Black Brother, Black Brother: Part 1

I wish I were invisible. Wearing Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak or Frodo Baggins’s Elvish ring. Whether shrouded in fabric or slipping on gold, it wouldn’t matter to me.

Sitting, I stare at the black specks on the white linoleum.

The secretary, Mrs. Kay, even the assistant headmaster, Mr. Waters, with his tartan tie, avert their eyes.

My right foot taps uncontrollably. If I sit any longer, I’ll explode.
“Donte,” Headmaster McGeary says warily.

My stomach churns.

“I didn’t yell at you.”
“Are you contradicting me?”

“No. Frustrated,” I say, exasperated. “You didn’t even ask me how I got here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be in trouble.”

Fury, roiling spasms. It hurts to breathe.

Seeing me, flanked by cops, the crowd quiets.

“He’s my brother,” answers Trey.
Bewildered, the officer stops, studies Trey. “You have a black brother?”

Some even run behind the police car as it slowly navigates past gawking people, parked and stopped cars, and limo coaches.

He says “black” like a slur. Says it real nasty.

Funny, I don’t feel safe. (Unnerved, threatened.)

“Sure it’s all a misunderstanding,” says the red-haired cop, almost jovial. “Boys will be boys.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I did?”
Mom twists in her seat. She clasps my freed hands. “Donte, I don’t need to ask. I know you. Nothing you did could justify you being handcuffed.”

Bias. Racism. Plain and simple. Philadelphia, cops called on black men meeting in Starbucks. Portland, cops called on a hotel guest talking on his cell phone with his mother.

It isn’t fair.
I’m riled again.

Like I conjured it, a squad car turns the corner.

So, I’m suspended. Going before a judge. Middlefield says I’m a delinquent.

Trey, like Dad, can say, do something offbeat and lighten heaviness, sadness.

Trey straddles me. “Uncle.”
Trey always beats me wrestling.

I walk gingerly toward my room, hoping my pants won’t drip on the carpet.

His hair wet is dark brown. Once it’s dry, it’ll billow in blond waves.

In 1967, the Supreme Court said state bans on interracial marriage violated the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment to the US Constitution.

Arden Jones is an African American foil fencer who won individual silver at the national championship, but wasn’t able to lead the USA team to glory at the International Grand Prix.

The club is old-fashioned, in need of repair. Wall paint is cracked, peeling. The floors need sanding, varnishing.

He seems beat, weathered.

Everything about him is gray. Gray beard. Gray hair and an ashy pallor.

Mr. Jones’s eyes pierce me, sharp like a blade. I feel like he’s sized me up. Seen my flaws, vulnerabilities.

His body seems loose, calm. But his right palm contracts—not into a fist, into a grip like he’s holding a sword.

On my journey, the world goes from mostly white to browner to brown to brown and black. From Newton to central Boston to Mattapan. From rich neighborhoods to poorer and poor. From houses with lawns to luxury apartments to small, ramshackle homes and Housing Authority apartments.

I turn off my music. Walk for five blocks listening to people talk. Creole. French patois. Spanish. A Jamaican lilt.

I turn off my music. Walk for five blocks listening to people talk. Creole. French patois. Spanish. A Jamaican lilt.

Once the floor is swept, Mr. Jones applies tape to mark on the floor a smaller basketball court, a foursquare court, and a dodgeball area. It must get crazy claustrophobic having lots of kids share space.

Flustered by Zarra, rejected by Jones, I leave, feeling hopeless, heading toward home.