All Day

by Liza Jessie Peterson

  “I’ll catch you later, sis,” he says, bouncing down the hall and swerving his cart through a sea of dusty boys, constantly swatting them off his cart: “Ay yo, will you get off my cart and go to class, man? You starting to irritate me.” Killa is shooing away another rug rat obsessed with the markers and bright colors poking out of his art cart, but the kid is really fishing for some older male, big brother, fatherly attention, which Killa always gives. Killa is therapeutic, good medicine for the kids… and for me too. And he’s right about laughter; his funny story helps me make it through the rest of the day. It’s lifted the weight of that meeting off me and the air doesn’t seem so thick now.

  I have the TV and DVD player up and ready to go in the front of class. As students trickle in, Shahteik enters and sidles up next to me while I’m sitting at my desk.

  “Yes, Shahteik, how can I help you?” I ask with irritation. I really don’t want any drama with this boy and he’s the last person I want up in my face right now.

  “I just felt like coming up here to keep you company. That’s all, Ms. P.”

  Lord knows I’m not in the mood for combat with Lil’ Rumbles. I look at Shahteik sideways, giving him a curled lip as my response. He continues, “Ms. P, do you know how to surf?”

  I don’t have space in my spirit for his shenanigans. I reply, flat and monotone, “No, I don’t know how to surf.”

  Shahteik strokes the top of his head and says, “Oh, ’cause if you did, I was gonna let you ride my waves.”

  “Boy, you are not wavy!” I respond through the cracked smile he manages to pry from me.

  He gets playfully indignant. “What? You trynna say I’m not wavy? Wait till I get my haircut this week, you gonna see.”

  I chuckle. “Boy, go sit down.”

  Noticing that he’s penetrated my stoic force field, he says, “Aaah, see, I made you smile. You like that,” and he bounces to his seat. My nemesis tried to cheer me up. Well, I’ll be damned.

  There are only a few objections to the film I selected for our afternoon movie time. Some of the kids ask for the typical testosterone-driven boy flicks full of gun-busting, car-exploding action adventure, and adrenaline-pumping fantasy. But once the movie starts, those same naysayers are glued to the screen, nodding their head to Ray Charles’s intoxicating rhythms. The movie is a hit; they are shushing each other to hear the dialogue. As the credits roll at the end, Raheim gives me the thumbs-up. “Ms. P, you know who else I like? I like Sammy Davis Jr. too.”

  “Really, Raheim? He was a great entertainer. I’m surprised you know about him.” I am genuinely surprised he knows who Sammy Davis Jr. is, let alone has an appreciation for him.

  “Ms. P, I got an old soul. My Grams said I been here before,” Raheim exclaims with pride.

  Mekhai the Muppet chimes in: “Yo, son, I heard after Sammy Davis Jr. died, Michael Jackson called Sammy’s wife and asked her do she want a job as a home attendant for his pet chimpanzee, Bubbles.”

  Shahteik snaps, “Nigga, what kind of crack you got up in your Pop-Tart, son? You sound 730,* nigga! Bubbles? Nigga, you wilding out!”

  The class is cracking up and Peanut is out of his seat doing the moonwalk.

  I laugh out loud along with the class. “Mekhai, that was so random! Boy, you crazy as you wanna be. Peanut, sit your butt down, boy.” The gremlins are in a good mood and manage to lift mine. Just then a CO barks, “Walking out!” The kids scramble out of class, leaving the desks in a hodgepodge mess as they line up and count off in the hallway before being escorted off the school floor for the day. I straighten out my rows and clear off a few desks that have half-finished worksheets left on them. I laugh to myself, thinking my dusty angels are a trip.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Artist vs. Civilian

  The trees are naked, squirrels are fat, winter winds are howling, and I can see steam streaming from my nostrils with each breath I take. It’s brick outside—but not too brick to venture out to grab a late afternoon cup of double espresso with warm soy milk from the new trendy café around the corner from my apartment on Franklin Avenue. The upside of gentrification, I guess.

  Along the way to and from, I enjoy the festive holiday displays. Folks in the hood have blinged out the front of their homes with decadent decorations. Windows and railings are lined with Christmas lights, blinking angels, and gold trumpets. Tiny front lawns are jammed with huge inflatable Santas, illuminated Black Nativity scenes, snowmen that dance, and reindeers that sing. Kitschy Brooklyn charm.

  During this entire Christmas break I’ve been in a conundrum and here I am, the day before school on January 2, being forced to make a clear choice. Continue to teach? Or pursue my dream? Both come with a cost. Today is my last day of lounging and lamping. Tomorrow I’m back on the grind, punching a clock too early in the damn morning. The twelve days I’ve had off weren’t nearly enough time to decompress and rest my weary mind. I still need more time to reflect on the year that just ended and contemplate what’s next. The new year is staring me in the face, asking, So, what you gonna do, miss honey? Can’t keep doing the same ’ole same ’ole. What’s the new game plan?

  I don’t know just yet. I haven’t figured it out; I’m on autopilot like a programmed laborer. Thinking about the vast unknown future seems so daunting—like staring at a blank page waiting to be filled with words and ideas, colorful language and stories. I’m blocked. Not good. Fuck it, following routine is simple. No risk, no thought, easy breezy. I pull out my teaching materials to begin to prepare for the first week back to school. Suddenly my body gets hot. A surge of heat starts to consume me and the moistness has left my mouth; my saliva feels like paste. My heart begins pounding hard, fast, chest heavy. I take deep breaths to steady myself and reach for the wall for support. OMG—could this be what a panic attack feels like? Am I actually having one? The hell is going on? Stress has pounced on me in a Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon surprise ninja move. I’m under siege from me, kicking my own ass. I wobble over to my bed to lie down. I need a long nap. Perhaps some rest will bring calm and reset my equilibrium. Maybe clarity will be revealed in a dream. It’s time I face the inevitable conversation.

  I love working with the rug rats; they actually bring me immense joy in spite of their wild shenanigans, annoying ADD antics, and foul mouths. But the schedule is killing my spirit. My “passionate artist” and my “practical civilian” are in conflict. My two selves are face-to-face, squaring off like two lovers fighting for my affection, demanding I choose one over the other for the new year.

  The civilian in me demands that I focus on financial security and only wants to discuss income, health benefits, dental needs, bills, rent, food, and survival. The artist in me demands that I make self-expression, inspiration, and creating art the priority. She misses being able to write a new play, write a new poem, getting back onstage to perform, and acting in film. My artist needs to conceive something, always. It’s not what I do, it’s who I am.

  My soul sings when I give my inner child permission to play in the divine realm of the imagination, bringing forth an artistic idea to fruition, actualizing a piece of work. By bitter contrast, my civilian is the practical adult and could give a rat’s ass about an esoteric dream because she needs the rent and taxes to be paid, she needs groceries bought, new rain boots, jeans without holes, lights on, and the phone working, by any means necessary. Teaching at Rikers full-time just barely gets the rent paid, but it satisfies my grown-up civilian with steady, reliable income. And although I absolutely love working with the kids, my artist is paralyzed in pain and on life support, close to death.

  I lie across the bed and close my eyes, but the espresso is surging, slip-sliding through my bloodstream like a wild water park, making my much-needed emotional nap impossible. I take seven deep breaths and reach for the phone to call my swami—she who always has answers for everything and gives the best advice, she who knows my heart and holds it gently in the palm of her hand, she who loves me unconditionally as if I was
her own child, she who wipes my tears and makes me feel strong—my big sister, Leslie. I dial. It rings and rings and… “Hi, you’ve reached two-one-five…”

  I hang up before she can tell me to leave a message.

  I call the second in command: my bestie, Sun.

  “Hey, chica!”

  “Gurl, I think I’m having a fucking panic attack. I don’t know what’s going on. You ever had one?”

  “No, I haven’t. But I heard you have to take deep breaths and drink water. What’s going on, gurl?”

  “I can’t do this Rikers shit anymore. As soon as I pulled out my materials to do my lesson plans, that’s when I got lightheaded and hot. This schedule is breaking me; I haven’t written in months and haven’t been on an audition or performed even longer than that. I’m suffocating. It feels like my dream is dead and I don’t know what to do. I failed… I fucking failed.” I begin weeping and sit up to blow my nose. Crocodile tears continue to fall as Sun talks me off the ledge of hopeless despair.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. First off, you are not a failure. You have a beautiful apartment that you are maintaining on your own, which is no small feat. Might I remind you that several months ago you had no idea how you would pay rent and thought you might have to leave New York and move back to Philly? Success number one. And Miss Thing, you are and will always and forevermore be an artist no matter how much time off you take from your craft. So shut them gremlins up! Your artist is crying out because she needs attention. When you’ve reached your threshold of discomfort, it means you’re being pushed to take action and do whatever it takes to relieve the discomfort… so I think it’s time for you to get back onstage and do a show. Yup, that’s what spirit is telling me. Time for a ‘comeback’ show. Mugs ain’t seen you in a minute.”

  “I know. I get asked all the time when am I performing again. But I don’t have anything new. I haven’t written anything new.” I’m whining.

  “Gurl, all that material you’ve got, you could do a fucking retrospective. Bitch, please, you got hella material that’s classic. You are Liza Jessie Peterson. Your name rings more bells than you realize. And I’m not just saying that ’cause I’m your gurl. You’re an important and prolific artist—your work is timeless. Matter of fact, you should do a show called I’m Back… A Retrospective of LJP and do a medley of your greatest hits. Poems and monologues, combination-style.”

  Sun’s words are resonating with me. I need this pep talk. She puts a battery in my back and begins helping me to visualize the show. “The Bitch Is Back!” I exclaim with excitement. “That’s what I’mma call it.”

  “Yes! That’s brilliant. The Bitch Is Back… A Retrospective! And gather up your band, Ghetto Orchestra. Incorporate music, poetry, excerpts from your solo shows, and do some straight-up storytelling about your journey in prison. Folks wanna know where you’ve been. And miss honey, you’ve got quite a story to tell.”

  My pillow is still wet, but my tears have dried. I’m feeling renewed. Energized. Perspective is everything. Sometimes you just need someone to remind you of who you are. Sometimes you need help fighting off the gremlins. Sometimes you need someone to encourage your dreams. Sun is great.

  I am charged up, dreaming and visualizing again. And then, within minutes, jealous of my artist’s confidence, my civilian starts throwing shade in typical jilted-lover fashion. She poses as my rational mind, but the bitch is a doubting Debbie Downer with a strong voice. What will you do for income? How will you survive? Do you really think you’ll be able to support yourself as an artist? You’re being irrational, Liza; your art is just some pipe dream you’ve sold yourself. Bet you wish you had a sugar daddy. Maybe you could strip, heifer. Your art? The gig is up, honey, don’t be so irresponsible, suck it up and be an adult and go back to work. By the way… rent is due in three weeks!

  She’s putting up a fierce fight, but I’ve made up my mind to choose my boo. My artist is stronger than my civilian and her bullying gremlins (this time). There is no match for the power of inspiration. I’m taking a leap of faith and leaving Rikers. It’s no longer a debate. The thought of leaving is no longer resting in the far recesses of my mind; it is now front and center. I have no idea when I will make my move, so I pray for a sign.

  I lie awake in bed thinking of my show, wired with excitement. I think I finally fall asleep smiling despite having just a few hours before my alarm rings. Nothing like waking up energized with purpose. I haven’t felt this motivated in a long time. Yeah, I like this feeling.

  My brain is so preoccupied with creating the performance set list and flow of the show, for which I have no date or venue yet, that I forget to present my ID to the officer at the control booth. He stops me dead in my tracks. “ID?”

  “Oh my goodness, my mind is still on holiday break. I’m so sorry.”

  The corridors leading to the school floor look drab and grimy and smell hella musty, like a boys’ locker room. The constant sound of airplanes taking off and landing at LaGuardia Airport is grating. A nasty water bug scurries into the corner behind a turtle’s riot gear vest that’s lying on the floor. I pick up my pace and step over someone’s hog spit on the stairs leading to the school floor. I head straight for the bathroom to wash my hands. I have the heebie-jeebies and feel icky. I know I’m up out of here, that much is clear, but I don’t know when or how. I pause to pray before I leave the ladies’ room. “Mother Father God, I need your direction. Give me a clear sign it’s time to go. You know I have to go, I know I have to go—please orchestrate the ‘how’ and the ‘when.’ I am praying for discernment. I need your direction. Please hear my prayer. Thank you in advance for your grace and mercy. Thank you, thank you, thank you, God. Amen.”

  I walk in the main office to make photocopies of handouts for my social studies lesson on Marcus Garvey and get my daily class list. I notice there are many new names today. Phil pokes his head out of his private office. “Ms. Peterson, would you come into my office for a minute? There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Standing in the middle of Phil’s office is a heavyset white woman with short dark hair, lightly streaked with silver, who looks around sixty years old. She’s giving me “Anna Wintour funky Vogue” style with her black thick-rimmed eyeglasses trimmed in burgundy. Definitely not a stiff corporate type. She greets me with a warm grin as if we know each other. I don’t know her from jack, but I politely smile back and exchange pleasantries.

  Phil jumps in, “Liza, this is Kathy—she is the new executive director at Friends of Island Academy, a place you know quite well. They’re going to be doing outreach again, here on the island, and I told her one of our teachers used to work at Friends.” Phil turns to Kathy. “Liza worked at Friends for many years, when Myrna was the director, before we got lucky and scooped her up here at Rikers Island. I consider it one of my greatest coups. How many years did you work at Friends before you came to us, Liza?”

  My mind is percolating at the idea of returning to Friends of Island Academy. I pause momentarily before I give a mini-rundown of my resume. “Oh, I worked there for quite a while, six, maybe seven years, and wore a bunch of hats. I did outreach with the adolescent girls here at Rikers; I ran the women’s group, facilitated Urban Folktale, which is a playwriting workshop I developed; I did poetry with the students, conflict resolution, court advocacy, and—”

  Kathy’s eyes glisten as if she’s falling in love. She can’t contain her excitement and cuts me off, saying, “I’ve heard wonderful things about you, Liza, and as you know, Friends has gone through a tough fiscal crisis. Their doors almost closed and I was asked to come and help revive the place and keep their doors open. We’re not out of the woods yet, but there is hope. That’s why I came back on board, because I believe in Friends; I know what it used to be and what it can become. What I wouldn’t give to have someone like you with your expertise who knows the culture of Friends, right now. Boy, we could use you!” It sounds like she’s pleading. She looks like she’s about to cry.

&nb
sp; Phil jumps right in to draw the line in the sand and nip that shit in the bud. “Well, you’re a little too late for that, Kathy. She’s on our team now. Team Rikers.” They both give a phony laugh laced with acid. I feel awkward. Wait, are they fighting over me? Could it be my escape route has come to the rescue? Okay, God, you are fierce!

  I politely smile and excuse myself, explaining how I have some prep work to do before next period. “It was nice meeting you, Kathy. I wish you all the best. Friends deserves to thrive. It’s a great program,” I say as I twirl out the office, feeling an incredible goose-bump tingling sensation surge through my body. I do believe my angels are conspiring to save me. Working back at Friends of Island Academy would be great. I’d still be working full-time, but at least my travel time to midtown Manhattan would be under an hour. I wouldn’t have to leave my house until 8 a.m., as opposed to 5:30 a.m. And I could take breaks for fresh air, walk outside and be free. I wouldn’t be in jail; no bars, no barbed wire, no gates, no COs, no alarms, no water bugs, and no pigeon-shit windows. I wouldn’t be so drained and my artist will have energy and can finally find time to create and play. Gurrrl, this is the sign!

  Hold up… wait, pump the brakes. I’m speeding and getting ahead of myself. The woman didn’t offer me a job; she didn’t even give me her card. But she did give me hope. My brain feels like a pinball machine—bells ringing, lights flashing, a ball zipping around the tracks. I float back to class.

  Quickly I scan the room and notice unfamiliar faces sitting in seats the Bosses used to occupy. Several of the Bosses—Tyquan, Tyrone, Mekhai, and Miguel—must have left during the winter break. A bunch of my lil’ rug rat homies are gone. A few of them were released home, one turned nineteen and got sent to the greens,* aka the adult building at Rikers, and a couple finally got sentenced and shipped upstate to serve their prison bid. There were no goodbyes or advance notice that they were leaving; they were packed up at a moment’s notice and Poof. Damn. I wanted to give Tyquan a journal, impart some final words of encouragement, tell him how smart he is, that he was my favorite rug rat, and send him off with a loving smile, a prayer, and a fist bump. I wanted to salute Tyrone and remind him how strong a leader he is and to use it for good. I wanted to tell Mekhai how much he’s grown and how much potential he has to become someone of importance. And I wanted to tell Miguel “’sophagus” to make him laugh, and to also remind him to keep working on his English; it’ll get better with practice. The energy in the room is different. I miss those knucklehead Bosses already. I still have a few of the original rug rats from the beginning of the school year, but it’s not the same crew.