Beyond Poetry

by Nathan Jarelle

  My heart was jaded. I’d fallen asleep.

  For days I would weep.

  Now, I know where I must be.

  LEONARD G. ROBINSON JR.

  A Dream Not Deferred

  White covered every street corner in Brooke’s Rowe on Christmas Day. Despite the joyous occasion, beat cops worked overtime chasing dealers pushing powdered cocaine. With holiday money in hand and the city’s open-air drug market booming, cocaine stuck to asphalt more than snowfall that Christmas. For the Robinsons, the holiday was gray and dull, the same as every year since Lawrence had died. The day before, Junior’s daddy draped a cheap set of old red and green lights around the doorway. Feeling satisfied with himself, he then took a chug of eggnog before wiping his mouth with his sleeve and tossing the bottle into the garbage. Before Lawrence’s death, the Robinsons would get a tree from the mall lot. Both Junior and Lawrence each got a hundred dollars to blow on gifts in the days leading up to their holiday. That year, however, with bills cutting into the Robinsons’ budget, Junior got fifty dollars along with a new jacket and a pair of snow boots from Payless Shoes. That Christmas morning, Junior slept up until 10 a.m., indifferent to his unwrapped jacket and cheap boots hanging on the rack in the living room closet. Downstairs, Sandy spent her festive morning watching the Christmas Day parade taking place in Manhattan on TV while Senior worked outside on his truck, mumbling to himself. Sipping on her cup of coffee, she looked through old family photographs, laughing to herself as she reminisced.

  In the days since New York, Junior noticed his parents had been quiet to a fault – as if they were hiding something. Meals were square and quiet as Senior kept his eyes buried down into his plate. To break the awkward silence amongst them, Sandy attempted to squeak something toward forgiveness for Junior’s big lie.

  “Well, I’m sure glad that you’re here,” she said to Junior, rubbing his hand. “Don’t know what I would’ve done without you around. I’m sure your daddy feels the same way.”

  As Junior looked up from his plate into his daddy’s face, Senior glared at him, chewing his meatloaf like a deranged prisoner waiting to shank him. Lowering his head, Junior sighed.

  “I know, Mom,” he replied. “I know.”

  Junior had barely written in his journal since New York happened. For three days, he struggled to put something noteworthy together before giving up writing altogether. Brooke’s Rowe was his home. Casey was forever gone. Feeling hopeless, Junior placed his latest journal into the garbage bin next to Senior’s eggnog. Sandy would find it later that evening, covered in gunk and cranberry sauce.

  The day after Christmas, Sandy called Junior down into the living room to answer for his crimes of treason and deceit from his escapade in New York. For days, she had bummed in awkward silence, trying to concoct the most befitting punishment for him.

  When Junior arrived in the living room that morning, he saw his soiled, abandoned journal on the coffee table. Sandy almost always got on him for wasting things. Considering his journal was half full, he hoped his mother would tab it as time served. Frustrated, Sandy offered Junior a seat on the couch next to Senior as she stood in front of the TV. Junior thought it was a wonder his daddy hadn’t shot the TV out like the one in their bedroom. He thought he’d never again see the light of day or Casey’s pretty smile as he took his seat on death row. Usually, when his parents spent days before sentencing him, Junior’s punishment was long and harsh. If he was lucky, he’d get away with a two-week punishment and give up his Nintendo console again.

  “What you did to our family last Friday was disheartening,” Sandy scolded him. “You deliberately disobeyed us – and you could’ve got Casey in a lot of trouble. Suppose something had happened to you? Then what? It was selfish and irresponsible – and you’re gonna pay for that.”

  Junior looked over at his daddy for clarity as Senior stared back at him with his trademark glare.

  “On the other hand,” Sandy continued, “even though I’m pissed with you, I just can’t help but admire your courage. You knew you’d get killed for what you did, and you did it anyway. Why? Because there was something in your heart that said, ‘I have to do this’. What you did wasn’t meant to be mean-spirited. It was for the betterment of you. That was courageous, Junior, and I respect that a whole hell of a lot. Just because we’re your parents doesn’t mean we’re always right about everything. In fact, after thinking it over, I was wrong not to let you visit New York with Casey.”

  Junior glanced down at his soiled journal and back up at his daddy whose face softened.

  “So, I’m not on punishment?” he asked.

  Sandy reached into her pocket and pulled out Junior’s pamphlet from the Langston Hughes School of Art and placed it next to his book on the coffee table.

  “Your daddy and I had a long talk with Casey on Christmas Eve,” she told him. “And we think that going to Langston is…a great opportunity for you. Besides, just because we’re not able to leave Brooke’s Rowe doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. It’s not fair to hold you back.”

  Senior placed his wide arm around Junior and pulled him in close.

  “I was wrong for jumping on you the other night,” he apologized. “But I did it out of love, son. You scared the shit out of me. I can’t lose another son, Junior. You’re my everything, and I love you…Yeah, I said it,” he joked. “Maybe I ought to say that more from now on.”

  Junior’s eyes watered the moment his daddy told him that he loved him. He seldom showed the boys affection. Senior then kissed him on the back of his head and patted his first-born son on the back. Senior began to laugh with tears in his own eyes.

  “Maaaan, you got to be a brave motherfucka because I was gonna kill you for hangin’ up!”

  As the family shared a quick laugh, Sandy ushered Junior off to his room to prepare for a surprise visit from Casey. That morning, he would sit at the head of the table as their chief investment. With his future on the line, Junior ran off to his room to change clothes.

  Our Little Investment

  On Tuesday, December 26, 1995, Casey, and her sister, Courtney, arrived on Kennedy Street dressed like CEOs headed to a business meeting. At the door, Junior suffocated Casey with a hug so tight Senior had to pry him off. The two women entered the Robinsons’ residence, looking stunning in black excellence.

  “Yo, this is for real, man,” Casey told him. “So, I asked Courtney to dress up.”

  Senior couldn’t keep his eyes off of Courtney, and neither could Junior. She was dark complected like Senior, tall with stallion legs and long, pretty black hair. The disparity between the two sisters perplexed Junior’s daddy: Casey was white as snow and Courtney dark as he was. Unable to interpret the contrast between both sisters, Senior, in embarrassing fashion, posed the inevitable question: How? It cost Senior an elbow from Sandy, but he got his answer.

  “I’m an albino,” Casey laughed, unphased. “It’s a defect when the skin has no color.”

  “So, you mean like a white person?” Senior asked.

  “That’s right. Both my parents are black.”

  As Senior tried to put Casey’s explanation into context, Sandy interrupted: “She’s a black woman like every other black woman that’s in this living room right now. Now, perhaps we should get to what this meeting is about and not focus on what color Casey is or isn’t.”

  To kick off their business meeting, Sandy brewed a fresh batch of hot coffee for Casey and Courtney, while Senior blazed on a cigarette near the foyer. Junior sat between both sisters, unable to remove his eyes from Courtney’s stockinged legs. With her hair slicked into a neat bun, she looked every bit an actress from the big city. Occasionally, Junior stole a peep at her long, powerful legs before rolling his eyes elsewhere throughout the room. At one point, he went to look again and noticed Courtney noticing him. Ashamed, he re-focused on the prospect that was ahead of him.

  As Sandy and Casey negotiated terms for Junior to move to New York, he took a bathroom break and stared at
his reflection in the mirror. Back during the summer, he had got himself expelled from Franklin High and barely made it into Medgar. Now, he was on his way to a fancy art school in New York. Through it all, Casey had been by his side. His best friend and big sissy. After his short break, Junior returned to his office down in the living room and listened to the details the adults were discussing.

  “We’ll rotate; I’ll pick him up every other Sunday,” said Casey. “He’ll stay with us at the townhouse in Fort Foote from Monday through Friday for school and then come home on the weekends – if that’s OK?”

  Casey then presented the Robinsons with a map of their sub-section of Fort Foote, New York, in conjunction with the school. From a library computer, she had printed the Robinsons the directions to their house along with two house keys: one for them and one for Junior. Junior placed his key inside his wallet as he listened in on his new life ahead of him.

  “He’ll have full access throughout the house,” Courtney spoke up. “Access to a computer. Local parks. Eateries within walking distance. A public library. My boyfriend is at the house right now building Junior a desk where he can do his homework.”

  As a New York resident, Junior would pay significantly less in tuition at Langston than an out-of-state student. Not to mention, with Courtney’s military background, Junior would receive a break in his tuition of $1,000, bringing the Robinsons’ total to $6800 per semester. Across the room, with Senior hovering over her, Sandy worked out a monthly budget for Junior’s tuition – it totaled around $600 per month for him to attend.

  Carefully, Junior studied his mother’s face for a reaction. At close to $600 per month for him to attend Langston, he knew his parents couldn’t afford it. He thought about the many nights he had stayed up listening to his parents argue over money, and the time Senior destroyed the boys’ fan over eighty dollars that had gone missing from his nightstand. As Sandy punched and crunched numbers on a calculator, attempting to find the space for Junior to leave, he suddenly got cold feet.

  “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” He shrugged. “It seems like a lot.”

  Junior’s backing out was met with silence. Across the room, at the bottom of the staircase, Senior puffed on his cigarette while sipping on a bottle of lukewarm Colt 45 malt liquor. Meanwhile, Casey and Courtney worked together on a weekly planner of household chores for Junior. Hearing no affirmative response, Junior tried again.

  “Um, hello?” he said to no effect. “It’s just a lot of money, and maybe we ought to…”

  “Boy, shut up!” Senior interrupted. “Damn!”

  Shortly after Senior put a muzzle on Junior, Casey introduced her original idea she’d offered to Junior while in New York.

  “What if we split it, Mrs. Robinson?” she offered. “Would that help? I can chip in $200.”

  Courtney tagged in next. “I can do $150.”

  Junior then suddenly came to life.

  “I’ll be fifteen next summer,” he declared. “I could find something part-time at the grocery store or McDonald’s. Or I could help daddy with business on the weekends.”

  With $350 covered upfront along with Junior’s room and board, there was still an additional $216 remaining for Sandy to pay each month on Junior’s tuition. She looked down at her calculator one last time and powered it off.

  “I’m sure I could do a day of overtime to make up the difference.”

  Last but not least was Senior.

  “Business should pick back up in the new year. Count me in on that.”

  Three hours and two pots of coffee later, the vote was unanimous. After an official visit from Sandy and Senior to Junior’s second home, Junior would stay in New York to attend the Langston Hughes School of Art.

  Saying ‘yes’ was harder than Sandy had thought it would be. Her hands shook as she hugged and thanked Casey and her sister for offering to take on Junior and help out with his schooling. Then, with their jackets bundled up, the Robinsons followed the two sisters back to New York. With Senior behind the wheel, Junior watched his mother’s face as they crossed the threshold into the Empire State. It was the same look he’d had on December 22. In all of her forty-plus years of hell-raising in North Philadelphia, Sandy had never been as far as an hour and a half’s drive into New York. It was a frightening reality for Junior that most of his extended family had not been further than the City of Brotherly Love.

  As Sandy’s crusty Buick arrived along the cobblestoned roadway of Courtney’s Fort Foote, New York townhouse, the Robinsons piled into Courtney’s Nissan Maxima for a brief tour. From the top of the street, Junior showed his parents a glimpse of the Empire State Building.

  “We were right over there!” he pointed out. “Man, I’m tellin’ you, it’s so beautiful there!”

  Fort Foote was an improvement from Brooke’s Rowe. The environment was friendlier, including the cops who patrolled that beat. They smiled and waved as they drove by, leaving Senior baffled as his mouth hung open.

  “What the fuck?” he said, slowly waving back. “What is this place?”

  “It’s a world far from the ghetto we all know, but one we don’t get to see often,” said Casey. “When I was a little girl growing up in Jersey, I never knew places like this existed.”

  Before beginning their tour, Casey spoke into Junior’s ear to assure her support. “Like I said to you before back at Medgar,” she told him. “We’re family now. You’re my little brother, J., and I’m gonna look out for you always. Hell or high water. New York or Philly. It’s all blood now between us.”

  Smiling back at her, Junior smiled. “My big sissy.”

  I have no words for your love.

  You love me unconditionally

  under one condition,

  that you love me with all your heart through all of me.

  And I am forever so grateful to have you.

  LEONARD G. ROBINSON JR.

  I know a place

  colder than a Mars night

  where hearts are broken

  and running minds never tire.

  There’s a place called Brooke’s Rowe.

  Where black can crack

  I bet you couldn’t picture that.

  —LEONARD G. ROBINSON JR.

  Twelve

  As the New Year arrived at the Robinsons’ doorstep, Junior celebrated the night looking out over the city from his bedroom window. For once, his future was bright. When word got around that Junior was transferring from Medgar, his peers throughout his school and Brooke’s Rowe slurred him. They ribbed Junior, calling him a sell-out and telling him he was too soft for Brooke’s Rowe. When his classmates heard he was headed to Langston Hughes in Fort Foote, New York, the boys called him snooty and referred to him as an Uncle Tom. On his first week back to Brother Gay’s class into the new year, a classmate heckled Junior to death over allegations that he and Casey Haughton were sleeping together. The kid claimed that Junior would birth an ugly, white baby – like Casey. As the day continued, the jokes became colder. On his way back from lunch, Junior’s rage boiled over.

  “Casey is so ugly, you gotta fuck the bitch with a paper bag over her head,” the boy said.

  Wham! Down he went. It took Brother Gay all of thirty seconds to scrape Junior off the kid. Though he’d pay for it with detention that afternoon, the blow was euphoric to him and it was the last insult any student would ever make about Casey Haughton in front of Junior.

  “You have to learn to control your anger,” Brother Gay said to him. “Otherwise, people are gonna take you off a cliff with them, Junior. They’ll use your anger to manipulate you. You’ve got a great opportunity awaiting you at Langston in New York. Don’t let it slip away.”

  Around the neighborhood, the jokes continued. The kids called Junior stupid and prophesized that he’d flunk and end up back in Brooke’s Rowe. Strangely, Sandy experienced the same treatment down at the post office. The gossip gallery claimed that Sandy Robinson had gone off the deep end after losing Lawrence and that she
and Senior were not capable of taking care of Junior. The rumor going around was that the Robinsons needed a white girl with orange hair to save them. On a job in North Philly, Senior got himself arrested for belting a client across the jaw for saying that his kid needed a white girl to save him. As Sandy arrived at the precinct to pick him up, he sat by himself inside a steel cage like a manic gorilla.

  In the waning weeks, before Junior was scheduled to depart from Brooke’s Rowe, Sandy grew anxious over the move. She popped into Junior’s bedroom often, asking to watch him write poetry or play video games. At night, Junior would hear his mother still awake and restless downstairs before Senior would try to con her into coming to bed.

  “No, really,” she’d say to him. “I’m OK. I feel fine. Everything is fine. I feel… good.”

  Junior’s mother was not good. She was unusual. She took up smoking again. After school, when she arrived to pick him up, Junior would look at Sandy’s face and know she’d been crying on the way to get him. At home, she spent an inordinate amount of time looking at old pictures of him and Lawrence at their old house in Crawford. One night, Junior awoke to see his mother standing at his doorway. Careful not to make her feel ashamed for being there, he pretended to be asleep. The morning after, Junior overheard Sandy tell Senior of a nightmare she had. In a dream, she received a phone call from Casey that Junior had been killed on his way home from school in New York. Senior brushed off his wife’s apprehensions as nerves getting the best of her.

  “It’ll be alright,” he comforted her. “That’s just that old devil workin’ your nerves again.”

  On the contrary, on the television after dinner that evening, Junior saw his mother jump around the living room over a kid name Clyde McNeal. Like Junior, Clyde was fourteen years old. And, like Junior, he was on his way from school when a boy robbed and killed him. The sighting of Clyde’s sneaker poking beneath a white sheet on Kennedy Street kept Sandy up throughout the night. At 2 a.m., Junior found his mother hunched over the kitchen sink with a cigarette in her hand. Before he could say anything, Sandy gave her affirmation. “I don’t care if I go from one pack to six-packs of cigarettes a day,” she told him. “You’re gettin’ the fuck from around here.”