Kim noticed my thoughtful mood and asked, “What are you thinking about?”
I paused for a minute to finish my thoughts. I said, “I’m just thinking about the difference in how men raise kids as compared to women. I mean, you know how that saying goes, ‘Mothers love their sons, and raise their daughters.’”
Kim responded, “Well, I don’t have any daughters, so I couldn’t tell you.
“How did your mother treat you?” I met Kim’s mother, and she seemed like a pretty nice woman. She never did say anything about my jail time. Maybe Kim never mentioned it to her. Why should she? I guess I had to stop thinking about it so much myself.
Kim sighed. “She got on my damn nerves,” she answered me. “She was always comparing us and shit. ‘Why don’t you do your homework like your sister? Why you gotta hang out so late? Gelencia doesn’t.’ And I was just tired of that shit.”
Kim had a younger sister who lived in Cleveland. She was single with no kids and had a nice job with the gas company. She looked damned good, too, all the way around, face, hair, and body! Sometimes I found myself staring at the pictures that sat around the house whenever Kim wasn’t at home.
I asked, “How come your sister ain’t married or something?”
Kim gave me the evil eye. “Why, you want to buy her a ring?”
I started to chuckle. “Naw.”
“Well, she ain’t married for the same reason I ain’t married. Everybody wants to sleep around and leave,” Kim answered me. “I remember when she first got her virginity taken,” she commented. “She swore up and down that she was gonna be with this one guy forever. And I said, ‘Gelencia, just because you gave him some doesn’t mean that he’s gonna marry you.’ But she was just so damn naive! A damn nerd! She should have kept her legs closed.”
I smiled and asked, “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Should you have kept your legs closed?” I asked in low tones. Jamal was still in the room shooting hoops.
Kim said, “No. And I’m not ashamed of nothing I’ve done either. You live and you die.”
I thought about that. You live and you die. “Damn! Is that all we do?” I asked her.
She hunched her shoulders at me and said, “Eat … drink … shit … fuck … work—”
I cut her off and said, “Watch your mouth around your boy. You just say anything around him.”
She smiled and responded, “Aren’t you just a saint,” mocking me.
“Can you go a day without cussing?” I asked her.
“Can you go a day without talking about basketball?”
Right as she asked me, Jamal’s ball bounced off of his plastic rim and knocked my glass from the coffee table and onto the floor. It was a good thing I had finished my Kool-Aid.
Kim said, “See? He’s ’bout to give me another damn headache!”
I said, “Jamal, give me that ball.” He looked at me and slowly handed it over. “You’ve played enough for tonight. All right? We’ll play again tomorrow,” I told him.
He looked around like he didn’t know what to do with himself. I said, “Go bring me your homework so we can look it over again with your mother.”
Kim looked at me and frowned. I was waiting for her to say something negative, but she didn’t. I was looking forward to reprimanding her if she did. You should always want to go over a kid’s homework, especially when they’re young. Hell, that’s when it’s the easiest! Because by the time Jamal made it to high school, we probably wouldn’t be able to help him. It was smart to get him off to a positive start.
Jamal was still hesitant.
I said, “You want to go down to the gym tomorrow, right?”
He nodded his head. “Yes.”
“Well, go get your homework then.”
As soon as he ran into his room to get his black-and-white notebook, Kim smiled and said, “Now you’re gonna bribe my son.”
“So what? It worked, didn’t it? Kids need to be rewarded for doing their homework anyway.”
“Oh, so you’re gonna reward him with basketball?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
Kim shook her head as Jamal came back out with his book. She said, “What’s this thing with men and basketball anyway? It’s like a damn religion or something.”
I snapped, “Oh, don’t tell me you wasn’t jumping up and down when Flo-Jo was smoking people in the hundred-yard dash years ago. So what about that? And women and this ice skating stuff, what about that?”
“That’s different,” she said with a grin.
I nodded. “That’s what I thought,” I told her. I said, “It’s just amazing to me how women will complain about men and sports, as if we’re supposed to be doing something else. I mean, what are we supposed to do, go clothes shoppin’ and read boring-ass books on relationships? It just makes sense to me that the more women get into sports, the more they’ll be able to relate to their men. So take a note or two on that.”
“Yeah, whatever. They still don’t wanna marry you,” Kim responded. “They just want to hang out, eat your food, take your kid to a few ball games, and start pulling on your clothes whenever they want some.”
“Yeah, and they also pay half of the rent, look out for the kids, lay some mean wood when they need to, and make damn good company!” I snapped back at her. We had only been in our new arrangement for a couple of months, and already she was talking the “M” word. I wondered how long I was going to have to put up with that. But it was my fault. I was the dummy who started talking about it by asking about her sister.
We both chuckled at our humor. Then I took Jamal’s notebook. I held his basketball up in the air with my left hand and his book in my right.
I said, “What hand do you shoot the ball with?”
Jamal held his hands up and did a demonstration. He looked confused for a minute. He said, “I shoot with both hands.”
Kim started laughing. I guess my approach was going to take more than I thought to get my point across.
I said, “Okay, which hand do you push the ball with?”
He held his hands up and demonstrated again. “Oh, with this hand,” he said, excited.
“That’s your right hand,” I told him. Then I put his book in his right hand and the ball in his left. “Now which hand comes first?” I asked him.
He paused. “My right hand,” he answered correctly.
I said, “That’s right. Because you’re right-handed. Now which hand comes second?”
“My left hand.”
“That’s right. And in your right hand, your first hand, is what?”
He looked and said, “My Schoolbook.”
“And in your left hand, your second hand, is what?”
“My basketball.”
“That’s right. Because your books come first, and that basketball comes second. So if you want to play ball, then first, you have to take care of them books. You hear me?”
Kim cut us off and said, “Your mother comes first.” That just messed up my entire groove. I was on a roll for a minute there.
I backed up and said, “Okay, she’s right. Listening to your mother comes first. Then the books. And then me. Because if you want to play ball, then you have to talk to somebody who knows the game. And I know it well,” I told him with a smile. He was getting a kick out of all that attention. That’s why he liked me so much in the first place. A woman could never take the place of the attention that a man gives a boy. It’s impossible to do. And if it didn’t make a difference, then men and women wouldn’t be from different planets.
Kim threw another monkey wrench in my program. “What about his grandmother?” she asked with a grin. She was getting a kick out of it too.
I started laughing. I said, “Okay. First you listen to your mother. Then your grandmother. Then your books. Then me—”
“How is he gonna listen to his books?” Kim asked.
I said, “Would you just leave me alone. I mean, I’m trying
to set up a program here, and you’re just talkin’ to be talkin’. See? That’s why women can’t raise no boys,” I told her. “Y’all talk too damn much, and that just gets boys confused. You got me confused now. I was making some good points. Now just leave me and Jamal alone.”
We all broke out laughing and enjoyed the moment. I admit, Kim was far from being perfect, but so was I. Nevertheless, I was learning to feel connected to her and her son. Whether he was my boy or not, we had a lot of fun together, meaningful fun. That was what family was about, feeling comfortable with one another, needing one another and being able to laugh and suck in the good moments as well as deal with the bad whenever they came around. It wasn’t an overnight process for me, but all of a sudden, I was becoming a complete father. Nevertheless, Kim was right, I still wasn’t ready for that “M” word. So I hoped she wasn’t planning on pushing it.
Thanksgiving
OM, would you just relax, please. This is my Thanksgiving and you’re a guest. Okay? Now just sit down, relax, and be a guest,” I commented to my mother. She insisted on hovering around the kitchen while I worked on dinner. I wanted her to just enjoy herself and rest for a change. She had been working hard for us most of her life
She took a quick look behind herself and whispered, “I just wanted to say that he seems like a very nice man.”
I smiled. That’s why my mother was forcing herself into the kitchen. She wanted to say something about Brock while he used the bathroom. You know how mothers are, they just can’t wait to say what’s on their minds. I wondered if I would be that way with my sons, and I already knew the answer. Of course I would. I guess it’s all a part of having mother’s instincts. Waiting to discuss things would seem like forever, especially when it involved your kids and dating. You want them to have the best situations and not make any mistakes that you can help them not to make. But they go right ahead and make those mistakes anyway, just like I did, and probably like my mother did before me. The sad thing is, families in my mother’s era seemed to know how to hold things together longer. Especially the men. My father may have hit the booze a little too often, but while he was alive, he was always there when we needed him. Maybe that’s why my mother couldn’t bring herself to love another man. She was loyal to the grave. And maybe my sister needed more of him. Nikita was only eight when my father died. Hell, I wondered how my life may have been different had he been alive through my high school years, and beyond.
I looked at my mother and responded, “Thank you. And did you tell him that?” I asked, referring to Brock.
“No, not yet,” she answered. “I just said a few things to him here and there. But I’ll tell him when I’m ready to tell him.”
We shared another mother/daughter smile before she made her way back into the family room with Nikita, Cheron, and my two sons. Nikita and I had made up as usual, and she reluctantly decided to come over for Thanksgiving. I knew that she would. She was never a grudge holder, and once she arrived, she quickly got herself involved with playing video games with her nephews. Sometimes I wished that my sister could hold grudges. That way she could stop going out with so many poor excuses for men, because you are who you date.
Brock came out of the bathroom with clean and dried hands, and asked me what he could do next in the kitchen. He was being great about things, and had been there since nine in the morning to help get everything ready.
I looked at him and snuck in a quick kiss. “We’re almost finished now,” I told him.
He smiled and said, “Yeah, well, that kiss is gonna get me started on something else that we ain’t even begun yet.”
I gave him an evil eye. “Behave. Okay?” You give a man an inch and even the good ones are capable of trying to sneak a mile. I guess it’s in their genes. God most have spoken extremely loud when he told them to be fruitful, because they surely never forgot. And like I said, many black men were not even familiar with Genesis.
Camellia had asked me before to invite Brock out to church with the family. Maybe that needed to be my next move. In the past, I made sure to restrict Sunday service as a close-knit family affair. Brock had been right all along. I was being exclusive. Then again, he had never asked to join us at church either.
“Brock, do you believe in God?” I asked him. Had I asked him before? Amazingly, no. I guess I was also separating church from dates. What in the world was I thinking?! Once I had agreed to let the chips fall as they may, they seemed to be falling all over the place.
Brock frowned and looked at me as if I were a Martian. “Of course I believe in God.”
“So why haven’t you asked to go to church with us?”
“Because that was your private space, and I understood that. So unless we just happened to go to the same church, inviting people out to service is a big deal.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes it is,” he answered. “Unless you’re a Jehovah’s Witness. They invite everybody out.”
We started to laugh. But it wasn’t right. I said, “Why do people have such a problem with Jehovah’s Witnesses?”
“Because they don’t allow you a chance to praise your God in peace. Personal religion should never be competitive. But they’re always out trying to solicit to people. That just doesn’t seem right to me.”
“All churches solicit to people,” I reminded him. I took out the ten-pound turkey, basted it, and slid it back in the oven. Brock opened the can of cranberry sauce and slid it out on a serving plate.
“Yeah, but most of them only do it once you’ve decided to show up for a service. They don’t go out and knock on your door to recruit you.”
“That’s right,” my mother said, walking right in on our discussion. “And they’re always passing out those funny papers and carrying on. The Bible is the only thing you need to read about God. Who are they to say what you need to do with your life? The Bible says, ‘Thou shall not judge.’”
“Amen,” Brock told her with a smile.
I looked at him and grinned.
Mom asked him, “So what church did your family go to?”
“Faith Tabernacle on Stony Island on the South Side,” he told her.
“Oh, I know that church,” my mother responded. She was really excited about it. “They had that real good youth choir.”
“Still do,” he told her. “I even wanted to play the piano because of it.”
“Oh, you play?”
“A little bit, but I’m no Herbie Hancock or anything. I can’t jam on it.”
“And you still go to Faith now?”
“Not like I used to. No, ma’am.”
My mother nodded at him. “Nobody goes to church like they used to. Maybe we all need to start going back again, and the world would be a better place to live. But the Bible said that these last days would come in the Book of Revelations. Do you still read the Good Book?” she asked him.
I hadn’t heard my mother so enthused about church in a long time. Brock was definitely getting her full attention. I knew I wouldn’t hear the last of it when the night was over. I was beginning to fear for my own privacy. My mother hadn’t tried to be my matchmaker in a long time either. Nevertheless, if she kept going like she was with Brock, she would try and tattoo his name on my forehead.
“Oh, yeah, I still read the Good Book,” he answered her. “‘And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth,’” Brock quoted. That caught my mother off guard, and me too.
“Oh, yeah,” she commented hesitantly. I don’t think my mother had read the Good Book herself in a while.
Brock eased her obvious embarrassment and said, “Don’t worry, that was just my favorite passage. I probably can’t quote anything else like that,” he commented with a chuckle.
My mother said, “Well, we all need to start going again,” and made her way ba
ck into the family room.
I looked at Brock and smiled. “She wasn’t expecting that,” I told him.
He said, “I know. But I figured I’d quote something before she started to.”
I frowned. I told him, “My mother hasn’t quoted anything from the Bible in ten years.”
“Yeah, well, just in case she did, I wanted to be ready for her.”
We laughed in hushed tones like two teenagers sitting in the back of a classroom.
It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon by the time we were finished making dinner. Camellia, Monica, and Levonne were expected to arrive at any minute. They were involved in a Thanksgiving Day food drive in Chicago’s Rockwell Gardens, one of the worst areas on the West Side. Since I was throwing dinner at my house, I couldn’t make it. However, I still should have sent my two sons. They’d definitely be going the next time. They needed to show some kind of responsibility to the African-American community. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got with myself for not sending them.
Anyway, Camellia had met Brock before, but her two kids had not. I was curious as to what they thought about their mother not having a man in her life. I just didn’t know how Camellia did it, and I was afraid to ask. Or maybe, I just didn’t want to know. I guess she was your typical, hardworking, single mother. She kept herself extra busy to cut down on any long periods of loneliness. Not to say that we didn’t enjoy being busy and making a living for ourselves and for our kids, I just wondered how many of us were honest enough to admit that we would also enjoy relaxing with a gentle man, or that we at least thought about the idea.
By the time Camellia and her kids arrived at my house at two-thirty, we were all anxious to rock and roll with our soul food.
Camellia announced, “Let the soul food party begin.”
I nudged her and said, “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
She said, “That movie did a lot for Chicago and black families, child. Because we need to get back to good old-fashioned home-cooked meals and family.”