Passage

by Khary Lazarre-White

  “I heard you’re taking your little sister out to play this morning,” she said, speaking over the rim of the cup.

  “Yeah, you know I like to play with her in the snow,” Warrior said while looking through the mail on the table.

  “And I also hear that you’re gonna talk me into making pancakes for you two,” she asked, or rather stated, while pursing her lips.

  Warrior looked up and laughed. “She canNOT keep a secret!”

  “I don’t know why I have to make them when you can just as easily do it yourself,” his mother teased.

  “Well that’s ’cause, Mamma, you make ’em soooo good. You make the best pancakes ever!” Warrior said, slipping into the voice of his childhood.

  “OK, OK, you think you’re smooth, but I’ll make ’em.” His mother rolled her eyes and replied while shaking her head.

  She got up from the table and walked over to the stove to begin the activity she only pretended not to enjoy, Warrior’s voice once again became his own, and he asked, “How’s your class going, Mamma?”

  His mother had taught in the same high school in Brooklyn for years, since Warrior’s childhood. Warrior was born in Brooklyn, and when his parents separated and his mother moved to Harlem, she continued at the same school, making the long commute every morning. She said she owed it to the children. As always, a few of her “children” were working her nerves.

  “It’s going well, but the same two fools sit in the back of the class every day, looking just as mad and surly as can be. Some days I can reach them, some days I can’t. They’re on the edge, and I know it. Half the time they can hardly sit still, moving constantly, eyes darting back and forth. The other half they sit motionless, chin on their hands, their eyes dark and sullen. You can see the questions running through their heads. They’re just sitting there, debating in their mind whether it’s all worth it. And if they decide to step off that edge, there’s not a single thing I can do to bring ’em back. It makes you feel so damn helpless.”

  As always, Warrior’s mother thought about the few who were having problems, not the thirty whose path of life she had changed.

  “There’s nothing you can do, Mamma. I don’t even know ’em and I know they have seen things no child should ever see. They’re old already—and yet haven’t learned anything. They’re facing things that make them question their existence. There’s nothing more dangerous in this world than a person with nothing to lose. They’re sitting there debating how to use that power. They might just strike out against their own—whatever’s near. That kind of blind rage directed by a gun in their hand. Or they’ll find another way. That they’re even sitting in your class, that they even come to listen to you, is a testimony to you. They respect your wisdom, they know that knowledge can be their only salvation. It can serve as their guide off that edge, and at the same time, make ’em that much more dangerous. Not dangerous to themselves, to their own people, but to those who have put the chains on them. Dangerous to the wardens of their dungeon.” Warrior felt the sweat drip down his back as his words ended. He had found that salvation years ago, but staying on the path was always a struggle.

  His mother was holding a wooden spoon in her hand over the hot, greased black iron skillet, and she seemed to let Warrior’s words sink in. They had always had these kinds of conversations. Warrior loved them because he could speak so honestly. He could weave his thoughts, his emotions, his poetry, together, and speak in his true voice. She loved them because the conversations gave her insight. Insight into her students, and insight into her son. He would speak of her students’ world, but he would open doors into his own. His words were often disconcerting—they were too insightful, too wise, too quick, almost too old.

  “But if they respect me, if they respect what I am trying to teach them, why do they sit there like that, why are their faces so closed off to me?” she asked, already knowing the answer, in part.

  “Do you know the question that bothers me the most, Mamma? Do you know how insulting it is when people look at me and ask, ‘Why don’t you smile more?’ The ignorance of their question only makes me grow colder, and I always respond, ‘Why don’t you open your eyes?’”

  His mother stopped pouring the batter into the sizzling pan, and turned to look into Warrior’s face. He could feel her pain as she saw his. There is nothing that can make a mother happier than the smile of her child, and here was her child, who had such a beautiful smile, telling her that now he often did not have the desire to smile. He had other things on his mind. She had asked once why everyone called her son Warrior—why he had taken to the name. She had named him an Akan name from Western Africa, a name that meant “warrior for one’s people.” As a boy, his grandfather, now long passed, had begun calling him “Little Warrior,” and the name had stuck. Now, only she and Warrior’s father called him by his given name. But his father almost always called him “son,” and she usually called him “shuga.” Warrior said he was proud of his Akan name, that maybe one day he would deserve it, and would claim it, but for now, he was Warrior. He would say, “Whenever I meet someone, they know with whom and with what they are dealin’. I like that.” As she looked at this Warrior of hers, who was so old beyond his years, he could see her tears. She spoke to this man, who should have been a child for so much longer.

  “But we must hold on to the things that make us smile, to the things that make us love. We cannot allow the things around us, our circumstances and situation, to constrict our nature. True men show their gentleness, any boy can grow old, years don’t make you a man. The love you bring during your years, that makes you a man. Don’t ever let anyone take that from you, shuga, ever. That is who you are.”

  Warrior smiled softly, “Mamma, I have had parents who have taught me well. I know the importance of blood and love, you know that.”

  “Part of being a mother, my wise son, is a tradition of telling and retelling. We’ve done it since the beginning of time. It’s our job to make sure our children remember, and live our lessons. We tell, and we retell, sometimes while it seems our children aren’t even listening anymore, until our words are no longer stories to even be remembered, pulled through blurred memories, but a voice that speaks to you, cutting through all the other thoughts and dreams in your head. That’s what it means to be a mother. It is part of what we do.”

  As she spoke his sister came running into the kitchen, dressed in her purple pants and blue waterproof boots. The boots had fake fur on the inside, rubber feet, and nylon running from the ankle to mid-leg. She wore her favorite blue sweater, the one with the rainbow on the front. She ran to the table, hopped up into her seat, and said loudly, to no one in particular, “Pancakes please!”

  Warrior and his mother laughed at her words, and at the grin that covered her face, ear to ear. Warrior got the juice out of the refrigerator, poured it, and set the table for his sister and himself. The pancakes were ready, and were coming out of the skillet hot. After devouring their favorite breakfast, pancakes soaked with raspberry preserves, butter, and maple syrup, Warrior and his sister were ready to go. Warrior quickly dressed in some warm clothes while his sister ran back into her room to get her new jacket.

  As Warrior came out of his room, his mother was zipping up his sister’s coat. She now was purple from head to ankle—even assorted purple barrettes dangled from her braids. Only her blue boots peeped through. His sister was very proud of how she looked, and even Warrior’s teasing that she looked like a little purple ball did not affect her.

  They ran down the steps, into the snow-covered world outside their apartment, leaving their mother still in her bathrobe, standing in the kitchen. He knew she would watch her children leave, her fingers clutched around the warm coffee cup.

  As they walked the four blocks to the massive gray stone arch that served as the entrance to the park, Warrior reached down and took his sister’s hand. Just as they were about to walk under the snow-covered arch, Weatherman appeared from behind one of the massive stone b
ases of the arch.

  He had been hidden, and his sudden appearance surprised Warrior and scared his sister. He wore vast layers of clothing to keep out the cold, but his uncovered hands were ash gray and cracked from frostbite. Weatherman lived in the park, and Warrior had known him since childhood. There was only one subject that anyone had ever heard Weatherman speak about: the weather, and so he got his name. Everyone knew Weatherman. He wore his hair long, with a straw hat pulled down low causing two great puffs of hair to protrude from each side of his head. He wore dark sunglasses, night or day, and carried a long umbrella, tied to his hip with a purple bathrobe belt, inserted in a leather sheath he had crafted. He went barefoot in the warmth, and wore an old, discarded pair of black and yellow fireman boots in the cold. That was the only part of Weatherman’s wardrobe that ever changed. Otherwise, he wore his straw hat, sunglasses, umbrella tied to his waist, and so many layers upon his body that no one knew whether Weatherman was thin or fat. He was just there. Weatherman stood in front of them, his arms crossed, blocking Warrior and his little sister’s way.

  “Young brutha,” Weatherman said, “and little sistah,” he continued, nodding at Warrior’s sister, “who stole the sun?” Warrior shook his head and sighed.

  “The Weatherman knows,” Weatherman answered, smiling. Warrior took his sister’s hand, which in her fright had fallen from his grasp, and walked her around Weatherman, deeper into the snow-covered park, away from Weatherman. As they moved away, Weatherman’s voice followed them.

  “I said, who stole the sun? Ask the Weatherman, he knows . . .” As always, it seemed as if more snow had fallen in the park than on the city streets. In some places the snow almost reached his sister’s head, Warrior had to carry her over the drifts. As he carried her, Warrior reached down into the whiteness, scooped up freshly fallen flakes and ate some, enjoying the cold wetness of the snow. He held up a handful to his sister, and she licked the snow like ice cream on a hot day as they walked to a cleared area, where they were alone.

  They could almost imagine that they were in a dense forest and not in the middle of the city park. There were massive trees and rolling hills. There were icy ponds and birds flying overhead. Only the sounds of cars, and in the distance the high buildings rising above the trees reminded them of where they were. There were no other kids in this area because some had not come out yet while others had gone to the section of the park with hills sloped perfectly for sledding. They would shoot down the hills on their plastic and metal sleds, garbage can covers, pieces of cardboard, and stolen cafeteria trays, anything that would slide smoothly, bringing speed and excitement. The snow covered garbage, glass, needles, and all sorts of things dangerous to children. The snow turned this urban park into a winter playground. They didn’t go to the sledding area because Warrior’s sister was still too scared. She preferred her perfected art of angel making, or better yet, after a big snowstorm, building a huge snowman.

  They entered the area, and she jumped from Warrior’s arms, ran to the middle of the clearing, and flopped down in the snow on her back, sliding her arms and legs up and down, making an angel in the white powder. As Warrior watched her, he thought about the day his mother and father brought her home from the hospital, and how proud he had been. He had been filled with the pride of accomplishment, as if he had done something. He carried her around in his arms for days, telling anyone who would listen, “This is my little sister. Mine.” As Warrior continued to watch her play, knowing that her mind was still in awe because of all of the snow, her imagination still trying to figure out where it really came from, he realized how envious he was of her innocence. He missed his mother’s arms being able to make any pain disappear. He missed his father seeming like the strongest man in the world, able to protect him from all of his fears. He missed the simplicity of life, his tiny safe world protected by their love. He missed the innocence. As he watched her make angels in the snow, Warrior swore that her childhood would not be cut short. He promised her, and himself, that he would protect her dreams.

  The sun was rising and its light was beating down on the snow, but the temperature was so cold that although Warrior could sense the light of the sun, he could not feel its heat. His sister’s joy made him reflect on his earlier conversation with his mother—the many children who have lost this innocence. The voices, the pain, the things he had seen, they all so often coursed through his mind at times like this, it was as if his sadness could be triggered by just about anything, as if it was always there, playing at the edge of his mind. And so he looked out at the blinding whiteness of the snow, and thought of the Blues.

  I’ll tell you what the Blues is all about. The Blues is blood. The Blues is laughter. Some say the Blues is tears, but that ain’t so. That’s too easy to be the Blues. When you cry out all your tears, when your eyes are dry, and you can’t cry no more, and then something comes along that brings you even lower, even farther down, and you wanna cry some more, but you can’t, ’cause you don’t have no tears left—you crying, but ain’t no tears falling . . . That there, is the Blues. The Blues is looking in your sister’s eyes when she comes home asking, “Warrior, am I a NiggaBitch? Am I a NiggaBitch, Warrior?”

  The Blues is when you leave your apartment and don’t even know if you’ll ever make it back. The Blues is when you can’t look your own brothers in the eye ’cause you might cross the line between looking and staring, and then they might kill you. The Blues is when you can’t look your own sisters in the eye ’cause they don’t know if you flirting or if you want to rape them. The Blues is when your generation is dying in the streets and your prophets are being killed in your mind. The Blues is watching a genocide occur and not knowing when roll call will reach your name. The Blues is when you have been conditioned not to even dream. The Blues is that I am one of the Blues and still wouldn’t change my color for the very power of God . . . Instead, I just stand here and speak the Blues.

  Warrior looked out at his sister playing a few feet in front of him, and saw that she had made a perfect angel. She had figured out how to move her arms and legs at the same time, making the smooth image of the wings in the snow. After many attempts, she had discovered how to sit up, carefully, and move out of the image, not disturbing the angel she had made. She could not move quickly, or suddenly, if she wanted the image to survive. If she did not have patience she would destroy the angel.

  As she moved toward Warrior, he could see that her nose was running, and with her tongue she wiped the flow. She took his hand and led him to one of the few trees close by.

  “Let’s make the snowman right here. OK?” she said.

  “Why right here?” Warrior asked.

  “Because,” she said impatiently, shaking her head and opening her eyes wide at the stupidity of Warrior’s question, “Mr. Snowman needs some shade from the sun.”

  “Oh,” replied Warrior, “I didn’t think about that.”

  Warrior picked up snow and made a huge snowball, about the size of his sister’s head. He gave the ball to her to roll on the ground, packing up more snow as she rolled it. After a while it became too big for her to move alone. Warrior stood next to her and helped. When they finished, they rolled two more snowballs slightly smaller in size, and propped them on top of each other. The snowman now stood over six feet tall, almost as tall as Warrior.

  His sister’s favorite part was making the face. She ran through the clearing picking up leaves and twigs, pulling a little bark off trees, and digging in the snow for any objects she could find. When she had collected enough pieces to fill her arms, she ran back to Warrior.

  “Here. We can use this stuff to make Mr. Snowman’s face,” she said as she dropped her collection at his feet.

  They searched through the horde and his sister found a piece of bark that she convinced Warrior looked like a nose, and they put it on the snowman.

  “Now he needs a mouth,” his sister said seriously, looking through the mass of items at her feet.

  After sortin
g through the collection, they found two pieces of wood. Warrior scraped the bark off, using the discarded bark to wrap around the ends of the two pieces of wood, tying them together in the gentle slope of a smile. His sister squealed with delight, clapping her hands as Warrior designed the snowman’s mouth. His sister then reached into her pocket and pulled out two perfectly matching honey brown maple tree leaves. They appeared almost transparent when Warrior held them up to the sun. Their stems were long red veins that seemed to be still pumping life into the leaves, even though they had dropped from their tree long ago.

  His sister looked at Warrior, full of the wonder, and said quietly, “They’re perfect, right?”

  Warrior agreed, and picked her up and held her so that she could place the leaves onto the snowman’s face, her small hands giving her creation sight. As Warrior brought her down, she looked at the snowman with pride. Just as she was about to speak, a harsh wind blew the leaves off the snowman’s face. They ran down the leaves and placed them back, pressing them in deeper, and then stepped back.

  “He’s a perfect Mr. Snowman,” his sister said. Just as her words left her mouth, the wind again blew the leaves away. Warrior’s sister began to cry. Again he ran down the leaves and handed them to her.

  “Wawia, why won’t they stay?” she asked, truly not understanding.

  “They’re too light,” he said, thinking of a way to make them stay.

  “But he needs them, they’re perfect,” she said as her eyes began to well up again.

  “I got an idea,” Warrior said, reaching into his pocket. Whatever he clutched in his pocket, he kept within his tightly closed fist as he picked her up. She placed the leaves on the snowman’s face once again, turning them slightly downward, and Warrior lowered her to the ground. He then opened his fist and revealed ten shiny pennies. Around each leaf he placed five pennies, pressing each coin on the outer edges of the leaf, pushing them down, deeply into the snow. The pennies did their job holding the leaves firmly in place. Warrior stepped back and looked at the snowman. The beautiful honey brown maple tree leaves eyes stood out, surrounded by the bright copper shine of the pennies.