Upstate

by Kalisha Buckhanon

  Peace,

  Antonio

  June 13, 1992

  Hey Antonio. I hope you doing all right in there. I just wanted to drop you a quick line to give you our new address in New York. No more 7th Ave, now it’s all about downtown, 110th Street. I like it. It’s a lot quieter, not as busy. I guess that’s okay. You kind of grow out of all the hustle and bustle after a while. I mean, it’s far from everything, but there are a lot of negative influences out there that I don’t need to be around anyway. If I’m gonna go uptown, it’s just to 145th Street to see Laneice or the Heights to chill with Valencia at her spot. Valencia said she ain’t going back to Stony Brook. She said it’s way too far and too boring for her. I could have told her Long Island wasn’t exactly the spot, but I guess she didn’t know. She said she really didn’t like college that much anyway. It was too hard for her, I guess. She said she gonna do hair for a while in her aunt’s shop on 114th and St. Nick. I guess that’s cool, although I told her she should definitely try to finish college. But you know those Dominicans can do some hair, so I guess she’ll be alright doing that. I probably won’t see Tamika that much. She’s staying out in Jersey for the summer cause she love it so much. The immersion program gave me a job this summer working in the office as a “youth advisor” they call me. Basically, that means I get to talk to the new kids about the program and do a lot of secretarial stuff around the office. It’s really cool. My computer skills weren’t on point when I went to college, and I paid for it big-time. I could barely type and didn’t know anything about that Internet superhighway that’s out now. Make sure you learn all that shit while you in the joint cause you gonna need it when you get out. Well, now that I’m working in this office, I’m learning a lot and I should be able to get a better work-study job when I get back. They’re even gonna let me come on the Paris trip this summer and supervise the kids in the dorm we stayed in. So I have a lot of responsibility and that feels really good.

  If you want me to, I can check in on your mother from time to time. Seems like Trevon has really been wilding out. I saw him the first night I got back. He was coming out of some bar on 8th Ave, eyes all red and smelling like liquor. He hugged me and all. He could barely stand and wanted to dance right there in the middle of the street. I led him back in the bar so he could sit down and get himself together. I asked him, “When the last time you been up there to see that crazy brother of yours?” and he said, “I couldn’t even tell you. I done had a lot of shit to take care of, know what I’m saying.” Then he just started talking to me all of a sudden, out of the blue. “I just been going through some shit, Natasha. I just been experiencing a lot on my mind.” I said, “Talk to me. Tell me what you feeling, I got time.” We ended up sitting there for a real long time. By the time we got to the end of our conversation, it had started drizzling a little bit and wasn’t nobody on the street but gypsy cabs and hypes. He was talking about you a lot. “The man was my backbone. He was my backbone,” he just kept on saying. I told him, “He can still be your backbone, Trevon. He ain’t dead, he just locked up for a while. You gotta go see your brother and write to him and support him.” He just said, “It ain’t the same. It ain’t the same as him being right there. Natasha, I lost my father and my brother at the same time. They was the men I needed. They was my backbone. I ain’t got nobody to hold me up no more. I feel like one of them puppets on strings. My strings is cut and I can’t do it alone.” I tried to talk to him, but he just seemed so far gone it was no use. He kept saying that you were there—in jail—because of him. I kept telling him that what happened wasn’t his fault, but I was tired and nothing was sinking in with him. I put him in a cab, gave the driver your address, and told the driver to take him home—nowhere else! No telling when the last time your mother seen him. Too bad it had to be like that. When he pulled off, he shouted out the window, “Tony didn’t do it, Natasha.” Why would he say some shit like that? I felt like somebody had slapped me and I couldn’t believe he would play about some shit like that. I thought about what he said for a long time before I realized that he must just be too far gone and talking crazy. There’s no way what he said is true, is there?

  But I gotta go cause Mommy got Boyz N the Hood and that’s my movie! Last week me and Laneice went and got the long box braids just like Brenda from 227. “Fly Girls”—that’s what we been calling ourselves. You know Laneice happy that Black finally realized dissing her and Sharon was whack, so she been on cloud nine lately. I don’t know why every time I sit down to write to you, I always say it’s gonna be short. But it’s never short. It end up being minutes and then hours that my hand is moving, writing letters to you, almost like I’m the puppet on the string and not even controlling myself. Just like when we first met and we sat on the phone all night, saying we were going to hang up and we never did. I guess I’m always going to feel special about you. I mean, you were my first. Daddy told me right before he died, “That first love is hard in every way. When it hit, it hit hard. And when it’s over, it’s the hardest to shake.” Guess he was right.

  Natasha

  June 18, 1992

  Happy birthday baby. Thought I forgot huh? You the only girl I ever bought shit for her birthday—remember that chain I paid forty dollars for on 149th and 3rd Avenue and I was all proud and shit when I gave it to you? Come to find out that motherfucker wasn’t even real. Turned your neck green the next week and I wanted to kill that Arab who sold it to me. It took a little bit longer for the “A” medallion I bought you to go Irish on us too, but it did and I was so mad.

  Anyway thanks for telling me about Trevon. I really don’t know what to do about that situation though and it hurts me deep down in my heart. It sounds like you didn’t believe him when he said he did it, which is good. Don’t listen to anything he says. He’s lost it. Can’t nobody talk to him. I tried to tell my brother, Don’t look at me and what I did and let that affect you and your life. Last time I saw him, I stared at him hard as I could and told him he better listen to me if it was the last thing he did in his life. I made him open his eyes and look at my face through that barrier. I asked him, Do you want to be in here? Do you want Ma coming and seeing you behind a wall? Do you want her crying every time she leave you? This ain’t the life, this not the way, this not a joke, so get your shit together. Be a man. Be a better man than your brother. Take care of the family for me and Daddy. But it’s clear he ain’t heard a word I said. It’s clear he gonna have to see for himself. It would break my heart to see him walking around a place like this, right next to me going through this bullshit. Now I know why my daddy smacked me in my mouth when I told him that when I grew up I wanted to be like him and work on the garbage trucks at night and get me a good city job. He smacked me in my mouth and told me not to ever say I wanted to be like him when I grew up. He told me it would break his heart to be at work and look over and see me working right next to him. He told me Boy you gonna be better than this, you gonna be better than me. Well, that’s the same way I feel about Trevon. He gotta be twice the man I wished I could be.

  I’m glad you took the time to write me. I knew you still loved me. I know we still got something. Tell the truth Natasha. Say I got out of here tomorrow. Say that by some crazy act of God, they let me out of this motherfucker. If I showed up at your door, would you still have me? Could I make love to you like I used to? No, better than I used to? It’s been over two years since we been with each other baby. What I do to pass the time in here is lift, lift, lift. I passed 200, not bad for a lightweight. I’m aiming for 250 now. We got lifting contests and it ain’t no amateur bullshit either. That shit is mad real and serious. When you lay down on that bench with all that weight against your chest, and it’s up to you and you alone to push that shit up, and you gotta put all your love and all your hate and all your energy and passion into getting that weight up off your chest, you can feel like a god almost. That’s why we do the shit and take it so serious. It make us feel like gods, if only for the few seconds it take us to
lift some dumb weights a few times. The guards even be cool with letting us have that protein shit to mix up in our juices. My arms is nice and big and round like melons. Nothing like they was before. My chest stick out like a soldier’s. I’m all man now. Would you still have me? Could you handle it? Could you accept me now with all my faults and all my flaws and all my changes? Basically what I’m asking is, is there still hope for us?

  Answer me soon,

  Antonio

  June 27, 1992

  Antonio,

  I didn’t mean for my letter to be some kind of tease. I know I’m the one who dumped on you, therefore I shouldn’t act and talk like we’re together when we’re not. I didn’t mean to lead you on, Antonio, and I’m sorry if I did. The truth is, I met a guy at school. His name is James and he’s on the football team for our school. We do fun stuff together like go out to all the pizza places in Chicago and go to the movies and he even once took me to a Chicago Bulls basketball game. I’m surprised I met anybody cause it’s only about forty black people in the college period, and only about ten black men. Well, I noticed him at the first Organization of Black Students meeting and he noticed me too. We got real tight. I mean, real tight, if you know what I mean. I think I was really upset about how my first relationship turned out, you know—us breaking up and everything. I was ready to try again and make sure it wasn’t me that was the problem, that I could have a real relationship if I got the chance again. We ain’t really together now cause he’s from Chicago. We got a lot in common, me and him. He almost didn’t want to hook up with me cause he was ashamed of where he lived. He live in these real tall apartment projects way on the other side of town. I mean, compared to New York, the pj’s in Chicago ain’t no joke. That shit is like a whole other country. No grass on the lawn, no playgrounds, the outside of the building look like a prison almost, with chain fences and high gates and barbed wire. But he said it was just something about me that let him know I would understand, and so we started spending time together and I like him a lot. I almost didn’t want to come back to New York this summer, but I wanted to help out my moms and kick it with my friends cause this is my home and everybody here will always be special to me. He’s supposed to come out here and visit me before we go back to school, cause he never been to New York. So I guess you could say it’s serious.

  I’m not telling you any of this to hurt you or anything. I’m just trying to let you know that you are special to me and you were my first, so you will always have that spot in my heart that nobody else can touch. I want to always be friends with you and know what’s going on in your life. But that’s all we can be. So I guess the answer is no. If you showed up at my door, you couldn’t have me. I’ve moved on. And when you finally get out of there, you will too. You can write me back if you still want to be friends after what I just told you. That’s just the way it is.

  Natasha

  August 20, 1992

  Antonio,

  The more things change the more they stay the same. A little girl is missing in our building—and this place was supposed to be a step up. There’s no escape, it seems. I got woken up in the middle of the night last week. Cop cars were everywhere outside at like three in the morning. I thought I heard a baby crying, but I realized I was dreaming. What I really heard was this girl’s mother screaming and hollering about wanting her baby. Me and Mommy and Roy had slipped on our clothes and went down there to see what all the fuss was about. The woman was so out of control that she basically started attacking people. Going from person to person in the crowd, grabbing them and holding on tight, saying, “You seen my baby? You know where she is?” She grabbed on me real fast, before I could move. I mean, I saw her coming, but I couldn’t make my legs move. And when she grabbed me and stared at me like she was in the worst pain you could think of, I was frozen solid, stiff like old gum stuck to the bottom of my shoes. I just looked at her, stared at her really, and she stared at me back until she started crying. I whispered, “Ma’am, I don’t know,” before Roy grabbed her and took her back to the police. We walked back upstairs all quiet, my mother was complaining about “Lord things today,” and Roy just said, “That’s what we get for being nosy.” We all just said good night and went to our rooms, but I didn’t sleep.

  Love,

  Natasha

  September 28, 1992,

  Hey Antonio,

  I’m writing you just to let you know what happened to the little girl in our building. I mean, just in case you were interested. I did mention it and it has been bothering me all summer. Even though I didn’t know her, I would think about her all the time, on the train and stuff. But anyway they found her up on 113th and Madison, in this building that had been burned up. She was burned up too, but they could tell she had been raped and beaten before she was burned. Whoever took her had to have taken her right in front of our building cause she was only eleven and couldn’t go far. And to think, that could have been me easily had we been living back there then. Eleven years old. Burnt up in a building and dead. No future at all. Just eleven years old. I know you didn’t know her, so you probably don’t care. But I thought I should tell you just in case you had been thinking about it like I was.

  Love,

  N

  PS. Her name was Jeri Lynne Jones.

  February 1, 1993

  Hey Antonio,

  Guess you ain’t gonna write me no more since I broke things off with you and I can’t say I blame you for that. I feel real bad about it, but I miss your letters a lot, I guess. Life is good for me. I’m wearing my new FUBU For US By Us outfit and I just got an A on my calculus test! I’m cool in school and I got my own room this year. I am really, really thinking that I will be good at law. Thurgood Marshall just died. Remember we learned about him, the first black Supreme Court Justice. I think I can be the next, cause you KNOW it ain’t gonna be another one of us for a long time. Just like they say it ain’t gonna be another Dinkins for a long time. So I’m gonna work on being the next after Thurgood Marshall. That would make me the first black woman, so I would go in the history books.

  Write me back if you feel like it,

  Natasha

  February 4, 1993

  I know it’s been a while since I wrote but back in June you pretty much summed up everything and told me what to do almost. Why do you keep writing me? What’s in it for you? What, you feel sorry for me or something? It make you feel good to write me for your good deed of the day? You in college, you gotta man, you found somebody else, it’s all butter with you. Can’t you talk to your man now? What’s his name, John or Joseph? Anyway, I don’t care. I’m writing you back just to tell you that I ain’t writing you no more. And don’t write me anymore. You right, you moved on and I’m proud of you, kid. I can tell that just by reading your letters—you sound so sophisticated and shit now. But I don’t want to be just friends. Hard time is hard enough without being reminded of what you missed out on. So you go ahead and do your thing. Have a nice life. Good luck with your relationship. I hope that shit works out. You might not believe me, but I really do hope that shit works out. I’m not trying to be sarcastic. If I ever meet him, it’ll be all love. He’ll have my respect. I’ll just have to tell him, Man, you gotta good one and you better treat her right.

  Love always,

  Antonio

  February 14, 1993

  Antonio,

  I was writing you because I thought we were friends, not because you’re some kind of charity case to me. I told you I care about you and I will always care about you. We had something special, remember? I do. But you’re right. I suppose it’s not such a good idea to communicate with each other anymore. It’s all good. Let’s let bygones be bygones, the past be the past. Maybe I’ll see you back uptown one day.

  Goodbye,

  Natasha

  PS.

  PART FIVE

  January 4, 1994

  Antonio,

  I just wanted to tell you that I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. The las
t time I saw her, she looked so healthy and full of life. You would have never thought anything was wrong. She had lost all that weight, and seemed like she was doing better than she ever had. You never told me she was diabetic. I guess she was so busy taking care of everybody else, she couldn’t take care of herself. Mommy said her heart broke from all the pain she been through these last couple of years. Mommy told me one night Mrs. Lawrence just showed up at her door, late at night and out of the blue. Said she had on flip-flops and a house dress, but had her face made up like she was getting ready to go somewhere. She told my mother, “Denise, I just had to pull out my makeup bag and see if I could be fine again, like I used to be. I wanted to see if I could cover up all the ugly.” She said something really disturbing: “I haven’t done anything with my life—can’t raise no kids, can’t look halfway decent, couldn’t keep a husband happy, couldn’t keep my house in order. I wasted the one life God gave my soul.” You know how my mother is, always listening to folks’ problems and trying to make them feel better about it. She tried to tell her different, but it didn’t work and they cried and got drunk all night, talking about the dreams they had when they were little girls, the dreams they had for their kids. I had never asked my mom what her dreams had been. Never ever had I even thought about her that way. She was always just “my mother,” the one person in this whole wide world who would always be there. She told me that she had wanted to be in the FBI when she was little. She wanted to grow up and solve important crimes and go undercover. I never even thought of her as being interested in something like that, although she does like to do puzzles and play games like chess where you have to concentrate a lot. I asked her what Mrs. Lawrence had said her dreams were, and my mother told me she hadn’t even said. Maybe your mother couldn’t remember her dreams. Apparently, she went downhill fast after what happened to you. Things were looking up for a while, but I guess that was just all a front, a show. I wonder if anybody could have done something. Antonio, baby, all I could think about was you and how you must be feeling in there. I’m coming back to New York for the funeral. Mommy’s giving me the money for the plane ticket. I’ll see you then. Keep your head up, baby.