by Wes Moore
Joy Thomas entered American University in Washington, D.C., in 1968, a year when she and her adopted homeland were both experiencing volatile change--Vietnam, a series of assassinations, campus unrest, rioting that tore through the nation's cities, and an American president who no longer wanted the job. Joy herself was caught between loving the country that offered her and her family new opportunities and being frustrated with that country because it still made her feel like a second-class citizen.
At college, Joy quickly fell in with the OASATAU, the very long acronym for a very young group, the Organization of African and African-American Students at the American University. The OASATAU was rallying AU's black students into engagement with the national, international, and campus issues roiling around them. The battling organization elevated her consciousness beyond her assimilationist dreams and sparked a passion for justice and the good fight.
A charismatic AU junior named Bill was the treasurer of OASATAU, and two months after they met early in the exciting whirlwind of her freshman year, Joy was engaged to marry him. Despite the quick engagement, they waited two years to get married, by which time Joy was a junior and Bill a recent graduate looking for work. Marriage brought the sobering realities of life into focus. The truth was, they were both still trying to find their feet as adults and feeling a little in over their heads as a married couple.
As the love haze wore off, Joy began to see that the same qualities that had made Bill so attractive as a college romance--his free and rebellious spirit, his nearly paralyzing contempt for "the Man"--made him a completely unreliable husband. And she discovered that what she had foolishly thought of as his typical low-level recreational drug use was really something much worse. In a time of drug experimentation and excess, Bill was starting to look like a casualty.
As the years passed, Joy kept hoping that Bill's alcohol and drug use would fade. She was caught in a familiar trap for young women and girls--the fantasy that she alone could change her man. So she doubled down on the relationship. They had a child together. She hoped that would motivate Bill to make some changes. But his addiction just got worse, and the physical, mental, and emotional abuse he unleashed became more intense.
One night things came to a head. Bill came home and started to badger Joy about washing the dishes. His yelling threatened to wake up one-year-old Nikki, and Joy tried to shush him. He kept yelling. He moved in on her. The two of them stood face-to-face, him yelling, her pleading with him in hushed tones to lower his voice.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her down. She sprawled on the floor in her white T-shirt and blue AU sweatpants, stunned but not completely surprised by his explosive reaction. He wasn't done. He grabbed her by her T-shirt and hair, and started to drag her toward the kitchen. He hit her in the chest and stomach, trying to get her to move her arms, which were now defensively covering her head. Finally, she snapped. She screamed at him without fear of waking Nikki as he dragged her across the parquet floor. She kicked and scratched at his hands.
Bill was too strong, too determined, too high. Her head slammed against the doorframe as he finally dragged her body onto the kitchen's linoleum floor. He released her hair and her now-ripped T-shirt and once again ordered her to wash the dishes. He stood over her with a contemptuous scowl on his face. It could've been that look. Or it could've been the escalating abuse and the accumulated frustration at the chaotic life he was creating for her and her daughter. But something gave Joy the strength to pull herself up from the floor. On top of the counter was a wooden block that held all of the large, sharp knives in the kitchen. She pulled the biggest knife from its sheath and pointed the blade at his throat. Her voice was collected as she made her promise: "If you try that shit again, I will kill you."
Bill seemed to suddenly regain his sobriety. He backed out of the kitchen slowly, not taking his eyes from his wife's tear-drenched face. Her unrelenting stare. They didn't speak for the rest of the night. One month later, Joy and Nikki were packed up. Together, they left Bill for good.
My mom vowed to never let another man put his hands on her. She wouldn't tolerate it in others either.
My parents finished their conversation, and it was obvious that one of them was heading up to speak to me. I turned from the window and stood in the middle of the room, mentally running through my nonexistent options for escape.
Soon I could tell by the sound of the steps it was my father. His walk was slower, heavier, more deliberate. My mother tended to move up the stairs in a sprint. He lightly knocked on the door and slowly turned the knob. The door opened slightly, and he peeked in. His easy half smile, almost a look of innocent curiosity, assured me that, at least for now, the beating would wait.
"Hey, Main Man, do you mind if I come in?" I'm told that he had many terms of endearment for me, but Main Man is the one I remember. I didn't even look up but nodded slowly. He had to duck to clear the low doorway. He picked me up and, as he sat on the bed, placed me on his lap. As I sat there, all of my anxiety released. I could not have felt safer, more secure. He began to explain what I did wrong and why my mother was so angry. "Main Man, you just can't hit people, and particularly women. You must defend them, not fight them. Do you understand?"
I nodded, then asked, "Is Mommy mad at me?"
"No, Mommy loves you, like I love you, she just wants you to do the right thing."
My father and I sat talking for another five minutes before he led me downstairs to apologize to my sister, and my mother. With each tiny step I took with him, my whole hand wrapped tighter around his middle finger. I tried to copy his walk, his expressions. I was his main man. He was my protector.
That is one of only two memories I have of my father.
The other was when I watched him die.
My dad was his parents' only son. Tall but not physically imposing, he dreamed of being on television--having a voice that made an impact. Armed with an insatiable desire to succeed--and aided by his natural gifts, which included a deeply resonant voice--he made his dream come true soon after finishing up at Bard College in 1971.
As a young reporter, he went to many corners of the country, following a story or, in many cases, following a job. After stints in North Carolina, New York, Florida, Virginia, California, and a handful of other states, he returned home to southern Maryland and started work at a job that would change his life. He finally had the chance to host his own public affairs show. And he'd hired a new writing assistant. Her name was Joy.
Their working relationship evolved quickly into courtship, then love. She appreciated this up-and-coming reporter and the professional partnership they shared. Wes was calm, reassuring, hardworking, and sober. In other words, the antithesis of Bill. Wes was intensely attracted to this short woman with a broad smile who mixed a steel backbone with Caribbean charm. And he loved Nikki. Despite her not being his own child, he forged a sincere friendship and, eventually, an unbreakable bond with Nikki. It all became official when my mother and father married in a small ceremony in Washington, D.C. I entered the world two years later.
On April 15, 1982, my father ended his radio news broadcast on WMAL, a stalwart in the Washington, D.C., market, with his traditional sign-off--"This is Wes Moore, thanks again, and we'll talk next time"--as the on-air light faded to black. His smile was hiding the fact that for the past twelve hours he'd been feeling ill. His every breath was a struggle.
He came home to the smell of his favorite meal, smothered lamb chops. It was almost midnight and we kids were already in bed, but my parents stayed up, sat together, and ate. That night he couldn't get to sleep. He tried taking Tylenol, hoping it would help his severe sore throat and fever, but the pill lodged in his throat, refusing to dissolve. At 7:00 A.M., he woke my mother to tell her he thought he should go to the hospital. He threw on a tattered blue flannel shirt and a pair of worn blue jeans. He got in his red Volkswagen Rabbit and drove himself to the hospital. After my mother took Nikki to school and dropped Shani and me off with t
he babysitter, she rushed to meet my father. In the emergency room, she was shocked by the disoriented man before her. My father could not keep his eyes open. His head flopped from side to side. The doctors thought the cause of his discomfort was a sore throat and blamed his lack of neck control on a lack of sleep. To reduce the pain, they anesthetized his throat. In retrospect, that was the worst thing they could have done. He could no longer feel it closing.
The doctors didn't know what to make of his symptoms. They questioned my mother about my father's medical history, then shifted to questions about his mental state. "Does he have a habit of exaggerating?" "Is there anything going on in his life that would force him to make up symptoms?"
At 4:40 P.M., my father was released from the hospital and told to get some rest at home.
By six that evening, my mother was in the kitchen with Nikki, holding Shani as she cooked potato pancakes for our dinner. I sat at the dining room table adding colors to the black-and-white clown in my coloring book. I was months away from my fourth birthday. I heard my father coming down the stairs. His steps were slower than usual. I got up from the chair so I could be picked up as soon as he reached the first floor. Then I heard a crash.
His body was sprawled and writhing at the foot of the stairs. Hardly any sounds came from his mouth. I heard another crash, this one from the kitchen. The clatter momentarily stole my attention from my father. My mother heard his collapse and, in her rush to see what had happened, dropped the sizzling cast-iron skillet and potato pancakes on the floor. I looked back up to my father and saw him gasping for air, holding his throat. His normally strong features sagged in exhaustion, as if he were in the final hours of a battle he had been fighting for years. I stared at him, looking but doing nothing.
Mommy pushed past me and told Nikki to call 911. Nikki rushed to the phone and began speaking with the emergency personnel on the other end. I could hear her repeating again and again: "I don't know what county we're in." Minutes passed. Shani was crying hysterically. My mother attended to my father, improvising her own version of CPR while also minding Shani. My baby sister's screams only seemed to get louder. And I just stood there, staring.
Finally my mother told me to go outside with Nikki and guide the ambulance crew in. My older sister took my hand and led me out to wait. Minutes later, police and ambulance crews arrived. Nikki ordered me to stay outside while she led them into our home.
At this point my memories get less distinct. It was like standing in a field when a powerful gust of wind suddenly blows: everything around you vanishes, all you hear is the wind filling your ears, all you feel is the wind on your skin. Your eyes tear, and sight blurs. Your mind all but empties.
I stayed outside with the collection of neighbors who had come to see what was going on. Through my uncertain eyes I saw my friend Ayana holding her mother's hand. When Ayana caught my eye, I could see she was trying to force a smile, but all she got out was a look of uneasy confusion, which I mirrored back to her.
The ambulance crew loaded my father onto the gurney and raced back out. By this point dozens of people lined the street. They watched as he was placed in the back of the ambulance. The doors slammed shut behind him. The loud sirens and flashing lights broke the silence of the neighborhood. Mommy quickly loaded us into the car and followed the ambulance to the hospital. The car was full of sound--Shani crying and Nikki making goo-goo noises to try to calm her down, and the roar of the ambulance in front of us--but it felt as silent as a tomb. No talking. No questions. Just the white noise of the ambulance, one sister crying, and the other struggling to comfort her without words.
The hospital was only five minutes from where we lived, but it seemed like a long ride. We rushed out of the car and ran inside. They were already working on my father, so we were sent to the waiting area. Shani had quieted down and was playing with her shoestrings, while Nikki put me on her lap. My paternal grandfather and my aunts Dawn, Tawana, and Evelyn had all arrived to join our vigil.
Eventually an ER doctor walked into the waiting room. He asked to see my mother alone. "He's dead, isn't he?" my mother said before he could begin speaking. "I am sorry. By the time he got here, he was gone," the doctor said. "We tried, we tried hard. I am so sorry."
Then my mother passed out.
My father was dead five hours after having been released from the hospital with the simple instruction to "get some sleep." The same hospital was now preparing to send his body to the morgue. My father had entered the hospital seeking help. But his face was unshaven, his clothes disheveled, his name unfamiliar, his address not in an affluent area. The hospital looked at him askance, insulted him with ridiculous questions, and basically told him to fend for himself. Now, my mother had to plan his funeral.
He died on a Friday night. We were told at first that the hospital wouldn't be able to determine the cause of death until Monday, when they would perform the autopsy. But my father's radio station wanted to issue a news release about his death, so it leaned on the morgue to perform the autopsy sooner. The morgue acquiesced, and by Saturday afternoon we found out that he had died from acute epiglottitis, a rare but treatable virus that causes the epiglottis to swell and cover the air passages to the lungs. Untreated because of the earlier misdiagnosis, my father's body suffocated itself.
Nikki took his death worse than the rest of us. Not just because she was the only one old enough to really understand what was going on but because her biological father, Bill, changed abruptly after my father died. While my dad was alive, Bill supported Nikki financially and took the time to see her. After my father died, Bill no longer called, wrote, or bothered to check up on her. My father's love of Nikki had forced Bill to step up to his parenting responsibilities--it was almost as if Bill cared more because another man did. With my father no longer in the picture, the pressure was off. It was as if my sister lost two fathers that day.
While I knew something bad had happened, I still wasn't sure what it meant. All weekend, people came in waves to our home. The phone rang nonstop. I saw the hurt on people's faces but didn't fully understand it. I was still in the wind tunnel. I heard that my father had "passed on" but had no idea where he'd gone. At the funeral, my uncle Vin escorted us to the mahogany casket in the front of the church to have our final viewing of the body. The celebration of my father's life took place at the Fourteenth Street Baptist Church, the same church my parents had been married in six years earlier. We stood in front of my father's body for the final time. He lay in the casket with his eyes closed. It was the first time I had seen him in days. He looked more serene than he appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He looked at peace. I was holding my uncle Vin's hand when I looked into the casket and asked my father, "Daddy, are you going to come with us?"
Wes, get up here and get your backpack together. You're going over to your grandmother's house." Mary Moore's raspy voice echoed through the house. Wes was in the living room watching television with the volume turned almost all the way up. Speed Racer was almost over. Packing his backpack could wait.
"You hear me talking to you?"
Wes reluctantly got up from the red plaid couch and turned off the television, but the truth was that he liked going over to his grandmother's house. He had never met his father, at least not that he remembered. But his father's mother spoiled him. She also had a rabbit living under the kitchen sink that he always played with when he visited.
He climbed the stairs and caught the scent of his mother's perfume before he even hit her doorway. He saw her sitting on the bed with her back to him. She was wearing the white dress he liked. Clearly, she was going out tonight.
Wes asked her what he should bring to his grandmother's house, but he was losing the battle with the radio, which was blasting George Benson's "Turn Your Love Around." He reached over and turned the volume down.
"Ma, what do I need to bring?"
When she saw Wes standing there, one hand flew to her face to wipe her eyes. The other slid a sheet of paper und
er her leg. Something was wrong.
"Ma, you all right?"
"Yes, Wes," Mary automatically responded. "Just bring some stuff to play with for tonight. Hurry up, go pack your stuff."
He wanted to ask what was wrong but decided against pressing his mother. He slowly turned around and headed toward his bedroom to pack.
The letter Mary was hiding explained that the federal budget for Basic Educational Opportunity Grants--or Pell Grants--was being slashed, and her grant was being terminated. Pells--need-based financial awards for college--were part of a larger federal budget cutback in 1982 (during his eight years in office, Ronald Reagan reduced the education budget by half). Mary realized the letter effectively closed the door on her college aspirations. She had already completed sixteen hours of college credits and would get no closer toward graduation.
Mary was the first in her family to even begin college. After graduating from high school, she enrolled in the Community College of Baltimore. When she completed her associate's degree, she decided to pursue her and her parents' longtime dream of completing her bachelor's.
Johns Hopkins University was only five miles from where Mary grew up, but it might as well have been a world away. To many in Baltimore, Johns Hopkins was the beautiful campus you could walk past but not through. It played the same role that Columbia University did for the Harlem residents who surrounded it, or the University of Chicago did for the Southside. It was a school largely for people from out of town, preppies who observed the surrounding neighborhood with a voyeuristic curiosity when they weren't hatching myths about it to scare freshmen. This city wasn't their home. But after completing her community college requirements, Mary attempted the short but improbable journey from the neighborhood to the campus. Her heart jumped when she received her acceptance letter. It was a golden ticket to another world--but also to the dizzying idea that the life she wanted, that she dreamed about, might actually happen for her.