Grace After Midnight

by Felicia Pearson

  “You say you do, but you sure don’t act that way. You’re an agitator. You’re looking to agitate whenever you can. You thinking agitating is cool. Well, it’s not.”

  “I got people who got my back,” I said.

  “I know those people,” said Denise. “I’ve known them a helluva lot longer than you. And the gospel truth is that they don’t got nothing. They don’t have no decency. They don’t have no basic respect for human life. They ain’t God-fearing and they ain’t God-loving. They worship the golden calf. They about money and power. They live by the gun and die by the gun. Is that what you want?”

  “I ain’t dying any time soon.”

  “I’m not saying you are, baby. But I am saying that the people you’re following will lead you to an early grave. What’s the point of that?”

  “What’s the point of anything?”

  “God. God’s the point of everything. Comes down to one simple thing—we’re here to love each other, not kill each other. In this here neighborhood, you’re doing one or the other. I’m saying this not to preach to you, sugar, but just to let you know I love you.”

  “I love you too, Denise.”

  “Then I wanna see you change your ways—and change them now. Can I have a promise? Can I have commitment?”

  “My sub’s getting soggy,” I said.

  Denise shook her head.

  “I want you to think about what I said,” she practically begged me. “At least tell me you’ll do that.”

  “I will.”

  But I didn’t.

  HE’S THINKING,

  SHE TURNED YOU OFF.

  I’M THINKING,

  SHE TURNED ME OUT.

  Father looked after me from afar.

  Uncle looked after me from up close.

  Because he was the King, Father was ruling an entire kingdom. Uncle was a Prince with a smaller territory. The King spent a lot of time holed up in his castle, but the Prince was always around.

  Uncle had always been convinced I really wasn’t gay. He’d been watching me grow up for a few years now and didn’t like how I dressed.

  “You dress like a boy,” he said, “and you act like a boy because the boys are getting all the action. You want some of that action. I understand where you coming from. But if you ever had any real-life sex with a grown woman, you’d get straightened out in a hurry.”

  I didn’t say nothing.

  “You don’t believe me?” he asked.

  I still didn’t say nothing.

  “All right,” Uncle said. “I’ll prove it to your stubborn ass. I’ll set you up with a horny bitch and see how gay you are after she gets hold of you.”

  I looked at him, expressionless.

  “You think you man enough to handle that?” he asked sarcastically.

  I offered up a little smile.

  About a week passed.

  “I found her,” said Uncle when I saw him on the corner.

  “Found who?”

  “The bitch.”

  “Oh.”

  “Here’s her address. Go by there tonight.”

  I went by.

  By then I must have been twelve. I’m guessing the woman was nineteen or twenty. She was fine as she could be. I just called her Miss Fine.

  “What you know about chopping?” she said to me.

  Chopping meant fucking.

  “Not too much,” I said.

  “Ever do it?” she asked.

  “Well, not really.”

  “Maybe you not ready for that. Maybe you ready for this.”

  For a long while she gave me oral sex. I mean, a long while.

  Next time I seen Uncle, he was real curious.

  He’s thinking, She turned you off.

  I’m thinking, She turned me out.

  “What did you think of it?” he asked me.

  “Well,” I said. “It was different.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I think you set me up with a good experiment. And I wouldn’t mind experimenting a little more.”

  Uncle cracked up. “Girl,” he said, “you are crazy.”

  Crazy or not, I went back for more. This time Miss Fine gave me some instructions on the fine art of chopping. She taught me how to strap it on. And it’s been on ever since.

  Where I grew up, the boys started chopping young. They’d find some wild girls and get them a cheap motel room. The boys would take me along. I was one of them. I was accepted, even in the motel room.

  When it was time to chop, I’d strap on but never take off my boxers or undershirt. I didn’t have to be butt naked. I didn’t want to be butt naked. I could take part and slam as hard as any other boy. And of course I’d last as long as was needed. That was a real advantage.

  Another advantage was that Uncle and I never had a falling out, even after he saw that his attempt to change me up sexually wasn’t working. He resigned himself to the fact that I was who I was. He never judged me or tried to change me.

  I’ll always love him for that.

  Despite his love and watchful eye, though, there was no slowing me down.

  I’m not sure why, but I was hell-bent on working the wild side of the street. The wilder the better.

  By the time I hit twelve, I was straight-up out of control.

  That’s when things went nuts.

  DEATH UP CLOSE

  I seen death up close when that boy got his brains blown out right in front of me. I seen other niggas get blown away on the streets. When it happens, you stop and look. You stop and think. A life’s been snuffed out. That’s it. Cat’s gone. Ain’t never coming back.

  Maybe ’cause it happened so much I didn’t let myself feel what most people would feel—fear or horror or confusion. I didn’t wanna feel too much ’cause if I felt too much I might go crazy living where I lived. So the easiest thing was just to watch in wonder and say to myself, “That’s how it go sometime.”

  I thought I could deal with death. Shit, I knew I could deal with death. Death didn’t flip me out and death didn’t make me scared of the streets. I did all that in spite of the death around me.

  But then this one death worked on me a whole different way.

  Pop.

  One day something needed fixing on the roof and Pop said to me, “Hey, girl, would you mind going up there to fix it.”

  Didn’t mind at all, but Pop always liked going up on the roof. I knew something was wrong.

  “You feeling okay?” I asked him.

  “A little tired, that’s all.”

  I saw that in his eyes and later asked Mama about it.

  “He got a bad report from the doctor” was all she said.

  I wanted to ask more about it, but something told me not to.

  As weeks went by, he lost weight. Slowed down. Slept during the day. Well, Pop never slept during the day. The man was a worker.

  Finally Mama said the word.

  “Cancer.”

  Cancer was eating him up, and it was happening fast. So fast that from one day to another you’d see him getting smaller and thinner. Soon he was at the point where he couldn’t work at all.

  Doctors said he should be in the hospital, but Mama said no. By then she knew he was not getting better. She also knew that he didn’t wanna go to no hospital. He wanted to be in his bed at home.

  Every night after I came in from running the streets, I’d go in and check on him. He’d be in bed next to Mama. I’d kiss him on his nose. That always made him smile. He’d open his eyes, look at me, and just nod. He was too weak too speak.

  Then one of those nights Mama came to wake me up. Had to be around 2:00 or 3:00 A.M.

  “Come with me, child,” she said.

  I followed her into the bedroom. I knew. I felt it. I kissed Pop on the nose, only this time he didn’t smile.

  His eyes were still open but he wasn’t breathing. I took my fingers and
gently closed his eyes.

  “When the sun comes up,” said Mama, “go tell the family. Go tell them in person.”

  I did like Mama asked me to do. I told everyone that needed telling.

  I can’t remember crying. Can’t remember mourning the man. I knew I loved him and I knew he’d loved me. I was his helper on the roof and in the workshop. He never got mad at me for being a tomboy and never thought I was strange. He took me the way I was.

  His being taken away might have gotten me mad. Can’t say for sure.

  Lots of things got me mad.

  Back then, though, I wasn’t thinking about how I was feeling.

  I was just doing.

  “YOU A BOY”

  I was doing all I could.

  I was running with different crews.

  My first crew was all girls. Must have been twenty of them. If I was twelve years old, they were sixteen. All big girls. Big-boned, tall, and strong. I was the shrimp. They let me hang with them ’cause I was nervy. I’d do anything they’d do—and then some.

  They weren’t lesbians. They had boyfriends. But in most cases they could kick their boyfriend’s ass if the nigga got out of line. We called ourselves LMP after three streets in our hood.

  We’d go to the movies together and talk to the screen. We tripped on a picture called Juice with a rapper who just came out with his first record. He went by 2Pac then and he was something different. He had these eyes and he had this attitude. He had his own flow and burned up the movie screen. Nigga was on fire. Menace II Society was another story that spoke our language. Probably the freshest was New Jack City. We saw that one until we knew every line. Wesley Snipes chewed that up, Ice T was cold, and Chris Rock had us believing he was a fucked-up crackhead. We were seeing our lives up there.

  Day by day, week by week, LMP’s little shit got bigger. We got bolder. We started out by mouthing off when other girls came through our territory. Then we got meaner. If a girl we didn’t know glanced in our direction, we’d say, “Who you staring at?” Then if she mouthed off, one of my girls would encourage me by saying, “Pop that bitch, Snoop. Pop her hard.” I’d smack her in the face or punch her in the jaw. My girls liked to see me fight ’cause I didn’t have any quit in me.

  What did I have in me?

  What the hell was I was so angry about?

  I couldn’t tell you.

  We’d go to a house party and see another girl crew, this one from the west side. They’d get to dancing. LL Cool J had “Mama Said Knock You Out.” Dre was rocking The Chronic. Or maybe the girls from across town were grinding with our boys to Janet’s “That’s the Way Loves Goes.” Everyone was grinding to that jam. But if the grinding got too sweaty, we’d jump in there and straight-up start throwing the west side bitches out on the street. There were some serious fights, and I don’t remember losing any of them.

  Because I looked like a little nigga, not a girl, I was a novelty. Sometimes I felt like a mascot. And because I was the youngest and the smallest, I felt privileged to hang with the big girls. But I was always on the outside of the group. My size kept me on the outside, and so did my age, the way I dressed, even the way I walked.

  “You a boy,” the girls liked to say, “who got born a girl by mistake.”

  I didn’t mind hearing that, but it made me think I really do belong with the boys. So I went back and forth. I ran with both crowds. Both crowds accepted me but both crowds really didn’t.

  I was in and I was out. I was here and I was there.

  Whatever I was, I was hitting the streets hard because nothing was too crazy for me. I could handle it all.

  At least I thought I could.

  “YOU A GIRL”

  Maybe I was always trying to prove what I wasn’t—maybe that was it.

  Nigga come up to me and say, “You a girl.”

  I wouldn’t say anything back.

  He’d shove me real hard.

  “You a girl who thinks she’s a goddamn boy, ain’t you?”

  Then he’d shove me harder.

  Still don’t say nothing.

  “If you were really a boy, you wouldn’t take this shit off me.”

  Then he shoved me so hard I nearly went down.

  But I didn’t. I found my balance and coldcocked the motherfucker.

  I heard that question many times—“You think you a boy?”—but never again from him.

  Right around then—must have been twelve or thirteen—I got the news from some relative.

  “Your mama’s dead,” she said.

  I knew she was talking about my real mother, not the mama who cared for me. I wasn’t surprised because I’d seen it coming. Every time my real mother had come by, her eyes were already dead. I could see the life draining out of her. And there wasn’t a damn thing anybody could do about it. She was cracked out. It’s amazing she lived as long as she did. Finally, her body just couldn’t take no more. A kidney disease killed her.

  I didn’t know how to mourn. Truth be told, I didn’t even know how to feel about it. So I didn’t feel nothing.

  Sure, certain memories of her floated through my mind—the times I met her in the park, the time she locked me in the closet. I thought about her beauty. And how she died the death I’d seen my whole life on the street. Her highs took her to an early grave. I didn’t even go to her grave. I don’t know where it is.

  You’d think her death would have scared me or set me straight. But hell, I wasn’t no junkie. I wasn’t about to blow coke up my nose and shoot dope in my veins. I wasn’t interested in the crack pipe. That shit was for fools.

  What interested me was danger.

  Going to the edge.

  And then over the edge.

  I can’t tell you why, but at a time when other thirteen-year-olds were buying frilly dresses and training bras, I was buying guns.

  I was leaving the LMP crew to hang more and more with the boys.

  I was running wild.

  Mama saw what was happening. She saw me skipping school for days at a time and coming home late or not at all.

  One morning I got home just as Mama was making breakfast. She stopped cooking her oatmeal and gave me a look. Wasn’t a hard look and it wasn’t a mean look. Mama don’t got no mean in her. It was a look that said, Girl, you breaking my heart.

  “Can we talk, child?” she asked me.

  “Sure, Mama.”

  “You been out there on those streets,” she said.

  “I’m okay,” I assured her. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “I’m afraid for you, baby.”

  “Mama,” I said, “you don’t gotta be afraid.”

  “I’m afraid I’m losing you.”

  “That ain’t ever gonna happen,” I told her.

  “I pray for you every night, Felicia. When you ain’t home, I pray that angels be watching over you. I pray for your protection, honey.”

  “I know you do,” I said, “and I love you for it.”

  “I fear those people out there, baby. I fear they turning you the wrong way.”

  I hated when Mama talked this way ’cause I had no answers. She was right. I was being turned the wrong way. I saw it, but I wasn’t about to stop it. Something like a fever had come over me. But it wasn’t no twenty-four-hour fever. The fever felt permanent. The fever provided chills and thrills. Even when Mama was talking good sense to me, I felt the fever. The fever had more power over me than Mama’s warnings.

  “When you gonna stop this nonsense, Felicia?” she asked.

  “Soon, Mama,” I lied. “Real soon.”

  BONKERS

  Mama wasn’t the only one who warned me.

  Uncle did the same. Fact is, Uncle was always preaching to me.

  I remember one afternoon when the streets were slick with rain. We were riding in his Cadillac, going from one of his shops to another. He was making sure his business was straight.

  “You gotta get out of this business,” he said. “You gotta just think about school.”
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  “I’m thinking about school,” I said. “I’m doing good in school.”

  “You doing good in this business,” he said. “See, that’s the problem, Snoop. You do good at something you got no business doing.”

  “Same as you.”

  “No, ain’t the same as me. I’m a man and I know what I’m doing. I got kids. I got money to make. You don’t gotta do nothing but study.”

  “I am studying,” I said.

  “You ain’t studying nothing but these here streets.”

  He wasn’t wrong. And he wasn’t convincing. Neither was Father. Fact is, my street shit was getting bigger. I was doing more than just working the corners. I was doing little jobs for operators who needed someone they could count on.

  For example, nigga came up to and said, “See that bitch over there, she stole my dope. I want you to beat her ass.”

  “I ain’t killing no one,” I said.

  “Don’t want her killed, Snoop. Just hurt real bad.”

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Fifty now. Fifty when it’s done.”

  I waited a day, followed her down the street, and pulled her in the alley. Pistol-whipped her hard, then beat her with a table leg. Broke her leg and shoulder.

  “Satisfied?” I asked the nigga.

  He handed me the other fifty, no questions asked.

  I was in the back of a stolen car. We pulled up to a gas station. My partner, the driver, started pumping gas. Cops pulled up next to us. The driver got scared and started looking all paranoid. When we saw the cops running our plates, we jumped out of there, tires screeching, cops chasing, chasing us through downtown, chasing us past the fancy houses in Fell’s Point, running red lights, jumping curbs, speeding the wrong way down one-way streets, sirens screaming. We dumped the car in a deserted lot and ran like hell. Found an open cellar door, ran down the steps, and kept the rats company for a couple of hours.

  Cops never did find us.

  Me and my niggas were hired by a dealer to go after some deadbeats. The guys thought they gave us the slip. They went to the mall. They figured with all those shoppers around, the mall had to be safe. They figured wrong.