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A Little Black

Notebook

By Le'Quan JacksonPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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A Little Black
Photo by Matt Gross on Unsplash

As the local news raced across the screen, “Another black man killed at the hands of a white officer,” angst sprinted through his heart and mind as they relayed the baton of police brutality that strikes every black man’s sense of security in America. Desensitization would be passable, yes, but for a teenage boy who had already hurdled his way through self-discovery, events like this were beaten into his conscience as latent reminders of his alienation from actuality. “His family has been contacted to confirm identity.” Newman’s eyes dashed to the TV and then down into space.

“Dinner’s ready! And that homework better be too or this gonna be yo last supper!”

After rolling his eyes at his mom’s parental pestering, he pattered his way to the backyard, guided by the burnt barbecue filled air. The grumbling sound of his stomach had overpowered his better judgment to finish his homework.

“Did you finish your homework?” his mom questioned as she held his plate above her hip - close enough where his face could pick up the warmth emanating from the dish, but just far enough to feel the coldness that would ensue if he answered anything less than yes.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes sharpened in suspicion as his gaped in guilt, but her motherly instinct steered the plate forward in from of him to eat.

“Boy, you better finish that homework,” she threatened as she sashayed away.

“Yes, ma’am,” he exhaled. It was time to inhale that food.

He grabbed the ribs first, pounding them one at a time. His shirt was instantly smothered in sauce.

“Do you like that boy?” his mom cheered.

He was speechless. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d felt this joy. He pounded away more and more until nothing was left.

“Okay that’s enough,” his mom asserted.

He gave a look of dissatisfaction but ultimately decided that, yes, maybe he had gotten carried away. There was sauce everywhere. He knew no one else was going to clean up the mess. His mom just stared at him waiting for his next action.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” he assured her. His mom obliged.

***

Sitting in bed, his pruney fingers cycled through his diary. As he pedaled each page, snapshots of previous entries provoked sparks of trauma.

Entry -- “Why doesn’t he want me?”

Entry -- “Graduation is here! Too bad you’ll miss it.”

Too weary to read more, he clasped the diary and his eyes. Tears soon sputtered behind his lids before rupturing and trickling down his cheeks. He opened his eyes and blurrily stared at the wall ahead of him, which had culminated into a mirage of accomplishments. The merit certificates, track medals, and college acceptance letters had defined him. He had let them. It was a convenient partition between the world’s perception of him and the actuality of his self-worth. All the achievements and applause would never fill the auditorium gap in his heart that reverberated echoes of worthlessness from his father’s abandonment at age 3. College presented its own insecurities. It felt like he was trespassing new territory with no stake on his own foundation. Who was he? When would he find him? Heavy thoughts brought heavy eyes and a heavy heart slowed to a slumber.

***

He had lost track of the days. Between scrounging the last bits of financial aid he could muster and the murder details demystifying each day, his mind seemed cloaked in a fog fit only for dressing a cemetery. Many black men had seen an early grave at the hands of white officers over the years, but this one struck close to home. The country was in an uproar, yet he resembled more of a wounded cub retreated to his den with no idea when he would come out of it. He hoped the dimness would illuminate. It did. Leaked footage of the recent murder made visible the darkness prevailing in America. In him. The TV volume was muted yet he could still recite every word in concert with the media’s looped coverage playing out in front of him.

Earl Ronalds had been stopped by cops at a nearby park after a white family reported a black man on a phone pacing frantically and suspiciously. An anonymous source recorded the cops’ interaction.

“Is there a problem officers?” Earl lowered his phone to his hip, keying the officers to a bulky object in Earl’s pocket.

“Boy, you better finish your homework,” blared on his phone before he raised it back to his ear.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Put your phone away boy!” one officer threatened.

He lowered his phone to put it away unaware that his pocket had contents.

“It’s a weapon!” the officers nodded in confirmation as they immediately tackled him. One officer fell under Earl and gripped him into a chokehold. The other officer climbed on top of them both, face to-face to Earl.

He grabbed the ribs first, pounding them one at a time. His shirt was instantly smothered as Earl choked up blood.

“Do you like that boy? the cop cheered.

He was speechless.

The cop hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d felt this joy. He pounded away more and more until nothing was left.

“Okay that’s enough,” the underlying cop asserted as he grasped Earl’s last gasp.

He gave a look of dissatisfaction but ultimately decided, yes, maybe he had gotten carried away. There was blood everywhere. He knew no one else was going to clean up the mess. The other cop just stared at him waiting for his next action.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” he assured him. The other cop obliged.

***

He had lost track of the days. He was finally beginning to bury the fog that blanketed the mental catacombs depressed in him. He opened his diary to yesterday’s entry.

“Good afternoon. I am calling to speak to Newman. I have an important message for him, so please have him call 559-555-5555. Thank you.”

He had jotted every word from the house phone’s voicemail that he’d overheard in real time. He deleted the message shortly after in fears that his mother would prevent him from calling the number. It was his.

He stared at the number in one hand, while the other hand ticked in nervousness. The time was now to make the call. The monotony of the organ-tone dial oddly calmed him down from his percussive heartbeat. He tapped the keyboard one number at a time, with each bringing him closer to the resonant ring separating him from now and the unknown.

“Good afternoon, Gwin speaking.”

Gwin? His mind frantically drummed in search of any recollection of someone with this name. His short-lived bravado petered.

“Newman is that you?” His mind once a chiming calmness was suddenly a clamoring calamity. Realizing the uncomfortable silence he was shouting, he uttered, “Yes?”

“That’s “yes ma’am” to you son. I’m your grandma.”

***

A revelation ensued over the next hour.

“He’s dead,” she revealed.

It was over. His search to discover him was over. The realization that it was his father’s death that had recently strangled his sanity respired an air of finality into him that allowed him to expire the last breath of hope to which he was clinging.

“The crazy part? He was on the phone with me talking about you.”

“He left me,” Newman assured her.

“He loved you,” she affirmed while letting just enough silence marinate the moment before continuing, “He was on his way to your home, son.”

Newman was now immersed in a jumbling pot of emotions. Had this woman…er, grandma lost her mind? The man who had left him for 15 years with no explanation was heading to his home just before getting murdered?

“He knew you were heading to college soon and he was running out of time.”

“He had 15 years.”

“Of regrets? Yes. Fear? Absolutely. Selfishness? Not as much as you’d think. Your father realized early on that the only way for you to see a better world was to remove his imagery from your sight.”

Newman rolled his eyes – his father was no artist in his eyes. His father had crumbled the very canvas that framed his life. While he had painted an opaque veneer that everything was rose-tinted, it was jaded shades of doubt that actually decorated his palette. America had splattered colored boys for centuries, while fatherless families were sketched into black homes. His father forever altered his outlook on life.

“But how could he – “

“He was not ready to be the father you deserved. Would you rather a gang father? or be gang fodder?

Newman gulped and then slowly exhaled a sigh of resignation. “Yes ma’am.”

“He’s made great leaps over the years and was nervous to take the last step. He’s followed your success through newspapers and even visited track meets in between jobs.”

“Really?” Newman awed.

“Of course, son. He was careful to never interfere. He wanted you to know that you did it by yourself.”

Esteem swelled his heart bigger than an auditorium filled with applauses reverberating echoes of empty praise.

“I told him to finish his homework just as the cops arrived.”

Like father, like son, Newman thought.

“I’m sorry.”

“No need. You’ve lived a great life without him and will continue to do so. College, right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“They’re taking care of you I assume with all those good grades.”

“For the most part.”

“Well, I was hoping your father would get to meet you. Things never turn out like we plan.”

“Ain’t that right…” he joked reflecting on his life.

“Because he had a gift.”

“He did?”

“Now you have a gift. Well, you’ve always had it.”

Newman’s silence urged Gwin forward.

“Your father worked hard and saved you enough money to cover your college years and beyond. He was on his way to pay it forward since he could never pay it back.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s okay son. It’s clear that your actions have always spoken louder than your words.”

Newman now sat comfortably in his silence.

“I’ve already mailed you the details in case I wasn’t able to reach you by phone. Unless you have anything else, this old lady is going to rest. We’ve always loved you.”

He had nothing else. He had everything.

***

His mom had always protected him from information about his father, so when he received the large yellow envelope he ran to his room and hid like it was a golden wrapper. He quickly unwrapped the envelope and pulled out a block of paperwork. His excitement to finally see the amount of money was stricken by abrupt shame. While his father wasn’t present to celebrate, his mom had always been. Her one applause could fill an auditorium. So, he waited for her to read the papers like she did his acceptance letters. Instead, he lowered the stack of papers to put them away unaware that the envelope had contents. Puzzled that there was more, he reached his arm in the envelope to pull out a little black notebook and a crumpled piece of paper. Setting the book aside, he unraveled the paper to find on one side a written quote, “No weapon formed against me shall prosper.” He didn’t know if it was intended for him or someone else. He then flipped the note around to find noticeably different handwriting like that on the envelope - “They found these two things in his pocket.” Placing the note aside, he lifted the book and opened the cover. A title handwritten similar to the front page of the crumpled note said, “My journey to find him.” Without turning a new page, Newman closed the book, held it to his heart, and just smiled. Whether “him” was himself, or his father, he would soon paint a clearer picture. Revelations had borne new chapters and Newman’s genesis was commencing.

grief
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About the Creator

Le'Quan Jackson

I enjoy making words worth a thousand pictures. My writing usually explores topics that touch on a colored boy's perspective - whether that color be the pigmentation of my skin or the rainbow palette of my sexuality.

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