Your pens have been instructive. They can help shape the pathway of this generation and the next as you continue to write to engage others and build capacity.
I am sharing Chapter 21 of my novel, CHIP CHOP. Meet White Shoe Willie and his red socks in a chapter in which Jamal is trying to move beyond his pain.
I Want …
Chapter 21
After I finished The Devil’s Arithmetic I felt a lot of hate. I hated the way the Germans treated the Jews. I hated the way white folks treated black folks. I hated the way men mistreated women. I hated the way people treated people on welfare or the way people treated the homeless. I hated drug dealers and I hated the way people treated people who were drug dealers, especially the police. I hated the way teachers treated kids who couldn’t really read or write. I hated bullies. I hated being in the house alone, out of school, without a sister. I did not want to be alone. I wanted to talk to my mother, my father, my sister, or Mr. Tillman. I wanted to write in my journal and anticipate Mr. Tillman calling out, "Time is up." I wanted to be free of all things that were making me full of hate.
I wanted to laugh like I did when White Shoe Willie told jokes to all the kids in the neighborhood when were younger. I wanted to laugh at how he wore bright red socks that came to his knees in the summertime. He always wore red socks. He told us it takes a strong man to wear red socks and white shoes, not even the President of the United States
“What better way to show the world than wear white shoes,” he would say.
“No stains on the feet of White Shoe Willie.”
He did not want us to deal with if I woulda, coulda, shoulda. When we asked him about the socks, he told us he was just stylin’. I miss White Shoe Willie. I hate that he died in a car accident when a drunk driver ran through a stoplight and hit his car on the fourth of July.
I want to smell my mother’s home-baked yellow cakes that she made from the box. I used to lick the spoon with the cake mix and help put on my favorite strawberry icing. Tiff liked chocolate. I miss the aluminum pan that she always used. She stopped baking cakes when we got older. I never asked why. I just got used to not smelling the cakes. I just want God to love me! I know he does, but it does not feel like it sometimes. I remember how my Sunday school teachers would tell us that God’s grace was always with us even when it did not feel like it. Church would always end with the pastor and the church singing I Know it Was the Blood, that explained how God died for our sins. I feel like I am being punished for something. I try to be a good kid, but things are not going the way I want them to go. Sometimes, I feel like just giving up. I want to know why it is so hard to be me. I want to know what to do and where to go.
Dear God,
What do I do? How can I make my life better? I feel so alone sometimes and I do not think people understand me. I am not sure if they want to understand me. I want be strong, but I feel like my strength is wethering withering. I want to go to a good high school so I can learn how to write better. I want to grow up and write for other boys like me. I might even want to become a teacher like my teacher who helped us this year. I want to make my sister proud even though she is gone. God, why did you let Tiffany die? I miss her. What do I do? God, what do I do? I just want to make my life right. I want to know what to do with the rest of my life. Will I ever be somebody that I am proud of? Will I? Please let me know what to do? In your YOUR name I pray, AMEN.
This was the first time I ever wrote a prayer down. I hope God hears my prayer. I can’t wait to get back to school. Three more days to go before the suspension ends. I want to get back in and get ready to graduate. Maybe high school will be a new beginning for me, any high school. I might even go to college one day like Mr. Tillman said I could. Any college. It would feel good to get away from this place. I may even leave Chicago and go to Iowa or to a state with mountains like Colorado California
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I have to constantly remind myself that it’s a felony to physically assault the next person that asks why I always look so sad. I'm sure none of them really care; it's just a courtesy thing, albeit an extremely frustrating one. It's the passing period before lunch, and it is crucial for me to avoid any and all contact with high school society before in the morning, especially right before lunch. It takes about three minutes to get from English to my locker, factoring in the time in traffic. I begin to turn the combination on my locker as I feel a pair of arms stretch across my stomach from behind me.
"Normal people say hi first, or tap people they want to communicate with on the shoulder. I can assure you, Paul, this is not normal."
Paul exhaled and let go, then leaned against the locker to my left, which has heavily dented.
"You of all people should know I'm not normal. Normal sucks. Geez, you looked pissed off, did that kid in English beg you for a pencil again, did something else happen?"
"We've been through this before, I'm fine. It's just the default facial expression. Don't be like those people.
"Well as a friend I always have to make sure, I'm sure there's a rule about it somewhere, Fitzy"
I suppose they think they have plenty reason to be worried about me. I don't leave the house as often as people want me to. I spend a lot of my time, thinking about the concept of death, then writing out my frustrations with it. Not all of it is about death though, nor a large fraction of it. Most of my time is spent worrying about the worries of others. Presumably, because I feel guilty for things I have no control over. You would think that's a sign of care, but people assume that's a sign of depression and make it their own responsibility to purge me of my sadness. So, in full circle, people think I'm suicidal, which doesn't surprise me. It's just great to know a large percentage of the student body wants to save you from the depths of depression even though you're not depressed. So their efforts involve checking up on me between passing periods, like express pseudo-psychiatrists.
It all started at the beginning of summer this year, when people started noticing the scars across my legs when I wore shorts. I've had them for almost three years, but I could always hide them under pants. But, for some reason I decided to enjoy the leisure of wearing shorts instead of sweating my ass off in jeans. It's incredibly irrational to try and maintain mental health by prolonging yourself to the heat, and possibly heat exhaustion. High schoolers are notoriously talented at a few things.
1. Gossip
2. Being incredulously ignorant and stupid
3. Assuming everything, explain nothing.
(cont)
It takes a special cookie to execute all three, and with style. This is why I don't like Frank. Frank enjoys the sound of his own voice, much more than the people around him do. This is partially because of his poor dental hygiene, but more because he's just a dumbass—a proud one at that. He's in my first period History class and insists on engaging in some sort of debate on topics he knows nothing about. Everyone else in the class sat around our desks to watch us go at it. It's like a daily ritual. Today, it was marijuana.
"I mean I smoke it because it makes me feel good, and because I can."
I couldn't help but glare at him, not only pointing out that is it a misdemeanor to be abusing illegal substances; he's fifteen years old not a goddamn college student in California. Although with the hair with the natural, oily, no-shower sheen, he could easily pass as one.
"Ok, that doesn't change the fact that it's illegal. However I do agree that it shouldn't be, you're fifteen, you aren't feeling that stressed. Maybe if you were less stupid, it would help the cause."
"Please I'm smarter than you, so you can't talk. But pot was outlawed by the government for such racist reasons, like they just wanted to put the blame on Mexicans and black people because they're the ones that kept smoking weed and hurting society."
"Please stop. Just stop. Stop talking and just go somewhere else, save our intelligence to procreate smart children, build the species up again."
Paul looked defeated, and you could see him trying to build a bigger and better comeback so he could stand up to me. It's so pitiful to see his little gears turning inside his head.
"Hey, maybe you should try smoking it sometime. It might calm your depressed ass down a bit, don't you think? Maybe you'll stop cutting yourself."
He pointed down at my legs, the bubbly scar tissue wasn't as plump as they were before but they were still there. At this point, I couldn't tell whether I was more angry or embarrassed because of him. He turned my game against me and he did it well. Many of the students surrounding us snickered and told him to screw off, but I had a very different idea for him.
"Whether the scars were accidental or self inflicted, which they were, I wouldn't take a day out of my life in which I'd pander to your bullshit. Go on and smoke weed because you disagree with the legislation or think it's hurting "the man." Make fun of my scars please, at least I have the ability to admit their existence and flaunt them as my own. But please, don't admit to your unintelligence, we can already see that."
I could see I had pissed Paul off. But the final bell had already rung, and our teacher stood at the front of the classroom. I couldn't focus the lesson today, I'm sure it's valuable to find out why we shouldn't invade Russia in the winter, but I was more concerned about the backlash that would come after today. Paul doesn't like losing—ever. I fear that not only will be start revealing scars, but exploiting the ones not many know of.
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