Malcolm and Me

by Robin Farmer

  Fatherless homes are no joke. That’s why Mom ranted and raved about not wanting a broken home. She knew, like we know now, that they don’t work because the people are broken, too.

  Fragments of us are everywhere. Poor Charles pees his bed at the old age of nine. Mom had to buy a rubber sheet and may have to replace his pissy mattress. If I press my nose against his sheets, I still can smell urine.

  Mom is so absent-minded these days that she had to change the locks to the house because she swore she lost her keys. After paying the locksmith, she found them in the freezer. And she’s smoking again. Charles caught her puffing like a naughty magic dragon in front of her bedroom window, even though it was freezing outside.

  My brokenness creates a hatred so deep I dive into it. Hope I don’t drown. Some days, I see nothing but gray. I feel scared a lot, too. To mask it, I get angry.

  Mom pulls up to an intersection just as the traffic light turns red. Outside, the dirty snow makes the parish look like an ugly postcard. Staring at the light, I recall the story we discussed in reading class before Christmas break. It was about a young Black teen who was smart but troubled. The story ended with him waiting for the traffic light to change at an intersection. No one understood the ending, but it was clear to me.

  “He can go in either direction,” I told Mr. Harvey. “He can go the right way in life or the wrong way. He has to decide.”

  I think I need to read that story again. Since Christmas, I’ve been feeling like if God can’t give me what I want, maybe the Devil can. That’s definitely going the wrong way. And I kind of don’t care.

  We occupy a pew at the back of the packed church. Charles sits between Mom and me. I watch to see if any white families will sit near us or choose to squeeze in other pews. That happens when they want to avoid eye contact and shaking our hands when we offer each other the sign of peace. Once, when Mom turned and reached for the lady’s hand in the pew behind us, the parishioner said she had a cut on her finger. Mom turned red but said nothing.

  I inhale the scent of burning candles. Usually, the church’s perfumed aroma and beauty calm me. But not even the marble altar and statues, the soaring ceiling that tells wordless stories, or the sunlight beaming through the stained glass depicting the Stations of the Cross can make me feel better.

  Charles nudges me. The pew in front of us files out one by one for communion. How I wish I wasn’t baptized like Mom and could stay seated. I have no choice but to trail Charles and receive the body of Christ. The wafer dissolves in my mouth and fills me with . . . holiness? I’m don’t think so. Everyone knows it’s a freaking wafer.

  Back in the pew, I kneel not to ask God for anything, but to admit something I’ve been tussling with for months. Lately, church feels familiar and uncomfortable like a favorite shoe I’ve outgrown and now hurts. Thinking this inside church would have made me skittish before Christmas. Today I’m okay with it. Maybe God is, too. He knows what I think and feel anyway, so who am I fooling?

  After Mass, riding back home, I ask Mom if she still loves Daddy. She says yes. I know she’s lying. Anger pokes me from the inside and proves church wasn’t time well spent. Clearly, the Eucharist didn’t take.

  If our future depends on Daddy coming back home, Charles and I have a head start on being doomed—on becoming the kind of statistic Mom hates.

  A recent newspaper article said most boys in gangs live in fatherless homes. Many of the knuckleheads who hang around on corners in my neighborhood fit that category.

  Leticia, who lives two streets over, is fourteen and has a baby. She told me she never met her father and it was no big thing because “I’m still strong and he’s long gone.” She saw the disgust in my eyes. Now, when I see her pushing her baby stroller on the avenue, she acts like she doesn’t see me. No matter what, that’s not happening to me.

  “I don’t want to go to church anymore,” I say.

  “Go at least once a month then,” Mom replies.

  “Why if I don’t get anything out of it?”

  “How do you know? God has been good to you.”

  I cackle, stopping when Mom glares at me so hard she nearly runs the light.

  I think about pointy-nosed Shelly, the first person to question my mother’s honesty. Shortly after moving in, we walked to school together, despite her being several years older. She had four older brothers, and there was safety in numbers during those earlier years when only a few black kids attended HSB. We had to stick together for protection from the public-school bullies, white and black, who targeted us as Catholic school punks.

  Short-tempered and reed-thin, Shelly had a biting tongue and witchy temper, which is why my eight-year-old self failed to haul off and hit her when she called Mom a liar.

  “My mom said Santa travels in a helicopter when there is no snow on the ground,” I told Shelly, who rolled her eyes and looked at me like I was slow.

  “You act like every word your mother says is gospel,” she yelled.

  Her angry outburst made me pause on the sidewalk. “It is,” I said, dumbfounded and hurt.

  She rushed over, her beaky nose so close I became cross-eyed. “It. Is. Not!” she thundered. “Your mother lied; your parents are Santa.”

  Her news made my mouth feel like cotton. “My mom ain’t no liar,” I mumbled, moving out of striking distance.

  “You’ll learn.” Shelly poked her nose in the air.

  Something in her voice made me think she was talking about her own mother, a short, brown-skinned lady I knew little about since Shelly was never allowed to have company past her porch. Years later, I heard her parents padlocked their refrigerator. No wonder she was so skinny and evil.

  Skinny old Shelly tried to warn me. What else is Mom lying about?

  I glance at Mom’s profile while she parks the car. The sharp beak like Shelly. The fair skin. Were padlocks in our future?

  The first day back in school after Christmas break, everyone brags about their gifts. Not me. I’m not even faking the funk. When Sister greets me warmly in homeroom, I barely respond. She swung the wrecking ball that flattened my family. She’s one of the main reasons I feel like I’m running in quicksand.

  When we stand to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, I decide not to open my mouth or place my hand over my heart. My parents don’t, so why should I?

  Midway through the Pledge, Sister leans back to make sure I see her looking directly at me. I do, and I don’t care.

  After the Pledge, I sulk at my desk. I’m showy about it, too, slumping against my desk so hard it squeaks across the floor. Sister says nothing, but her watchful eyes keep finding me while she conducts homeroom business.

  “A roach! A roach,” Eileen screams. She jumps on her seat and points at the cockroach scurrying past her desk, which is three seats in front of mine.

  The class goes crazy.

  “Get the broom and dust pan,” Sister says as she approaches our aisle, checking every desk bin until she reaches mine.

  “Did you see where it came from it?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  Sister looks down at my opened book bag. “Keep your roaches at home.”

  The classroom giggles ring in my ears like gongs in the karate movies. Cut to my core, all I see is grayness.

  Oh no, she didn’t!

  Forget counting numbers, I say the first thing that pops in my mind.

  “So because I’m the only Black girl in this row, I brought the roach? You just assume that? Isn’t that a stereotype? Do you think my family gets food stamps, too?”

  Sister flinches and her eyebrows narrow, but I can see her pause and I sense she’s dialing back her response. “Watch your tone; you’re not speaking to a peer. Put your bag on your desk and open it.”

  Taking my time, I hoist it up and drop it with a thud. Yanking it open, it’s absent the usual candy wrappers since we cleaned out our bookbags and desks before the Christmas break. I smirk.

  “There’s another one,” someone scre
ams from the middle of the room. “I saw it come out of Larry’s bag.”

  Larry, who sits two rows away, slumps in his desk. His cheeks and ears redden. Sister stink-eyes me as she charges over to the real roach carrier.

  “Dump your book bag out in the hall. Take the trashcan,” she tells him. She claps her hands. “In fact, everyone check your bags. The school was exterminated over the break. Let’s keep it clean.”

  She turns at me with a tight smile. “It’s a new year. Let’s make it the best one yet.”

  Hello, rewind, please? Once again Sister insults me and refuses to apologize. I make up my mind on the spot. I. Declare. War. Why not? I have nothing to lose.

  Two weeks later, I enter class eager for a showdown that, because I put a lot of thought into it, makes my point without getting me into trouble. ’Cause a wise man is like a nail; his head keeps him from going too far.

  Looking around, I slowly unfold one of my poems as if it’s a passed note. Every time Sister glances at me, I stop reading it and look up at her bug-eyed. The third time I freeze, like a burglar under a spotlight, Sister responds just as I predicted.

  “Passing notes, Miss Forest? Come up and read it for all of our enlightenment,” she pauses, “or amusement.”

  Even though I want to leap with delight, I shuffle up front. I stare at my shoes as if I’m busted and ashamed to share the content with the class.

  Geoffrey turns and makes Three Stooges gestures as I approach, trying to make me laugh.

  “Geoffrey, what fascinates me is that not only are you utterly hopeless, you are so unbothered by your hopelessness,” Sister says to the back of his head. Her eyes lock on me. “Class, hold on tight. Do you feel the room spinning? That’s because Roberta expects the world to revolve around her.” Sister faces me with a raised eyebrow as I wait at the front of the room. “We don’t have all day.”

  I clear my throat. “‘She knew holy water and prayer weren’t enough to keep the boogeymen from coming.’” I cut my eyes at Sister. She’s rifling through a drawer. “‘Defiant, demanding, undesirable, the monsters scared the good people away.’”

  “What is this nonsense?” Sister huffs.

  “A poem. I’m almost finished.”

  “Thanks be to God!” She rests her cheek in her hand, looking bored and sleepy.

  “‘People with woolly hair and brown skin,’” I say looking around at my classmates. “‘People like me. People like Jesus.’”

  I look at the crucifix above Sister’s head and then back at her. She arches an eyebrow, grimacing like she wants to throw holy water on me. Score!

  “This is not poetry class,” she says. “Sit down and focus on doing what you’ve been asked to do. How about writing a poem about that? Call it ‘Following Directions’ and complete it in your English class.”

  Digging into my palms to keep from laughing, I sashay back to my desk, where I will concoct other ways to strike Sister Elizabeth without using my fists. New year. New plan. But the old Roberta you humiliated is going all James Brown on you with the big payback.

  I’m the old Roberta who digs the old Malcolm who hated whites. The old Malcolm called Satan by his cellmates. Sister Elizabeth better take some notes. I’m about to drop some serious knowledge that I picked up from Brother Malcolm before he became a hanky-head sell-out. I’m dropping facts like hotcakes. By any means necessary.

  At home, I wrestle with the notion that Jesus is Black. If that’s the case, how could He let down millions of slaves and millions more Black people today, as we catch the short end of the stick, as Daddy always says?

  The color of Jesus has my feelings yo-yoing between pride and confusion. What good is it even knowing Jesus looks more like me than Donna, or even Mom, when that image is nowhere to be found in our school books or any church I’ve visited? If I could write a letter to the Pope, and all the bishops and cardinals, I’d say: “Dear religious people, why is Jesus white with blue eyes?”

  Footsteps approach my closed bedroom door. Ah geez, here we go.

  “Whatcha doing, Silky Boo?” Mom knocks and pushes open the door carrying a small paper bag and the newspaper. She lays both on the dresser. I spot a chocolate Tastykake inside. My mouth waters.

  “Just reading.” I whip a book out from under the pillow and bury my head in it.

  “How was school?”

  “Fine.” I don’t look up.

  “Your dad call?”

  “No.”

  “You call your dad? Finish your homework?”

  “No and yes.”

  “Well,” she sighs. “Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes.”

  She pauses, shifting from leg to leg, as if waiting for something. A personality transplant? Forgiveness for destroying our family again? I meet Mom’s eyes. There is no fight in them.

  “What’s for dinner?” I croak.

  “Fish sticks, French fries, and string beans.” She clearly wants to talk. I can’t.

  “Okay.” I resume reading.

  “Bring your trash downstairs,” she says walking out.

  Closing my book, I roll over. I’d rather wash broken dishes than have a conversation with her—or say thanks for a bribe I did not ask for.

  Nothing matters when she took my father from me.

  I hole up in my room, my one safe place in this whole stinking house, and still she invades my space. Barging in with unwanted smiles along with a hit 45 record of the week, or a new book or magazine, or soft pretzels or something else that normally makes me drool. None of it can fill my emptiness. Not even Black Jesus. My anger scorches the air around me.

  I pull out my poetry book and write the fastest poem I’ve ever done.

  So much inside has died

  All my tears I’ve cried

  Now I will strike back with delight

  Tell my truth in black and white

  Expose the lies

  Sever the ties

  Scream a question to the world

  From a so-called tough black girl

  Does anyone care

  I hurt everywhere

  Today, I fret at my desk.

  My nose has been stuffy all week, and I’m worried that my family is falling apart more so than usual. Daddy never showed up to take us to the movies as he promised over the weekend. Mom acts weirder by the day. Charles sucks his thumb out of the blue while spending hours drawing goofy super villains. We hardly talk to each other, except two weeks ago, after Daddy took us to see The Exorcist. Charles begged me to sleep with him. I kept him talking most of the night so after we fell asleep he would not pee his bed with me in it.

  “We have a guest for today’s class, so mind your manners,” Sister barks, looking at Geoffrey. “Brother Fred will lead today’s lesson, and then he’ll take questions.”

  Sister looks excited, almost as if she’s waiting for a date.

  Brother Fred knocks on the door before coming in. He is a Ken doll with a collar, handsome in a Mr. Brady Bunch kind of way with dark, wavy hair, and sparkly eyes. I can tell that Donna thinks he’s cute, too. She perks up, no longer slouching in her seat, which is hysterical since he’s studying the priesthood and not her poked-out breasts.

  I tune Brother Fred out until class is halfway over.

  “Anything you want to ask or talk about?” Brother Fred clasps his hands and glances around the room.

  I raise my hand. Sister stands, arms folded.

  “What is your name?” he asks with a pleasant smile.

  “Roberta,” I fake chirp.

  “That’s a lovely name. One of my favorite singers is named Roberta.”

  “Flack?” I ask, surprised. “You listen to regular music?”

  He nods. “I enjoy all kinds of music.” He smiles with perfect teeth. I almost feel sorry for what I’m about to do to him.

  “I was wondering if you could tell us what Jesus really looked like. You know, instead of the popular depiction.”

  “Good question.” He rubs his chin. “You are corr
ect. He probably didn’t look the way many people imagine. That’s fair to say.”

  I expected leg-pulling resistance instead of friendly agreement. My heart beats so fast the vein in my neck jumps. My eyes lock on his. “Was he as brown as I am?”

  “I’d say yes.” He scans the room nodding. “That’s a strong possibility. Especially living in that part of the world.”

  “And his hair. Was it straight like yours or more like mine?”

  He looks at my immense Afro and then over at Sister Elizabeth, who looks like she wants to go Round Two with me. He walks toward me as he speaks. “The Bible makes reference to it being woolly. I’m not calling your hair woolly,” he says with a nervous laugh. He blushes deeply.

  I try not to grin like I just aced a test I thought I had failed. No one has ever said those words out loud in front of a class in my eight years at Catholic school. All those paintings, illustrations, and statues of a white-skinned Jesus with long flowing hair and blue eyes are more lies adults promote. Malcolm was right.

  The rest of the class is a blur as I can’t stop thinking about what Brother Fred said. I can’t wait to tell Daddy. And Charles. On second thought, this wisdom may overwhelm Charles since I recently shared the real deal about Santa.

  “Boys and girls, let’s show Father Fred some appreciation for visiting with us today,” Sister says. No one claps harder than I do.

  Three seconds after he exits, Sister hovers above me with wild eyes. “You are trying my patience,” she says, her lips barely moving. “Tread carefully.”

  “Black History Week is coming up. We don’t learn this in school so I thought—”

  “Enough! I’m talking about your attitude. Cut it out.” She mean mugs me for a few seconds. I know not to gloat.

  Watching her return to her desk, I imagine how tickled Daddy will be when I tell him what I got Brother Fred to admit. I’m smiling at the thought when Sister whirls around.

  “So you think what I say is a joke?” She shakes her head and points to the door. “Go stand in the hall until the bell rings. And you have detention for the rest of the week.”

  Great. More time to figure out what to do next. I am in the doorway when she continues.