A Particular Kind of Black Man

by Tope Folarin

  I saw the long line as I approached the other truck, and I had to apologize many times because a few people thought I was trying to cut in front of them. I knocked on the back of the truck and Tayo opened it for me, and then he rushed back to Freddy with a package of ice cream in his hand. Ade was playing with a ball on the bed, and he giggled at me when I waved. I asked Tayo if they had any extra boxes of snow cones or Fudgsicles, and he shook his head.

  I sprinted back and told Dad the news, and he dispatched Mom to the house to pick up more ice cream. We were already out of a few items by the time she returned, and a great cheer rose up as she walked through the crowd, carrying boxes of ice cream above her head.

  I placed my hand on my father’s shoulder and he turned around and smiled at me. His smile was wide and wondrous. Suddenly I wanted to hug him and tell him it would always be like this. I wanted to tell him that he would always be a star. I wanted to live in this moment for the rest of my life, to forget what I had seen while I was out trying to get more ice cream for the truck.

  Just before I reached Freddy’s truck, I noticed a few men standing in a circle a few feet down the street. One of them was licking a Firecracker Popsicle. The Firecracker looked delicious; its red-white-and-blue segments sparkled in the sun. The man pulled the Firecracker from his mouth and oinked loudly, and then he began to speak in a melodramatic, garbled manner. Spittle flew from his lips. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. In the midst of his performance I heard him say “Creamsicle”; the other men laughed and slapped their thighs. That’s when I realized they were making fun of my father. I ignored them and kept walking.

  I already knew that the weather was growing colder and my brothers and I would soon be returning to school. I knew that in a few days my father would park his trucks for the winter, that the moment he did so he would just be an immigrant again.

  But I also knew that my father was content. I knew he was calm and proud. I knew that—for the first time in a long time—he was in control. He had achieved everything he set out to achieve.

  And besides—our day was just beginning. We had more ice cream to sell. And the weather was perfect. I knew we were going to sell more ice cream than we’d ever sold before.

  Tomorrow was coming, but I was happy. My father still had a few hours left in the sun.

  GRANDMA + TUNDE

  “Tunde, come get the phone!”

  I ran into the kitchen and Dad passed the phone to me. “It’s your grandma,” he said gruffly. Then he paused and stared at the fridge. “The only thing these people care about is money. They must think that I’m made of money. They must think that I don’t do anything but sit on my ass and count money all day long.” He shook his head and walked away. A few moments later I heard a door slam.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Tunde? Is that you?”

  “Yes, ma.”

  “How are you today?”

  “I’m fine, ma.”

  “That’s good. Is your father still there?”

  “No”

  “OK.”

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t you worry about it.”

  “You can tell me.”

  “It is not for your ears. If your father wants to tell you, then he will tell you.”

  “OK.”

  “Tunde, are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK, sorry, I couldn’t hear you. One of your cousins is here. Do you want to speak with her?

  “Who?”

  “It’s Shola. Do you remember her? You’ve spoken with her on the phone a few times. Especially when you were younger.”

  “I don’t remember her.”

  “OK, you will remember when you speak with her. Here she is.”

  “Hello? Hello?”

  “Hello.”

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this Tunde?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tunde! How are you?”

  “I’m doing OK.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “I’m ten.”

  “Ten! Wow, you are growing up fast!”

  “I guess.”

  “Do you remember me?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

  “Oh, that’s OK. When are you coming to Nigeria?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have to come soon! Don’t forget us, oooo. Don’t forget that you are a Nigerian! You will always be a Nigerian!”

  “OK.”

  “How are your studies?”

  “I’m doing fine.”

  “That’s good. I myself am getting ready for university. I have applied to a school in the US, maybe you have heard of it. Williams College.”

  “I haven’t heard of it.”

  “OK. I am coming to visit the US soon, if your father can help me. That’s what Grandma was talking to him about. Maybe I can come and visit you. You are still in Utah, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you like it over there?”

  “It’s OK, I guess.”

  “OK. My mother wants to speak with you. Hold on.”

  “Hello, Tunde?”

  “Hello, ma.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, ma.”

  “I can’t stay on the phone for long, I just wanted to check on you. I haven’t spoken with you in five years! Why don’t you call us?”

  “I can’t because it is too expensive to call Nigeria.”

  “All of you with the same excuse. All of you leave Nigeria because you want to get more money, and then when you get to the US you are always complaining that you have no money. Why don’t you come back, then? Why stay poor in a place so far from home? It is better to be poor at home.”

  “I’m sorry, ma.”

  “Tunde, I’m sorry. I am just frustrated with . . . with certain things.”

  “It’s OK.”

  “How old are you now, Tunde?”

  “I’m ten.”

  “OK, describe yourself for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know how you look, so describe yourself. How do you look?”

  “Ummm . . .”

  “Do you look like your father or mother?”

  “I don’t remember how my mother looks. But I think I look my dad. Maybe a smaller version of him.”

  “Do you have his nose? That wide nose of his?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you sound sad?”

  “Because I hate my nose. I’ve always hated it.”

  “Hate, ke! How can you hate something that God has given you?”

  “Because it’s too big.”

  “It’s not too big, oh. That is the other problem with that country. Everyone will be telling you that your nose is too big because you don’t have that small-small white-man nose. That nose that they are struggling to breathe with. Don’t mind them! Your nose is beautiful. Ask your father how many women were stroking his nose when he was a young man.”

  “OK.”

  “Ok-o, I have to go. Tell your father that he must call more often. And tell him to help us if he can.”

  “OK.”

  “OK, bye!”

  “Bye!”

  “Tunde! Tunde? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, Grandma. I am here.”

  “How is your mother?”

  “I don’t know. She’s over there.”

  “I mean your new mom. Your mom over there. How is she?”

  “She’s fine, I guess.”

  “How are both of you getting along?”

  “We’re fine.”

  “You don’t sound fine.”

  “I’m fine, ma.”

  “What is wrong, now?”

  “Nothing, ma.”

  “Are you fighting with her?”

  “No, ma.”

  “Are you treating her well?”

  “Yes, ma.”

  “Is she treating you w
ell?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK. Good boy. Don’t you realize what a blessing you have? You have two moms! Most people only have one.”

  “Yes, ma.”

  “Don’t forget that. There are two women in this world who love you dearly, who love you as only a mother can. Try to remember that.”

  “Yes, ma.”

  “OK, give the phone to Tayo.”

  “How is Mom? I mean, my mom over there?”

  “She is fine. She is resting. I will tell her you said hello.”

  “When can I talk to her?”

  “Not now. She isn’t here.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She is at church. Don’t worry. You will talk to her soon.”

  “Yes, ma.”

  “OK, give the phone to your brother and remember to be a good boy. And tell your father to call me more often!”

  “Yes, ma.”

  “Tunde? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here, ma.”

  “There’s something else I want to tell you. About your mother. Your new mother.”

  “OK.”

  “There comes a time in life when you can no longer focus on what others are doing to you, but on the life you are living. You are a young man now, so you must focus on yourself. Do you understand?

  “Yes, ma.”

  “Even though both of your mothers love you very much, you can’t depend on them or anyone else to take care of your heart. You have to learn how to do this yourself. That is part of being an adult.”

  “Yes, ma.”

  “So I want you to focus on you. On the things that make you happy and calm. The things that make your heart beat faster and slower. This is how you will learn who you are, and what you are supposed to do in this life.”

  “Yes, ma.”

  “OK, let me talk to Tayo.”

  I called Tayo and placed the phone on the counter. Then I went to the bathroom and closed the door.

  I couldn’t stop staring at him. The nerdy-looking kid in the mirror. Was he a young man? He didn’t seem like a man to me. Just young. I repeated my grandmother’s words. “You are a young man now,” I said to the mirror. He seemed to be talking back.

  “You are a young man now. You must focus on yourself.”

  I smiled. I felt different. Better.

  I kept saying those words.Maybe if I just write to

  November 7, 2000

  6:41 AM

  I think something is wrong with me.

  I’m not sure how to describe it. It has something to do with my imagination. The way things live in my mind.

  I’ve always had an active imagination. For example, I believed in Santa Claus long after my siblings and friends did. Right up until I was in middle school. Whenever Santa failed to show up—every year he failed to show up—I always blamed myself. I thought about everything I’d said or done over the course of the year, and I always remembered some time that I’d disobeyed my father, some time I’d been envious or unappreciative or, as I grew older, some time that I’d glanced at a girl and wondered how she looked without her clothes. I always resolved to do better the following year, and then, inevitably, I’d mess up somehow, and I’d hope that Santa wasn’t watching, that somehow he’d missed it. And when Christmas came and there were no presents under our plastic misshapen tree I’d shake my head and feel guilty and frustrated with myself. I don’t think there was a moment when I decided I didn’t believe in Santa. I just grew to accept disappointment as an inevitable part of my life.

  I also believed that professional wrestling was real until, well, very recently. I was always upset whenever the sportscaster on the local news failed to discuss the results of WrestleMania or SummerSlam. My parents never had enough money to purchase those pay-per-views, so I’d have to wait until Monday when some rich kid would tell the rest of us what had happened, and I’d envision the matches in my head, everything appearing as clearly as it would on any screen. Eventually the kids at school stopped caring about wrestling. This did not matter to me. I kept watching those matches in my head.

  I also imagined the things I wanted in the future. Impossible things, things that could never happen to a poor black kid like me. But at night I’d close my eyes and see myself graduating at the top of my class in high school. I’d see myself dating a woman who looked just like Lauryn Hill. I’d see myself in Nigeria, talking with my mother as if we had never been apart. And I’d see myself getting a full ride to Morehouse College, the school I learned about when my brother and I were living at the homeless shelter with Mom, the school Martin Luther King Jr. had graduated from. The school made up entirely of smart black men. The school where I would no longer be unusual. I saw each of these things so clearly that I had no doubt whatsoever that they would all come true.

  Well, some of them came true. A few months ago I graduated at the top of my high school class, and I’m typing this from my dorm room at Morehouse College.

  Recently, though, I’ve begun to see other things. I see things I could have done as if I have done them. Just a few days ago, for example, my roommate Maceo invited me to a party at his girlfriend’s house. She’s a junior and lives off campus, and every now and then she’ll invite a few people over for games and drinks and stuff, and every time Maceo comes back he’ll tell me how incredible it was, about all the fine girls who were there. He’s always telling me that I’m missing out, and I was so tempted to go with him this last time, but I had a big test I needed to study for, so I decided to do that instead. When I saw him the next morning Maceo told me how much fun he’d had, and I still don’t know how this is even possible but I suddenly remembered being there. I remembered feeling kind of nervous and awkward as I walked into the party, and feeling a little better when I saw his girl, Autumn. Then we all sat and played spades, and then we played hearts, and I started talking to this beautiful girl named Tiffany. As Maceo and I were leaving I asked her if she’d like to grab a coffee sometime, and she smiled at me—a beautiful, luscious smile—and said cool.

  I don’t even know if Tiffany exists (if she does, I’ve never met her), and yet I remember speaking with her almost as clearly as I remember studying for my econ test, reading and rereading those formulas, then making a few flash cards and quizzing myself until I became tired and fell asleep.

  I’ve been experiencing these double memories for about five months now. The first time was a few days after I graduated from high school, when my friend Matt gave me a ride home after we’d spent the evening hanging out at the Waffle House. As I was falling asleep that night, though, I remembered walking home from the Waffle House. I had no doubt that I’d actually gone with Matt—it was hot outside, and late, and I didn’t feel like walking so I jumped into his car the moment he offered. But I also remembered declining his offer. I remembered walking across the parking lot and down the sidewalk. I remembered repeatedly wiping the sweat off my brow with my forearm. I remembered stepping on branches and leaves and cursing under my breath. I remembered getting momentarily lost after I tried to take a shortcut through a little stand of woods about a mile from my apartment, feeling the fear tiptoe up the back of my neck because I’d forgotten where I was supposed to exit, and then recognizing the big tree with all the odd markings on its base, and stepping out into the moonlight a few moments later, waves of relief rolling through me.

  As I lay in bed that night I was confused by the clarity of these alternate images in my mind. Where had they come from? And what was I supposed to do with them? After a while I dismissed them; I assumed that my mind was playing tricks on me because I was tired. Or that I was remembering some earlier walk.

  But a couple weeks later I had another double memory. And then another about a month after that. And a few days after that.

  Now I experience these double memories about once a day. Most of the time they’re trivial—I’ll remember marking up an essay draft with a red pen when I know I used a blue pen, and I’ll quickly glance at my essay on my de
sk and sigh with relief when I see those blue marks cascading down the page. Or I’ll remember enjoying a cold shower just after I turn the shower off, even though I can’t stand cold showers. I always end up turning the shower back on for just a second, to feel if that first burst of water is hot or cold.

  I can still tell the difference between the event that actually occurred and its false reverberation in my mind, but it’s getting harder.

  One of the first things I decided to do once I arrived at Morehouse was to start writing about my life. I wrote a bunch in high school, mostly sci-fi and fantasy stories, but the moment I stepped on campus I had this intense urge to write about the major events that led me here. And I didn’t really think much about it because all these words came flowing out of me, I don’t know from where, full sentences and paragraphs and pages, and I felt compelled to write everything down. But I think I can admit to myself now that I’m transcribing these memories because they are from a time when I did not have to question if I had experienced something or not. I never understood before what a gift that was.

  I think about my mom all the time and what happened to her. I have no idea when she began to feel sick, if at some point she experienced what I’m experiencing now. If these double memories are just the first steps in a long, painful process that will only end when I have completely lost myself to confusion, depression, and paranoia.

  I can’t stop thinking that maybe my mother passed down whatever was wrong with her to me.

  I feel this fear most acutely when I look in the mirror. The funny thing is that I avoided looking at mirrors for years because I was so ashamed of the way I looked. Growing up as a dark-skinned kid in a series of all-white towns will do that to you. And then one day when I was ten, my grandmother told me that I was a young man, and that I had to learn how to focus on myself. I took her words seriously, and literally, and I spent a great deal of time looking in mirrors after that, even though for many years I saw nothing more than an awkward, timid boy staring back. Yet today, when I look in a mirror—say the mirror that’s positioned right above the desk on which I’m writing this—I can see that, finally, my grandmother is right. I am a young man. But I can’t really say that I feel any connection with the person who’s staring back at me. He appears calm and proud and assured, which is crazy because inside I feel constantly sad and overwhelmed. Sometimes I can’t help but think that this person in the mirror is the one who’s living this alternate life that I can’t stop remembering.