Step Out on Nothing

by Byron Pitts

  In the 1960s my grandmother owned about thirty acres of wooded property. It remains a place where the air is clean and where deer, rabbits, and all kinds of creatures have always found a safe watering hole. There was a shed out back that contained all of her yard tools, including a saw and an ax. It might seem like a dangerous space for a small child, but no one ever worried about the grandkids playing in that shed because it was also a favorite resting place for snakes. My earliest memories include the outhouse and a deep well with one single metal bucket, a chain, and a hook. It was almost too heavy for me to carry, but I would slosh water, along with a cousin, into the house a few times a week.

  Every summer vacation would begin the same way. I’d walk through the door of her shotgun house, and she’d greet me with a broad smile, a strong hug, a kiss on the cheek, and the same words in a whisper: “You’re the one.” Each night as she sent me off to bed, another hug and kiss and those same words uttered in a whisper: “You’re the one.”

  Honestly, I never really knew what she meant. Just that I never wanted to let her down. And no matter what I thought of myself and my shortcomings, this old woman, with thinning hair, penciled-in eyebrows, and one crooked finger, believed in me and loved me unconditionally.

  With my parents back in Baltimore, summers at my grandmother’s house meant freedom. Cousins lived in nearly every other house. My grandmother, her sister, and her brother had married two brothers and one sister from the same family, so almost everyone in Friendship was (and is) either a Walden or a Womble. I spent my days eating Grandma’s home cooking, kicking stones down dusty country roads, playing pickup baseball games, chasing skinny dogs, catching black snakes, spying on giant black ants, and washing down the day’s adventures with a moonpie and a sweet tea. North Carolina may be the Tar Heel state, but for many of us who love it, it’s also the pork barbecue and sweet tea capital of the universe. It’s a place where locals eat hush puppies and most everyone has a nickname. In my family there’s a Preacher, an uncle named Feel, a Piggly Wiggly, a Honey Bun, a Chief, a Señorita, Sonny, Hambone, and Poss . . . the short version of my mother’s childhood nickname, Possum. There is a story behind every one, and each nickname was meant as a term of endearment. At the center of it all was Momma, as all her children and grandchildren called her. She was Señorita to her closest friends and Miss Roberta to the rest of the world. Her mother, my great grandmother, was born a slave. But there was nothing remotely subservient about Miss Roberta.

  Looking back, I realize that one of the reasons I loved those summers in Apex so much was that all the fears of my life washed away. It was a simple existence, not complicated by the subterfuge it took to get homework done or the torment of feeling like the stupid kid in the neighborhood. Friendship was a great place to hide out for a kid who couldn’t read or speak clearly. My aunts, uncles, cousins, and my grandmother’s friends would always say, “Byron is such a good boy. He’s so quiet and polite.” My grandmother’s longtime boyfriend would always add, “You give that boy a glass of milk and a TV, you’d never know he was in the house.” That was high praise for a kid in my position.

  I never did a stitch of homework in Apex, but I gained an invaluable education. It was a lesson taught without books or pencils or pens but with a stare, a raised finger, or a simple instruction. My grandmother wanted me to learn that an adversary can be beaten without harsh words or raised fists. That fear can be overcome with a calm resolve. That even an enemy can be treated with respect. It was her lesson in quiet discipline, and it all started with my insatiable sweet tooth.

  A Zero candy bar was like a Milky Way bar, except it was white chocolate on the outside. It looked funny, but it was the best thing I had ever tasted. I don’t even know if they make them anymore, but at age seven it was my absolute favorite. For some reason, I ate them only when I went to North Carolina in the summer to visit my grandmother. Never even looked for them in Baltimore. (Side note: after someone told me I was a Zero just like that candy bar, I stopped eating them altogether.) My burning desire for a Zero led me to a neighborhood grocery store one summer’s day and, ultimately, the wrath of my grandmother.

  In those days there were two stores within a mile of my grandmother’s house. Segregated stores. My grandmother had brought me with her to do some shopping at the colored store. It was about the size of a trailer, with a dusty hardwood floor and a musty smell. It housed a big red cooler with a Pepsi Cola sign, lots of what I called “man” cigarettes (Kools and Marlboros), smoked meats, and the BC Powder that the women in the family used to treat all their pain, from monthly cramps to migraines. I loved to hear the musical tones of the manual cash register when the numbers would pop up and the drawer would close. My grandmother was taking her time, mulling over the fruit and vegetable stands out front and socializing with her friends. I was seven years old, and I had enough money in my pocket to buy a grape soda, a Zero candy bar, and a moonpie, and to have some change left over. But this store didn’t have a Zero. So, without asking my grandmother, I wandered out the door and across the street to what looked to me like a better option.

  The whites-only grocery store was fully stocked, refrigerated, and so well lit that from a distance I could see a box of Zeros just fingertips away from the cash register and a few inches away from the man at the register. He was big and a sunburned reddish color, wearing overalls, and I could smell an odor of chewing tobacco. There were other men and a few women in the store, but it was his stare that locked on me as I walked toward the front counter.

  I was steps away from my precious Zero candy bar, and not aware of how much trouble I was in until I turned around and my eyes met my grandmother’s eyes as she stood in the doorway. She hadn’t even said my name, but somehow I had known she was there. She was afraid to walk in. But she knew she had to get me out, with her brand of quiet discipline. She didn’t make a sound. In fact, she looked at me and smiled. The urgency was in her eyes. She tilted her chin down, raised one hand toward the middle of her chest, and with that arthritic finger twisted by age and hard work, she gestured for me to walk toward her. She didn’t blink. She didn’t glance away, and she kept that smile on her face. I turned my shoes in the opposite direction and moved toward her with my arms hanging at my sides.

  Before I could reach her, the store clerk shouted, “Miss Roberta, what you doing here?”

  “Just tending to my grandson,” she said. “We’ll be on our way.” Her tone was gentle yet firm. Her voice did not betray her, and she never took her eyes off me. I left without my Zero candy bar. As we walked briskly to her car, she squeezed my hand tighter than she ever had before. “We’ll talk in the car,” she said under her breath.

  My grandmother had never spanked me, but that day she came close. I was snuggled next to her in her old Chevy, and my grandmother said, “Don’t you ever scare me like that again. There are people in this world who will hurt you just because of the color of your skin. So always be careful. Never be afraid or at least never show it. God won’t call you home till your time. But in case He’s not watching, you guard yourself.” Then she smiled. It was a crash course in how to maneuver in the midst of segregation. We would not discuss it again until I was almost an adult. Then she told me, “I wasn’t sure if I should scream or cry first. I didn’t think anyone would hurt you, but in those times most anything was possible.”

  I never wandered in that store again either. Well after segregation ended, I still refused to go in. Fortunately, it was one of the few reminders in my life of what America was and how far we’ve come.

  Whether it’s a segregated grocery store or a schoolyard bully, I’ve remembered the lesson my grandmother taught me that day: Always know where you are and always carry yourself appropriately and respectfully. She wanted me to know that if I was afraid, it should never overwhelm me, and if I was angered by ignorance, I could remain calm and not confrontational. Because I was better than that. But it’s one thing to know the lesson. It’s another to live it, especially wh
en she wasn’t there to hold my hand on the playground or the street back in Baltimore, where I was often afraid for one reason or another. It was the fear of being exposed. The gnawing fear of not being good enough. Fear that my parents’ angry words would lead to a split in my family. The fear of letting people down. The truth is, I didn’t want to learn to read so that I could actually read. I wanted to learn to read so my mother wouldn’t be ashamed, and I wanted to learn to read so people would stop making fun of me.

  Small in stature, I was a frequent target of bullies, and the experience has haunted me for decades. Yes, I said decades. I’ve had nightmares about things I experienced as a child. I’ve awakened to night sweats and a clenched fist, angry and afraid. They’d take my lunch money and any shred of confidence I might have had. Simple things like going to the bathroom during school horrified me. Alone in the boys’ room, kids like me were frequently targeted by bullies. Eventually, even my siblings became my tormentors. Our conversations would usually end with me crying and running to my mother. It became an endless cycle.

  There was the group of boys who regularly chased me home from school calling me a sissy. I told my mother I didn’t want to go to school anymore because I was afraid. (Actually, it was just another on a growing list of reasons why I didn’t want to go.) Her solution was to have my older brother leave his friends and serve as my bodyguard. No wonder he hated me until we were in our twenties.

  Then there was the sandwich-stealer. I never knew his name, his age, or where he went to school or lived. But he’s lived inside my head since grade school. As best I can recall, we had one encounter. It was rare in our family that there was ever enough extra money around for things like lunch, beyond what was provided in the cafeteria or inside my metal lunch pail. I almost always took a bologna sandwich on white bread with mustard, a piece of fruit, and a Thermos filled with my favorite flavored Kool-Aid. Perhaps once or twice a year, my mom would give me lunch money to eat off-campus with my classmates. What a treat. A chance to buy my own food. It was one of life’s simple pleasures that came to an abrupt end.

  With three dollars in my pocket and a smile on my face, I walked out of St. Katharine’s elementary school, crossed the street, and walked the half block with a few of my classmates to the corner sub shop. The sub shops and Chinese restaurants in the Baltimore of my youth all pretty much looked the same. They had high counters, bulletproof glass, and a menu written out by hand near the ceiling. I would later learn that the high counter and bulletproof glass were meant to discourage thieves. It would be hard to stick-up a sub shop or Chinese restaurant if you had to hold the gun above your head and stand on your tiptoes to threaten the clerk. There were no such safety measures for customers.

  From early that morning, when my mom gave me money for lunch, I rehearsed over and over again what I would order. There was no chance I’d try and order off the menu. Someone might detect I could not read it, so I would order what I always ordered when I’d been in a sub shop with my family: a cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato, onions, with hot peppers. All morning in class my mind wandered to that moment. I watched the clock and could almost hear the seconds tick away. Finally the moment had come. I tilted my head up to see the clerk as I gave my order. No worries about reading the menu or stuttering. I’d practiced every word. I was ready. The sandwich was a dollar and seventy-five cents, one small order of fries for seventy-five cents, and one grape soda for a quarter. I was set. The smell of French fries and onions frying, the sizzle of a beef patty on the grill—it was all so intoxicating. My friends all ordered their favorites, from pizza slices to chicken parmesan and steak sub sandwiches. We were happy and laughing as we headed back to school. No one seemed to notice the teenager standing just outside the door. Who was he? Why wasn’t he in school? All questions I would ask myself later, and over and over again for years.

  “What’s in the bags?” he asked.

  My friends took one look, heard a threat, and ran. I was still trying to figure out why this big kid wasn’t in school. With my friends gone, there we stood. This jerk didn’t know my story. Didn’t know I couldn’t read or that I lived inside my shell. But he could apparently smell something on me besides a free meal. Pickle Pitts and this boy at least three years older and a good bit larger. He was smiling: not a friendly smile but as menacing as you could imagine. It was at that moment I caught a glimpse of his gold tooth. A gold tooth was a popular symbol of something back in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Symbol of what I was never certain. A plain gold tooth or one with a diamond shape in the middle or a champagne glass. Weird, I know. This guy had a champagne glass in his. He smelled like cigarettes.

  “What’s in the damn bag?” he growled. The smile was gone.

  “My lunch,” I answered.

  “No, bitch, that’s my lunch.” That sickening smile was back.

  I was frozen, gripped by fear and anger and shame. I couldn’t move my legs. He grabbed for the bag, but I wouldn’t let it go. It was a tug of war over my lunch and my boyish manhood. The bag ripped, the French fries scattered across the cement. The cheeseburger wrapped in aluminum foil rolled on the ground. My eyes welled up with tears. The French fries were wasted, and so was my mother’s hard-earned money. This bully with thick stumpy arms bent over and picked up the sandwich, unwrapped it and took a bite. I watched as the gold tooth pierced the bun, his mouth covered with mustard and mayonnaise. Without knowing it, I guess my eyes narrowed and I clenched my fist.

  “Oh, sissy boy wants to fight?” the bully asked in a mocking tone. He took his free hand and pushed my face.

  “Get out of here before I hurt you.” Then he kicked at me and pushed me away.

  I stumbled, regained my footing, and backpedaled a few steps.

  Why won’t you fight back? I asked myself. Not only was I a moron; now I was a coward. My parents’ money and I was too much of a coward to fight for it! Worse than losing a few dollars, it was the loss of dignity and self-respect that were most costly. I walked back to school in a daze, my eyes still burning, my head down. My pockets and my stomach were empty.

  My classmates were waiting in front of the school. “What happened? Why didn’t you run with us?” they asked.

  I never opened my mouth. Like that moment in the car with my parents, outside my father’s girlfriend’s house, there were no words. My expression was blank. I shut down. The bell sounded and we proceeded back to class. From my desk I could look out the window and see the corner of the sub shop. The bastard who took my food was still standing there. I knew he couldn’t see me, but I’ve always thought he was staring and laughing at me. I’ve had nightmares about him. That evening when my mom asked me to tell her about the events of my day, I never mentioned the incident. It still causes a pang of anger and shame. It’s probably one reason I have such contempt to this day for bullies. I can still remember what that bully looks like. How much I wanted that cheeseburger. The sense of violation. Eventually, I would learn to stop being a victim. It was an important step on my journey. I have always used my grandmother’s tactic of quiet discipline. I do not shout. I do not curse. I do not show fear. But I guard myself with self-respect against the bullies of the world.

  On days of victory and days of defeat, my grandmother’s words have always brought me great comfort. A peace. A reason to believe I never had to be the victim. My faith teaches me that there are no mistakes in life, just opportunities to learn.

  FOUR

  Who’s Got Your Back?

  FOR TWENTY YEARS THE old man went outside every day and a dug a hole looking for gold. Each morning he’d look out his window, and as far as he could see, there were holes in the ground. One moment he’d smile because those holes were testimony to his discipline. And the next moment he’d frown because he could hear voices laughing from deep inside the holes: What a fool he’d been, wasting his life digging holes looking for gold! Finally, the day came when he stopped digging and just stayed home. The next day he heard a great commotion coming from t
he center of town. He went to investigate. And there to his great disappointment was a young man with a chest full of gold. He told the masses gathered around him that he followed a trail of holes that went on for as far as the eye could see. Right where the holes stopped, he decided to dig. He found a chest full of gold. Now he was rich. All his dreams would come true.

  If I had a piece of gold for every time Clarice Pitts told that story, I would be a rich man. It was her favorite story when she wanted to make a point about the value of staying on course. We are all reminded at times in our lives, how difficult it is to stay on course. Getting off course is a four-letter word: easy. Lord knows, at different moments, easy is fun, exciting, and even a bit dangerous. I learned at an early age that staying on course requires a long line of people, like a team sport. But sometimes, I discovered, I had to be at the front of the line and play the game alone.

  “The first team to ten wins.” That was the one basic rule to street basketball in my neighborhood. Fouling was encouraged, but complaining about a foul was not. Timmy Johnson was the best athlete around. Given the choice, every kid wanted to be on Timmy’s team. Not only was he gifted, he was gracious. He might score 9 of 10 points, but he always shared the credit with his teammates. It was a Saturday night, and luck was on my side. Timmy picked me for his team, and we were up, 8–5. There was plenty of time to finish off our opponent and get home before dark. One of Clarice’s many rules, “Be home before dark or else.” Rarely did any child in our family dare test “or else.”