rules, and it does make him hesitate—but only for a second.)
And then he’s in. Just like that.
“So I’ll see you at Morning Meeting tomorrow, eight a.m. sharp,” Martel says as they both rise to their feet. It’s a statement, not a question. And that’s when Quan realizes there’s no turning back.
So…he leans in. “Tel, can I ask you something?” he says.
Martel slips his hands into his pockets and lifts his chin. “Whassup?”
“That, uhh…” and Quan gestures to the fragrance diffuser plugged in beneath Sir Huey. “Which scent is it?”
At this, Martel smiles so bright, Quan has to look away. “It’s Spring Sunrise.”
Quan nods, now filled with some emotion he can’t name. “That’s what I thought,” he says. “I’ll, uhh…see you in the morning.”
He heads back up the hallway and out the door.
April 4
Dear Justyce,
Yo, so when Doc was here earlier (picking apart my Native Son vs. Invisible Man essay, the chump), he told me today is the anniversary of Dr. MLK’s assassination. Which of course made me think of your punk ass.
(Yeah, I drew a li’l smiley face. So what?)
In your last letter to me, you asked why I joined the Black Jihad. And to be honest, the question irritated me. So I wasn’t gonna answer.
But then I got to thinkin’ about the whole assassination thing.
Sidenote: you ever notice that word begins with “ass” twice? I wonder if that mean something etymologically. Bet you ain’t know I knew THAT word, sucka!
(Real talk: Doc got my ass prepping for a “practice” SAT. Which I can’t believe I agreed to do. Dude is persuasive as shit.)
Anyway, Doc was tellin’ me more about King’s life and how a lady tried to kill my mans in 1958 with a letter opener (!!) at a book signing (!!!!!). In addition to helping me make the firm decision that I never want to be an author (bruh!), talking about Dr. King made me think of that one real short letter you wrote to him in your notebook right after Manny passed. The one when you lamented the fact that Manny hadn’t never done nothing wrong, but he lost his life anyway.
Which made me think about your question. Because really, the shit that happened to MLK and to Manny—what happens to good dudes all the time—played a big role in my decision.
Not those things directly (I obviously joined before what happened to Manny), but the fact that they happen at all. That a dude just tryna get equal rights for folks can get taken out. That a kid who ain’t never even done nothing criminal can get taken out.
And then the fact that niggas like me and Trey who DO do wrong get punished more harshly than white kids who do the same shit? If Brock or Conrad steals a cell phone in the mall, they get a finger wagged in they face and gotta volunteer in a soup kitchen a couple times. I get branded a “career criminal” and locked up with the key thrown out. I know I told you about the dude who stabbed his pops, but bruh, if I had a dollar for every white boy I’ve seen come into detention and leave within a couple days—both back when I was fourteen AND now—I could prolly buy my way out this bitch.
Shit’s wack, Justyce.
Anyway, after seeing that shit happen over and over, then getting out and coming “home” and finding nothing changed there, I guess I was just fed up. Stayed in school cuz “truancy” was a probation violation that would’ve landed my ass on house arrest (definitely a no-go), but having that “Delinquent” on my record made folks treat me different even though I stayed caught up while I was in and did my work (well) once I got out.
My mama had her own shit going on. And I hadn’t heard from my dad since he went in. I sent him letters for like the first six months he was locked up, and even one while I was, but he never responded.
I just ain’t really have nobody in my corner, Justyce. I think that’s why your question rubbed me the wrong way. Like how could YOU possibly understand? I know shit with your dad wasn’t…“Optimal” feels like a good word. But I remember your moms vividly, and she wasn’t ’bout to let you mess up. You went to that fancy-ass school and had all type of support…How could you possibly understand the inner workings of a hood cat like me?
But thinking about you and about Manny and
Dr. King after Doc left today…it’s a pretty significant gap between that letter where you basically gave up, and the one you wrote when you got to Yale. I know you came to visit ME somewhere in between there, and you weren’t doing so hot. Not sure if you ever used that number I gave you (kinda surprised you haven’t mentioned it), but as I was sitting here pondering, I thought to myself maybe—JUST maybe—I wasn’t giving you the benefit of the doubt.
So.
The reason I joined the Black Jihad: I needed backup. Support without judgment. People who hadn’t—and wouldn’t—give up on me.
I needed a family.
And it wasn’t all bad like people assume. It wasn’t all about turf and crime and bullshit like that. Martel is a visionary. His grand plan involves building a community center and opening a bookstore in our neighborhood. He wanted to help people.
It was a dope-ass thing to be a part of.
Yeah, I’m in here now and prolly ain’t getting out no time soon, and yeah, that happened sooner than I anticipated…
But at least I’m alive.
That may not seem like much to you, but it’s more than I thought possible.
It’s also more than either Manny or Dr. King can say.
I do hope you’re keeping that Dream alive, though.
Somebody has to.
Write me back cuz I feel like I just told your ass too much.
Sincerely,
Quan
This part should probably be a snapshot. That’s definitely how it stands out in Quan’s mind. Snapshot: Two Dudes on the Roof of an Abandoned House—The End of the Beginning.
He was maybe five months into the organization—and that’s really what it was. An organization. There were meetings: one, Wednesday nights; one, Saturday mornings. There were rules: no underage drinking—which had been the catalyst for Trey’s sobriety; no tobacco usage; no hard drugs: “ ‘lean,’ pills, and all that opioid trash included”; no “dumb shit,” as Martel put it: theft (petty or grand), traffic violations, unnecessary fights, unprotected sex (“Some li’l girl come up in here telling me one of y’all got her pregnant, it’s gone be hell to pay.”).
