Vinyl Moon, page 13
Me: That’s how I feel now. I finish a book and I’m excited to make a playlist, like a soundtrack to the way the book made me feel. Is that weird?
Him: Nah, ain’t nothing weird about being a creator. We get inspiration from everywhere. I started with playlists, then I began playing around with Technics 1200s, and now I make mixtapes. I’m saving up for a new set. I planned on going to the military when I graduated next year. But sometimes I dream about becoming a DJ and working at Hot 97.
Me: Why the military?
Him: It’ll help with college. And our pops went. He died from cancer when I was graduating seventh grade and Kamilah was in eighth. That’s why it’s just me, Kamilah, Avion, our mom, and Aunt Patty.
Me: I’m sorry to hear that.
Him: Yeah, it sucked for a while. Kamilah was really a daddy’s girl and it hit her differently. So she fell into hanging with a different crowd than normal. I found ROTC and she found Avion’s father. She was into fighting and skipping school and went from honor roll to truant court. It was Mrs. B who reached out and got her back to school. We were her students when we were younger and my aunt and Mrs. B are close friends. She never gave up on Kamilah. When Kamilah was ready to get back on track, she was pregnant with Avion. But she’s a boss. She homeschooled with Mrs. B until she passed her tests to return to school. And she decided to walk the stage because she wanted Avion to be proud.
Me: Avion is such a sweet baby. You can tell he loves you. It makes me miss the triplets. They really drove me crazy, but I can’t imagine a world without them. Sometimes I find myself texting my little brother to see if he did XYZ and I remember, I’m on the other side of the country! That’s wild, right?
Him: Makes sense to me. My days changed drastically when Avion was born. I remember when we brought him home. It was like there was laughter in our house again. Like somebody opened the curtains and let all the light in.
Rewind: Before
Darius called me beautiful, sure. But he also called me out of my name when we were arguing. I didn’t mind him being angry, I was used to that. But I wasn’t used to someone who called me beautiful also calling me nasty names. The final straw was the basketball game at a competing school. I always visited Darius there, even when we were mad at each other. Which became more frequent than I would like to admit. But what love doesn’t have problems? A tall, lanky kid visiting from a school somewhere deep in the Valley asked me my name on the way to the bathroom and I told him, “My name is Angel. My boyfriend is waiting for me on the bleachers.”
He laughed a little. “My bad,” he responded. “But just in case y’all break up, my name is Jace.”
“Not interested, Jace,” I said over my shoulder, and walked away. But Darius only saw me look over my shoulder.
When I walked out of the bathroom after reapplying my lipstick, Darius was fighting Jace near the entrance. Jace was slimmer than Darius, but he wasn’t afraid, and they flung each other around the school gymnasium, using the wall to break their fall. The security guard and referees tried to break the fight up. I screamed Darius’s name until my voice was hoarse. When they finally were separated, I ran to Darius’s side and tried to walk him out. The school patrol was on their walkie-talkies warning the officers in the parking lot of the boys they were kicking out. The mob from both schools surrounded us and we tried to move quick to the car.
Darius snatched his hand away from mine. Called me names and blamed me for this mess. I blamed him for jumping to conclusions and waited near the passenger window for him to unlock the door.
He yelled at me again, “I’m tired of your shit. You really is worthless!”
He sounds like my father did when he yelled at my mother. I tried to open the door, but it was locked, only the window was partially rolled down. I reached in to unhook the lock and Darius yelled at me again. Told me to find another way home. He pushed the metal pedal and the car sped backward, almost running over the brand-new kicks he bought me. I tried to wrench my hand out the window, but it was too late. My arm was stuck and he pulled me along. Maybe it was a couple of feet. But it felt like eternity. Those few seconds of silence before I screamed in agony. It felt like forever ago, when he held my hand and kept me safe. When he called me beautiful. When he treated me like it was him and I against the world. It was so long ago, and the pain in my arm, still jammed in the window, brought me back to this mess of a relationship.
A Letter from Home
Dear Angel,
My beautiful firstborn. I am sorry I relied on you so much. The world sometimes is larger than we imagine, and the next thing you know you have five mouths to feed and a failing relationship. I am working on myself these days. In therapy and church every Sunday. I picked up some extra shifts at the stadium downtown. It’s messy work but it keeps me busy. Your sisters are living with their father at the moment and Amir is staying on campus. He comes home once a month and I think that’s best until I can become stable again. In church with Sister Nancy, I listen to Bible stories on my phone when I am cleaning. It doesn’t bother the school administration, and that’s okay with me. I just need something to guide me as I work, you know? I miss you very much. And after talking with the sheriff, I realized how much I relied on you to keep everything in order. You did such a good job, Angel. I am so lucky to have you as a daughter. The way you looked after your sisters, Ayanna, Ashanti, and Asha. The way you have always looked after your brother, Amir. You were so good at holding it all together that I forgot you were a kid too. You were still growing up too. The situation with you and Darius scared me, Angel. It reminded me so much of your father and me. We loved each other, sure. But we weren’t good together. And I think the abuse made you believe it was normal. I am sorry for that. I should’ve done more to protect you. I am trying to be better every day. The triplets and I have a weekly picnic and we are going to have a nice holiday break together. Three days of just the girls; we miss you so much. But I know you are taken care of. Your uncle gives me reports of your activities often. He says he thinks you’ve found your way nicely there. Do you think about coming home to finish high school next year? Or do you think you would rather stay in Brooklyn? Whatever you decide, I want you to do what you want to do. I’m sure we’ll get some coins together to get a plane ticket there and see you---maybe next summer? I’d love to see what your world is like. You know, I’ve never been to New York City. Are the lights as bright as they say? Is it snowing still? How are you keeping warm? I’ve sent a gift card with this letter so that you can buy whatever you like for Christmas. And your sisters made a Popsicle-stick picture frame for you! Full of glitter and their beautiful faces. They are strong-minded, like you. And they want everyone to be happy, like Amir. All of you are my greatest accomplishments. I get things wrong a lot, Angel. But with you five, I got it right. I love you. Merry Christmas, baby. I hope to hear your voice soon.
Love always,
Your mother
New Year’s Eve & Other Love Notes
During the break, I talk to Sterling from night until the sun creeps into the room. I tell him about my past. He just listens and lets me talk. It feels warm, our conversations. I like him but I’m not ready, I tell him bluntly. “It’s okay, Angel. This is enough,” he offers quietly. And we talk until the sun creeps in my window.
During the break, Uncle Spence invites Dr. P over for Kwanzaa dinner. They hold hands when she arrives, and my stomach flips in excitement. She hugs me gently. Asks me about my arm. I smile and introduce her to Eva, who has already arrived. Uncle begins to bring the main dishes to the table. I set the table for four. Red, black, and green linen, red-rimmed colored glasses for the homemade sorrel (a gift from Dr. P) next to the set of silver utensils framing the red ceramic plates and black bowls for the gumbo. Eva asks if she can plug into the Bluetooth speakers and I nod. She plays my playlist and we laugh and dance in the living room as Uncle and Dr. P bob their heads to the beat. “This you, niece?” Uncle’s face lights up like the Rockefeller tree. I nod shy-like.
“This is dope,” Dr. P says as they begin two-stepping together. Her thigh-high, suede boots and his suede loafers in step with one another, on beat, together, ride the rhythm.
During the break, I see Biz on the stoops of the Brooklyn Library. We haven’t talked much since he wrote me the note. In the note, he wrote, “Dear Angel, I’ve been thinking about the things I said in the hallway. I ain’t mean no disrespect. My bad.” Biz is talking to a girl with a short bob and patent-leather Jordans. They are seated on the cold granite but don’t look bothered by the brisk air. The girl turns to face me and I realize it’s Teiya with a new haircut.
“I love your hair!” I shout from the opposite side of the almost-quiet street.
“Angel, thank you!” And I think she blushes.
“How’s your grandma?” I ask.
“She’s good. She don’t suffer no fools gladly, but neither do I.” Biz’s eyebrows lift and they both giggle.
“Ight, y’all.” I wave and continue walking to the bodega for my Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. “See you next semester!” Biz puts a fist in the air, in solidarity, then tosses his arm across Teiya’s shoulders.
During the break, I reread my mother’s letter like I’m searching for new clues on how to heal a broken heart. I text Amir and he texts back two simple but incredibly difficult words: Call her. I give in. I dial her number and she picks up the phone on the second ring. “I’ve been waiting to hear your voice, Angel.”
“Hi, Mom. I love you too. Thank you for the card.” And we talk, about yesterday and tomorrow. She talks. I listen. I learn who my mother was and who she is trying to become until the sun sinks low behind the glass dome of the Brooklyn Museum.
During the break, I am invited to celebrate New Year’s Eve with Eva and her mom. The whole community gathers to meet at the park for a live DJ’d block party. There are card tables lining the grass with so many snack options: pastelitos, beef patties, vegetarian egg rolls, and small multicolored jugs of fruit punch. Everyone is given a balloon, to memorialize those lost to gun violence, to release into the sky at midnight. Before midnight can strike electric, the music calls us into the center of the green. Some dance with small children saddled on their hips, while others bob their heads and tap their feet in the chairs, sleeping children cradled safely in their laps. When a hundred white balloons rescue the blue-black sky, air horns sound, and joy captures the air before the names of the lost rise above the music. Neighbors kiss both cheeks with well wishes and prayers before the sparklers ignite and shake the park into another round of line dancing. Sterling sends a Happy New Year! Mom and Amir send heart and firework emojis to our group chat. Uncle texts, Happy New Year niece, see you home in an hour? I answer the text before Eva pulls me into the crowd to do the Cupid Shuffle. My eyes flicker happiness at this new season of joy. My cheeks hurt from all the laughter. I close my eyes and ride the wave, both arms in the air like I’m finally free.
During the break, after the New Year’s Eve party, I release my newest playlist inspired by Sterling and our late-late talks. I call it Brooklyn Beginnings. I want it to feel the way I feel. Like it is full of possibilities. Like it is full of croon and sweetness. Like the mood I create for my vision board today is for the tomorrow to come. But today is so beautiful, I want it to move people to feel as lit and happy and hopeful as possible. It features all the R&B sounds I feel beneath my sternum. I couple songs from Sade and Luther and Method Man and MF Doom. I got songs from Mary J. Blige to Heavy D, from Alicia Keys to Zo!, from Michel’le and J. Cole; the melodies run into each other like ideas, with nowhere to go but up.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the counselors, educators, facilitators, librarians, and teachers who go the extra mile. Thank you for your patience and care. Thank you for giving so much to young people despite the system that disregards them under the auspices of budgetary issues. Thank you for every day of the week that you make it to the front of the class, and every single day of the week that you sacrifice for the light dimming behind the eyes of our forgotten youth. Thank you, Brooklyn, the Bronx, Harlem, Queens, Manhattan, and Staten Island, for your public schools. Thank you, public schools. Where would we be without you? You are not championed enough for your resilience, and we owe you more.
This book was not what I thought I would sit down to write—but it has all the touch points of our humanity. I had the space to stretch these stories into being at AIR Serenbe, Baldwin for the Arts, Urban Word NYC, and the island of Antigua. I am thankful for the guidance of Eve Ewing and Amanda Torres.
I am thankful to my editor, Phoebe Yeh. I am thankful to the PRH team: Elizabeth Stranahan and Kristopher Kam. I am grateful to the YA community that checked in on me and always found time to remind me we are not islands. So thank you endlessly and always to: Jive Poetic, Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz, Sarah Kay, Jaqueline Woodson, Ayana Walker, Nicole Sealey, Renée Watson, Christina Olivares, Jason Reynolds, Whitney Greenaway, and Tiffany Walters.
I wish us all this kind of love. A family of friends who treat you warmly.
Jennie Bergvist
MAHOGANY L. BROWNE is the executive director of JustMedia, a media-literacy initiative designed to support the groundwork of criminal justice leaders and community members. This position is informed by her career as a writer, organizer, and educator. Mahogany has received fellowships from Agnes Gund, AIR Serenbe, Cave Canem, Poets House, Mellon Research, and Rauschenberg, and she founded the diverse literary campaign the Woke Baby Book Fair. She is also the author of Chlorine Sky, Woke: A Young Poet’s Call to Justice, Woke Baby, Black Girl Magic, the poetry collection I Remember Death by Its Proximity to What I Love, and Vinyl Moon, a story about how we rebuild ourselves after a terrifying moment and the people we become if we allow ourselves the chance. Mahogany is based in Brooklyn, New York, and is the first-ever poet in residence at Lincoln Center.
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Mahogany L. Browne, Vinyl Moon
