Tears of a Tiger (6 page)

DECEMBER 20

Class, pass your papers up. I know you're excited because this is the last day of school before Christmas vacation, but let's get this one last assignment in. At least you know what
I'll
be doing over the break—reading your poetry. I'm really rather looking forward to it.

—Yeah, just like an English teacher—poetry turns her on.

—Don't knock it till you've tried it, Gerald. Poetry is a wonderful way to express yourself. Sometimes a poem can say what we're able to feel, but unable to put into words ourselves. You like music, don't you?

—Yeah, ‘cause it has a live bass and I can turn it up loud and jam.

—Do the songs that you listen to have words?

—Yeah, specially rap songs.

—Well, believe it or not, the words to those songs are poetry. Someone has written a poem, and a musician has set that poem to music with a beat. That's all poetry is. Poetry is a song without music. Can you deal with that?

—Yeah, but I still like what I hear on the radio better than what they put in this poetry book.

—That's my point exactly. If you don't like these, write your own! Now do I have all the papers? Andy, where's yours?

—I didn't do it.

—Oh, Andy, why not? This was the last big grade for this quarter. You've missed quite a bit of homework the past few weeks. I know you haven't felt well, but this was an easy assignment.

—Yeah, well, I forgot. I'm sorry.

—I am too, Andy. I hope you have a great vacation. Come back in January and let's start fresh, all right?

—I can live with that.

—Well, there's the bell—I wish you all a very Merry Christmas.

 

—Hey, Andy, I thought you did that poetry assignment.

—I did. It's in my book bag.

—So why didn't you turn it in? That's going to fry you when grades come out.

—I know. I don't even care. I just didn't feel like it, okay, Keisha?

—Okay, okay. Don't get all bent out of shape. Are you still coming over tonight?

—Yeah, I'll be there. That's one thing that I
do
care about.

DECEMBER 29

—I'm glad you came back, Andy. I'd like to finish our conversation.

—What conversation? I do all the talkin'. All you do is sit there and look out the window. You know, you really should trim those nose hairs.

—Thanks for the cosmetic advice. Now, what about you? We never really talked about Keisha, or Christmas, or the rest of the school year up to this point. Do you feel ready to get started?

—Yeah, I guess. Let me see…Christmas…Well, Christmas was kinda rough. Me and Rob used to hang out in the malls during the holidays, checkin' out stuff that cost to much and pretendin' to be interested in buyin' it. It was funny—we would walk into one of those stores with alarms and bells and electronic wires on the leather goods—you know the type I mean.

—Yes, I'm with you.

—The salespeople started to follow you around as soon as you hit the door, and they
never
take their eyes off you, like you gonna steal somethin' with the Bells of St. Mary's connected to it. Now, white boys can go in there, and when they say, “Just browsing,” the salespeople leave ‘em alone. Sure, they watch ‘em, but they relax a little and stay behind the counter. But let a black dude walk through the door, and it's “Security Alert” in the first degree.

—You're right. I've had it happen to me.

—So then we would say, talkin' real properlike, “My partner and I are interested in purchasing one of your more expensive commodities. Would you be so kind as to allow me to try on this leather coat?” The saleslady, who was always some white lady with too much perfume and too much makeup, would get real nervous and start lookin' toward the back room, where I guess her boss or some security guy was. (And don't let all four of us come in together—the old biddy would just about wet her pants!) But she
had
to let us try it on, ‘cause there was the chance that we really did have $5,000 in our back pockets. After all, we're drug dealers anyway, right? Isn't that what they think?

—You know, at this point, I'm supposed to say, “Now Andy, let's not exaggerate here.” But what you're describing happens all the time. How does that make you feel?

—Same way it makes you feel—like cheap crap. So, anyway, we'd play with her for a while, then tell her we'd be right back with Daddy's credit card. I know they thought we were scopin' them for a robbery—if you look back into the store right after we left, you could see her writin' down vital information, scribblin' furiously our height and weight and skin color so she can identify us when we come back to rob her silly behind. We would laugh and go on to another store, but it really made me kinda mad that they treated us that way.

—Did all of you feel anger at these kinds of incidents?

—Yeah. It made us wanna break somethin' or hurt somebody. We never did, but I can see how places get mobbed or looted if folks get mad enough. Sometimes you get sick of bein' treated like dirt.

—I hear you. So what else did you fellas do in the mall?

—Well, then we'd go to sit on Santa Claus's lap and get our pictures taken. Just when they were about to snap the picture (and they'll take a picture of
anybody
who'll give them the $8.95), we'd pull down his beard, or take off his hat, or say real loud, “Why, you're not Santa—you're just some old white dude!” He'd get really mad, but since there was always a bunch of little kids in line, he'd smile and say, “Santa doesn't like bad little boys—you guys run along now.” We'd jump up and leave before they had a chance to call Security. I never could figure out why any black kid would want to sit on the lap of some old stinky-breath white man in a red suit and tell him what he wanted for Christmas anyway. How come stores never have black Santa Clauses?

—I don't know, Andy. I used to wonder the same thing.

—So Christmas was rough this year. The malls seemed so phony—all that glitter and shiny stuff—giant green balls and red ribbons hung from the ceiling, with signs like, The Magic of the Season Is at Midtowne Mall. All they care about is how much money you got in your pocket or what the limit is on your credit card. And if you ain't got no money or no credit card, you can just pass up the Magic and Midtowne Mall, ‘cause we're takin' up a parkin' space from payin' customers.

—Very cynical observation, but probably true. Didn't you go to the mall with Keisha recently? How'd that go?

—Well, it was about two weeks ago. When I went with Keisha to the mall, and when I saw the Santa Claus display, I got
real
depressed. I had to go home. It just brought back too many memories. Keisha understood, though. She's okay.

—Doe she have any problem with helping you with your emotional ups and downs?

—Naw, Keisha's cool. If it hadn't been for Keisha, I mighta really gotten depressed. After the accident, Keisha was always there. She came to the hospital, to the funeral, to the trial. She was the only one I could cry in front of and not be embarrassed. My father kept telling me to put it behind me, to quit dwellin' on the past, to get on with my life, but Keisha said stuff like, “I know it hurts, baby—go ahead and let it out.” Sometimes we'd be sittin' on the couch in her livin' room, and she would hold me and I would cry so hard my whole body would shake, and then I'd fall asleep with my head on her lap. Me and her never really—you know—did it—I think I like her too much to do that right now. I talk big in front of the boys, but they know Keisha's special to me.

—Do you depend a lot on Keisha?

—Yeah, I guess so. She's there for me when nobody else is.

—Suppose Keisha wasn't there? What would you do?

—No chance, man. Me and Keisha are tight. She's my lady.

—Relationships end all the time. Could you take it if you had another serious personal loss?

—Naw, man. You don't understand. Look, let me give you an example. It was Christmas Day. I gave Keisha a bottle of that perfume that she wanted and she gave me a real nice sweater. Everything was cool. We were sittin' in my livin' room. Our Christmas tree was all shiny and glowin'. My dad was dozin' in his chair, Mama was workin' a puzzle that I had given her (she likes word puzzles), and Monty was playin' with some space soldier people that he got for Christmas. I felt—I don't know—sorta “at peace.” If that one moment coulda continued forever, life would be sweet.

—But it didn't.

—No. The phone rang and spoiled it all. It was Rob's mother. She was all teary-soundin' and she said she just wanted to wish me a Merry Christmas. See, she used to call me every Christmas and tell me to come and pick up my rock. It was this silly joke-thing we did every year.

—Your rock? I don't understand.

—You know how they say that kids who are bad won't get any Christmas presents and will only get a rock in their stockin'? Well, every year, she'd call me up and tell me to come and get my rock. Then I'd say, “But I been good!” So then she'd say, “Well, if that's the case, come on over and let's see what else we can find for you.” I'd go over later and she'd always have somethin' cool like a Lakers hat or a Bulls T-shirt for me.

—So this year, did she mention the rock?

—No. I think she wanted to. But neither one of us could get past that part about whether I been good or not.

It upset the both of us. She hung up real quick. I think she was sorry she called.

—Were you sorry that she called?

—Yeah, I was. It spoiled that one special moment of peace and it made me start thinkin' ‘bout all the pain in my life. Keisha could tell somethin' was wrong, but she didn't ask. She leaned her head on my shoulder and started singin' “Silent Night” real quietly.

—Did that make you feel better?

—Yeah. I relaxed a little. Then my dad woke up, and I guess he thought things were gettin' too cozy, ‘cause he said it was gettin' late and I probably should be walkin' Keisha home.

—So you feel secure in your relationship?

—Yeah, man. Me and Keisha are tight. She keeps me on balance. When my parents get on my last nerve, or school gets to be too much, or I get really depressed, I can call her and she'll cheer me up. She believes in me. That means a lot.

—Well, Andy, I really enjoy these sessions with you. Would you be willing to come back again? Perhaps we need to discuss some aspects of your life just a little more. And once you get started, you don't really seem to mind, am I right?

—I guess not. It does kinda help to talk about some of this stuff.

—Good. See you next time.

—Later, man.