by Neta Jackson
It wasn’t a day I wanted to remember. But how could I avoid the issue when replays of crashing planes and terrorist mugshots flooded the TV with 9-11 images? My problem, I told Avis in her office, was that my third-graders were only six years old when 9-11 happened and probably had no memory of those events.Why pour fear and horror into their souls? Not to mention that several kids in my class were Middle Eastern. Kids could be cruel.
“It could be a teachable moment, Jodi,” Avis said. “A chance to say that here in the United States, here in our school, we can live together with respect, no matter what we look like or where we’re from.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Well then,” she said, “just observe the minute of silence and say we are honoring the people who died when the Twin Towers collapsed. Maybe they won’t ask questions. Sometimes we tell kids more than they want to know.”
I did as our venerable principal suggested, but I should have seen it coming. An eight-year-old is curious by definition, especially about the adult world. The questions flew thick and fast after the moment of silence.Why did the buildings fall down? Who was in the planes? Did any kids die? Was it an accident? Why would somebody do that?
“Because they hate us, that’s why,” Carla said, nose in the air.
“Yeah. They hate Israel too. I heard on TV that somebody blew himself up at a bus stop in Jerusalem and killed lots of people.” Caleb Levy’s voice squeaked.
That nearly scrambled the rest of the day. Oh God! I wish I could use a scripture like ‘God so loved the world’ or ‘love your enemies.’ Or just gather all these kids into a big circle and hold hands and pray for all the people who are hurting. But this was public school, so I did my best to make it a teachable moment, telling them that it was important to respect differences, that violence was never the way to solve problems, that “tolerance” didn’t mean everybody had to agree about everything, that in fact “tolerance” was most important when you disagreed with someone.
By the time I got home from school, my emotions were frayed. If I ever thought teaching third grade was a walkover, I revised my thinking: I’d just been walked over.
Which is why I probably shouldn’t have punched the blinking New Message button on the answering machine.
“Jodi? ” Adele’s contralto voice was tight and off-tune. “You got a car? Somebody might want to get over to Florida’s place. There was, uh, some trouble on Clark Street in front of my shop not fifteen minutes ago when Sullivan High School let out. I called the cops, wanted to nip it in the bud before somebody got hurt. But” — I heard Adele suck in a breath— “I think I saw Chris Hickman get tossed in the backseat of a squad car.”
27
My insides twisted. Oh no, oh no, oh no. But I guess adrenaline kicked in. I called Adele at the shop to get more details.
What happened? . . . She wasn’t sure, big melee mostly between black kids and Latino kids, probably gang wanna-bes trying to be tough . . . Does Florida know? . . . Yes, she’d called Florida, who needed to get to the police station . . . Can’t help, the car’s not home. But I did call Denny at his office (of course he wasn’t there; it was four o’clock, so he was probably out on the athletic field somewhere) and left a message to come straight to Florida’s house.Then I half-ran, half-walked the ten blocks to the Hickmans’ new home, sending warning messages up my thigh from the rod screwed into my left leg.
Only when I rang the doorbell and no one answered did I think to fuss, Wait a minute.Why me? What did Adele think I was supposed to do about it? She was the one who called the cops. I don’t even understand what it’s all about.
I sank down onto the front steps. Why hadn’t I called Florida first? Now what? But no way was I going to walk all the way back home. Besides, I’d told Denny to come here. I’d just wait on the porch until Florida or Carl got home or Denny arrived—whoever showed up first.
I leaned against the slightly wobbly handrails. Florida’s fantasy of white wicker porch furniture would be nice about now.
Pray, Jodi, prodded the still, small Voice in my spirit. You don’t have to know what it’s all about to know that Chris and his parents—and maybe a lot of other kids and families too—need a lot of prayer right now.
So I prayed, glad that God was El Shaddai, all-powerful, all-sufficient, able to handle problems too big for me—which certainly described the problem of the moment.
Denny got there first.Giving him the sketchy information I had, we decided to go down to the Clark Street police station, just a mile or two from Adele’s shop. If the boys who’d been arrested weren’t there, we’d probably have to drive all the way to “Twenty-Sixth and California” —everybody’s shorthand for the main Criminal Courts Building and Cook County Jail on Chicago’s South Side.
I got a queasy feeling as we pulled into the parking lot behind the neighborhood police station, even though the compact building was modern and attractive with fancy bricks spelling out POLICE in an arch over the large half-moon window facing Clark Street. The last time I’d been here, almost a year ago, I’d come to reclaim my wedding ring that “Bandana Woman” had stolen at knifepoint. Oh God, You’ve worked some mighty miracles since then, I breathed. We may need a few more.
Florida Hickman, hair tucked under a worn knotted scarf, was pacing in the lobby near the L-shaped front desk, sucking on a cigarette. No chairs. Guess they didn’t want people to think of it as a waiting room. “Was hoping you’d be Carl,” she started in, without even a hello. “Told him to get himself here.When that boy comes out that door, I want his daddy to be the first person he sees.”
“When he comes out? ” That sounded hopeful. “Does that mean they’re not charging Chris with anything? ”
Her brows furrowed. “Oh, that boy’s in trouble, all right. But . . . could be worse. It’s a first offense, so they’re releasing him to us, but he has to pay for removal.”
“Uh, Florida? ” Denny loosened his tie. “Remove what? We really don’t know what happened. Just came to see if you needed some support, a ride, whatever.”
“Tagging, that’s what!” she muttered. “Don’t got the whole story. But what they sayin’ is that somebody tagged an alley near Adele’s shop with Black Disciple gang symbols, some other stuff. Latino kids saw it on the way home from school, said it was disrespecting Latin King territory, started yellin’ an’ pushin’ the black kids around. Cops came, busted the crowd an’ some of the younger black kids got scared, said it was Chris did it—oh. That’s gonna be Carl.”
I caught a glimpse of Peter Douglass’s black Lexus turn into the parking lot, three men inside. The third person turned out to be Josh.
“LOOKS LIKE CHRIS’S WORK ALL RIGHT.” Josh stood in the alley in the fading light. “Gotta admit, Mrs.Hickman. He’s good.”
Peter Douglass had offered to stay with Carl to wait for Chris, bring them home. Josh wanted to stay, too, but Denny said too many people might be humiliating. Florida had elected to leave with us, leave Chris to his daddy and Big Bad Peter, but she wanted to see the start of all this trouble.
“Whatchu mean, looks like Chris’s work? ” Florida glared at the brick wall, covered in spray paint, depicting a powerful black man, muscles bulging, dripping attitude, like a superhero in shades and gold jewelry. The now-familiar six-pointed star, crossed pitchforks, and a bold, black BD decorated the man’s shirt. The letter C with a slash through it had been slyly worked into the man’s pant leg.
I shot a grim glance at Josh. Thanks, buddy. We’d never told Florida about that mural we saw at the el station or what José had said about Chris’s “signature.” But we did now, apologizing for not saying anything earlier—though we had no proof at the time that it was Chris and didn’t want to be passing rumor.
“But the style is the same, Flo.” Denny’s voice carried a note of admiration. “Like Josh said, he’s good.”
“Don’t ‘good’ me, Denny Baxter. We don’t need this kind of trouble.Where we gonna get the money to pay the city to r
emove this, tell me that? ” She angrily brushed away tears that threatened to spill over.
I put my arm around Florida as we walked back to the car. “I don’t know, Flo. But we’re not going to leave you caught up in this alone.” Though I felt some of her panic. What would it be? Five hundred bucks? A thousand?
ACCORDING TO ADELE, the mural was defaced during the night with the Latin Kings’ five-pointed gold crown and LK in fancy script letters. Another melee erupted on the street after school; one boy was badly kicked and beaten—Latino? Black? No one seemed to know for sure. The cops came; a few more kids got hauled away for disorderly conduct. Fortunately, Chris was nowhere near Clark Street since Florida had showed up at Sullivan High School after work, went straight to his last class, and hauled him out before the last bell. Ha! I could imagine Chris slouching behind bushes all the way home.
Fortunately, that was Friday. No more school for two days. But I shouldn’t have been surprised that everybody was talking about it at the workday on Saturday. After polishing off a blueberry doughnut and a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, I had been handed a bucket of ivory paint and assigned the woodwork around the doors of offices and classrooms. Well, doors plural might be stretching it. I’d forgotten how careful one had to be painting trim when the walls were a contrasting color. Slow about summed it up.
But in the large room where a bright coral was going up on one wall, contrasting with a light salmon on another, I heard snatches of conversation between some of the men and teens. “We ought to have a neighborhood presence on Clark Street after school, diffuse some of this violence.” . . . “But that’s three o’clock, man! We’re all still at work!” . . . “Yeah, but some of the little kids are gonna get caught up in this mess.” I recognized Josh’s voice. “They go to Clark Street after school to get snacks.” . . . “Yeah, all the vendors are still out. Maybe we oughta man one of those carts ourselves! ” That last was met with general chuckles. “Don’t let Pastor Cobbs take a turn. He’s got a weakness for those little doughnut balls—what do you call them? Bunuelos, I think.”
I thought about what the guys were saying hile I finished the trim on another door. Thought about it again the next day during worship, when Pastor Clark preached on “Living with Divine Interruptions,” using the ministry of Jesus as an example of the Holy Spirit interrupting our schedules with opportunities to pour out God’s love on hurting people. Huh. Street violence was an interruption all right—to the Hickmans, whose son ended up at the police station . . . to Adele’s Hair and Nails . . . to the kids walking home from school, who clumped naturally in groups but could easily get caught up in the anger and violence of a few . . .
“What are you thinking about, girl? ” Florida said at the potluck after worship, it being the second Sunday of September. “Bunch of New Morning folks are here, but you sittin’ there like a bump on a log, not talkin’ to nobody. An’ you ain’t even tried my greens yet.”
I squinted my eyes at her. “Lemonade.”
“Lemonade? Just go get yourself some! In that pitcher over there—whup, sorry. Too late. It’s empty. You a sad case, girl.” Florida moved off. “See you at Adele’s tonight.We got some serious prayin’ to do.”
“LEMONADE.”
My Yada Yada sisters looked at me as if my lightbulb was dimming. We hadn’t even started our meeting yet, but already Chanda and others wanted all the details of what had happened near Adele’s shop a few days ago. Adele, bless her, left out Chris Hickman’s role when talking about the gang signs—a mural, really—decorating the alley nearby. It was irrelevant, in a way. Rival gangs and the flotsam of young lives floating around their edges didn’t need much provocation to get in each other’s faces. If it wasn’t tagging on rival gang territory, it was somebody’s sister dating a rival.
“We gotta do somethin’!” Florida fumed. “Too many kids gettin’ caught up in this gang mess. Chris too! That boy’s grounded again, but you all know that’s about as effective as expectin’ yo’ man to remember your birthday.”
That got several hoots. I was momentarily distracted by Delores, who had steered Ruth into the hallway and seemed to be giving her an animated lecture. Ruth looked confused, but she was listening. I tried to refocus on the discussion at my own elbow.
“Lemonade,” I said again. “Lots of kids walk along Clark Street on the way home from school because they can buy snacks. All the street vendors are still out, selling flavored ices, sweet corn, burritos—stuff like that.What if . . .” I tried to hold on to my idea in spite of cynical looks all around me. “What if we set up a lemonade stand near Adele’s shop,where the trouble started, and give out free lemonade to kids on the way home from school? We might get to know some of the kids that way, while adding an adult presence on the street.”
“Whoa, sister. I don’t want no lemonade stand in front of my shop.” Adele stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips. “Just what I need, forty kids clogging the sidewalk. Scare my customers away for sure.”
My heart sank. I’d actually been hoping we could put the stand in front of Adele’s shop, use her water, even say she’d given us permission to be in front of her store if anyone asked. So much for—
Edesa spoke up. “Maybe not so, Adele. If I saw a lemonade stand outside a beauty shop, I would think what a great person, she must have a heart for kids, maybe I will go there!”
“For true.” Chanda flashed her own spiffy nails. “All de young girls get dey nails done now. Dey tell dey mamas ’bout your shop, you get double de business.”
Adele snorted.
Florida shook her head. “Jodi, that’s gotta be one crazy idea. Lemonade? We’re talking gang fights, girl!”
“I dunno. Makes sense to me.” Yo-Yo eyed Adele from beneath her spiky hair. “Didn’t you say your shop’s been tagged a couple of times already? My guess is, if we give out free lemonade in front of your shop, it’s never gonna happen again.Word gets around.”
Avis looked dubious. “Sounds like a lot of work to me. I can’t help, I know that. And . . . I’m not sure it’s safe.Not with the recent tensions.”
We argued about the idea for the next ten minutes. Skepticism gradually backed down in favor of responding to the after-school violence with something positive. Even something ordinary and kid-friendly, like a lemonade stand. “Not just leaving it to the cops,” as Stu put it.
Yo-Yo waved her hand in the air. “How many days ya wanna do this, Jodi? I gotta work tomorrow. But I’m off Tuesday.”
“Sí.My classes are in the morning. I can help,” Edesa offered.
Chanda stuck out her chin. “Mi toss in some monies for de lemonade. Dat be me contribution.”
“It would take a lot of coordination, Jodi,” Avis warned. “Are you up to that”
I gulped. “Well, let’s just do it a couple of days. Monday and Tuesday. See what happens. But we could use some guys too. Any ideas? ” Humph. Count Denny out.He’d balk at the whole idea.
Ruth, released from Delores’s clutches in the hallway, poked her nose into the conversation. “Take the grouch. Anything to get him out of the house and off my back. Just don’t let him drink all the lemonade.His prostate’s not too good.”
“I’ll help you, Jodi,” Stu said. “We can do it.” And for the first time since Leslie Stuart had flipped her superior attitude into my face, there wasn’t a trace of one-upmanship in her offer or in the gratitude I felt.
“All right.” Avis opened her Bible. “We can talk about this some more after prayer. But right now let’s give God some praise that He can take five small loaves of bread and two fish and bless a multitude.” She slipped a grin. “In your case, Jodi,maybe five lemons and two cups of sugar.”
Everyone laughed.
Becky Wallace just wagged her head. “You guys are a trip, you know that? ”
28
O ur meeting lasted late that night. Nony and Hoshi were both absent, but no one had gotten a call; so we prayed the protection of the blood of Jesus over the S
isulu-Smith household. Edesa shared about her visit to Manna House, the women’s shelter on the North Side. “So many health needs,” she said, shaking her head. “So many poor life decisions, too, not realizing how soul and spirit affect the body.The Bible even talks about that.” The young Honduran woman paged through her Bible. “The book of Proverbs, chapter three. ‘Do not be wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord and turn away from evil. This will bring health to your body and strength to your bones.’”
“That’s in the Bible? Show me.” Becky leaned close and squinted at Edesa’s Spanish Bible. “Wait a minute. Didn’t you just read it in English? How’d you do that? ”
Yo-Yo snickered. Leaning forward, Avis asked several pointed questions about the shelter. Did women with children stay there?
How much privacy did they have? How long could they stay? Adele finally had to “ahem” and suggested we hear from others. “Like you, Chanda. You get the results of your mammogram yet? ”
Chanda casually picked at a fingernail. “Nah.Mi taking driving lessons now; had to cancel.” Her cinnamon face slowly beamed, like a dimmer switch turned up full. “Den you see what mi gonna park in me driveway! It’s on order”
No one smiled. Her grin faded and she picked studiously at that nail. Adele spoke gently—well, gently for Adele. “Chanda George. I don’t give a rat’s tail for what kind of car you park in your drive-way. But I do care about you. And you need to get that lump checked out.Tomorrow!”
To my surprise, a tear rolled down Chanda’s cheek. “But mi so scared.”
“Chanda!” Several voices chorused at once.
“But Chanda!” I protested. “We offered to go with you, and you pooh-poohed us, said it was no problem!”
Chanda’s lip trembled. “It’s not de mammo puts fear in me heart. De lump—it’s bigger.”