Take Back the Block

by Chrystal D. Giles

  “Now, Wes, you are always welcome to come over. You know that. After we get settled in, you can come stay the night,” Mrs. Williams said. It was a nice thing to say, but I knew it wouldn’t be the same—things were changing, like Mya had said. Brent was another piece of my puzzle breaking away.

  He dapped me up and got in the truck. Before they could pull out of the driveway, I had hopped back across the fence. I didn’t want to watch the truck drive away.

  Stacks of old articles and faded black-and-white photographs covered our kitchen table Saturday morning. Mom, Dad, Mr. Baker, Ms. Monica, and I had spent the morning huddled up, poring over every bit of information we could find on Pippin Village. My eyes had gotten heavy from staring at my research and looking for something to connect then to now—something with historical significance. I knew Mr. Pippin was the man in his day, but we still hadn’t found what we needed for the designation.

  Ms. Monica explained that the designation wouldn’t bring our neighbors back, but it would likely stop any large buildings, like a condo building, from going up in the Oaks. That meant Simmons wouldn’t be so interested in our neighborhood because they couldn’t build a big, fancy place like they’d planned—and that was enough for me.

  “We’ll need some kind of symbol that ties back to Pippin Village,” Ms. Monica said. “Let’s keep looking.”

  I gazed at the photographs. The lumber mill took up the space where the corner store used to be and where the library is now, and the village spanned ten blocks east of it, pretty close to where the houses are now. The village homes were identical in size and shape, with little porches on the front. There were two main pathways on each side of the community connecting the village to the mill. I imagined the kids standing on their porches waving to their fathers as they walked to work.

  Photos of the inside of Pippin’s Lumber Mill showed men standing side by side working together. In one photo, the workers posed under the sign at the entrance of the mill. Their faces showed no expression at all, but they had happy eyes. Boys as young as me stood proudly beside their fathers. I wondered if they worked there too. My favorite picture was of Mr. Pippin. He stood under the lumber mill sign beside his employees, with a strong, wide stance.

  Even after looking for hours, we still hadn’t found what we needed. Ms. Monica had said this would be hard, but right now it seemed impossible.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next morning I got up early to meet Jas and Alyssa at the basketball court. There was no sign of Drip or any of the older guys, so we had the whole court to ourselves. We played a game of HORSE and talked about how weird it was with Brent gone.

  “This is the first time he won’t be around for Thanksgiving,” Jas said. “He always had me save him some quindim—it’s his favorite dessert.”

  “And he always begged my mom for pecan pie,” Alyssa said.

  Brent has a thing for desserts, and we knew to save him something sweet from our Thanksgiving meals. I guess we didn’t have to anymore.

  “I think Kari is coming over for Thanksgiving,” I said, changing the subject. “He might even get to stay the night.”

  “Let me know if y’all are up for an NBA 2K tournament,” Alyssa said, smirking.

  “Ummm, yeah…we’ll let you know,” I said. No way was Alyssa beating me again in front of everyone.

  We finished our game of HORSE and headed our separate ways. I wondered how many times I’d strolled the 102 steps from my house to the court and how many games of HORSE I’d played during my time in the Oaks. I didn’t want to think about not having the park right down the block from me—it was a part of me.

  I got washed up, went straight to the kitchen, and spread the pictures from the folder back onto the table. I held each picture in my hands. I focused on the outside view and then concentrated on the inner details.

  When I got to the photo from the day before, the one with the mill workers under the Pippin’s Lumber Mill sign, far in the background of the photo a little girl caught my attention. She stood left of the main building by herself. I wondered what she would’ve been doing at the mill.

  Then I saw it!

  She was standing in front of a water fountain—it was just a bit shorter than her and had a steel water basin.

  Could it have the same swirly leaves around the base as the fountain in the park?

  “Mom, Dad,” I yelled. “Come look!”

  They came running from their bedroom.

  “Wes, what is it?” Dad asked.

  “Is this the same fountain that’s in the park?” I asked, pointing to the photo. I could barely keep the picture still in my hand.

  “I think it is….Could it really be?” Mom asked. She grabbed the photo from me.

  They took turns looking at the water fountain through a magnifying glass.

  That has to be it.

  That must be why I’ve always felt a connection to the water fountain. It’s the final missing piece of the Pippin puzzle.

  I imagined the children from Pippin Village playing on the very land I’ve lived on my whole life—standing on the same ground where I play basketball, even drinking from the same water fountain.

  “Wes, I think you’re right. This could be the same fountain,” Dad said.

  “That should be enough to get us on the registry, right?” I asked.

  “Let’s call Monica,” Dad said.

  I waited while Dad explained how the fountain looked exactly like the one in the neighborhood park. Then he put the phone on speaker. “There are no guarantees, but I think we have a very convincing argument,” Ms. Monica said. “I’ll submit the application, and in forty-five days we’ll know if we are approved.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The next few days crept by on the back of a caterpillar. I’d poured all my energy into books and research for weeks, and now there was nothing left to do except wait. “Good things come to those who wait,” Mr. Hank always says.

  Forty-two days days left of waiting.

  I laid the pieces of my puzzle out on the kitchen table. I had completed it at least a dozen times. It was one of my favorites. “Eyes in the Wild” was a close-up of a lion in its natural habitat. Something about the big, golden mane and powerful posture drew me in.

  If no one bothered me, I could complete this five-hundred-piece puzzle in two hours flat. I’d been so antsy lately; fixing puzzles was like a breath of fresh air.

  “Want some company?” Mom asked, joining me in the kitchen.

  “Ummm, okay,” I said. I would rather have been left alone, but I couldn’t think of a way to say no. Besides, it was her house and her table and she had no problem reminding me of that.

  “Need some help?”

  “Nah, I’m trying for a new record.”

  I turned the pieces faceup and got busy with the outside border.

  “I’ll just watch, then.” She settled into the chair across from me with a cup of tea and watched me work.

  Mom cleared her throat. The easy, cool air started to warm. Mom cleared her throat again. The air got warmer. Mom cleared her throat again. I knew she wanted to say something—when she had something on her mind, she randomly cleared her throat over and over. I waited. The speech was coming.

  “You know, Wes,” she started, “not everyone is gifted with the fight and drive you have. That thing deep inside pushing you to seek out your own way, that’s called being a leader.”

  I kept my eyes fixed on the puzzle. I painstakingly fit the pieces together one by one. So much for setting a new record.

  “That’s not something to take lightly. You have it. You’re a natural-born leader,” she said.

  I wasn’t so sure I was a leader, natural or unnatural.

  Mom sat quietly watching me a bit longer. Then she drank the las
t of her tea and got up from the table.

  “Don’t stay up too late,” she said after planting a light kiss on my forehead.

  I give Mom a hard time, but I knew she was trying to help. The thing is, Mom is a leader—at everything, really. When she walks into a room, she controls it. She always says the right words, and I’ve never seen her back down from a challenge.

  She does it all: PTA meetings, class volunteer, chaperone, awesome cook, and a decent basketball player. I would never admit it to her, but my mom is pretty dope.

  I’m not sure I’ll ever be the leader she is.

  I fit the last puzzle piece in place. Something about how each part fit so perfect and exact made me envious.

  Every fall, I love going to the pre-Thanksgiving football game at the local high school. Dad went to school at East Wood High and makes a point to go back every year for this game. I was looking forward to it more than ever this year; I needed something fun to distract me from worrying about getting approved for the historic designation. Dad and I, dressed in matching silver-and-blue hoodies, jumped into the SUV, ready to cheer on the Wildcats.

  During the short five-mile drive to the high school, we were transported to another place—a place way nicer than what I remembered. The neighborhoods around East Wood High used to be made up of small, old homes. Now in their place were rows of three-story stone-front town houses. The apartment buildings that once backed up to the school had been torn down and replaced with a block of partially built mini-mansions. I’m talking houses that looked like they’d probably be two or three times the size of mine when they were finished.

  “Dad, when did all this happen?” I asked.

  “Not sure, Wes. I knew there had been some improvements—you remember the construction from last year—but I had no idea the whole neighborhood had been overhauled,” Dad replied. I could tell he was just as confused as I was. His eyebrows were stuck in an up position, like he’d just seen a ghost.

  The park across the street from the school was now just an open, bland slab of concrete. In the middle of the slab was a grid of holes spraying water in different directions—a fountain for rich people. Little wooden tables and chairs, painted a vivid green, were placed just outside the reach of the water holes. Not one swing in sight. It looked more like an outdoor dining room than a park.

  Dad drove around to the entrance of the school. The old parking lot was blocked off with bright orange construction cones. There was an attendant directing cars to the rear of the building. When we reached the new lot at the back of the school, I realized the old East Wood High was practically gone. Everything from the walkways to the paint was new.

  We climbed the stairs to enter the football stadium. The original stadium had been updated with new seats, a turf field, and huge high-definition monitors. The normally Black crowd was sprinkled with more white people than I could count, cheering on the team.

  Dad and I marched down and grabbed seats near the fifty-yard line.

  Before our butts could hit the seats, a deep voice called out, “Hey, Walt!”

  A man who looked about Dad’s age waved from a spot a couple seats away. He was decked out in Wildcats gear from head to toe. He wore a full sweat suit, a hat, and a flag draped over his shoulders—I would have never let Dad leave the house like that.

  “Come on over, I’ve got two empty seats,” the man said.

  “Big Reg? Hey. How are you?” Dad said as he and I walked over to the open seats. “You remember Mr. Reggie, right?” Dad asked, turning to me. “We went to East Wood together.”

  I nodded, but I didn’t remember him at all.

  Mr. Reggie gave Dad a hard pat on the back and reached out a firm hand to me. Mr. Reggie was indeed big, like security guard big. His hand swallowed mine.

  “My son’s a wide receiver on the team. He was MVP last year. I’m glad you’ll get to see him play,” Mr. Reggie said as the first snap signaled the start of the game.

  I’ve never been a huge football fan—basketball is more my game—but I like visiting Dad’s old school. I’ll eventually be going to high school at East Wood. Dad thinks it’s cool that I’ll be walking the same halls he did.

  “Go, go, go! Touchdown!” Mr. Reggie yelled.

  The crowd erupted, and the cheerleaders ran up the sideline cheering the team on.

  “Black players, white cheerleaders. Boy, I tell you, this isn’t the same old East Wood,” Mr. Reggie said with a teeth smack.

  “All this happened fast,” Dad said, lowering his voice. “I didn’t even recognize the neighborhood. Last year they had just started breaking ground on the lot across the street.”

  “It did happen fast. Those homes went up, and everything else followed,” Mr. Reggie explained, pointing toward the town houses. “What bothers me is all these improvements to the school happened when the rich white people moved in. That old parking lot has been in bad shape for years. Same for the inside of the school. It wasn’t until we moved out and they moved in that someone spent some money to update the place.”

  “We’re afraid the same thing will happen in our neighborhood,” Dad said. His voice sounded small, maybe even a little scared.

  “Well, I can tell you, we took the money and ran. We moved four miles down the hill,” Mr. Reggie said. “We figured they won’t cross the tracks, with all these shiny new houses.” Mr. Reggie had a deep growl in his voice, but his eyes looked as sad as Dad’s did.

  I listened quietly and thought about Mr. Baker’s article, “Is Gentrification the New Segregation?” I wasn’t sure, but it was starting to seem that way, considering Mr. Reggie had moved out of his neighborhood and now it was filling up with white people. The same way the Oaks was once all white and when Mom moved in it slowly turned mostly Black. The same thing was happening around East Wood, but in reverse. Yeah, maybe segregation was back.

  A few days later, I woke up to the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg floating through the air. I knew that meant the kitchen counter was lined with Mom’s famous sweet potato pies. She always makes one special pie that’s all for me. A perk of being an only child.

  Since it was Thanksgiving Day, I’d have to announce what I was most thankful for before dinner was served. This year was especially tough because nothing was the same. My world had been dumped on its head—like a turtle stuck on its back, waving its arms and legs, trying to get right side up again.

  I could say I was thankful for new sneakers, but that would earn me a slap on the back of the head. Maybe I could say I was thankful to have somewhere to live, but that would be a lie. Besides, I wasn’t sure the Oaks would be my home much longer. I was thankful Kari was coming to Thanksgiving dinner. It had been over a month since he moved away, and even though we talked on the phone sometimes, it wasn’t the same.

  Mom was busy in the kitchen. Every pot and pan was out on the counters. She always prepares the whole meal by herself; she says it’s her gift to her favorite men (me and Dad).

  “Hey, Mom, smells good. Need some help?” I asked when I joined her in the kitchen.

  “No, I got it. You just hang out and rest up—it’s your night to do the dishes,” she said with a wink.

  “What time will Kari get here?”

  “Soon. Tasha asked if we could do dinner a little early this year so she could get back home. She also said it’ll be fine for Kari to stay for a couple days.”

  “Yes! Thanks, Mom.”

  I got busy thinking of all the stuff me and Kari could do over the weekend. Maybe Jas and Brent could come over too and we could watch movies.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ding dong!

  “That’s Kari! I’ll get it!” I said, opening the front door.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, everyone,” Ms. Tasha said as she and Kari came inside.

  “Hey,” Kari said softly.

 
“Where’s Danica?” I asked.

  “She stayed back with her aunt to help with the big family dinner. I promised I’d be back in time to eat with them, but I know how much Kari wanted to be here for the traditional Hendersons’ Thanksgiving meal,” Ms. Tasha said.

  After Kari’s dad left, he, Danica, and Ms. Tasha started coming to our house for Thanksgiving dinner, since Ms. Tasha usually worked right up to dinnertime. Mom said it gave them one less thing to worry about on a day that should be about thankfulness.

  “Come on in and get comfortable,” Mom called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  Dad was parked in his favorite spot on the couch, his eyes glued to the play-by-play action of the football game. I sat with him and made a spot for Kari between us. Instead, Kari slumped down on the far end with his back to the TV.

  I didn’t know what was up with him. I knew he wasn’t into sports, but he usually pretended a little better than this.

  Ding dong!

  “Hey, Wes. Happy Thanksgiving, y’all!” Mr. Hank said when I opened the door.

  Mr. Hank was always right on time for dinner. Dad flicked off the TV and joined Mom in the kitchen.

  “Gather round, everyone. Grab the nearest hand—let’s bless this food and dig in,” Dad said, holding Mom’s hand. Everyone squeezed up to the round table meant for four people. I was sandwiched between Kari and Mr. Hank. It wasn’t until I reached for Kari’s hand that I noticed his purple, bruised knuckles. He snatched his hand away and tucked it into his pocket.

  “Dear Lord, thank you for this wonderful meal prepared by my lovely wife,” Dad said. “Thank you for another opportunity to break bread with family and friends.”

  I peeked over at Kari. He sat motionless. His eyes were wide open, but even the white part looked dark.

  “Amen,” everyone said at once, everyone except Kari.

  I think Mom could tell Kari wasn’t feeling very thankful. So instead of making us go around the table to say what we were thankful for, she just said, “I am thankful for my family and my home and happy we have created such a special tradition with everyone at this table. Now, let’s eat.”