Floating Away

And so the time had come, as so many other times had come before. Still, there was no certainty…no assurance that he had found what he had been looking for. Still, he had been given the opportunity to share…to give of himself and hoped that they had felt him, that he had touched them in some way as surely as if he had stretched out his own fingers and caressed their skin. They watched him gather his things. Some of them smiled encouragingly. Some looked at him reflectively. Some were teary eyed. Others may have been happy to see him go. He could not be sure. Still, it did not matter now. The important thing was that he had accomplished what he set out to do. He was grateful. He was joyful even…though the reality of this departure seemed sad to him somehow. They watched as he dragged his things to the gate. They stood up. He brought his shoulders forward. He lowered his head as a sign of respect. They raised colorful fabrics for him, waving the pieces of cloth in the air. They paid tribute; the thoughtful, the hopeful, the frightened, the contented, the weary, the thankful, the glum and even those that were secretly pleased. They all lifted their fabric to the sky. Every color of fabric under the sun seemed raised for him. And he was glad, for he had accomplished what he had set out to do. He looked at the multitude, honored to have had the moment in time, appreciative of the experience and the courage to give of himself as he had. Maybe he could locate that same courage for his next adventure. He had many more ahead of him. They watched as he exited the gate and departed from the forum, floating…floating…floating away like a sweet passing fragrance, traveling all alone.

The Benefactress

Who had the time or inclination to think about the trials of the world, and issues lying in a layer behind the glitz and flash, when things were so fabulous? The music sounded as if it were composed especially for the two as they sat together; she in her push-up bra with earrings hanging…low and welcoming like the fabric pulling against her breasts…calling all onlookers to take a sample – even those that generally did not have a taste for that sort of thing. He wore a crisp jacket. He wore cufflinks. He wore his face in perpetual solemnity as he sipped his drink.

She called him a hypocrite. You say that you love all your people, she said. You say you want to lift us up. But you tell lies. She brought the glass to her mouth. She sipped the rippling green liquid. She traced the crystal stem of the glass with her silvery nails before speaking again. I am black too…and beautiful. And if my skin is a few shades lighter than yours…or hers…does that make me any less valid? Does that make my challenges any less important? Why do you go out of your way to acknowledge how stunning brown skin is…chocolate this and that…black and glistening…gorgeous deep hues? You must have a very low opinion of me, she huffed.

He restrained his response for the moment. He set sad eyes upon her. He looked at the diamond ornament on the smallest of his fingers and adjusted his tie. There was a time when he could scarcely imagine himself sitting in that great room, with the white faces of cherubs on the ceiling and carved into the walls. There was a period in his past when he would ridicule any of his true peers who sat in those seats. It was the result of success and indoctrination that had him now; the outcome of comfort; the grand design to which he had invariably succumbed. What could he do?

My opinion of you is very high, he said. Are we not here together? And yes, you are beautiful. Your looks are celebrated every day. Your beauty is told to you regularly, your worth…all by virtue of your color. It doesn’t make you any less black or valuable or relevant or anything. We cannot stratify ourselves any more than we have been. He paused, wary of her reaction. How often, he asked, do you experience black and glistening as beautiful, as truly beautiful and not a phenomenon, as natural, as worthy? I say it often because it is said so little. I say it in recognition of truth…and not as any reflection on you. We are, neither of us, in control of what happens in this world. We just make our way in it.

He stopped speaking and raised his eyes to decipher what was showing on her face. There was no warmth there. Her lips had not relaxed themselves. Her shoulders were still raised and her fingers were wrapped like vines around the glass. He leaned back in the chair. He exhaled. Maybe an explanation was not what she had wanted all along. Maybe she sought something else from him. Unfortunately, he had not been in a generous mood. He knew that he would pay the price. There was silence for a few motionless moments. And then, she reached into her purse and placed a collection of folded bills unto the table to pay for the drinks.

Barefoot

Of all the sought after things in the world, we were among the most hunted.
But we made the best of life, stumbling through the system they had created, and excelling despite the predictable pitfalls. We were inaugurated.
We sat in classrooms mostly, some of us nodding, some listening. We fraternized on the campus quad with books in our arms. We found our own means of recreation.

I had bypassed the basketball courts and asked a companion to follow me to the audition.
I was younger then and still glanced over my shoulders whenever I walked into a room.
I saw you. I looked at you as the team leader advised me not to take the process too seriously. There was understanding in your eyes and I believed that you knew what pain was. You were as well acquainted with sadness as I had been.

Was I ready? The team leader wanted to know. Yes. He walked over to the portable stereo. He stood next to it like a conductor, waiting. He looked at me. I battled embarrassment with a resolute sword. This beat had been in my blood.
The team leader sank a skinny finger into the button tray. The music blared with the abruptness of an explosion.

My feet took me. The rest of my body moved without effort. This beat had been in my blood. It was in me. I no longer cared about my companion’s perceptions, even though he had been generous enough to accompany me. The report he would later give to the rest of our friends was suddenly of no moment. My feet took me.

I sailed over the worn gray carpet as if I had been commissioned to entertain in the house of one of our ancestral kings. I was younger then and danced free of the restrictions I would acquire in my manhood. I danced in the popular styles of the day.
My body moved without effort. I danced and could hear my great grandmother say: That boy has that thing in him – that thing from the old world. This beat had been in my blood.

The last of the former slaves were familiar with the thing. They pounded its spirit over steel and leather drums. All I had known was escape in its rhythm. All I had known was there was no pain. All that I could hope for was that you were still watching. I could feel in your gaze that you knew me. You knew me.

The team leader stopped, with his stick-like fingers, the beat that had rushed out of the portable stereo. I slowed my steps, feeling unraveled like a ball of twine…or a carpet unfolded so that all could see its design. I grew again conscious of my companion’s perceptions since he would report what he had seen. I was stunned at your smile when I looked at you. There was understanding in your eyes.

Travlin All Alone

I'm so weary and all alone
feet are tired like heavy stone
Travlin, Travlin all alone

Who will see and who will care
bout this load that I must bear
Travlin, Travlin all alone

Prayers I sent to heaven above
bout my burdens, woes and love
Here by dawn with misery
Nothing now appeals to me

Travlin, Travlin all alone

Give me just another day
There's one thing I want to say
Does the world and all it's gold
leave you always when you're old?

Travlin, Travlin all alone

As sung by Billie Holiday
(written by J.C. Johnson)

At This Very Moment

There was a big broad bed, with a big wooden frame in the big front room; the master bedroom. In the old country the wood was considered to be of very high quality. They called it ‘Purple Heart’ and polished the frame so that it looked as if someone had knelt down and used their fingers to rub Vaseline on it. The television was in that master bedroom…the VCR too. The bed was high enough for me and my cousin to camp underneath with our own bedding to watch the TV while the folks slept above us. It was our own special place. We were raised like brothers and we had our own special bond. We had the kind of sensitivities that artists are prone to and spent days talking over subjects too solemn for our tender ages to carry. We spent hours lying back silently and imagining lavish scenarios. We read out of actual interest and not obligation. We fought in the yard when we grew tired of each other’s company or when either of us just felt mean. We mended our rifts in front of that television.

No film had moved us more than “The Color Purple”. We taped it and watched it repeatedly. We cried unashamedly by the ending for we could relate to what we had seen in keen but separate ways. We had the kind of sensitivities that artists are prone to and let our personal hurts take hold of us in those very moments. My cousin would later inspire me to write. His skill is unmatched, his brilliance is startling, and his words are the kind that could make his readers fall to their knees in awe. I thought about these and other things as I busted through the cold, in gloves, in hat, in hooded undershirt and a coat that weighed twenty pounds at the very least. I was on my way to retrieve my car finally. It had been two months since the fateful accident. The challenges had spread through the weeks in streams. Money changed hands too many times to remember and was pulled from bank accounts with insufficient funds. Still, these are the plights of the original man.

One of the things about “The Color Purple” that had touched my young heart immeasurably was the film’s representation of family, that is, of creating a family out of a community of people that cared about one another. As a product of a community that has had the most traumatic history known to the world, and as a man with ‘forbidden’ proclivities, I realized years later, the value of having the unconditional support of a group of people; a family. Blood alone is not determinative of family, it’s true. Nothing is better than having a core circle to celebrate with you when times are high and to sit with you when they have sunk to their lowest. It is a gift and a necessity. I had trained myself to depend on no one. I had become used to doing battle alone. All the difficulties I had shouldered in the past months were upon me as I came around the corner to the building where the vehicle was housed, walking in the cold. There were some issues that were unresolved, a question of money (naturally). I was bent on a resolution but was not looking forward to a conflict in achieving it. I neared the steel doors and prepared myself as the cellular phone rang. I answered it. I turned around as instructed and saw the jeep across the street. In another few moments the doors opened and four familiar faces exited. My people. They crossed the street with coats flapping, grim faces and cell phones in hand – there to stand behind me as I completed my business. I smiled as they approached.

That Sunday, I agreed to do a favor for one of my elder relatives. I woke up earlier than usual and dragged myself to the shower, sucking my teeth. Black suit. I was due at church of all places. Blue shirt with matching tie. It had been more than a few years since I last attended. Watch with the black metal face. Nonetheless, I could not refuse the charge of an elder relative. Black cashmere coat. There was to be a presentation. Black skully for the cold. I would have to step up and do what was requested of me. Black gloves. Nubia arrived flourishing in her suede coat and heels, and moments later we were blazing through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel on our way to Harlem.

At the congregational church it was a celebration of love. Women who had lived in Harlem for six decades and more sat in the pews like anointed queens. Young children fidgeted under their guardians' watchful eyes. And some of the men leaned hard on the backs of the benches whenever they stood. I could scarcely believe that fate had brought me back to church of all places after my full disillusionment…and after my dramatic departure. It was a celebration of love that Sunday. I made the presentation I was appointed to make and stepped from the stage in a daze. I quivered as the familiar faces of these strangers smiled at me. They hugged me. They talked to me like a child that had come back from a long journey. They told me that they loved me and I regarded them in wonder – certain that they did love me. They hugged me. My people. I was moved. I was ashamed about the deep reluctance I had felt beforehand about keeping my appointment. And when, in the basement, the elders brought food to Nubia and I, we gushed. They held our shoulders. They smiled and put us at ease. They verbally encouraged us on our respective journeys and it occurred to me again just how important family was – how important family is wherever and however we can acquire it. Being just a one-time visitor, I was probably certain never to see any of these generous spirits again. I was never as humbled as I was at that very moment.