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| "Black Percentage Strategy" |
"Gun violence is up in Chicago, but the crime rate is down 10%. This is good news."
This is not good news to me. This is tragic when you think about who is most affected and afflicted by gun violence.
I read the following in today's Chicago Sun-Times:
"And how long will a young person who is struggling with basic reading, writing and math skills be content to sit in the back of the classroom pretending to learn. It won’t be long before that kid finds himself carrying a gun like a bookbag."
Let's continue to write to teach beyond the percentages.
"If only 5% of you die, then we are successful."
"If only 20% of you drop out, then we are successful."
"If 70% of you had fathers in your home, then we are successful."
"If 60% of you are employed, then we are successful."
Black Percentages - what are they? Conduct the research.
Which percentages matter?
"Most likely to..." - Conduct the research
What story can you write to prevent African American males from being whacked?
I wrote the following short story, Black Bag to stress the need for us to redefine our strategies and spaces.
Black Bag
Lil’ Joe
sat in the back of the car with a stupid look on his face. The large
graffiti-laced t-shirt and hanging jeans with large cuffs hugging the ground at
the back of multi-colored gym shoes marked him as a young man looking for
trouble. The bulky bag he was toting raised suspicion. His run-in caused him to
imagine the weight of Mrs. Jackson’s disappointment. He heard her saying, “Stay
out of trouble.” He was excited and scared at the same time. He would become
one of the guys after sharing what happened tonight; he was now a first-timer,
an official member of the brotherhood.
Lil’’ Joe
felt the sting of the man’s tone when he was asked, “What’s in that bag?”
Unfamiliar with the protocol, the caringly harsh question that he knew he had
to answer troubled him. He hesitated to
speak. Saying the wrong thing could escalate the situation. An inner voice
remind him of a conversation when he heard, “I ‘ont say nothing when they ask
me questions. A second later he remembered, “I make up any old lie.” But, there
was no reason for him to lie.
“Did you
hear me ask you a question?”
Shaken from his thoughts in his
tightly squeezed space, Lil’’ Joe was about talk when the cell phone mounted on
the dashboard rang. On the fourth ring, the phone answered automatically.
“Hi, are
you busy right now, dad?”
“No, what’s
going on?
“I am just sitting here with one of your
brothers.”
“Not
again.”
The boy on
the other end sounded like he was about the same age. It was quite stirring to
hear the other boy use the word dad in such a warm way, he thought. He remembered his days as Little Man, but
that name didn’t fit his 6’ 1’’ 177 lbs frame anymore.
“I just
wanted to say goodnight and let you know that I finished the project we started.”
Lil’ Joe was fifteen, and he hadn’t seen Big Joe in more
than six years. Big Joe just stopped coming around one day. For months, Lil’
Joe longed for a phone call or visit, but they never happened. Trying the ease
the pain in his heart, he just decided to bury Big Joe. Hearing the boy on the
other end of the line reminded of how Big Joe’s hands swallowed up crayons and
pencils as they worked together. Big Joe
always talked about how important it was for a man to have big hands. It made
Lil’ Joe happy to see how his father could make other people smile with those
hands. Strangely, in some sick sort of way, Lil’ Joe was proud of his daddy’s
hands.
“Mom wanted me to
tell you she wasn’t able to pick up your package. So you have to pick it up in
the morning when you get off.”
“No problem.”
“Be easy on
them out there.”
“Will do.
Love you, son.”
Lil’ Joe
thought to himself, I love you too. He
mouthed the words silently as he heard them coming through the speakerphone.
Instantly, he felt angry. He wanted to reach and choke the boy who called him,
Brother. He is no Brother of mine, he thought.
His brothers, who were with him all the time, were in the bag he
carried.
“What’s
your name?”
“ Lil’
Joe.”
“Is there a
Big Joe, and does he know you are running the streets?”
“No, there
is no Big Joe. He died long time ago.”
“ So,
what’s in the bag?”
A call came over the radio reporting a shooting on South Aberdeen Avenue and 72nd place. Sirens were blaring in the background, but Lil’ Joe he had a weakened state of anxiety. Sitting in the car several blocks away from the call, the officer told Lil’ Joe to get out of the car and go straight home. The warm tone the man used on the phone turned harsh again. Lil’ Joe grabbed his black bag and jumped out of the door on the left side near the curb. His first run-in was not as exciting as he thought it would be. He would be laughed out if he talked about being in the back of car with a man who loves his son; works on projects with him; and who has to pick up his own clothes in the morning. He couldn’t share how he started missing in his own father.
A call came over the radio reporting a shooting on South Aberdeen Avenue and 72nd place. Sirens were blaring in the background, but Lil’ Joe he had a weakened state of anxiety. Sitting in the car several blocks away from the call, the officer told Lil’ Joe to get out of the car and go straight home. The warm tone the man used on the phone turned harsh again. Lil’ Joe grabbed his black bag and jumped out of the door on the left side near the curb. His first run-in was not as exciting as he thought it would be. He would be laughed out if he talked about being in the back of car with a man who loves his son; works on projects with him; and who has to pick up his own clothes in the morning. He couldn’t share how he started missing in his own father.
Lil’ Joe
almost had the chance to share what he was doing. Maybe the officer would see him as being
different and safe, not just another one of the Brothers that he tells his son
about. As he walked home, he felt his bag becoming bulkier. It was light three
years ago when he started carrying the bag to honor the memory of his best
friend, Ray Ray. This year, there were
more than twenty-six deaths in one school year. He was using his bag to keep
his real Brothers alive. He was sketching images. Among the main images, were
cars, trees, a front porch, a vacant, a basketball court, a school, a park, a
gym, an el train, and a bus stop; each with a face and name that others have
forgotten or will soon forget. There were images of Carl, Derrick, Phil,
Main-Main, Corey, Eric, and Dusty placed in the shadows of city’s flag. He
scribbled the same note under each image that said - This flag does nothing to
protect the brothers who live under its banner. Tomorrow, there might be
another name and another image in the shadow of the same flag. Lil’ Joe had
more images to capture. The weight of the bag could not compete with the burden
in his heart. He then wondered if this is what Big Joe meant when he said it
was important for a man to have big hands.
Post your completed short stories here today.
5 comments:
Finality
Henry climbed all 40 flights of stairs to the rooftop of the Hundred Oak apartment complex. He knew it was trespassing, but from there you could see the Chicago skyline and the surrounding suburbs hidden among the sea of lush Oak trees. He grasped his frayed, purple spiral notebook in his hand as he plopped on the cushioned red lawn chair. Henry enjoyed the sound of silence he got up there, he’d come up to write and read whenever he felt overwhelmed with paranoia or stress. He glared out at the trees, as if they were the cause of the problems, imagining all them without their leaves, with hollowed trunks that echoed when you knocked on them. If trees could talk, he was sure they’d be jeering at him, saying that taking all honors classes was suicide, that sunlight would be foreign to him.
Finals were tomorrow Henry had already been studying before and after school viciously throughout the week, and part of him still feared that it wouldn’t be enough to pass. He’d worry about falling below his 3.9 GPA goal and end up hating himself through the summer. Freshman year was supposed to be the defining year of your high school career. Ever since he heard that, Henry tattooed it across his cranium and had it haunt him for the entire year. Trying to beat past the statistics and standards and be something more than a name on a scantron. Although, he was certain that he was going crazy, as a result. That’s where the rooftop came in. He always considered the best medication to be relaxation, especially for someone with a plethora of social anxiety disorders. He started going up there at the end of first semester, around the time he switched to all honors courses. It began as a way to get away from everything, but then he realized that being up there made him feel small, that his part in the world was reduced, but in a good way. There he had nothing to be compared to except himself, he was his own statistic. There were no suppressing levels of achievement or stereotypes to live up to, he could be an individual. Today, he didn’t feel like thinking or writing, he felt comfortable. As he walked down the flight of stairs, he wasn’t thinking about how he’d perform tomorrow—he wasn’t thinking about anything.
Henry walked into his English final with a smug look on his face. Often, he purposefully looked angry so no one would come and bother him as he studied. Today his strategy didn’t work. From the corner of his eye, Henry saw his friend, Alex, dart across the desks and plop of the edge of his.
“Ah, if it isn’t the lone wolf of 3rd period English, ready for the final?”
“ …sure”
To avoid any further verbal interaction, Henry pushed Alex off his desk with his backpack. Sitting down, he looked around at the rest of the students in the room, with their pencils neatly arranged on their desks, fresh, and perfectly sharpened. Henry didn’t understand why all of them were so calm about the final. Henry felt his stomach drooping as he threw his head into his backpack trying to calm himself down. He did everything according to the book to prepare this morning. He went to bed at 10, which is early for him. He got up and fixed himself an actual breakfast, instead of a cereal bar and a bag of pretzels to ravage in 1st period before his teacher caught him. Others would tell him he should have nothing to worry about, which didn’t stop him from running through all the negative scenarios in his head.
Finality (cont)
The final bell rang throughout the classroom as Mr. Caulfield rose from his desk. He carried the stack of tests and scantrons.
"You'll have 90 minutes to complete the final, it's 136 questions all multiple choice, do not write or put any identifying marks on this test, doing so will result in your failure. Good luck and good skill."
Henry fiddled with the four pencils on the desk, picking up one at a time and twirling them between his fingers. The flow of the wood easing against the webs of his fingers, it was like his unspoken mantra. The repetition gave him something else to focus on instead of the tests getting closer and closer to him. The girl in front of him reached her arm back and handed him the test. Henry wobbled the packet in his hands. He hated thick tests. It meant that it would take forever to finish it and every page turn would alert the people around him that he was moving faster than them, bringing unwanted attention to himself and he definitely did not want that. He put his name on the scantron, making sure every letter was crisp, big and clear, so no one would misidentify him and void his test. Sixty questions through the test and Henry felt comfortable, nothing was too challenging. He blackened out the letters on the scantron perfectly, listening to the pencil scratch the paper. He then made it through a hundred, one hundred ten, twenty and thirty. Almost complete with the test in under and hour, Henry felt some excitement welling up inside of him. All of it dissipated when he reached the worst possible question. Thwarted by the ambiguous question teachers throw on tests for fun, to make you feel personally victimized, that that question will determine one entire letter grade if you got it wrong or right. Henry's head began to spin, all the options on the page began to swirl around and rearrange themselves. His scantron had aligned to all C's, jet black and right down the center. He wanted to panic and erase everything from the page, start all over and make sure he got it all right. He had to control himself. He placed his pencil down and closed his eyes.
He saw himself standing on the rooftop of Hundred Oak, feeling the breeze caress his cheeks cold. There were no lawn chairs to sit on, just him, his thoughts, and nothing else. He wanted to scream at nothing, scream at these constructed ideas he made inside of his head. Maybe it'd make his worries disappear, along with the test, school, everything that made him the anxious time bomb he was today. He never wanted it to consume him. He then began to think about the positives, shed light on this impenetrable darkness. Without the countless panic attacks, social anxiety, awkwardness, and countless therapy sessions that had failed miserably. Within the negative he realized that these things defined him, defined his drive. It would be better to embrace them instead of ostracize them. He began to think whether finishing his test would solve anything. He knew it'd benefit his grade but beyond that, what would it really do?
Finality (cont)
He opened his eyes, staring the test back in the face. He'd developed a cold sweat while he was thinking. Grabbing the pencil, he bubbled in B, the only answer that didn’t make sense to him. At that point, he'd put forth too much effort to allow one question to throw him off course. He didn't think his English final would be the metaphorical battlefield between him and his anxiety, but he went with it. He finished bubbling through the rest of the questions—accurately this time. He breezed through number 136, and handed the test into his teacher. He ran the scantron through the corrector, he didn't hear that many ticks, signaling all the wrong answers.
"Congrats, a very well earned 98 percent."
Mr. Caulfield handed back the scantron. Henry was free to enjoy his summer now. He decided to allow himself to enjoy the moment, which isn't supposed to be a conscious decision, but a rewarding one nonetheless. He knew in the future he was still going to worry about every quiz, test, social interaction and everything else under the sun. But he felt comfortable accepting that, knowing the benefits of it. He then ripped up his scantron and recycled it, grabbing his stuff and exiting the classroom.
A Day In Paradise
Corey Ellis
My little brother cried out to the heavens for some salvation from this heat that fell upon Chicago late last night. It’s 2009, but it feels like I’m there with the people who had to endure 1995. The AC failed to keep my skin cool like the air of winter’s first breath. The heat destroyed the cool air as it crept its way throughout our house. I sat there in my room trying not to move because every movement brought sweat down my back, face, and every other place sweat shouldn’t be just from sitting in your home. The heat was so ferocious; souls barely walked the streets. My mom yelled out saying some nonsense about leaving the house to go somewhere!
“Devante, I need you to walk to the store on 83rd St and get a case of waters we ran out the one on 81st is closed because the power blew out.
Has this woman lost her marbles? Who in their right mind would send a child out into this type of weather? But it had to be done, we had to keep my little brother and ourselves hydrated; or we would die of dehydration before the heat took us. I get dressed to go upstairs to get this money and prepare for this long journey across the desert for sustenance. But before I said anything to my mom I grabbed a pen and some paper and wrote a giant 750 on it. She thought I was exaggerating about the heat but little did she know that number has precious value to it in a situation like this.
“Mom, why do you hate me so much that you’re sending me to an early grave?”
“Boy, hush up you’re the man of the house and as the man you need to go get water.”
“Fine, but if I die out there I just want you to know I love you.”
I grabbed the money and was out the door, my breath was stolen from me once I stepped into that inferno. Breathing for air became gasping for air, walking became trudging, and time felt like it came to a standstill. I would say I was walking for five minutes and I already had a pool of sweat on my nice Nike shirt. I saw the store and ran in hoping the AC was working, once I walked through those double doors my skin was kissed by the cool air of Topline Air Conditioning. The lines were filled with people buying supplies like water, fans, ice, but I didn’t care how long the lines were as long as I could stay in this paradise. After walking around looking for the water I found “it” only one case was left I bolted over to grab it, but no sooner than me putting my hand on the case an old lady did the same. She had to be about 85, teeth falling out, and in one of those Pride Scooters.
“Excuse me ma’am I was here first and this water is coming with me.”
“No sonny I believe I was here first, I might be old but I was quicker than you.”
“Look just because you’re in that power scooter doesn’t make you faster than me.”
“No, it just means I got here before you did.”
“I need this water for my little brother and mom, plus you already have a case.”
“But this case of water is um special I need it.”
“What you snuck in last night and slipped yo medication in it…. Just let me take it.”
“NO!”
“Look here Cruella Devilla I didn’t come here in this dang heat for water to leave here empty handed!”
“See they’re bringing more.”
I snatched the case from here when she turned to look at false people loading new water, and ran to the front. But this crazy old hag was relentless she started chasing me in the scooter for some water. I got to the line thank God it was no one in line when I got there, the cashier scanned it, I paid and was good to go. On my way out I turned to where the old lady was and waved good-bye. My walk home was now hot and heavy but I got what I came for. I would take arguing, being chased by an old lady on a scooter, and lying to get my way over my mom yelling at me for not doing what she told me to do any day.
A Day In Paradise
Corey Ellis
My little brother cried out to the heavens for some salvation from this heat that fell upon Chicago late last night. It’s 2009, but it feels like I’m there with the people who had to endure 1995. The AC failed to keep my skin cool like the air of winter’s first breath. The heat destroyed the cool air as it crept its way throughout our house. I sat there in my room trying not to move because every movement brought sweat down my back, face, and every other place sweat shouldn’t be just from sitting in your home. The heat was so ferocious; souls barely walked the streets. My mom yelled out saying some nonsense about leaving the house to go somewhere!
“Devante, I need you to walk to the store on 83rd St and get a case of waters, the one on 81st is closed because the power blew out.
Has this woman lost her marbles? Who in their right mind would send a child out into this type of weather? But it had to be done, we had to keep my little brother and ourselves hydrated; or we would die of dehydration before the heat took us. I get dressed to go upstairs to get this money and prepare for this long journey across the desert for sustenance. But before I said anything to my mom I grabbed a pen and some paper and wrote a giant 750 on it. She thought I was exaggerating about the heat but little did she know that number has precious value to it in a situation like this.
“Mom, why do you hate me so much that you’re sending me to an early grave?”
“Boy, hush up you’re the man of the house and as the man you need to go get water.”
“Fine, but if I die out there I just want you to know I love you.”
I grabbed the money and was out the door. My breath was stolen from me once I stepped into that inferno. Breathing for air became gasping for air, walking became trudging, and time felt like it came to a standstill. I would say I was walking for five minutes and I already had a pool of sweat on my nice Nike shirt. I saw the store and ran in hoping the AC was working, once I walked through those double doors my skin was kissed by the cool air of Topline Air Conditioning. The lines were filled with people buying supplies like water, fans, ice, but I didn’t care how long the lines were as long as I could stay in this paradise. After walking around looking for the water I found “it” only one case was left I bolted over to grab it, but no sooner than me putting my hand on the case an old lady did the same. She had to be about 85, teeth falling out, and in one of those Pride Scooters.
“Excuse me ma’am I was here first and this water is coming with me.”
“No sonny I believe I was here first, I might be old but I was quicker than you.”
“Look just because you’re in that power scooter doesn’t make you faster than me.”
“No, it just means I got here before you did.”
“I need this water for my little brother and mom, plus you already have a case.”
“But this case of water is um special I need it.”
“What you snuck in last night and slipped yo medication in it…. Just let me take it.”
“NO!”
“Look here Cruella Devilla I didn’t come here in this dang heat for water to leave here empty handed!”
“See they’re bringing more.”
I snatched the case from here when she turned to look at false people loading new water, and ran to the front. But this crazy old hag was relentless she started chasing me in the scooter for some water. I got to the line thank God it was no one in line when I got there, the cashier scanned it, I paid and was good to go. On my way out I turned to where the old lady was and waved good-bye. My walk home was now hot and heavy but I got what I came for. I would take arguing, being chased by an old lady on a scooter, and lying to get my way over my mom yelling at me for not doing what she told me to do any day.
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