this Commentary aired today on NPR. you can hear me actually saying it by clicking the npr link to the left.
* * *
I wasn't expecting to see anyone I knew that afternoon. I was leaving my office, talking to my 12-year old daughter about her school day, and as we were getting into the car, I noticed this cat, sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette. I up-nodded the obligatory "Sup, Blackman," and started to get into my car. He took a long drag on his cigarette and said, "You don't remember me, do you," just as I was sitting into the car. I stood up and looked at him squarely. Looking into his eyes, I used peripheral vision to instantly scan his somewhat skeletal face, receding hairline, and dark mouth. I wasn't sure where I knew him from, but he was...vaguely familiar.
"You did a real good job in that movie playing that preacher." That told me two things: He had seen "The Second Chance," and he had recognized me from it. I still didn't remember him, though. But I'm always thankful when someone thinks enough of me to pay my work a compliment, so I said "I appreciate that, brothaman. Thank you," and started back into the car.
"You still stay out South?" Uh-oh. This cat knew where I grew up? "Yeah, I still stay in the neighborhood." He leaned forward and took another drag before flicking away the cigarette. "What's your brother Greg doing these days?" Wait a minute. This cat knew me. I explained that Greg was now a popular professor at Howard University and that a lot of people in the neighborhood had gone on to success, blah blah--I was trying to buy time to recall something--anything about this face I did not know that would trigger a memory.
"You still don't remember me, do you?" I told him that I remembered him from "out South," only a half-truth. "I started a fight with you when we were at J. T. Moore." J.T. Moore Junior High School? You've got to be kidding me, I thought to myself. I was what, 12 years old? I glanced to my daughter, reflecting on how fast time flies, before looking back up with a half smile. "That was a long time ago, man." I felt bad because I still did not remember.
He then went on to describe the day it happened: the crew he was hanging around, the trouble he was trying to make, the other brothers that gassed him up to jump into my face and start a ruckus in the hallway. Listening intently, I looked underneath the furrowed brow, below the hardened skin, and through the aged expression that looked 10 years my senior now.
And I remembered him.
Vaguely yes, but remembered still. When he finished the story, I asked him how he was doing now. He told me that he had continued on a downward spiral through high school and had recently been released from a stretch in the penitentiary; he told me he was struggling with "some things" right now, and when I noted that he was sitting outside the waiting area of the methadone clinic, it didn't take me too long to put two and two together. We reminisced about the good and the bad-old-days; about the mutual people we knew who were either dead, on "that stuff," or on lockdown somewhere. And we finally came back to the present when he said, "I'm really proud of you, brother."
It almost became an awkward pause. You know, when brothers say things that touch each other, we often don't know how to accept it. But I recovered quickly by saying, "Brother, we're both still standing here today, and in America, that's a big deal. So we're proud of each other."
Then he caught me totally off guard. He rose up and walked toward me, gave me the grip and then he hugged me. I mean, that brother hugged me like I was family. Then he looked me square in the eye and said, "Man, I just want to apologize for starting that fight with you. My life just hasn't been right and I'm trying to do right now. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."
I couldn't shake the pause this time, because I needed it to get myself together. To "maintain" as we say. I nodded, assured him that there was no harm, no foul, got into the car and drove off slowly. I asked my daughter if she'd heard the conversation. She did. Did she learn any lessons? Yes, the same ones I had: Kids will be kids; You never know the burdens people carry with them through life; But most importantly, it's good to forgive, even when you've forgotten what--or even who--it's for.
* * *
has anything like this ever happened to you? what would you have done?
i just almost fell down a well.
or a sewer.
since i'm in the city, i'm not sure which it is yet. i'll check it out in a minute and see. right now, i'm waiting for my work clothes and my waterproof boots to dry, so i figured i'd kill two birds with one stone and renew my commitment to blogging more regularly.
so i live in America, the land of the free, in an "inner-city," speedily gentrifying community. my mom lives in the same neighborhood, in the house where i grew up. now, let me explain what that means: it means that as a 40 plus year property owner, you can do whatever you'd like--that is, unless one or two of the new "hip" "progressive" "urban pioneering" neighbors (think you can translate the media PC terms?) decide they don't like what you have--or haven't done--to your house or property, they call in codes anonymously and paint you to be the devil. codes comes out (they never patrol) and because they've been called to the scene, they might as well find a crime.
so a couple of weeks ago, my mom's water heater busted and flooded the basement. yours truly, being the son in the neighborhood, had to pull a sampling of 40 years of accumulation out of the basement to get to the flooding and save the day. well what do you know, one of our watchful, friendly neighborhood preservationists (translate: people who have so much cash and free time, they spend their days and weekends arguing, over wine and cheese, who can preserve the largest lengths of original baseboard in their pre-forties bathrooms, damn the cost. and damn those fixed-income neighbors who don't recognize the treasures they live in!) called codes and reported mom's as a public dump.
welcome to America.
so, in addition to having the dumpster come in that i had already (unbeknownst to the good neighbors) been working on, i scrapped the hired help and attacked the first pile, myself. i put on my favorite workjeans (after sewing up the massive hole just under the crotch area), stopped by the dollar store for more workgloves (i have 6 pairs of workgloves, all missing the right hand. note to self--take off the left glove all day today), rolled by starbuck's and got a strong cup of java, and started attacking the mountain one little bit at a time. i was jamming to the soundtrack to "Three Mo' Tenors" and lifting and moving all kinds of junk that got even junkier after last week's rain. i was excited that two thirds of the way through the pile, most of the little stuff was gone and i had room in the dumpster for a few more things. yes! i could clear my basement, too! happy thoughts were sailing as i stepped in and leaned forward into the mini-mountain with my right foot.
then, it happened.
and man, did it happen fast. i hadn't looked where i was stepping, really, but i knew i was on a board. i guess in my mind it was a piece of plywood or other particle board i'd pulled from the basement. little did i know that it was, more than likely, a piece of wood my dad had put over an old well/sewer line that ran under our backyard and got exposed years ago when our big germanshepherdmixed dog "Valentine" (pronounced ValenTIME in our 'hood, colloquially, thank you) wore out the ground around the old tree he was chained to that used to stand near the spot. smart move by my pops. the wood was a good temporary fix.
oh, did i mention my dad passed away six years ago?
now you get the picture. not only had i forgotten about the well, the wood. i'd forgotten that i'd placed the pile directly on top of it all. mix the weight of 5 feet of junk, 7 or 8 years of rot, a fresh rain, and the primary weight of a six two, 190 pound brothaman on a size 13 boot and what do you have?
BOOM!
i was like "OH ________!" (add your expletive of preference). it gave way, and i was headed two directions at blinding speed--forward and DOWN. instinct made me reach to both sides and i was able to catch myself as i felt cold water rising up almost to my knee. i didn't feel a bottom. i said "Whoa!" out loud. then i had another thought...
"waitaminit...is this a well or a SEWER! Oh CRAP!" and the pun was totally a propos and unintentional. i pulled myself up as one of the tenors was singing some italian aria in my ears. my foot and leg were covered with something wet and black. don't ask me what it was, because i refused to let myself ask that question. i didn't want to know.
i immediately walked over to my house, sprayed off my boots and my pantsleg, and thanked God for three things:
1. i still have reflexes that work
2. i didn't go in with both feet and no side support
3. that my mom wasn't helping me out and therefore it coulda been her.
whew.
so as i stripped and prepped the washer for my clothes, and the dryer for my boots (yeah, i'm headed back out there before my mom gets back to her house and explores the backyard), i thought to myself, "man, if i'd have fallen in, all i would've had was an ipod."
so...maybe they should build a distress beacon into ipods. if it happens, you heard it here first! (steve jobs, give a brotha some ends, man). that way, if an accident happens, you at least can have hope of being rescued. see, if i had gotten stuck today, the only thing i coulda done was scream for one of my neighbors to come rescue me.
i wonder if they would've come? and if they did, would they have said, "hmmm....promise you'll repaint in earthtones and preserve the subway tile in your bathroom and we'll pull you outta there..."
it's not beyond the realm of possibility. after all, this IS America.
my boots are dry and the sun is goin' down. see ya'll later.
