One Crazy Summer

by Rita Williams-Garcia

  When Big Ma asked, “How’d the trip go?” Pa had said, “We made it down sure ’nuf. You know, Ma. Same old same old.”

  Rally for Bobby

  When Sister Pat pinned the picture of Bobby Hutton to the wall next to the other revolutionaries I learned who he was. I finally read about him in the Black Panther newspaper. The article reported how the people wanted to name the park after Bobby. The article also retold what had happened to him. I kind of remembered having watched the news with Big Ma a few months ago and hearing about the shooting in Oakland. Now the shooting seemed closer. More real.

  Bobby Hutton was the first member of the Black Panthers, other than the leaders. He was so young, the Black Panther leaders—Huey Newton and Bobby Seale—made him get his mother’s permission to join. He was also the youngest Black Panther to die for the cause. He was only six years older than I was.

  The newspaper had said how the police ambushed the Black Panthers while they were in a car and how the Panthers fled inside a house for shelter. That there was a shoot-out. That the police fired at the Panthers and the Panthers fired at the police. That when Little Bobby came outside to surrender, and took off all his clothes except for his underwear to show he had no gun, they shot him anyway. Over and over and over. That was this past April. Two days after Reverend King was killed.

  After reading about Bobby Hutton, I had begun to look around at the Panthers who helped out at the Center. And the young ones on the streets, patrolling or passing by. I had looked real hard at them and had seen that they were teenagers or were a little older, like Sister Pat and Crazy Kelvin. I couldn’t stand Crazy Kelvin, never called him Brother Kelvin or went out of my way to speak to him. But I didn’t want to see him get shot because he was wearing his OFF THE PIG T-shirt.

  Reading that article had made me both angry and afraid. Angry someone as young as Bobby had been killed and afraid that if he could get shot for being with the Panthers, maybe it was too dangerous for us to be at the Black Panthers’ summer camp. After all, they weren’t teaching us how to deal with the police for nothing. And I was tall for my age. No one would think I was just a girl going on twelve. The police who patrolled the Center could be chasing someone, burst in, shoot first, and ask questions later.

  Maybe we didn’t have to come to the Center to learn our rights and to have breakfast. If Cecile let me cook dinner in her kitchen, she’d let me fry some eggs or pour some cereal in her kitchen too. Being in Cecile’s house might have been crazy. Her house might not have been smothered with love. But being in Cecile’s house was at the very least safe. We were better off in that green stucco house with Cecile.

  What would Papa have said if he knew I was bringing Vonetta and Fern to a summer school where police cars drove by to see what we were doing? I was supposed to look after Vonetta and Fern, not put them in danger.

  I wished I hadn’t opened up that newspaper. I wished I could go right on thinking we were having breakfast, painting signs, and learning our rights. I wished I didn’t know that I was marching my sisters into a boiling pot of trouble cooking in Oakland. But it was too late for wishing. I knew full well what I knew.

  I could barely give Sister Mukumbu my full attention. She said we would be attending a rally two Saturdays from today. Something about freeing Huey and naming the park across the street after Little Bobby Hutton. Hearing Bobby Hutton’s name had shaken me out of my thoughts. My hand shot up before I had words formed in my mind. I knew “rally” meant “protest” and that “protest” could mean “riot.” After all, I read the papers. I watch the evening news. A protest was never a love-in.

  Sister Mukumbu was still smiling when she recognized me. I bet she thought I was going to talk about the newspaper article or say something revolutionary. I said, “I’m sorry, Sister Mukumbu. But my sisters and I can’t go to the rally.” I knew I surprised her because I’m not an “I can’t” kind of person. I might as well have said, “We didn’t come here for the revolution.”

  Sister Pat said, “Don’t worry, Sis. I know Sister Nzila. She’ll let you go.”

  I got over her saying she knew my mother when I barely knew Cecile. Besides, I had bigger fish to fry. I said, “It’s not my mother who’s saying no. I’m saying no. We can’t go.”

  Then Vonetta called out, “We can too go to the rally.”

  And Fern said, “We surely can.”

  Vonetta and Fern didn’t know what they were saying. They just didn’t want to be left out of any activity concerning those Ankton girls or that Hirohito, still wearing his same old Oakland Raiders jersey.

  Sister Mukumbu asked for respect and order in the classroom. We quieted down. She said she would speak to me later and continued talking about the rally and honoring Bobby Hutton and freeing Huey. Then she said the very thing that was sure to defeat me. She said, “We have been asked to do a special presentation at the rally.”

  My sisters’ faces lit up.

  “We could perform a play, do a group dance, or recite poetry. Or if anyone has a special talent to display, you can do that too.”

  I was sunk. “Talent to display” was enough to sway Vonetta and Fern. There was no way to keep Vonetta from throwing herself onstage after Sister Mukumbu said those three words.

  Vonetta is all ham and show. Any occasion, even a riot in the making, would have been good enough to perform at. Fern is no better. She sings like a bird, is cute, and, like Vonetta, cannot resist the lure of applause and attention.

  I don’t have anything to be vain about. I have no talent to show. Even if I did, I have no desire to throw myself before people for their applause. I dance because the lessons are paid for and Papa feels all girls should dance ballet and tap. I sing in the children’s choir because Big Ma makes sure we motherless girls enjoy all the pitying looks the church can spare, whether we want them or not.

  Later, during free time, Hirohito and the boys started doing karate and jujitsu moves. The Ankton girls huddled to talk about what they would do for their special talent. From the looks of their gesturing, they would dance an African dance. The other kids just played. I expected Vonetta to run off and join the Anktons. But Vonetta told Fern and me, “We should sing a song.”

  Fern added, “We should sing a song and do a dance.”

  Before I could say why we shouldn’t, they started.

  “We can wave our arms pretty like the Supremes.”

  “And wear our hair like the Supremes.”

  “Or wild like Tina Turner.”

  “And the Ikettes.”

  “Ooh! Ooh! We can sing our song,” Vonetta said.

  “Yeah. Our song,” Fern said.

  I pretended I didn’t know which song they meant, but I knew. Just to make sure I knew, Vonetta and Fern sang the first three words to “Dry Your Eyes” on cue.

  “No,” I said.

  They sang louder. Fern’s voice sweet and high, Vonetta’s drippy and dramatic.

  “No,” I told them. “We’re not singing that.”

  They ignored me and belted out the heartbreaker part where the mother must leave her baby. Then they sang the la-la parts.

  By now everyone looked our way, so I hushed Vonetta and Fern, whose eyes shone with life and sparkle. I had no hope of reeling either back to their good common sense.

  “We are not singing that song,” I said plainly. To their “Why not?” pouting faces I said, “This presentation is for the people. For Bobby Hutton and Huey Newton. It’s not for singing about your broken heart to your long-lost mother.”

  But they insisted on Brenda and the Tabulations. They insisted on letting the world in on their longing for a mother who wouldn’t cook a meal for them.

  I put my foot down. “We cannot sing that song.”

  “Can too,” they started.

  Vonetta said, “And then she’ll come to the talent show and see us onstage.”

  “And see how good we are.”

  It didn’t seem right that they thought singing and dancing would change C
ecile into someone who cried for her long-lost daughters or fried pork chops and made banana pudding. Cecile wasn’t that kind of mother, if you wanted to call her one at all. Her name might have changed. She might have been living on the other side of the country. But Cecile was plain old Cecile. Just crazier and scarier than I remembered.

  I told them outright, “We could sing ‘Dry Your Eyes’ like Brenda and the Tabulations and dance like the Ikettes. Cecile won’t come to the rally and cheer us on.”

  They said I was wrong about Cecile and wrong about what we could and could not sing for the talent show.

  I said, “Those people aren’t rallying for a TV set. They’re rallying to free Huey and to change the name of the park. The mayor, the judge, and the police aren’t going to just say, ‘Fine by us.’ There’s going to be trouble cooking at the rally.”

  Vonetta sang, “Spoilsport. Worrywart.” Then Fern joined her.

  I said, “Fine. But I’m not singing with you.”

  Sister Mukumbu said she needed help with something. Everyone raised his or her hand, but she called my name even though I kept my hand down. I couldn’t say I was surprised.

  Sister Mukumbu said, “What’s troubling you, Sister Delphine? Why don’t you want to participate in the rally?”

  “Sister Mukumbu, it’s all dangerous. Just being here at the Center is dangerous.”

  She was silent for a while. “I see.” That meant she wasn’t going to lie to me. I wanted to still like her. I couldn’t if she lied to me.

  “I have to look out for my sisters, you know.”

  Sister Mukumbu said, “We look out for each other. The rally is one way of looking out for all of our sisters. All of our brothers. Unity, Sister Delphine. We have to stand united.”

  I was thinking, Alive. We have to be alive. Wouldn’t Little Bobby rather be alive than be remembered? Wouldn’t he rather be sitting out in the park than have the park named after him? I wanted to watch the news. Not be in it. The more I thought about it, the more I had my answer. We were staying home tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. We certainly weren’t going to be in no rally.

  Eating Crow

  The next morning, Cecile stood outside our door and said, “It’s nine o’clock. Why y’all still here?”

  Vonetta pointed to me. “It’s her fault.”

  Fern joined in. “All her fault.”

  “She won’t take us to the Center.”

  “Yeah. She said we can’t go no more.”

  Cecile turned to me. “Delphine, what did you do?”

  I spoke as plainly as I could. There was no use in speaking small mouthed. “I told Sister Mukumbu we’re not going to the Free Huey rally two Saturdays from now, or coming back to the Center.”

  “Why’d you tell her that?”

  “It’s dangerous,” I said. “The police shot a teenager for being with the Black Panthers. They could shoot Black Panthers and kids at the Center.”

  Cecile looked at me like I was stupid, but also with disbelief that I was her daughter. “Did anyone shoot at you, Delphine?” Her voice was calm and clear. Not crazy.

  I felt stupid. “No.”

  “Did they point a gun at you?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone put a gun in your hand?”

  “No.”

  Cecile said, “Y’all get dressed and go. They might still be serving breakfast.”

  I couldn’t believe she’d make us go back to a place where we could get shot. But then I returned to my good common sense. Of course Cecile wouldn’t care if we got shot up by the police.

  I told Cecile, “We’ll go for breakfast. We’ll go for summer school. We won’t be going to no rally. That’s just a pot of boiling trouble cookin’.”

  “Y’all two. Get in there and brush your teeth. Wash your faces.” Cecile crooked her head toward the bathroom. As soon as Vonetta and Fern got up and left the room, she stepped in closer to me. I was genuinely afraid.

  “You watch how you talk to me. Y’hear?”

  I nodded in reply, and I was no nodder.

  She wouldn’t accept my nod. “No,” she said. “You got a mouth, so I want to hear you.”

  I said, “Yes, ma’am.” That old-fashioned word just crawled right out.

  Cecile grunted. “That’s the problem right there. His mammy. You sound just like her. Like a country mule.” I think that set Cecile off more than my saying we weren’t going to the rally. Me sounding like Big Ma.

  Cecile went back to her kitchen, fussing up a full steam like she was talking to someone. Me. That she couldn’t have us here messing up her peace of mind and that she couldn’t work with us in her house. Cecile carried on a full conversation, on and on as we walked out the door. Crazy.

  Vonetta and Fern were only too glad to be headed toward the Center. They couldn’t stop rubbing it in.

  “See, Delphine, you can’t tell us what to do,” Vonetta said.

  “Surely can’t.”

  “’Cause we’re going to the Center, and we’re going to the rally.”

  “Surely are.”

  “And we’re going to sing our song.”

  “And do our dance.”

  “And you can’t be in it with us.”

  But Fern didn’t go along with Vonetta on the last one, not that I wanted to be in it. Still, a small part of me was glad. Fern had always been mine.

  I wasn’t in a hurry to go inside when we got to the Center, but I followed my sisters when they pushed the doors open. Vonetta and Fern couldn’t eat the late breakfast and rejoin Sister Mukumbu’s class fast enough. I found myself dragging behind them, feeling badly for myself. No one ever called a take-back “eating crispy fried chicken.” They called it “eating crow,” and with good reason. Not that I’d actually eaten a black crow, but with my words stuck in my throat and my eyes cast down, I knew what eating crow was. I knew that having to eat crow when you were once proud and right was like swallowing a hunk of tough, chewy crow meat that wasn’t about to go down easy.

  Sister Mukumbu didn’t make me feel like the nothing I knew I was. Her bangles jangled about her wrists as she welcomed us back into class. Everyone was practicing their parts in a play for the rally, and she said we had arrived just in time. They could use more actors for the class’s reenactment of Harriet Tubman leading slaves to freedom. Vonetta was mad because Janice was to be Harriet Tubman. I knew I’d hear about Vonetta missing out on being the star of the play for the next seven days.

  Later, after Sister Pat led us through calisthenics in the yard, Eunice came over and sat with me. “Thought ya’ll weren’t coming back.”

  “We weren’t.”

  “Then why’re you here?”

  Eunice had a lot of nerve and a lot of mouth, asking me why my sisters and I were back at the Center. I had nothing to say to Eunice. I already felt bad.

  I shrugged, although I was no shrugger.

  “You were just showing off, telling Sister Mukumbu how you and your sisters weren’t coming to the rally, like you’re in charge.”

  “For your information, I am in charge of my sisters.”

  “Oh yeah? So why are you back, then?”

  The last thing I would do was tell Eunice Ankton that we were here because Cecile shooed us away to write her poems.

  “’Cause,” I said.

  I couldn’t figure out why Eunice sat there with me. It was bad enough to feel stupid. I didn’t need anyone sitting with me reminding me of it.

  My sisters were having a good time. Fern and the youngest Ankton girl, Beatrice, taught each other hand-clapping songs. Janice and Vonetta chased after Hirohito and his friends, but they were only after Hirohito. He’d zig left and right, escaping the girls each time they came within tagging distance. Finally Janice managed to tag him and run. Vonetta was upset that she hadn’t tagged him first, but that didn’t stop her from cackling and squealing along with Janice. Janice and Vonetta were one and the same fool.

  Eunice beat me to making a s
ound of disgust.

  I said, “I wouldn’t hardly be chasing after no Hirohito Woods.”

  “Me neither,” she agreed.

  I hated telling her I was only going into the sixth grade when she was going into the eighth grade. At least I was an inch taller than she was. Hirohito, she said, was going into the seventh grade.

  I told Eunice her dress was nice. Then she showed me the inside stitching. Once I saw the crisscross of her mother’s neat hand stitching I decided I liked Eunice Ankton. She wasn’t the big girl who thought her clothes were better than mine. Or the girl who sided with Hirohito Woods and made me feel ignorant for not knowing he was half colored and half Japanese. We were two older sisters watching our younger sisters playing games and running around making fools of themselves. We were both the oldest girls in our families, and we knew the same things.

  Itsy Bitsy Spider

  Vonetta couldn’t stop practicing her poem. Well, it wasn’t hers. She got it from a book of Negro poets at the Center. If she couldn’t sing her song, she would recite a poem all by herself.

  It wasn’t enough for Vonetta to say her poem, which was actually Gwendolyn Brooks’s poem titled “We Real Cool.” Vonetta tried to be her poem. Since there was no applause from Fern and me the first time around, she started up again, as zombielike as she could, to imitate the toughs standing around outside the pool hall. If Big Ma heard Vonetta and saw her standing like a shiftless bum on the corner, we’d be on the next plane back to New York City. Vonetta was into a groove and couldn’t be stopped. She started up yet again, saying

  “We real cool.

  We left school.”

  as loud as she could, in case Cecile hadn’t heard her. I would have done both Vonetta and Cecile a favor by giving her a swift kick, but I didn’t care if Cecile yelled at her. I didn’t care if Vonetta disturbed Cecile’s peace of mind. So I let Vonetta recite on and on

  “We real cool.

  We left school.”