The Emancipation of Evan Walls

by Jeffrey Blount

  “That don’t matter none. All that matters is that most of us feel you ain’t got but one chance at life. If you don’t get a even-Steven chance to take your best shot, then you gets mad. And when folks come along after you, getting what you shoulda got, you gets even madder.”

  “Shouldn’t they be happy for them?”

  “Life ain’t that simple.”

  “Well, now I feel bad for wanting more.”

  “Ain’t no need for that. If somebody dies, you ain’t gone stop living, is you, ’cause you feels bad for ’em? Course you ain’t. You got to go on living for yo’self, or you just grow up to be old and bitter like us. Somewhere, sometime, somebody got to break the circle.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That you didn’t get the life you deserved.”

  “Well, thank you, but I learned to live with it. It weighs me down so sometimes that I finds myself shuffling instead a walking, but I gets by.”

  “How do you learn to live with something so unfair?”

  “Black folk,” he said, “have always learned to live with what they ain’t been able to rise above. And no matter where you go and how far you get, one day you gone hit a wall and know that the only reason—and I mean the only reason—that wall is there is ’cause you black. It might be that you go all the way till you want to run for president, but folks gone say, black folks included, that America ain’t ready for no black president. But that ain’t your worry now, ’cause all that be way down the line. You just got to trust Bojack and Mama Jennie, and believe that Canaan ain’t your stopping point.”

  “I believe you, but I can’t understand why some people like T. Wall believe it is.”

  “I don’t know. Black folks been living behind bars for so long they done got used to it. And when some bars get lowered enough for to get over ’em, folks ain’t looking hard enough to see they been lowered. And if they do see that the bars been lowered, they probably afraid to step over and face what’s out there ’cause they might fail. But I don’t really know. I ain’t much on no philosophy and shit. What you thank? You be the reader ’round here.”

  “It sounds right to me.”

  “Well, okay then. Reckon we oughta write us a book on it?”

  “Could be some day,” I said, smiling. “Thanks, Bojack.”

  “Aw, it ain’t no big thang.”

  “Then you won’t mind doing me a favor.”

  “Like what.”

  “Teaching me football. I think I want to play someday.”

  “Son,” he said, “you have touched my heart. You know if football was whiskey, I be drunk all the time.”

  He wrapped an arm around me, threw his head back, and laughed. As it echoed off the lake, I knew I had made a friend.

  FOUR

  It was the middle of December, almost a full four months into the school year, before I woke up from my fits of fancy. I had been living in a protective bubble, concentrating entirely on schoolwork, football and my romantic notions of fate. I was blind to the repercussions of my declaration of independence and the resentment it had seeded. A sobering blow eventually came in the form of two scratches on the front fender of my beautiful bike. Two long scratches from the beginning to the end of the fender, deep and destructive, exposing scarred silver beneath torn, red paint. Two scratches I knew I hadn’t made.

  I hadn’t ridden the bike in a long while. But it was an unusually warm day, so I decided to skip the bus and ride to school. Everyone knew the bike was mine, how special it was to me, and how much care I gave it. I should have realized my fondness for it made it the perfect target. And I should have left it at home.

  As I sat there on my banana seat, my books across my shoulders in my Boy Scout backpack, I began to cry. I thought how the two scratches dirtied the whole bike. I thought of the polishing, the cleaning of the wheels, the greasing of the chain, and the special heavy plastic for shelter. It all seemed an incredible waste of time; the scratches had ruined its perfection.

  I thought I could have prevented this minor tragedy if I’d only faced reality. Now someone had forced me to face it. I had to react if I was going to stop the defacing of my property and my name.

  On the way back home, I rode slowly, looking over the handlebars at the scratches. Why had I given up on trying to convince my friends that what I was doing was no big deal? Maybe I had shot my mouth off a little too loudly? Maybe they didn’t understand that I meant no harm? Why hadn’t I seen this retaliation coming? Questions popped into my head with each angry peddle stroke.

  In the course of the summer, T. Wall, Beno, Flak, and Muskrat became distant acquaintances. And at the beginning of the school year, I didn’t help myself any by declaring my thirst for knowledge out loud.

  At least the teacher loved it. I had studied all the books and was ready for almost any question she tossed my way. Because I seemed so excited about it, she called on me more than anyone else. I was so busy impressing her that I must have come off as a smart-ass to my friends. That was not my intent; I just wanted to learn.

  My teacher, a small-framed older woman, decided to make other uses of my ambitious nature. She’d ask me to empty the trash can for her, erase the blackboard, move books. Soon I became the teacher’s pet, which was a badge of dishonor in my world among adults and kids alike.

  Stories of my being a little rat quickly came home to roost. Chauncey Mae and Cozy brought Roberta and Eugenia over to fill Mama in. I overheard the girls happily telling stories about the classroom turncoat. Embarrassed, Mama used Mark to combat her feeling of being failed by a child. She stressed how well he managed to make good grades and get along with everyone all at the same time.

  “I think you better be taking a hard look at ole Evan,” Chauncey Mae said.

  “Sho’ nuff,” Cozy concurred. “Sound like he becoming a problem child.”

  Back in my bedroom, I decided that the problem was them—not me. I thought of an encounter during recess when I was accosted by a classmate.

  “The problem is you. I’m just trying to be a good student. It’s not my fault the teacher likes me.”

  “Oh, you just the teacher’s pet,” my accuser had said. “Kissing her butt, and she always putting you up in our faces.”

  “It ain’t true neither,” I shouted. I tended to slip into old speaking habits when I got mad. “She likes me because I do my work instead of playing around like you.”

  “You just get good grades and stuff ’cause you always kissing up,” he said. “Cleaning the blackboard, emptying the trash, trying to talk white, and all kinda shit.”

  “I’m not speaking white. I’m speaking correctly. And she asks me to do that other stuff.”

  “Yeah, ’cause you her pet.”

  “No, because she can depend on me. That’s why.”

  “Get outta here with that shit, boy. You ain’t fooling nobody.”

  I looked around thinking I must not have been fooling anybody, because there were many kids standing around looking as if they wanted to torture me.

  I became the one excluded from most student activities. I suddenly realized what the word pariah meant.

  I got the evil eye when we all went out to play baseball at recess, so I backed away. But my subconscious protected me. It told myself that I hated baseball and that I ought to be bettering myself intellectually instead of wasting time with balls and bats. So I’d go off in a corner and do homework from the morning’s class while the other kids played.

  I got the same treatment when it was time to play football, which I had grown to love. My subconscious, however, told me that what they were doing was boring, that my Sundays with Bojack had placed me eons ahead of them in the understanding of the game. Off again to my corner, where I could read a book.

  I didn’t discuss the situation with any of the kids and acted like none of it bothered me. I did a good job of it, too, but in the end, it backfired. Ignoring the situation provoked them even more. That was why they’d damaged my bike. They had a point to make
and knew on some level defacing the bike was the next closest thing to scarring me.

  To make matters worse, things were anything but quiet at home. My parents had become proud all of a sudden of Mark. We both had decided to be excellent students, and we both were doing so, but because Mark hadn’t embarrassed them, Daddy dubbed him the favorite.

  After the first six weeks of school, we both came home with straight-As, but a chocolate cake was made only for Mark, spending change given only to Mark. When Daddy managed to acquire a used set of World Book Encyclopedias, a bookcase was built over Mark’s bed, and his encyclopedias were placed there. I was never told directly, but I knew that they were off limits to me.

  Mama and Daddy spoke to me only when they were giving orders or scolding me, which they often found reason to do.

  •••

  Pulling my bike into our driveway, I decided to talk to my teacher the next day. So, I showed up to class early.

  “Well, now, Brother Walls,” Mrs. Leggett said. “I know you like school, but isn’t this a bit much?”

  I smiled. “I came early because I needed to talk to you.”

  “Okay, then,” she said. “You go sit down, and I’ll be right with you.”

  She finished writing out something on her desk, and then she walked over to me and sat.

  “What’s on that bright little mind of yours?”

  “It’s about the other children.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, ma’am. See, they don’t like me very much. Just last year, I was one of the gang, but this year everything has changed.”

  I explained it all to her, but she didn’t take it seriously.

  “It’s just children playing their little games. It was happening when I was your age, and it’ll be happening when your children are your age. It’ll blow over, and you’ll be back in with the rest, wondering why you ever gave it the first thought.”

  She patted me on the head and sent me out to the playground, where I found my corner and read my book.

  When I got home that afternoon, I decided to try Mama. I was banking on the fact that mothers, when truly pressured, sympathize with their children.

  I looked at her through the kitchen window, scouting her mood. She was on the phone and laughing. I opened the door as she was saying, “Girl, could you believe what you was hearing? Ain’t he the lyingist fool you ever did see?” She laughed again.

  I walked in and shut the door. Instantly, she frowned. I placed my books on the table and stood there waiting for her. After a few seconds, she told whoever was on the other end of the line to hold on.

  “Ain’t you got nothing better to do than to stand around looking at me?”

  “I need to talk to you,” I said.

  We looked at each other for a second, each of us waiting for the other to do something first.

  “Well, spit it out then!” she finally shouted.

  “I wanted to talk to you alone,” I replied, pointing toward the phone. My face trembled a little.

  Mama’s frown softened, and she told her friend that she had to call her back.

  “Come on over here,” she said. “Now, what is it?”

  I started to tell her about what I was going through, but she quickly cut me off.

  “Look, Evan. Don’t be wasting my time with this foolishness. You have got to stop causing trouble. Here’s what I want. You to drop all this high-minded mess and just be who you was before that fool Bojack got inside your head. You got your daddy all beside hisself. I’m trying to keep him calm, you out of trouble, and the house running smooth. I don’t want to hear what somebody done to you. I want you to be who you was, and it will stop. You hear me?”

  I was dumbfounded and looked it. I tried with all my might not to, but I started to cry.

  “Go on now,” she said. She was not about to console me because that might cushion the blow she’d just delivered. She’d inflicted tough love and was standing by it.

  I bided my time until I could call Mama Jennie and explain my situation.

  “Meet me at the school right early in the morning,” Mama Jennie said.

  “Why? What are you going to do?”

  “Mrs. Leggett ain’t from around these parts, but she been here a good while. Long enough to know who I is. I reckon she’ll listen to me.”

  “How will you get there?”

  “Don’t you worry ’bout that. You just be there.”

  I arrived even earlier than the day before. I beat Mama Jennie by only a few minutes. She had gotten a ride from her son, my great-uncle Brother. He spoke to me as I helped her out of the car, and I said hello back.

  “It ain’t gone take long,” she said to him.

  “I ain’t going nowhere,” he replied, and we went inside.

  When we got to the classroom, Mama Jennie made me wait outside. The door had a small window in it, but it was too high for me to reach, so I put my ear to the door, hoping to hear something.

  I didn’t, but Mama Jennie was right. Whatever she had to say didn’t take long, and she came out smiling.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing for your ears is what. Just a couple a old biddies talking is all.”

  “And?”

  She laughed. “Everythang is all right, chile. She see how important it is to you now.”

  “Is she mad at me because you came?”

  “No, she ain’t mad. So stop your worrying, and walk me to the car. Brother out there waiting in the cold.”

  When she turned and took a couple of steps, I peeked in the door; Mrs. Leggett smiled at me, and I returned it. I felt pretty good inside.

  “Now, she say Christmas vacation be starting up next week. That ought to give thangs time to come together. Maybe when school start up again, all your friends be in a better frame of mind.”

  “Thank you, Mama Jennie.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  When we got to the car, she handed me a package off the seat.

  “I was gone wait to give you this at Christmas, but I reckon I’ll gives it to you now. It ought to help with all that loneliness you was talking about on the phone yesterday.”

  I kissed her, helped her into the car, and waved at Uncle Brother as they drove off. Then I opened the package. It was a transistor radio.

  FIVE

  Once in a blue moon, Mama’s image-consciousness actually worked to my benefit. For Christmas, I had asked for my own .22 rifle. Daddy told me when I asked that I would be lucky to get a piece of candy, and he meant it. So I prepared myself for the worst holiday of my life. Usually on Christmas Eve, I could hardly sleep. Once I nodded off, I was up with the chickens and into my presents. I tried to brace for disappointment by telling myself, This year it’s just another day.

  Relief came with a visit from Reverend Damon Lee Walker, who was over one night working on church business with Daddy, who was a church deacon. Mama was making them tea when I walked into the kitchen. The reverend spoke to me.

  “Hello, young Evan.”

  “Hi, Reverend Walker. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, son. Just fine. You ready for Christmas?”

  I paused for a moment because I didn’t really know how to answer. Mama gave me a hard look—a don’t-you-dare-say-something-to-embarrass-me look.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I am.”

  “Good, good. What is ole Santa bringing you?”

  Now I was stumped. If I said he was bringing me nothing, I’d certainly embarrass them by making them seem cold. If I said a rifle, it would look as though I was using the reverend to put pressure on them to buy the gun. I looked quickly from Mama to Daddy.

  Mama broke into a big smile. “What’s the matter, Evan? That ole cat got your tongue. Tell the reverend about the gun.”

  A little out of kilter, I pushed out a sentence. “A .22 rifle, uh . . .”

  “Yeah,” Mama said. “Santa is struggling to get a rifle so this young man here can shoot groundhogs and such.” She smiled a
t me.

  “Well, that’s quite a nice present,” the reverend said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well,” Mama said, rubbing my head and kissing me on the cheek, “he deserves it.”

  So I got my gun because Mama couldn’t bear to let the reverend go away thinking there was anything wrong in the Walls’ home.

  After Christmas, I spent the remainder of my holiday shooting rats in the barn, watching football playoffs with Bojack, and listening to my radio. I usually went to sleep with the radio, listening through the little white earphone, enjoying the tunes and memorizing lyrics that I thought gave me some great insight into life.

  I didn’t see T. Wall or any of the other guys over the holidays. I wanted to, but since Mama Jennie had told me to use this as a cooling-off period, I did. Although I didn’t see them, I thought about them a lot.

  With some song blaring into one ear, I took time to appraise what was left of my friendships. Had I been truly insensitive? Or were they insensitive? What about being an individual? Was it more important than going with the flow? I guessed so, if the flow only took you to a roadside ditch. I planned to soldier on.

  •••

  When school resumed, some things were different. Mrs. Leggett still asked me to clean off the blackboard and to help her with books, but she asked other kids more than me. She didn’t call on me as much in class, choosing more often than not to overlook my outstretched arm. It didn’t bother me, because I knew why she was doing it. I just kept raising my hand so that she would know I knew the answers.

  The problem was that too many things remained the same. The instant I got on the school bus, I knew I was still held in contempt. No one wanted to share in the “What did you get for Christmas?” conversation or talk about what kind of food was had for Christmas dinner. Shoulders as cold as the January air were turned to me every time I looked like I was about to say something. Children do not forget things easily. I sat quietly in my seat and stared out the window.

  Weeks went by, and nothing changed. Even Mrs. Leggett’s new mode of operation was taken as a criticism of me. A group of kids walked up to me one day at recess. I was, of course, reading. I didn’t look up to see who it was because I was tired of seeing the intense emotion in their eyes.