P.S. Be Eleven

  We tried to give our uncle breathing room but we hung on to him every minute of the day. Even when we weren’t on him physically, we surrounded him. We just couldn’t stop, and as he tried to put himself in order we gathered around him, excited like puppies, waiting for him to pull exciting things out of that tall green bag.

  “Delphine has a boyfriend,” Fern tattled.

  “Is that so?” My uncle looked straight at me and I felt my skin warming up.

  “He’s my pen pal,” I said, trying not to make a big deal of it. If I put up a fuss my sisters would never stop teasing me.

  “But he doesn’t write her any letters so she has to dream about him,” Vonetta added.

  “I do not dream about him.”

  Heckle and Jeckle performed up a storm for Uncle Darnell. Heckle became Hirohito writing letters about love and go-karts, and Jeckle became me and wrote back in letters about love and Jackie Jackson. Uncle Darnell gave them the little bit of haw-hawing they were after and then told them to cut it out.

  “Tanya Bailey,” Vonetta said, “got silk pajamas when her daddy came home from Vietnam.”

  “Who’d want some old silk pajamas?” Uncle Darnell asked, his eyes twinkling.

  “We would!” we said all at once.

  “Is that so?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Unc. We want a souvenir,” I said, glad that the subject had changed.

  “So cough it up,” Vonetta said.

  “Start coughing, Uncle Darnell,” Fern said.

  “Only thing I got in here are dirty socks, dirty drawers, a helmet, and a canteen,” he said.

  “Y’all leave your uncle alone,” Big Ma scolded. “He just got home and you’re on him like he’s Santa Claus. Let him rest.”

  We still sat around him, waiting to see what would come out of his bag. To our disappointment, he pulled out a canteen, a helmet, and a lot of army things. Then he grinned like my old uncle, and he didn’t look hardened and long-faced like I had thought. He hummed and grinned like he had that time he braided Vonetta’s and Fern’s hair together, and they couldn’t get unloosened from each other. He dragged out the suspense, poking around at the bottom of his bag until we yelled, “Uncle D!” Then he pulled out some folded cloth. Silk cloth. Two blue. One yellow. When he threw them to us, each cloth opened to silk robes and we screamed and paraded around in them. Vonetta was hard to live with. She got the yellow silk robe.

  Big Ma outdid herself cooking up all of Uncle Darnell’s favorites. He sat and talked more than he ate, and Big Ma kept clucking and fussing. “What’s the matter, son? Don’t you like your chicken-fried steak?” Only he and Pa had those huge cuts of floured and fried meat on their plates. Vonetta, Fern, Big Ma, and I had make-believe steaks. Pork chops.

  Uncle Darnell left a lot of food on his plate. Before I could get a piece of his steak, Big Ma slapped my hand, grabbed his plate, and wrapped it in tinfoil. “I’ll heat it up when you’re hungry.” She shook her head. “Those Vietcong took my baby’s stomach. At least you’re home, praise the Lord.”

  “Praise the Lord,” we all sang, including Pa. We meant it in a joking way. Big Ma wasn’t pleased.

  Pa and Uncle Darnell stayed up talking, then the house fell quiet and every light in our house went out.

  I was in a deep, happy sleep. I soon awoke to banging and shouting. Then heavy footsteps that ran from Pa’s bedroom into the parlor room where Uncle Darnell slept. I heard Pa’s and Big Ma’s voices.

  “Easy, man. Take it easy.”

  “A mercy, Jesus. A mercy.”

  And “You’re home, man. Look around, Darnell. You’re home.”

  Fern came running out of her room but Big Ma told her to get on back to bed. She came running into my room and jumped into my bed.

  “Delphine. They’re shooting Uncle D.”

  “No one’s shooting at Uncle D.”

  “Vietnam’s shooting him.” She said “Be at nam.”

  “Vietnam’s way over there, Fern,” I told her. “Uncle had a bad dream.”

  “He’s scared, Delphine. Uncle D’s scared.” And she looked scared.

  “He’ll go back to sleep,” I told her. “He’ll be okay.”

  Half-moons and Squiggles

  Mr. Mwila walked down the space that separated the girls and Ellis Carter from the boys, to hand out our second attempt at essay writing. I twisted and craned to catch an Excellent, Very Good, Good, or Satisfactory on someone’s paper. I couldn’t help but be competitive. If Ellis got a Very Good, I knew I’d get an Excellent. If Frieda earned an Excellent, I knew I’d get a Very Good. But if Frieda got a Very Good, I’d have to be content with Good. Even after a few weeks I didn’t know what kind of marker Mr. Mwila was. He explained things, brought in articles for social studies, and demonstrated how things worked in science and in math more than he quizzed us, so it was hard to know if I’d be skipping along or struggling like on heavy laundry days.

  No one with an essay in their hand was saying anything, but they studied their marked sheets and made faces before turning their papers right-side down.

  Lucy received her paper and did a little chair dance. I wrote better than Lucy, so I grew cheerfully anxious to get my paper.

  While I had been watching my classmates, Mr. Mwila had placed my essay on my desk swiftly and then gave Ellis his paper.

  Finally. I saw what everyone else had seen. Red squiggles. Lines. Dots. Horizontal half-moons jumped from one word over others to get to another word. The words beneath the horizontal half-moons had a line running through them that ended in a squiggle. The poor words looked like a wriggling trout on a speared hook. I also found myself making faces at my own paper. And then I got to the end of the page where the only words written were: Good first effort. See me.

  I leaned to quickly read Ellis’s paper. Good first effort. Then I turned to my right to see Frieda’s paper. Her paper also had a lot of the same squiggles, half-moons, and the words Good first effort. No matter which way I turned my neck, no one else had See me following their Good first effort.

  I pushed my fat pink eraser over the See me and tried to look up at the board like nothing was wrong, but my stomach quaked. I couldn’t imagine why Mr. Mwila wanted to see me. With all of those red lines and squiggles dancing around on my essay, I wasn’t foolish enough to think he meant to tell me anything good. If Mr. Mwila had anything wonderful to tell me, he would have used a gold star or written Excellent across my paper.

  “According to Miss Merriam Webster, solidarity means being of one mind.” I couldn’t have thought of a better way to begin my essay. Solidarity was my main subject. From there I wrote how the Black Panthers used “solidarity” to talk about “the people” being united as one people. I couldn’t figure out why my teacher wanted to see me.

  Danny the K raised his hand and before he was called on, he said, “What does all this mean, Mr. Mwila?” He was echoed by yeahs, one of them mine.

  Mr. Mwila said, “You have submitted your first drafts to me and I have returned them.”

  “Giraffe!” Danny the K said. “Did Mr. Mwila say ‘giraffe’?”

  “Daniel McClaren.” Mr. Mwila was firm but calm. “The corner.”

  Danny the K stood up without protest and slinked to the front of the room. He stood facing the corner with his hands by his sides.

  “Now,” Mr. Mwila said, “you’ve written your first drafts.” He wrote the word on the blackboard. Draft.

  When Big Ma said “draft” she spoke about our cold house during the winter. When Uncle Darnell said “draft” he meant he was going into the army to fight the war. I knew our teacher wasn’t talking about a cold house or the army. Still, it was a wonder Miss Merriam Webster kept everything straight in her dictionary.

  Mr. Mwila told us everything about what a first draft is and what a great opportunity a first draft provides. He said a first draft isn’t meant to be marked on, because it was an “idea paper.” First drafts are meant to be thought about. Rethought. Then rewritten.
And wasn’t it good to have a chance to improve upon our first effort?

  He didn’t mean for us to answer, but we all said no. Even Rukia.

  I was certain no other sixth-grade class was being taught how to write an essay this way. Main subjects. Subtopics. First drafts. Second drafts. Squiggles and half-moons. And no grades.

  Mr. Mwila thought his teaching was just grand. He drew each squiggle and explained what it meant. “Proofreading marks and drafts go hand in hand.”

  “Like Michael Sandler and Evelyn Alvarez,” someone piped up from the boys’ side when Mr. Mwila was turned toward the board.

  Evelyn tossed her head to deny that she was Michael’s girlfriend. It wasn’t official, but Evelyn’s brothers let Michael walk to school with them, and they weren’t friends with him. Everyone knew he was really walking with Evelyn. At least Evelyn didn’t have to worry if anyone would ask her to the sixth-grade dance.

  That didn’t stop Lucy from liking Michael Sandler.

  When the second bell rang, the students with musical instruments went to band class and the rest of us were on our way to chorus. Before I reached the door, Mr. Mwila stopped me. I had forgotten about the See me but he hadn’t. Lucy and Frieda waited for me but he told them to hurry along to class.

  I stood at his desk not knowing what to expect.

  “Delphine,” he said. “You’re in grade six?”

  I nodded and couldn’t figure out why he started out asking what he already knew.

  “As such, you’re a leader in this school. An upperclasswoman. You’re in the highest grade in our school.”

  And taller than every boy, except Ellis, and taller than most teachers. Including Mr. Mwila.

  I answered, “Yes,” to break myself from nodding.

  “Then how is it that an upperclasswoman in grade six would believe Merriam-Webster was female?”

  I heard his question correctly. His accents were so clear. The King’s English and whatever his people spoke in Zambia. I heard him but I was in shock like I had walked into a glass wall. I didn’t know what to say. He had to repeat the thing he had just told me. “How is it that an upperclasswoman in grade six would believe Merriam-Webster was a female?”

  “She is,” I told him. “Isn’t she?” My breathing was fast and my mouth dry.

  “Delphine Gaither. I’m excusing you from chorus this period. Instead, you’ll go to the library and write an essay on Merriam-Webster. So, first, you’ll go to the encyclopedia for an overview. Then seek out other sources and begin your essay.”

  “Sources?”

  “Books. Magazines articles that you’ll use in your essay.”

  Mr. Mwila must have seen my eyes filling up. He scribbled a pass quickly so I wouldn’t be standing there crying in front of him. “Go now.”

  Lucy and Frieda were waiting for me in the hall. I wished they had gone on to chorus. They could see my face. Tears about to roll. I sniffed back the snot and blinked back the tears.

  “Delphine, you’re in trouble?” Lucy asked. “Did you write some Black Panther stuff? Girl, you can’t write that stuff in school.”

  “She can write Black Power papers,” Frieda said. Her brother was in the Brooklyn chapter. “John-Isaac will have an army of Brooklyn Panthers down here if you want.”

  I wanted to cry and was still in shock, not knowing what to tell my friends. Then Mr. Mwila said it for me: “Lucy Raleigh. Frieda Banks. To chorus. Now.”

  They shot me looks of sympathy and solidarity before taking off. I walked to the library and showed the librarian my note.

  I did as Mr. Mwila told me. I went straight to the reference section and found the Encyclopedia Britannicas. I took the M for Merriam and the W for Webster, just in case, and brought the heavy, leather-bound books over to a table. I dried my eyes some more and started with the search for Merriam. But I didn’t find her. Instead, it was as Mr. Mwila had said. She turned out to be a he. And he was three he’s. There was a Noah Webster and two Merriam brothers. My eyes flooded up before I could read any of it. And then I just put my head down and cried. There were other kids in the library but I couldn’t stop crying.

  I felt the way Fern must have felt when she found her doll baby, Miss Patty Cake, all blacked-up thanks to Vonetta’s Magic Marker. Like someone she loved had been turned into a joke and taken away from her.

  I’d had a picture of Miss Merriam Webster in my head for so long. I heard her showing me where to look for words. How to pronounce them. What they meant. How to spell them. I imagined she was plain, and that it was all right to be plain.

  When I finished crying, I knew I had to do like Fern had done with Miss Patty Cake. I had to leave Miss Merriam Webster and all my pictures of her behind.

  I asked Mr. Mwila if I could just do my paper over, and he nodded.

  Brooklyn Magic

  Uncle Darnell had been home for a few weeks, but he still woke up in the middle of the night. I’d hear the floorboards creak under his footsteps but I’d pretend to be asleep. From my window I’d watch him leave out the front door and walk down Herkimer Street. Pa told Big Ma Uncle D spent a lot of time in Fulton Park with the other soldiers who were home from Vietnam. Then I wouldn’t see him until we came in from school and he’d be laid out on his bed in the parlor room where Cecile slept when my father and uncle first took her in.

  We got home from school and found Uncle Darnell buttoning his shirt, getting ready to go out. He said he was going to the candy store around the corner and we asked if we could go with him. He said, “Drop your books and come on.” Uncle Darnell was always easy that way.

  “Put on your army clothes,” Vonetta said. “So we can show everybody.”

  Uncle Darnell almost grinned, but he didn’t give his all-out dimpled grin. “Show ’em what, Net-Net?”

  Without missing a beat Vonetta said, “That you been to Vietnam.”

  Fern added, “Fighting the war.”

  He made a low hum. “They know,” he said. “’Sides. Better to show ’em I’m back home, right?”

  “Right on,” Vonetta said. Then Fern had to say it too.

  Uncle Darnell wore what he called his “civvies.” His regular clothes. We were so glad to have him home and just walk with him. We also knew he’d buy us candy or take us down to the record shop so we could moon over the Jackson Five album. We’d be with our uncle, moon over the Jackson Five, and get candy without spending money that could go toward our Madison Square Garden savings.

  We passed by Friendship Baptist without Uncle Darnell making mention of the Arabian Knight or his sword, plastered into the yellow brick face of the church. The pastor said the church had been built by an Arabian Order of Shriners decades before Friendship Baptist made it its spiritual home. Uncle Darnell used to tell us stories about the Arabian Knight and how he died defending this block from urban decay and that his face had been immortalized in plaster to keep watch over Herkimer Street. Vonetta, Fern, and I were so giddy about candy and maybe strolling over to the record shop that we hadn’t noticed that our uncle didn’t say what he always said when we walked by the Arabian Knight: “He’s got his mystic eye on us.”

  Instead, we called out to anyone on their stoop or in the street, “Our uncle is back from Vietnam.” Mrs. Allen from Friendship Baptist was the first person we called out to. She said, “Bet you’re glad you don’t have to go back.”

  Uncle Darnell said, “Don’t you know it.” He sounded old, like Pa. Not young like someone out of high school for a year and three months. The men mostly shook his hand and thanked him for doing his duty. But one man said, “I wouldn’t go to no foreign country and shoot up poor people.” Vonetta got mad and said, “My uncle did not go to Vietnam and shoot up poor people.” Fern said, “He shot the enemy.” I didn’t say anything. I listened to what the newscasters said about the soldiers harming civilians and doing worse. But I also knew my uncle didn’t do any of those things while he was in Vietnam. I just couldn’t open my mouth.

  “Come on,
y’all,” Uncle Darnell told us. “Peace, man,” he said to the guy who wouldn’t even look at him. Peace, man.

  One day when he was in Vietnam, I’d gotten a letter from him that said:

  Delphine,

  Everything’s all right.

  Everything’s out of sight.

  Love you love you

  Uncle D

  His crazy, loopy handwriting swam around that yellow, lined paper. I showed the letter to Pa and Big Ma.

  Pa said, “That boy’s trying to sing you a Stevie Wonder tune in a letter.” And he laughed a big, whopping laugh, which Papa didn’t hardly do.

  I figured Pa was right. Uncle D was writing me a letter and hearing a familiar song in his mind. Maybe the bombing and shooting had started and he had to write fast. That was why his writing was nothing like the writing on his other letters. Uncle Darnell made his letters tall and lean slightly to the right, like I did. Then I remembered. He taught me how to handwrite the alphabet before I went to school.

  The air was a little crisp, and Uncle Darnell’s nose started to run, so he wiped it on his sleeve. He had written to me about how it rained off and on in Vietnam, but Vietnam rain couldn’t top Brooklyn chill in early October. Uncle D never mentioned getting sick over there, but now he always kept a cold.

  We stepped out into Bedford Avenue, and Fern, who hadn’t forgotten, looked up at the armory and cried, “Say it, Uncle Darnell. Say it!” She might have walked past the Arabian Knight but she hadn’t forgotten about the princess.

  He looked around like he was lost in thought. Then he came back to us and said, “Huh?” like he didn’t remember we were on the corner and could see the armory and how its round towers rose into the sky like the Magic Kingdom. It was the storybook place at Bedford and Atlantic, where the princess had been calling out to be rescued since Fern was about four or five.