Malcolm and Me

by Robin Farmer

  “Roberta, we’ll talk later. This is between grown folks. Go in the house.”

  I snatch up garments the wind has scattered from the curb to the middle of the block.

  “Roberta!” he barks, “I said go in the house. Now!”

  I shuffle a few steps then scamper back. “Is it my fault? Did I make you fight?”

  Under the streetlight, his jawbones clench. He shakes his head, pecks my forehead.

  “Roberta!” On the steps, Mom glares at me with a madwoman scowl. “Get in the house!”

  Heading in, I spot a shoe in a shrub. I lay it on the landing. “Here’s the other one.”

  Mom’s head whips around like she needs an exorcism. I run into the house and go in Charles’s room, expecting to find him crying. Instead, he smiles in his sleep.

  The front door slams so I sprint into my room and close the door. Dad’s car peeling away makes my throat feel like I swallowed a bowling ball.

  I sniff my nightgown. I smell like shrimp, heartbreak, and failure. How can I sleep with a thunderstorm in my heart? Is God punishing me for hitting Sister?

  It’s 12:07 a.m. My birthday is gone. A new day begins and it promises to be as sucky as yesterday. My parents just had the worst fight ever. Outside. My gut tells me it involves Dad’s whereabouts when school called. Isn’t it obvious he took off to get my gift? So if they get a divorce, it all boomerangs to me by way of Sister Elizabeth, enemy No. 1, followed by Mom, enemy No. 2. Wait, scratch that. It’s a tie for these two disgusting hypocrites.

  CHAPTER 4

  Anger, confusion, humiliation, and guilt pin me down in my twin bed. I can’t move. Not that I have anywhere to go anyway.

  I kick off the sheet and hope my funky feelings go with it. Can’t spend time feeling sorry for myself when I need to figure out how to reunite my parents and pass eighth grade without getting expelled or arrested.

  I just turned thirteen, and I feel old as fossil dirt. I’d give anything for a gigantic do-over—a normal birthday instead of a terror show at school and home. Instead, I’m a suspended nun-boxer with a tyrant as a mother and a missing father.

  I click on my transistor radio. The new Concorde airplane broke a record yesterday by flying the fastest time nonstop from D.C. to Paris, the DJ says. I broke one, too: Most screw-ups achieved in a day.

  Images pop into my head. Sister’s rage. Mom’s bark. Daddy’s aching eyes. What was the common denominator? Me.

  Daddy skipped work to buy my special gift and got caught in a white lie. So what? He likely got it hot from the barber shop since Mom always nags about his spending.

  I’m floored at how Mom acted after my awful day at school. She never even sang “Happy Birthday.”

  I feel worn out and the morning is fresh.

  “Roberta! Breakfast is ready.” Smelling like pancakes, Mom stands in my doorway with droopy eyes. She’s dressed in a white blouse and striped pants for her job helping people get on welfare. Wish she’d help me. She hurries away.

  I raise the shade, peer out. Daddy found all his clothes in the dark. Hurray!

  In the hallway, I nearly collide with Charles rushing from the bathroom smelling like Daddy. Inhaling the musky cologne pinpricks my heart. But I say, “I’m telling.”

  “Daddy said I could wear a little.”

  “Is he downstairs?” I whisper.

  “Nope. Mommy said he left for work already.”

  “Go ask Mom what time Daddy left. I’ll give you my lunch money.”

  He sprints downstairs as if his room is on fire. Leaning over the railing, I strain to hear. Normally Mom’s loud, but now her words are hushed. Hmmm. I slam the door.

  “I’ve a headache!” Mom yells from the kitchen. “Slam one more door, hear!”

  I whip open the medicine cabinet door, stare at Dad’s cologne.

  Charles knocks. I crack the door. “Mommy said Daddy left before we got up.”

  “Get the dollar off my dresser.”

  Mom lied. I blink at myself in the mirror. My face is my father’s except for a ski slope-shaped nose combining Mom’s high bridge and his wide tip. Fury bubbles up in my throat like a hot pepper soda. I squeeze my eyes to keep the heaviness behind my lids.

  Downstairs, Charles chews with his mouth open. Reading a paperback, Mom fails to notice. “Don’t use the phone, go outside or have any company in this house,” she tells me.

  “Who would be home?” Sarcasm colors my voice.

  Mom’s head snaps up. I look away, and she resumes reading.

  Turning toward Charles, Daddy’s scent unsettles me, and everything goes gray. “What time did you say Daddy left this morning?”

  Charles’s eyes bug out. “I just told you upstairs Mommy said before we woke up.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Mom aims her book at my head and scores. She leaps up and gets in my face, her forehead vein pulsing. I lean back so far I nearly tip the chair.

  “Don’t provoke me, Mouth Almighty.”

  “Am I supposed to sit here and pretend you didn’t kick Daddy out last night?”

  “I’m sick of your incessant back talking. Shut up. Now!” Turning to Charles, her voice and face instantly soften. Because he’s her favorite. “We’re taking a break. It doesn’t mean we love you or your sassy sister any less.”

  Charles’s face crumbles. That’s no news to learn way before recess.

  “We’ll talk about it in the car.” Mom turns to me. “One thing for certain and two things for sure, you are working my last good nerve.”

  They leave me all jumbled up like the Soul Train scramble board. I feel like tossing my clothes out the window. Instead, I dial my grandma.

  “Praise God.” Mom-Mom’s sugary voice, one you can hear smiling, soothes my broken parts.

  “Hi, Mom-Mom.”

  “Hi, lamb. You don’t sound sick. Why are you home?”

  “I got in trouble for fighting.” The words tumble out before I can tug them back.

  “Who hit you? A mean girl or hard-headed boy?

  “Ummm, neither one.”

  “What? How can that be?” Mom-Mom’s voice squeaks in confusion.

  “I got into a fight with my teacher.” I squeeze my eyes and hold my breath.

  “Precious Lord, Father God!” she hollers. “What is happening to you?”

  “Mom-Mom, my teacher is wicked unfair. I guess Daddy hasn’t told you, yet. Is he there?”

  “What? Isn’t your father at work? Why would . . .” I hear rustling. I picture her grabbing one of her church fans since I upset her equilibrium. Daddy said it’s delicate. “First, what do you mean you fought your teacher?”

  I explain what happened.

  “Africa? Will this keep you off the honor roll? How many days are you out?”

  “I don’t know and three days.”

  “Hot tot-tot-tot!” My sin has her speaking her holy ghost dancing language. “What’s this about your father’s whereabouts? My heart can’t bear all this.”

  I give her a few details but edit the fight since one heart attack scare is enough. “Please don’t tell Mom I told you,” my voice breaks. “I’m in enough trouble.”

  “Telling the truth ain’t easy, but you gotta do it.” She blows her nose and coughs.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes. Fixing to ask the Holy Ghost to protect y’all. Call me later, lamb. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Heart thwacking in my throat, I hang up. I riled her up for nothing and still don’t know where Daddy is staying. As we say in Spanish class, No bueno. I bolt into my room and grab my diary. I think best by writing, which is easy. It’s like riding a bike. Where I end up often surprises me.

  Not now. I stare at the blank page until tears dot it. Maybe that’s all I need to say.

  I turn to my Michael Jackson poster. His adoring chocolate eyes lock on mine. Can he see the cloud of failure following me? I press my hands together.

  Me: Dear God, why am I in the middle o
f everything wrong?

  The silence pokes holes in my gut. I look heavenward even though I can’t see past the ceiling, where water spots resemble coffee stains.

  Me: Are you there, God? It’s me, Roberta. I need you badly.

  I wait, heart open. Street traffic is all I hear.

  Just when I think life can’t get sadder, it does.

  Reading the Malcolm X book beats out the game shows and soap operas I’d normally watch when not in school. I feel awakened from the inside out by this great leader. Unlike Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., he didn’t believe in turning the other cheek. I so dig that.

  Like me, Malcolm attended a predominantly white school. He was the only Black student in his class. Popular and smart, he was elected by his fellow students to be class president. While initially flattered, he considered his election tokenism. I recall my growing unease over the years when paraded around as a good example for my race at HSB. As the only Black second-grader in “smart classes,” I gorged myself on sugary praises to fill up the emptiness that often gripped me. Whenever we lined up in pairs for recess, church, or to go just about anywhere, I stood alone. I listened to chatter about birthday parties I never was invited to.

  When outgoing Bonnie showed up mid-way through the year, I clung to her like static on a slip. Honestly, we clung to each other. By the end of fourth grade, whenever teachers praised us for being articulate and able to “go to a Black college and do great things for your people,” we responded with eye rolls. We knew they believed we weren’t smart enough to attend a white college. Such slick talk sometimes came from classmates.

  In sixth grade, Sam Burns, who I thought was cool, stood mere feet away from me in the schoolyard fussing with his pals about two “niggers” who dared to walk on his block. Everyone knew that word triggered an automatic fistfight.

  “You nuts? Don’t you see me standing here?” I huffed.

  “You’re not a nigger.”

  I cartoon blinked at his boldness. His friends snickered. “And you say it, again?” I scanned the yard for Bonnie, nowhere in sight. If I hit him and his pals jumped in, I was toast. Stomach knotting, I moved nose-close with a dead-eyed stare and rapid hold-me-back breathing, a winning combo for quashing beefs with most white kids. Mom called it selling wolf tickets you hope your butt won’t have to cash. “Take it back!”

  Sam swallowed hard and the fire in his eyes went out. Whew.

  “Blacks and nig—” Beet-cheeked, he licked his lips. “The meanings are different.”

  Henry, who walked with a scaredy-cat hunch, tugged him away.

  “What’s the difference?” someone yelled when the group moved a few yards away.

  Sam cupped his mouth and shouted, “My dad says Blacks know how to act.”

  At dinner, when I told Daddy about the incident, his mouth twitched.

  “Racism is racism like a rose is a rose. Calling it by another name won’t change it. Saying you’re different, you’re not like other Blacks, that’s just complimentary racism.”

  “Like when white people say I’m articulate?”

  “Nothing slow about my Pumpkin,” he gloated. “You’ll never hear a white person call another white person articulate. I’m not knocking being articulate, but some compliments fool you into thinking you’re something you’re not. Some doors I can’t walk in no matter how articulate I am. Your generation? Get your toe in and knock ’em down.”

  So sad teen Malcolm’s dad wasn’t alive to give him advice. If he had, Malcolm may have graduated high school and become a lawyer despite what his teacher said.

  I reread a paragraph Daddy underlined at the end of the first chapter about Malcolm lacking mercy for a society that unfairly squashes people and then punishes them for being unable to bear the weight.

  That’s what happened to me yesterday. Sister saw me as a rebel who needed punishing. Would she feel the same way if I wore my hair pressed and curled like it used to be? I saw the way she frowned at this book the other day. Did she consider Malcolm a radical threat? Did she fear what I would learn? Then I better read more!

  I get a soda from the fridge and resume reading about white people who flocked to Harlem at night to watch Black entertainers perform. I bet my allowance they wouldn’t want any of them as neighbors, no matter how talented. Seems white folks feel like they’ve done something wrong if they live next to us. White families in droves are moving out of our parish as more Black families move in. Love thy neighbor. Guess the second commandment is too hard. Hypocrites.

  I brush Tastykake crumbs off the book that should top Holy St. Bridget’s reading list. Malcolm evolved from a criminal into an incredible leader despite a terrible childhood. Racists murdered his father. His mother ended up in a mental institution, which broke up his family. He briefly lived with foster parents until he moved in with family in Boston. Malcolm is a real life “Metamorphosis,” a much more interesting one than the guy who wakes up as a cockroach in a short story by Franz Kafka.

  I’m eager to rap about what I’m learning with Daddy. I set the book aside. At this rate, I’ll finish too soon. The worst thing about a good book is turning the last page.

  Besides, I’ve tons of homework to do, including reading the short story “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” by Ursula K. LeGuin for Mr. Harvey’s class. But I’m inspired. I reach for my poetry book. I write:

  Fill me with wonder,

  Shake me like thunder

  With your different way of thinking

  So bold, Black, and unblinking

  Our greatest preacher

  My first Black teacher

  The title pops in my head. Smiling, I jot at the top: “Dear Malcolm.”

  The grandfather clock chimes. Spanish is next. A pang of longing kicks in. Then dread. It’s bad enough I have Sister for religion and history, but homeroom, too? One that has the fewest Black students. Shy Clyde, spacy Karen, fraidy cat Stephanie, and quiet Vietta, who tries hard to go unnoticed with an eye-catching skin condition. Her fudge complexion has splashes of white skin, like someone erased the coloring around her lips, cheek and hands. People bullied her when she came to our school last year, but Bonnie ended that.

  Bonnie would have stood up for me, too. Man, I miss having her in my classes.

  I flip to the calendar in the back of my speckled copybook. Eleven weeks remain until Christmas. In the living room, I snatch the glossy Christmas catalogue buried under an avalanche of Ebony magazines on the coffee table. Chuckling at the heap not spilling over, I rip out the pages with the white 10-speed, which will make my life complete, and a green plaid jumper perfect to wear to the awards ceremony to accept my first-place writing prize. Zooming upstairs, I slip them into my mirror’s edge as reminders, when picking out my ’fro, about why I need to chill if Sister Elizabeth drives her danger train nonstop to my desk.

  CHAPTER 5

  A tired-looking Daddy arrives with Chinese food, a Sister Elizabeth update, and the newspaper, which I grab from under his arm.

  “So she apologized for her comments at our meeting,” he says, lining up several cartons of food on the dining room table. “Her brother was rushed to the ER the night before, and she said she was up all night. I told her that was no excuse,” he pauses as Charles hands us a paper plate, “for what she said or how she acted.”

  Listening hard, I pass around the egg rolls and grab a carton of shrimp fried rice. Daddy isn’t sounding as mad as I imagined.

  “I can tell she’s a piece of work. She didn’t look so saintly when I told her she overreacted to hearing the truth from my smart daughter.” He laughs and I join him, relieved he gets what I’m dealing with.

  “What did Mom say?”

  “Her work schedule changed. She’ll meet with her later.”

  My face falls along with all hope in the free world. I can’t even fake the funk. Mom meeting with Sister Elizabeth is a gathering of Benedict Arnolds.

  Daddy gives me a weary once-over. “Stop fretting. Your mom will handle
her. Let’s eat and then we’ll talk. Gotta make a call first.” He heads upstairs with his plate.

  Picking at shrimp fried rice, I read my horoscope in the newspaper. It says my talents will help solve a problem. Yeah, right. Scanning the headlines, I see a fourteen-year-old boy was stabbed outside a public school not far from us. The gang problem is growing in the city. Mom says when it hits closer to home, we’re out. The last thing I want is to move to the corny Black suburbs.

  Charles bangs the table. “Earth to Roberta, come in, come in.”

  “What?” I snap.

  “Daddy called you. He wants to talk about,” he whispers, “you know what.”

  “I’m the oldest. Why am I going first?” I snap a fortune cookie in half.

  “I’m still eating,” he whines.

  The fortune reads, “Your win will solve everything.” Reading the white strip in my hands, my brain and body tingle. I perk up like I always do when I’m on the verge of a good idea.

  I push my plate to Charles. “Yours if you go first.”

  Charles zips upstairs, leaving me to mull over my messages and try to make sense of them. I rush to the curio cabinet in the corner of the living room, our favorite spot to pose for photos because it’s always neat, and remove my second-place plaques from writing contests won in sixth and seventh grade.

  They glimmer in the sunlight streaming through the porch. Rubbing my fingers across “Roberta Forest” engraved in the brass nameplates removes the cobwebs of ick trapping me since the fight with Sister. I see myself again. If one thing is certain and two things are for sure, I am the answer to the problems I caused. I know how to reunite my parents and prove to Sister Elizabeth I’m smarter than she thinks. I’ll win the eighth-grade writing contest if it’s the last thing I do. It’s meant to be. Why else would two separate messages say the same thing? Daddy has a cool expression: “Same suit, different tailor.”

  “Your turn,” Charles says.

  I practically skip into my room. Leaning against the window sill, he turns. He looks tired. My bed creaks when we both sit on it.

  “Wish I could spend more time with you two but I got a double shift.”