The Stars and the Blackness Between Them

by Junauda Petrus

  “I’ll be okay,” she says as she composes herself, closing her eyes and breathing in deep for a couple of moments. She opens back her eyes. “I ain’t here to make friends, anyway,” she says, like she is convincing herself, but it still made me feel some type of way. Wasn’t we friends? “I is here for me studies and to get to know my father. If I can get good grades and behave myself, hopefully my mother will let me come back.”

  This was the first time I heard her speak of wanting to go back home for sure. I thought she was starting to like it here. The idea of her going back to Trinidad was surprising and made me feel some type of way again.

  We get to her first class—World History with Mr. Burns, who also taught when my dad went to school here. I told her I’d see if she can switch out of his into Ms. Sharkey’s class, Afro-Future Feminisms for a New World. She has us read stories from Assata Shakur (not Tupac’s mama) and science fiction by Black women and reflect on what a “Black feminist future” might look like according to the ideas in their work. When I bring her to Mr. Burns’s class, I tell her I will find her at lunch, and then I run to trig.

  After trig is Taking Your Poetry from Page to Stage, a class with my favorite teacher, Mr. Trinh. He is the creative writing and theater teacher—and a poet in the real world too. I scan the room quickly and looking for a seat. His classroom is fly and moody. He, like Ms. Sharkey, has lamps and a couch and pillows everywhere, but he also has a record player with all of these records he got donated from some of his DJ homies and from his own collection. He got mad posters up in his room. Of Biggie, Grace Lee Boggs, June Jordan, James Baldwin. He also has a poster that says THE TIME TO BE HAPPY IS NOW, which always calms me. I slide in quietly, right after the bell.

  Mr. Trinh doesn’t even notice I’m a little late since he busy getting things together for class. He loves to drop bars, which are actually really bomb, and he’s also good at clowning students who trying to be too cool to be smart and getting them to participate. He and Ms. Sharkey are the funniest and chillest teachers. There was even a rumor that they was together, but then there was another rumor that Ms. Sharkey got a girlfriend who got a Mercedes and play for the WNBA, so I don’t know what to believe.

  Mr. Trinh is pacing the front of the class like a first day of school hype-man. He is wearing a T-shirt with Geordi La Forge from Star Trek: The Next Generation, a dark-green blazer, some all-black Chucks, and his determined enthusiasm for the spoken word.

  “Who ready for this new year? Where my real poets at? Where my slick talkers and ish droppers at? Who been catching up on that Lucille Clifton? Bao Phi? Joy Harjo? Nikky Finney? Let me hear you say, oh yeah!”

  Crickets. Then some chuckles.

  “Oh, I see y’all, wait till I start dropping these new poetics on y’all.” His smile got many of his students crushing on him, low-key.

  I open my notebook and am taking down notes while he goes over the syllabus. I keep thinking about Audre and how she did in Mr. Burns’s class. I’m so deep in thought, it takes me a second to look around and notice Jada has this class too. She smiles at me a little smile and I wave a little wave.

  Before Jada ghosted me this summer, we used to chill together in geometry. We would always be cracking jokes and study after school sometimes with other kids in class. One night she called me to ask about an assignment, and we ended up staying on the phone for three hours, talking about our classes and music. She likes BLK LVRS too, she said she thinks QWN Asantewaa is the finest one in the group. I was, like, mmm-hmmm. We started talking on the phone a lot more, until the summer-rain-hug thing. I also think she started talking to this dude, Eli, who is kinda basic. I guess I felt some kind of way, but then was like whatever.

  “For kids who are new to taking class with me: Every day we will begin class with a free write with a prompt. It’s just for you to generate and get in your writing vibe. You may not find the flow right away, but eventually you can find your way to the poetry in you. All of us got poetry in us, ’cause our lives are in constant motion and unfolding, and when we observe it and behold it, it becomes poetry. A place to reflect, a prayer, a possibility for your existence to be connected to all that exists. Even if it is very sentimental or not your best, let it flow out of you and be your own personal gospel. Okay, y’all?”

  All of us is paying attention now.

  “Aight, so the free write prompt for the day is, ‘In that moment it all changed . . .’ Let whatever flow out and see what you come up with, okay?”

  Mr. Trinh then goes to the corner of his classroom where the stereo is set up and puts on a record of some hip-hop instrumental music, quietly in the background. I look at my notebook and write the prompt down. In that moment it all changed . . .

  I can’t think of anything right away. And then I think of Jada in class and come up with something to write.

  In that moment it all changed.

  How you saw me.

  You couldn’t see me anymore, I disappeared.

  And you materialized into another phase.

  I phased out, and you were glitter then gone.

  Like a dragonfly, emphasis on the dragon.

  Burning my heart and flying through the sky.

  Why? Didn’t I try?

  I can’t deny, ’cause it ain’t even a lie.

  So I’ll just say bye-bye.

  I look at what I wrote and cringe. It seems both bad and thirstily in my feels. Whatever. It’s what I had off the dome and I ain’t wrote all summer so thank goodness we don’t gotta share these out to class because this wasn’t my best work.

  “I encourage each of you to consider contributing to the student lit journal this year and join spoken-word club, aight? Y’all know I will have cookies, popcorn, and whatnot. Lemonade on payday. But before the bell rings, I want to share one more thing with you. From one of my favorite poets, Donte Collins.

  “My love is as ancient as my blood.

  And of course my blood is still mine

  because a woman, sweetened black

  with good song, pulled me from the river

  like an axe pulled back from the bark.

  I learned love, first, as scar.

  And of course my love is only mine

  because I found the nerve to say it is.

  Ha, My love is mine.

  But was first my mother’s. Not the how

  but the why. But was first her mother’s.

  Not the how but the why.

  Not the how; Not the how; Not the how;

  Not the how; Not the how; Not the how.

  I am bored with this beat. I seek

  a different dance toward death.

  Lord, listen up. Lean in:

  I crave a love that happens as sweetly

  as it was named. If love must be swung,

  let it soften. Not split.”

  He closes his book and looks at us.

  “Have a good day, y’all.”

  The bell rings, and it is time for the next class.

  “How was your summer?” Jada asks me, as we are leaving class and walking down the hall. She got a big Afro puff over her smooth and pretty coffee skin. She’s wearing a denim dress and pink lip gloss and lookin’ cute. Or whatever.

  “Cool. I worked my little jobby job at the community center with the kids and helped my dad in the garden. Kicked it with the homies. How about you?” I try to seem chill and unbothered.

  “It was aight. I went to Chicago with my parents and brother to check out schools and hang with my grandparents. I spent a lot of time at the lake with the homies. I wish I coulda seen you a little bit,” she says, and my heart sinks a little.

  “I was around. You shoulda hollered,” I say, trying to smile naturally and like I ain’t even care what she was saying. We are walking when she stops at Ms. Sharkey’s class an
d sees her homie, Nevaeh.

  “Hey, Mabel, what’s good? Where you been?” Nevaeh looks at me with a little too big of a smile. Jada and Nevaeh hug each other, throw a bye to me, and head into class. Whatever.

  In the cafeteria, Audre is picking over the taco casserole. Only school would take something as good and perfect as tacos and mash it up into a weird, soft casserole. I plop down next to her on the bench. Audre starts telling me about her first classes.

  “So, I is looking at the class syllabus and I ain’t seeing nothing ’bout Trinidad and Tobago. But dis supposed to be World History? Steupse. I look in de book, go to de index, I still ain’t seeing nothin’ so I go and see Caribbean, all it say underneath is Columbus in Hispaniola and Napoleon in Haiti. I raise my hand, real respectful, no attitude or nothing, after the teacher give his introduction to the syllabus. I ask, ‘When will you be covering the twin island republic of Trinidad and Tobago?’ Some kids in class giggling as if I say somethin’ funny. And I see Mr. Burns laughin’ low under he breath too, like I is the stchupid one. He say that he just covers major global events.” Audre leans back, shaking her head no with her eyes closed, looking irritated.

  “At the end of class, I go to his desk and ask what determines a global event is major? He explains that he covers the events that have global impact and not regional incidents such as what happens in the Caribbean. Before I could ask a next question, he asks me if they have detention in Trinidad and tells me to run along to my next class so I ain’t late,” she says, looking pretty irritated, both at the casserole and at the bigotry of Mr. Burns.

  I can’t think of anything to say really. “Yeah, that joker is stupid and he a little racist. He been here forever, like since the nineties. And he was the one teacher who gave out detentions to folks after the walkout protesting the Native kid who got shot by cops last year. He thought folks was just trying to skip,” I said.

  “What you talkin’ about a walkout?”

  “When folks walk the heck up out of class when some real stuff has gone down. Mainly police brutality and political ish. And some kids just do it to skip, but I don’t blame ’em, since school be wack anyway, sometimes,” I say.

  “That would never happen in Trinidad. The teachers would be in dey hallway cuffing the kids down and de parents would be at the school, beating they children back into the building,” she said all chill about it, but personally it seemed messed up to me a little that they couldn’t stand up for their rights.

  Next to her casserole, she was looking through a pamphlet for new students with all of the sports teams and extracurricular clubs, like theater, debate team, the Latinx student group, the Native kids group, the Black Student Union (which I was a part of a lot last year). She pointed to the rainbow flag for the PRISM group for the LGBTQIA kids and allies at school.

  “That’s for the queer kids at school. I know some kids in it. Ursa goes sometimes, ’cause Jazzy is a part of it. You don’t got to be gay to go, though, I don’t think. I never been to it though,” I say.

  “Oh, I see. I ain’t ever hear of nothing like this. They don’t have anything like that in my school in Trinidad,” she says, and looks at it for a long time. I don’t know what she thinks about it. I know she is kind of religious, but I don’t know if that means she thinks that club is evil or anything. Lunch is almost over, and I notice that both of us barely ate our food.

  “The food here can sometimes be aight and sometimes nasty as hell.” I nod at her tray. “But just so you know, you can get chocolate-chip cookies three for a dollar, and they fresh and they fyah. We can split them if you want—I’ll pay.”

  She looks up at me and smiles.

  “Thank you. I would like one. That sounds tasty.” We head to the cafeteria’s kitchen to pick up cookies before I take her to the counselor’s office to see if she can switch out of Mr. Burns’s bullshit class.

  AUDRE

  I CAN’T DESCRIBE THIS AIR. It has a feeling to it that I have never known. It is still sunny during the day, but it getting darker earlier, and the evenings get so cold, I had to ask my dad for another blanket so I wouldn’t be shivering through the night. And then I ask for a next one.

  This week, he took me to get some more clothes that were appropriate for the colder weather. We went to the mall to look for some sweaters, turtlenecks, thick socks, boots, and long underwear, which is like thin pajamas to wear under your clothes, because he say it gets so cold and freezing during wintertime you need to wear a layer underneath your actual outfit. Steupse. What kind of place must you wear two sets of clothes to not die of cold?

  At the mall, besides the socks and boots, I wasn’t really finding anything I was too liking. All of it seem too basic or for another type of girl.

  “You ain’t feeling these clothes, honey,” he ask after a while of me trying on clothes and not finding anything. We were walking through this overwhelmingly fluorescent and sterile mall that had to be five times the size of the malls at home. I was beginning to feel blinded by all of the brightly lit intensity of stores filled with things.

  “Not really, I guess. But I can just pick something. I’m grateful you are taking me shopping,” I said, not wanting to seem like I ain’t appreciate what he was doing.

  “I’m your dad, and it’s my honor and pleasure,” he said in his cheesy yet sweet way. “Hey, Audre, how about I take you to my favorite vintage store to get some stuff? I notice you have a bit of a funky style, like your dad.” He popped an imaginary collar from his dashiki. “You might like the stuff that they sell there better than the mall. What you think, honey?” he asked, as we stood talking in front of another annoying shop of clothes for teen girls with no bum bums.

  “Sure.” It felt a bit weird to have him describe us as alike in any type of way. But it’s also kind of nice.

  And he was right about me liking the vintage store—just like he was about me liking my velvet friend. The shop—called The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe—was inside of what looked like an old house, and it had floors filled with cool, old-school, and eclectic clothes, shoes, and all kinds of accessories and jewelry. He told me to explore and find what clothes I like and he would be wandering around if I needed anything. I kept on expecting him to say something about what I was picking out, but instead he was just letting me do my thing. And for some reason I was feeling awkward, not having any critique from an adult figure to help me determine my outfits. Every time I would show my dad something, he would say nice but unhelpful statements like, “That’s dope!” or “I can see you rocking that” or “It’s whatever you like, Audre.” It was hard to make a choice when I had free rein.

  The shop clerk was very friendly and she pretty, with steel-blue hair. She have a skinny black line on she upper lid that look a bit witchy. I liked she style. She offered to help me find sweaters in my size that were my style.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, you have a pretty accent,” she said, selecting a couple of items from the sweater rack for me and I felt shy a little bit by the compliment.

  “Oh, thank you. I’m from Trinidad,” I said, glad she ain’t guess Jamaica like most people.

  “Ooooh, I heard of Trinidad—and its carnival and music. Is this your first winter in Minnesota?” she asked, and I told her yes. “Okay, love, I’m going to make sure I hook you up then. I was born in El Salvador and came here as a teen, so I know the struggle.” Her smile was pure kindness. “I had to figure out how to dress warm and be cute at the same time. You want a pro tip?” I nodded again. “Get cute tights that are thick, and cozy chunky sweaters to wear over dresses. That way, you can still wear your fly summer clothes, but add some additional layers and still stay warm.”

  She helped me find some maroon corduroy overalls that fit my big bumper, funky old-school sweaters, and a super-soft green cardigan that I could wear over dresses and that pop real nice against my brown skin. I also got a black hoodie that says Goddess
in gold cursive letters that she said goes good with jeans or a cute skirt with sneakers. She then helped me pick out some thick cabled tights in black, navy, and a turquoise color, which reminded me of the sea. When we got home, I went into my room and laid out all of my new warm clothes on my bed.

  My winter clothes.

  I know I ain’t going back to Trinidad anytime soon, and this leaves me feeling suspended in an impossible reality. I keep hoping that my mom will call me back so I could be home and with my family. In my last conversation with her, she made it clear that she thought I seemed like I was doing fine with my dad and it’s good that he and I are connecting. Like she whole intent in sending me away was for me to get to know him and not disappear me from she life.

  I sit on my bed, on top of my new wardrobe of thick and scratchy layers, insulation for my new life, and I start to feel like my room is closing in on me, with sadness rushing into my ribs and on my lungs. I feeling heat flare in my throat and eyes, and I tearing up. Before I overflow, I pick up the Goddess hoodie, put it on over my dress, and zip to the garage to get my bike to ride to see the sky and fill my head with it.

  I ride fast and I’s aggressive. If I can’t stop my tears, then I need to feel my body, feel in control of it in other ways. My speed brings a wind to my face that is pleasing and I find a way to forget myself. I feel traces of my tears along my now-dry cheeks. My knuckles grip the handlebars tight and I feel kissed by the breeze that I’m cutting through, wiping the dark-cloud vibes that envelop me. With each push of my pedals I exhaling some of my sadness. I hearing Queenie’s words: “Let the pain leave out of you with each breath. It want to be free too,” she would say whenever I would get hurt, or if I was feeling sick. Even if I was sad, she would say these words, and through my tears and pain, I would find my center again.

  I ride until I seeing a creek and the water feels like it calling to me. I walk my bike alongside the water, and I wonder what it is rushing toward. The rush and movement of energy feels like how I feel. I want to shake and roar and fly around. My body still zinging from my ride and all of the trees roar and sing to me in the breeze. Spirit. I lie down with my bike under a cover of trees right by the creek and on the dirt itself that is layered in leaves and the little green sticks from the pine trees. A little cocoon for me. I let all of the layers of earth beneath me and all of the wild, crying winds above me envelop my body and just breathe and be still. I speak prayers to myself.