A Particular Kind of Black Man

by Tope Folarin

  Sometimes Mom turns off the radio and asks us to sit on the floor. She tells us a story from her childhood, and although I remember a few of them there is one that she tells us most often, about a turtle and a seagull. If only I could remember the moral of the story, how it ends.

  Mom stops cooking Nigerian food when we get to the shelter. She will only prepare frozen food, but my brother and I don’t care. We’re always happy when we see her busying herself in our tiny kitchen, opening the box of frozen fried chicken, the delicious rip of aluminum foil, placing the foil and chicken into the oven. Soon the savory fumes tunnel into our nostrils. She dumps a dollop of store-bought crab salad onto our plates, sometimes some fried rice from the local Chinese restaurant if she has extra money, and the fried chicken. If it’s summer, the window is open, the breeze warming our backs.

  To my mother, silence is love.

  So we, in turn, learn to love silence. If our mother looks away as we walk in the door she is signaling her unending devotion to us. If she ignores us when we ask her a question she’s actually telling us that we’re smart enough to figure things out ourselves. If we call for her and she refuses to respond, we know she is hugging us all the same.

  To my mother, awareness is anger.

  If we feel her eyes on us while we’re doing something we know to stop before she becomes upset. But sometimes we’re too late. Her voice erupts in hot waves from her throat, foaming in spittle at the edges of her lips. Her voice rises to the ceiling and hangs there, hovering above everything, and her sweat drips from her forehead and we stare ahead, trying to show her our love with our silence. Sometimes she gets it, she receives it, and her anger dissipates above us and her sweat cools and sinks into her face, and then she smiles and everything becomes still.

  Usually, though, she doesn’t get it. She takes our silence personally, she forgets her lifelong lesson to us, and she yells until she’s exhausted herself. Then she sits against the wall and cries. My brother and I carry blankets from our side of the room and cover her with them, and we burrow in on each side of her. This, too, is love.

  * * *

  I dreamed constantly at the shelter. Dreaming was the same to me, no matter the time of day, whether my eyes were opened or closed. I could maintain a dream through the day if I woke myself up, so I tried to rise as early as possible each morning in order to preserve my connection to the other side.

  I dreamed as I rubbed my eyes and went to the bathroom. I dreamed as I brushed my teeth and took a shower. I dreamed as I woke my mother and brother, as we started our day together.

  I saw my father in the mirror as I brushed my teeth. He looked just like me, with his wide nose, his proud forehead. I nodded solemnly at him, and he nodded back. Instead of sitting on the floor with our breakfast I knew we were actually sitting on a brand-new couch, and my father’s favorite Sunny Ade record was playing, and our silence was laughter. When Mom pinched me up and down my back her hands became warm and supple. She embraced me through the punishment. Her slaps were a burst of hot water on my face. My tears were the drops trailing down my face after the water had hit the floor. Each slap made me clean. Her eyes seemed angry because they were so red. I reached forward with my magic eraser and erased all the red until her eyes were white again. When I was finished her anger was finished.

  I soared, and I swam, and I dunked basketballs. No one ever told me that I was supposed to differentiate what I saw during the night from what I saw during the day, that I should privilege one over the other, so everything converged. I grew to believe that pain was temporary, that I was only a few steps from learning how to fly. I knew I would grow wings. It was only a matter of time.

  * * *

  My brother and I didn’t see our father for three months. A few days after we arrived at the shelter Mom told us that our father would be coming to live with us soon. A few weeks into our stay, though, she told us he didn’t want to live with us anymore, so we probably wouldn’t see him ever again. We didn’t believe her. We knew too much about our father’s love for us to believe he had simply abandoned us.

  One day, finally, the white lady with the freckles appeared and told us we would be seeing Dad soon. She told us we would only be able to see him on weekends, because that’s what the judge had said. Who is the judge? we wondered. “Don’t worry,” she replied, “just know that you will be safe. We will protect you.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. I had never felt unsafe with my father. I was upset that I didn’t have a chance to speak with the judge. I wanted to go on TV and talk to Judge Wapner from The People’s Court. I knew if I had a few minutes with him I could convince him that our family needed to be together again.

  We met Dad in the common area of the shelter. He was crying.

  “How are you doing?” he asked us. “How have you been? Have they been taking care of you?”

  We were upset with him.

  “Why didn’t you come for us before? Why did you leave us here? Where were you?”

  Dad extended his hands helplessly.

  “I don’t know. I am here now.”

  My brother gave him a big hug, and I couldn’t resist either. Dad held both of our hands and I turned to see Mom stewing at us from the corner of the room. Dad told her he’d have us back by Sunday. Mom turned and walked away.

  Our apartment felt strange though it looked exactly the same. Dad had even left our toys on the ground where we’d discarded them the morning we were taken to the shelter. For a moment we just stood there, looking at each other. Then Dad flipped on the TV and asked us to sit on his lap.

  That Saturday Hulk Hogan looked into our living room and told us to eat our vitamins, say our prayers, and listen to our parents. He was so big. Then we saw him wrestle. He was fighting a large, fearsome opponent, and he was winning, but then another wrestler jumped into the ring and punched the referee. He punched Hulk. Hulk was down on the mat, grimacing in pain, and the mysterious wrestler disappeared. Hulk’s opponent hit him repeatedly on the head, and then he pinned him. We were silent, my brother, Dad, and I, as Hulk lay on the mat, bleeding, on the verge of losing the match. But then he reached his hand to the sky and began to shake it. He shook his hand until the power from the sky seemed to course through his fingers into his arms and into his body. He shook like a new force was inside him, and he rose slowly from the canvas. He kept shaking even as his opponent beat him on the face and chest, and then he made a great fist of both of his hands and slammed it down on his opponent’s back. His opponent collapsed, and a few moments later the newly revived referee raised Hulk’s arm in victory. We cheered and hugged each other. After my father tucked us in that night I spent hours with my hand raised to the ceiling, shaking it, waiting for the mysterious power to enter my body.

  The next day we sat and talked, but in the evening Dad told us we would have to go back to the shelter. We begged him to let us stay for just a few hours more, but he said it wasn’t possible. We bundled into the car and he drove us back. We saw Mom as we were walking in, and she took our hands without saying anything to Dad. We heard him talking behind us.

  “Theresa, what are you doing?”

  Silence.

  “Why are you trying to take my kids away? Why are you breaking up our family?”

  Silence.

  * * *

  I don’t remember talking much with my brother during this period. I’m sure we spoke often, but the words we exchanged are forever lost to me. I spent most of my time looking out for him. I talked to him under my breath through the long silences, and I shielded him whenever Mom reached for us in anger. I was glad that my mother took her anger out on me. I actually felt like a big boy when she raised my arm and pinched me down my side and back, gathering my skin between her nails and pressing as hard as she could each time. The welts were hot and red. Sometimes I counted them and wondered how many should have been for him.

  After a while, though, I noticed that my mother stopped reaching for my brother altoge
ther. She always lunged for me, even if she was angry with him.

  And then she stopped being angry with my brother.

  When she beat me she would sometimes call me by my father’s name. I didn’t know how to respond, and when I tried to tell her that I wasn’t my father she beat me harder.

  “Stop denying yourself,” she would say between slaps.

  “Stop trying to be something you aren’t,” she would say while pinching me.

  I never told anyone what my mother was doing to me. I believed that my silence was a part of my maturity. If I told anyone, I would be admitting that I wasn’t an adult. I don’t know if my tutor or Joy ever suspected what was happening to me, but they were nicer to me as time passed; I received more hugs and kisses than any other kid in the shelter.

  One night, after pinching me all over my back, Mom asked me if I loved her. I gave her a big hug and told my brother to join us. We sat there on the floor hugging for a long while, and then Mom told us that it was almost time for her to leave.

  “Where are you going?” we asked her.

  “I am too sick for this world,” she said. “I won’t be here for much longer.”

  “Will you take me with you?” my brother asked expectantly.

  She shook her head slowly. “No. I wish I could, but no.”

  * * *

  About a week before it happened, Mom came into the living room and saw me sitting on the floor. I was exhausted. It was dark outside, and the window was open. My brother was sleeping on a mat on the other side of the room. Mom smiled as she approached me. A little of the moonlight touched her face.

  I began to shiver because I thought she was going to hit me again. When she sat next to me I sneezed in fear. She raised her hand and I bowed my head, waiting for the hard sting of her hand against my face. Instead she rubbed my cheek. I began to cry. I was so relieved.

  “What is wrong with you?” Mom asked. I didn’t respond. She held my hand.

  “I just want you to know, I don’t hate you,” she whispered. “I hate your father.”

  I didn’t say a word.

  “I hate him for bringing me here, and I hate him for giving me hope.”

  I nodded.

  “But you’re too much like him,” she said. “And that is why you and I can never be friends.”

  I looked up at her.

  “One day you will understand,” she said. “Everything that I have done will make sense. You will see.”

  I nodded again. Mom kissed my cheek. Then she got up and left.

  * * *

  Mom began to take her pills more frequently, soon every hour, and then every few minutes. One evening, while she was preparing our fried chicken, she dropped the package of aluminum foil on the floor, whirled around, and opened the cabinet above the fridge. She pulled a new bottle of pills from inside, flipped the top, and shoved everything down her throat, cotton balls and all. I remember her choking on the cotton balls, and falling to her hands and knees to retrieve the pills she had spit up. She crawled on the floor, saliva dripping from her mouth, slurping the yellow and red pills from the wood floor like an anteater. My brother and I watched her until she was done. When she had slurped down the last pill she leaned her body against the wall and smiled at us.

  “That was fun,” she said.

  She just sat there for a while. Then she started nodding off. My brother ran over to her and began tapping, then shaking her so she would stay awake. The oven started smoking, big noxious fumes, and soon we were all coughing, except for Mom. I ran out of the room and looked for Joy.

  My father picked us up the following morning. When we arrived at our apartment he did not comfort us or ask us any questions, he just told us to change our clothes. My brother and I became scared.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Don’t worry, just hurry up.”

  I started to cry. My brother ran off to our bedroom. We were still traumatized by what we had seen the night before, the strangers bending over Mom, Joy whisking us away and telling us Mom was fine even though we had seen her lying still, three or four cotton balls scattered around her. Dad called my brother back to the living room and smiled at us.

  “Come on now! Get ready! I promise we’ll have fun!”

  My brother and I changed and followed Dad to the car. We drove for a few minutes and then we stopped in front of my old school, the school I had attended for just a few weeks before Mom took us away. The school I hadn’t seen in over a year.

  “You will be going back there soon.” my father said, pointing. “Prepare yourself now. I expect both of you to be the best students in the school. There will be no excuses.”

  We sat staring at the brick building. I read the sign in the parking lot, next to the flagpole. It said: HAPPY THANKSGIVING! SCHOOL RESUMES NOVEMBER 28TH.

  Dad then drove us to the mall. He bought cinnamon rolls for us and we sat on a bench near a department store. We saw all the moms and dads bustling from store to store with massive bags in their hands, some carrying, others dragging their children behind them. We saw a fake star affixed to a fake tree, and fake snow that was spread all over the fake presents below. I knew better than to ask Dad about our own Christmas presents. We munched on our rolls.

  Dad drove us back to the shelter the following week. Mom smiled weakly when she saw us.

  “My sons. I have missed you.”

  She hugged each of us, and she held me longer than usual.

  “I am very sorry. I love you, my child.”

  She held our hands and we walked slowly back to our room.

  “I have a very special surprise for both of you. Close your eyes.”

  I felt her pushing something warm into my hands. I looked down and saw a plate with two pieces of oven-ready fried chicken, some green beans, Chinese rice, and a Santa Claus cookie on the side. He had an M&M nose and a beard of frosting.

  We ate in silence.

  * * *

  The courtroom was much bigger than I thought it would be. I couldn’t imagine how they fit everything inside the TV. Everyone was quiet as my brother and I walked in. It was the first time I remember wearing a suit.

  How did we get here? I don’t know. There are too many pages of memory missing.

  The judge was an old white man, but he wasn’t Judge Wapner, or the judge from the other show we used to watch with Joy. He smiled at my brother and me.

  “Don’t be scared or nervous. We are all here because we want the best for you,” he said.

  Something happened after this, I’m not sure what. And then the judge slowly swings his head—a massive, bearded pendulum—back in our direction.

  “This could go on forever,” he says. “But I think you guys know who you want to be with. I can’t promise that I will do as you ask me, but I will weigh your words very carefully.”

  My brother looks at me and I feel my face burning.

  I look down at my shoes, and then I look up at the judge, his head shifting almost imperceptibly from left to right and back again, like it’s keeping time.

  “I want to stay with my father.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “And you?”

  We both look at my brother and he nods.

  * * *

  Sometimes when I close my eyes and travel back to that bewildering time I see Mom shaking her head at me, shooting me hateful glances as we pack our things from her room and leave the shelter for the last time. Usually, though, she isn’t there. Not even her ghost greets me, not even a blast of cold air. She disappears from the story. She simply evaporates.

  I am both ashamed and not ashamed to say that I did not miss her initially. I just wanted to fly away, to leave all my sadness behind.

  * * *

  My mother lives in Nigeria now, and I know almost nothing about her life. Who she is, what she does, what she hopes to be. I haven’t seen her since she left. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.

  There are so ma
ny questions I would like to ask her.

  When I think of her now, I think of the old white lady who used to accompany me to school each day. When I told my father that I wanted to serve her in heaven, he wrung his hands and shook his head. He told me I would serve no one but God, and then he called my mother and asked her to walk me to school the following day. “It’ll be good for you to leave the house for a bit,” he said to her.

  As Mom, my brother, and I walked together Mrs. Hansen materialized beside us, and she told my mother that she, too, could serve her in heaven. Years later I learned that Mrs. Hansen was referencing an old notion of the Mormon church, that black people, sons and daughters of Cain, could only get to heaven as servants.

  Mom stopped and touched her face. She smiled warmly and told her that we would all be together in heaven as equals, all our earthly worries behind us forever, and wasn’t that such a wonderful thing? Mrs. Hansen nodded, and then she smiled like something joyous and satisfying had just occurred to her. She slowly tottered away, and I never saw her again.

  I remember Mom smiling triumphantly as we walked the rest of the way to school, her face lovely and calm. She seemed perfect to me then.

  GRANDMA + TUNDE