This Stops Today

by Gwen Carr

  It always amused me to see how different my children were. I knew they had their own distinct personalities, but as they matured, their interests did as well. Emery was the artist, and he loved to draw. As a child, one of his favorites was Snoopy, and he continued to develop his talent. He eventually got a job doing some freelance artwork for Forbes magazine. Emery was always on his grind and would do anything to earn money. During high school he took many odd jobs, including a stint as a doorman, which he enjoyed because of all the celebrities he would meet. He had big plans for his future, and I couldn’t wait to see how far he could go.

  In the meantime, Eric worked for Greyhound for a little while and even in some auto mechanic shops, but his asthma returned, and those places weren’t good for his health. He loved being involved with cars, but the chemicals and smells didn’t agree with him. Eventually, he worked at the Parks Department, and he was a natural thanks to those summers of gardening with his grandfather. Then life changed dramatically in 1988 when Eric got married, and two years later he had his first child. He was a natural father, but supporting a family proved difficult. Without any marketable skills, the most he could hope for were minimum wage jobs that barely paid enough to support one person, much less a family.

  I understood his situation completely because I had been through it myself. I had worked various jobs to make money after the children got older, and in 1993 I started at the Metropolitan Transportation Authority as a conductor. It was shift work, mostly overnights, but it was steady money, and I hoped that it showed all the kids how important it was to have a good job. I was trying my best to set a good example for them as a single parent, especially for Ellisha. I wanted her to see that as Black women we can make our own way despite the obstacles.

  My Ellisha was very independent and headstrong. I would hear Emery and Eric scold her about making sure she behaved in school and got good grades. Whenever she was in trouble, Emery would warn her, “Keep it up. Look at what everybody else is out here doing and you’re not doing anything. You’re going to be left behind.” He was trying to fill that fatherly role and was genuinely concerned. His words had an effect on her briefly, but then at seventeen she got pregnant and left school to have her daughter. When my granddaughter, Chayla, was born I thought she was the most precious baby, and I was there when she came into the world.

  As was typical of their personalities, Eric shrugged off her pregnancy while Emery and her cousin Lil Joe were worried for her and her future. Of course, I was too. Raising a family without a partner was not something I wished on anyone. The struggles and worries had been overwhelming for me, and I didn’t want that for her. When she was nineteen, Ellisha and her daughter moved out on their own. She worked in various positions at places like the New York State Division of Veterans Affairs and Philip Morris.

  We all go through tough times, and we usually come out on the other side. We learn a valuable lesson about perseverance and determination. I’ve had my share, but I can honestly say that 1996 was just a horrible year. It started out bad and ended even worse. Someone told me about that trick where you write down a bad memory on a piece of paper and burn it as a way of healing and moving forward. If I had thought of it, I would have written down “1996” and burned it in the biggest fire I could have found. In January of that year, I had to say goodbye to my father, Joseph Flagg. He was the patriarch of our family, the rock, my biggest supporter. He and my mother had helped me raise the children from infancy to adulthood. They welcomed them for weekends and summers and came to my place when I needed them. They were always there until January 31, 1996, when my father passed away.

  It had been many years since my husband had transitioned, and I had almost forgotten how painful that gaping hole in the heart can feel. Navigating a landscape that did not include my father was unimaginable. He was such an integral part of the family that his loss was difficult for all of us. That was how the year started out, and in October yet another tragedy befell our family.

  Sometimes, as an escape, I would take some money that I had saved and go to the casinos. It was a way to relieve stress and feel that jolt of adrenaline when the alarm went off and lights swirled around in a world of manufactured excitement. On some trips I won and on others I lost, but that feeling of infinite possibility was heady. I couldn’t get that feeling anywhere else. My life was structured and routine. Granted, that was by choice. With most of the kids doing their own thing, my focus was on work and seeing everyone on the weekends. Gambling allowed me to escape my everyday life and enter a world of excitement and glamor. Being in the vicinity of high rollers and big money somehow gave me a greater sense of worth. I was there along with everyone else. My wins and losses were not even in their league, but that didn’t matter. I had a seat at the table.

  These casino trips were a brief diversion, an exotic escape bookended by the realities of life. Winning gave me confidence and boosted my self-esteem. I’d get an electric charge when I won, and that was a feeling I couldn’t duplicate while driving a train for the MTA. I had my little tricks too. I’d set my limit before going and would only surpass it if I won small amounts that I would use to continue playing.

  In October 1996, Ellisha and I made our way to Atlantic City for one of those casino getaways. She was fun to travel with, and she enjoyed a little gambling as well. However, during this trip, I had an odd sensation; something didn’t feel right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I have always followed my instincts, and something just felt off.

  When we returned home, ready to assimilate into regular life again, we got horrible news: Emery had been in Harlem and was shot five times. Apparently, five guys had robbed him and then shot him. Ellisha told me to stay home while she went to the hospital to assess the situation. I appreciated that because my intuition had been right; something was wrong. I needed to get myself together. Ellisha told me that when she saw Emery, he looked huge in the small hospital bed and his face was severely swollen. He told her that he was fine, but of course I had to see for myself.

  The next day I went to the ICU to see my boy. I couldn’t believe how horrible he looked. I knew it would be bad, but he was almost unrecognizable. We both started crying immediately. For me, it was a release of all the anxiety and worry that had gathered in my heart. It was horrible seeing my child in such pain.

  Always the protector, Emery told me, “Don’t worry. The worst part is over with.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “You have a long way to go. How did this happen?”

  “I told you, I was robbed.”

  Now, I was not as innocent and oblivious as my children often thought. I knew what went on in those streets. It was hard out there, especially for young Black men. Jobs were not easy to come by, and the jobs that were available didn’t pay much. I knew it was a frustrating position for my children to be in, but that was their hand in life and it was up to them to play it to the best of their ability.

  The brutal attack on Rodney King and the rioting that followed in Los Angeles in 1992 reminded us of the dangers of being Black in America. Police brutality was talked about, but when the chaos and savagery was finally captured on a camcorder, there was undeniable proof of the treatment that we had to endure as Black folks. When those images were transmitted to every living room in the country, it was a wakeup call, especially to Whites, to see how our people were treated. I was fascinated by the fact that someone had been able to film those horrors and expose America’s ugly secret.

  After those officers were acquitted of the crimes against Mr. King, the crimes that had been caught on film , we were all shocked. I could not understand how anyone could look at that and decide that they should not be punished. No one should ever be treated the way Mr. King was. It was like his life was meaningless to them, like he was nobody. How could anyone ever watch a film of such cruelty and not convict the perpetrators?

  We all understood why the riots began. I had some familiarity with these issues because of Eric’s interest in p
olitics and Ellisha’s activism. I was proud of them for their passion and dedication to racial equality, but I was scared too, and that video was what I feared most. As a mother, I couldn’t imagine how the King family felt watching that happen to their kin. At the time I didn’t think that I’d be able to survive if something like that happened to one of my children.

  I had tried to keep the channels of communication with them open as they grew up. We talked about what it was like out in the streets, the brutality and inequality that seemed to become more of an issue with each passing year. I told them that there were things police do to people of color, especially men, and it was important for them to be very careful when they were out in the city. It was the talk all mothers in the Black community are forced to have with their children—an unfortunate tradition.

  If any of my children did run into trouble, they would usually tell me about it, saying they hadn’t done anything wrong. I knew that it was very possible that they were innocent, but I also knew what teenagers could get into, and I’m sure that sometimes it was warranted. I tried to stress that it was important that they do the right thing. Both of my sons sold drugs when they were young men, though I didn’t know it at the time. Of course, they never brought it to the house—they knew better than that—but I started to hear things.

  There was a neighbor around the corner who was a conservative type of guy. He was usually quiet, but when he got drunk it was a different story. He would walk through the neighborhood searching for someone to talk to. Actually, that was how we found out a lot of the neighborhood gossip. He was a real talker. One day he came knocking on my door. I wasn’t going to open, but I was curious what he would say.

  “Gwen,” he said with breath that smelled of the devil, “I need to talk to you. I hope you know your son is selling drugs.”

  Now he had my attention. “Who?” I asked.

  “It’s Emery. I know for a fact that he’s out here selling them drugs and running with that rough crowd. I thought you already knew. Everybody else does.”

  I guided my tipsy neighbor to the door and said goodnight. I knew he was as drunk as he could be, but I did wonder if what he said was true. A few weeks later, I found myself alone with Emery and knew it was the right time. “So, you’re out here selling drugs, huh? You think I don’t know what’s going on? Remember, that’s what took your father out when you were just a toddler. If that’s what you are really doing, it will come to light.”

  He would never admit it to me because he didn’t want to disappoint me, but I knew I was right. Emery ended up getting arrested a few times. Eric also had a few run-ins with the law. Eric had been arrested for pot possession in 1988 and had a few more incidents over the years. I would tell both of them that if they went to jail, I would not come to see them. I was not coming down there because they knew I had a phobia about those bars. I did not what to hear that heavy metallic clang behind me as the bars closed, locking me inside. Despite my fears, of course I went, and I helped them if I could. If they had to serve some time, I wrote them letters and sent care packages like they were in camp, but I didn’t like what they had done. I was so upset they would choose that road in life. Later, they would say they didn’t mean to hurt me. They never really used hard drugs that I knew of, but they did sell them to earn money. I never liked that, but I also realized that there wasn’t much I could do.

  I understood the struggle that young Black men face when it comes time to go out on their own. In too many places, racism and preconceived stereotypes prevent them from being able to find decent jobs. They are expected to be the provider for their family, but that becomes difficult when they can’t get a job that pays a decent wage. Being young and impatient, they find other ways to make more money, even when they know it’s not right. I’m not an expert, and I don’t know how that cycle got started, but to create real change we need to come together to find a way to stop it.

  When Emery was in the hospital that October, I was sure that it had something to do with drugs and hanging around the wrong people, but the only thing I could do at that point was help him get better. He was twenty-four years old and his own man. I would give my opinion, but it was his life to lead. Once he was able to move around, he was on the go again. He took another trip upstate with a girl he was seeing. I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but I knew that Ellisha was concerned as well. Emery did like his wine and Hennessy, and Ellisha warned him to go easy because he was still healing.

  After he got back from that trip, he seemed to be feeling a little better, and he was back to being a baller, showing everyone that he could earn that paper. One way that he tried to placate us when we asked too many questions was to buy things. He paid for Ellisha’s room to be painted and even got her pink carpet. He did other things around the house, too, and his latest promise was that he would buy me a new washing machine. Lord knows that I needed one, but I was not interested in dirty money, and I expressed that. He assured me that I was worrying for nothing.

  On December 8, 1996, I came home from work at 6:00 a.m., as usual, to find that the family had gathered at my apartment. I felt my stomach flip-flop inside me as I pushed through the front door. “Where’s my mother?” I thought maybe something happened to Mama after we’d already lost Daddy. I was so scared. My sister Sharon told me to sit down, and I said, “No, just tell me what happened. Something bad has happened, hasn’t it?” She couldn’t do it, so Ellisha told me three words that changed my life forever: “Emery is dead.”

  You know what that moment felt like? It was as if I had been swallowed up by an ocean wave, like I had been smothered with so much force that I couldn’t move. Like the undercurrent was pulling me out to sea forever. They said that I let out a bloodcurdling scream that was so full of pain that everyone broke down crying. I don’t remember that. I just kept picturing little Emery growing up, taking charge of the family, comforting me when I was stressed or upset about something. Picturing him like that was the only way I could cope. I just used my memory to push reality off into a dark corner.

  Ellisha and the others handled the funeral arrangements because I could barely function. I wasn’t sleeping or eating. I didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t go out, and didn’t go to work. It was December, so my house was fully decorated as usual in anticipation of our favorite day of the year. After I got that news, Christmas lost its meaning for me. How could I celebrate when one of my own children had been taken from me? It was simple—I couldn’t. The fact was that I couldn’t let him go. I was not willing to accept it, because I knew that once I did that meant it was real, and I wasn’t sure I could survive that.

  Much later, Ellisha and the others gave me the details about what had happened. They told me more about some of the things he had done. He had been swallowed up by the dark side of life on the streets. It was a side he never allowed me to see. Apparently, his trip upstate with the lady was not just a vacation but also a “business opportunity.” He had said that he needed to pick up some things and would be right back. Then Ellisha got a call from a friend of Emery’s and he was crying. He told her that Emery had died in his sleep. Ellisha was livid. “What was y’all doing? Did he drink alcohol? He was still healing!”

  Ellisha called the local police, and they told her that they couldn’t give her information over the phone, but they confirmed that her brother had passed away and someone needed to come identify the body. Ellisha called her uncle, who was a cop, and he went up there with Eric and cousin Stevie. They found out that my son, my little Emery, had been shot once in the back of the head. I still can’t make sense of that statement. I see the words, but together they don’t mean anything to me. Emery will always be my son, and I won’t think of him in any other way. I can’t.

  I had just spoken to Emery before I went to work that night. He had a son and told me that he had put all his boy’s Christmas toys on layaway. “I know you told me you need a new washing machine, so I’m buying you one for Christmas,” he reminded me. I said, “Oh
really?” After his death I tried my best to find the store that had those toys on layaway. I know it didn’t make sense, but I thought that if I could find them and get them, I would somehow have a piece of Emery. I would have the last things he bought, things he had put thought into. I called and visited every store I could think of. Other family members told me to give up, that maybe there wasn’t a store, maybe there weren’t any toys, but I didn’t believe them. I still don’t.

  The only way I was able to cope was to shut down. It was the only thing I could control. I fell into a depression that was as dark and scary as any hell could ever be. I lost more than sixty pounds because I just didn’t have an interest in food, or anything else for that matter. Eric was destroyed by the news, too. He tried to be stoic and strong, but he had moments when I could see that he was hurting. Someone had murdered his brother, my son. It was incomprehensible. Eric wasn’t the vengeful type, but he was definitely angry about it.

  Eventually, Eric did get better, and talking to him even helped me get to a place where we could at least acknowledge what had happened. It was still a tender subject, and I could only touch on it briefly and then move on, like a finger on a hot stove. I felt that if I lingered too long, the pain would come back again, even stronger. I was just glad that I had Ellisha and Eric close by. We found out that the police caught the man who was responsible on another charge and he was locked up. It wasn’t really the closure I thought it would be, though, because it didn’t alter the fact that my life had been changed.