Ignorance of Iesha

It had been a long time since I saw my homeboys in the hood. We were separated by life choices, decisions and responsibilities. Living only nine miles away from one another, it may as well have been light years. Many different youth sporting events, work, gym, community gatherings and backyard BBQ’s is how I spend my time. Being a father of six, most of that time is spent at youth sporting events and activities. Life for my homies was spent drastically different from mine. We shared our life and times with different types of people doing very different things. Nonetheless the love was still there; I would always have their back and they would always have mine.

So from my suburban home in Ocoee I traveled east to my old stomping grounds of Pine Hills. Thirty years prior Pine Hills was my sanctuary as I escaped from a life of torment utilizing my talents and athletic abilities. This fourteen year old product of and addict and a convict had grown tired of the burdens of his parents addictions, poor choices and criminal behaviors. After a basketball season in which I rose from the ninth grade team all the way to varsity, I was offered the opportunity to play on an AAU U16 Basketball team that would be traveling to Florida for a tournament in which they would be playing teams from all over the country. Our last game was in Pine Hills at Robinswood Middle School.

I knew my grandmother lived in the area so when the final buzzer rang I told my coaches that I would not be traveling back with the team. They protested but couldn’t stop this head strong young man determined to find a better life for him self. Ironically, twenty years later I would be asked to speak to the students of the school and meet my wife who taught there for eighteen years. Doing what we were called to do brought us together and created this busy loving life we now share.

When I arrived in Pine Hills in the late 1980’s it was a much different place filled with optimism and ambition. The community was diversely dignified filled with home owners who took pride in their property and the developmental prosperity of their families. Pine Hills birthed or nurtured many a talented artist, musician, scholar, soldier, athlete, politician and pastor. The crime rate was minuscule compared to today.

The place that saved my life is now called “Crime Hills” more often than by its given name. Still I love the area for all it has given to me but the community has drastically changed. I’m grateful to still have roots and ties, so on this day I was going back.

The love was in the air. When I stepped out of my vehicle I was greeted with cheer. Sipping on a few beers, we caught up; I told a few jokes, just like old times. Forever the comedian, I rehashed a few funny stories from our shared past that I hadn’t thought about in years. Again, I had ‘em in stitches.

I settled in a bedroom at the side of the house that had been converted from a garage with one of my homeboys and a chick he had been wasting time with over the years. I never quite understood why he was drawn to her but to each his own.

I sat quiet as they engaged in banter about how they planned to spend their evening. Iesha wanted to make a call to secure more of her favorite narcotic and hangout at their favorite watering hole. Eventually their conversation changed and focused on race. Iesha had some strong feelings on Caucasian People and her distrust of them.

“I ain’t never known no good White People. Man shit you can’t trust them Crackers for nothin’. I don’t fool wit White folks.”

I was dumbfounded; I didn’t know how we got on to this and I couldn’t believe she was serious. So I asked her.

“Iesha, you have never known a good White Person in your life? You think all White People are bad?”

She sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes before answering aggressively.

“Hell to the naw! I don’t trust ‘em and I don’t want them around me. They smell like wet dog anyway.”

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

“You mean to tell me…”

Just then two of my boys who heard I was kickin’ it in the hood bust into the room interrupting my rebuttal. I followed them back outside where more people were waiting. Iesha and I never got to finish our conversation but her disturbing words stayed with me. That night was a fun night full of reminiscing and laughter.

Before leaving to return back to my stable, sober, plain vanilla life; I promised the homeboys I would return in a couple of days with disks of music I produced for our group years prior. Many of us were in a band together fifteen years earlier; I was the front man/ producer. As I drove home Iesha’s words ran through my head. I couldn’t believe the ignorance she spewed. I knew some people still thought that way but to actually hear it was shocking. I just had to share with my wife; she was equally appalled.

Days later there I was in my minivan heading back to Pine Hills with music in hand. It was enjoyable to take a walk down memory lane listening to myself singing and rapping about things I would never say out loud now in my forties. As an artist I could respect how brazen and unapologetic the lyrics and beats were. The subject matter left something to be desired, oh to be in my twenties again. Oh, my how my art has changed since then.

I pulled up to the house and rang the door bell. I was greeted by the elder women of the family. I’ve loved them since I was a teen. These women sometimes mothered me when there was no maternal presence in my life. Hot plates and words of wisdom were offered and accepted. Before I knew it an hour had passed as we caught up about our lives, our children’s and grandchildren’s lives. I still have no grandchildren because our children are more focused on earning diplomas before birthing dependents. These women, still in their sixties had been great grandmothers for years. Unfortunately our children had different goals and focuses for their lives.

I realized sitting there chatting that this is where I belonged. I had much more in common with grandmothers than men my own age trying to recapture their youth or hold on to the past. Eventually I was summoned by one of my homeboys to leave the presence of my new peers and join them in the garage. We started listening to our youthful voices saying some outlandish things harmonizing and rapping over low budget beats. Listening reminded me of my true calling in life. I was born an artist but I decided to utilize my talents in a different and more productive way.

The music was good but it was local, not major. We could move crowds here in the south but we were never going to create a new movement or rise to the level of our favorite recording artists. Now when I place my fingertips on a different type of keyboard I leave my heart on the page, inspiring, motivating, educating and entertaining. Evoking deep feelings from my readers is my new goal, giving them thoughts and sensations they never new could be received through the written word.

After an hour or so of a listening session we started talking about this and that. Iesha sat in the corner sniffling from time to time with white residue around her nose. We greeted one another when I entered the room but said nothing to one another since then. She seemed to enjoy our greatest hits as we talked about the times traveling, recording and performing.

People started inquiring about my family and when I intended to release my next novel. I shared freely and honestly about the pros and cons of my new life. There is a lot of love in my life but very little time for self or artistic creation. I figure you have to take the good with the bad and I must admit that fathering six children never leaves you with a lack of material to write about.

Iesha spoke up asking me about meeting my wife.

“When are you going to bring your wife around?”

I gave her a curious look.

“Around who, you?”

She laughed it off before restating it.

“Yes, around me, us.”

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a bigot.”

Chuckles went around the room but Iesha didn’t find it very funny.

“What do you mean I’m a bigot?”

I shook my head then looked over to my long time friend before answering. He shrugged, inviting me to continue on.

“The last time I talked to you, you told me you don’t trust White people. No White people. My wife is half German, half Norwegian with blonde hair and blue eyes. You don’t get much whiter than that and you told me that you don’t deal with “crackers” as you say.”

I could tell that she was put off after learning that my wife was a Caucasian woman but she tried to save face.

“I know but if she is your wife I’m sure she is alright. She’s probably one of the few good ones.”

I was once again dumbfounded. I repeated her words.

“One of the good ones. You know that is a phrase that many racist White people have used to describe me over the years because I am well read and understand much of their American Pop Culture. They feel safe around me, see me as nonthreatening. In other words they see me as an anomaly because in their eyes Black people shouldn’t be intelligent or well spoken. What you said the other day is just as bad.”

I could tell that she was not happy with me but I continued on anyway.

“You haven’t met every White person in the world but because of your ignorance of them you allow yourself to vilify them all.”

I could see light bulbs turning on in peoples’ heads around the room but she was still unrelenting.

“But you know that bad shit they do trying to keep us down. If it was up to them, they would make us slaves again.”

I decided that it was time I made my final point and excited this din of the dimwitted.

“Again, that’s all White people?”

“Most of them.”

“Do you know that my wife and her two sisters have taught here in Crime Hills for almost two decades? Do you realize that we only met because she wanted me to come in and speak to her class to inspire them? She reached out to me because she was investing in the children of this community. We both met the love of our lives doing what we were called to do in service of our people. Everywhere we go in this county we are approached by some young adult or teen that my wife has taught and inspired to be something greater.”

I made sure that our eyes met so that she could see how serious I was about what I was saying.

“She has used her vocation to elevate three generations of our Black and Brown children and she doesn’t get paid a lot for it. Doctors, lawyers, businessmen, politicians, professional athletes and future scholars have passed through her classroom and left with the desire to be greater. Her only reward is their development and growth as productive citizens and the praise they offer her for her efforts. My wife is a compassionate professional who doesn’t judge people by the color of their skin yet by the content of their character.”

Iesha kind of sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes. With her lack of response or rebuttal I continued on.

“While she is helping to raise the Black children of the Hills you sit in here in this garage getting high everyday and you have three children of your own, home at your mama’s house that you are neglecting. Now tell me again how all White people are wicked and evil.”

I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a friend letting me know that I had made my point. But I had one more thing to say.

“If a White person wanted to generalize about or stereotype all Black people by your actions they would say that we are all lazy, slothful drug addicts who neglect their children. That’s the example you show to White people giving them what they believe is credence to assume we are all like that. Thank you sister!”

With that I stood up and started saying my goodbyes. I had enough of the hood for a little while. Catching up and reminiscing was cool but I had more important things to be doing with my time. Our history I will never forget, I will always love them but some of the people that hold such ignorant views of the world I cannot surround myself with. It just shows that racist come in all sizes, shapes and colors.