Day 15 - For Our Posterity

Let's write for this generation and the next. You will write your final pieces of the Institute today. It's has been a wonderful summer. I love you guys.

My final poem of the summer, Brother Author, is below:

Senior Brother Author Tatum 
 


Brother Author
Are you out there?
Are you out there?
Putting your thoughts together for me

I want to situate myself comfortably in your pages
As you write about uncomfortable truths
You don’t have to be nice to me
Just be fair
I can handle it


Are you out there?
Are you out there?

I woke up this morning expecting something good to happen
I knew I was going to find your words
Words that lift me up without tearing me down
I am waiting for you
Maybe you are already hidden in the stacks
Finish this for me www…
So that I can Google you

Are you out there?
Are you out there?

Are you keeping up with what’s happen to me?
Make sense of my actions so that I can act differently


Brother Author
Brother Author

Where are you?
My ears and hearts are open
I know you know that I cry on my pillow at night
This is when my humanity comes to light – in my own personal darkness
I need to find you before my personal darkness becomes the world’s darkness

I need to find you, Brother Author, so that I can find myself
I showed up again today and again nothing
I stared at the pages and I did not hear you speaking to me
You were not there to tell me who I am and what I can become

Tomorrow, Brother Author, I hope I find you
I am still looking, waiting, praying, crying

Until then, I just don’t know.

DAY 14 - Let the ink continue to drip

We will litter this page with poetry - kinship poems, unapologetic poems, poems for our posterity. I love when we are in the poem zone. Write a poem that you want to share with the rest of the world.

The following is my first published poem (Tatum, 2005). It is now a part of me:

Does the world care if I exist?

Or, am I just America’s problem
Don’t they know I am dying like no other?
Naw, they just fear me, they can’t hear me
Hell, they’ll just lock me up in juvey and throw away the key
Man, I can’t stand for that
I got to fight back
I’m dying anyway
Might as well take some with me – black, brown, white, don’t matter
I’m tired of living in poverty
I get hungry too
You expect me to just watch you eat
While you mistreat me in the streets and in schools
Hell, you can’t even teach me how to read – Mr. and Mrs. Teacher
Then you flunk me, and blame it on me
Some of it’s my fault
Probably some of my momma’s fault as well
But you’re at fault, too
So, I’ll sling a little to get paid
Get a little respect while I’m at it, maybe get laid
Death don’t matter, the way I’m living I feel dead anyway
Tired of being on my KNEES begging
Trying to do the right thing and never getting ahead
My homeboy graduated from high school, now’s he’s dead
It’s about living a little now, the only time I know I got for sho’
Man, you don’t hear me
I can beat drums at your doorstep all night
You’ll just say get away with all that hip-hop
It is really a cry, a scream for your attention
But my manhood won’t let me come right out and ask for help
With your track record, I don’t trust that you’ll help me anyway.
Why should I put myself out like that?
I don’t want your pity, or your crying
Teach me how to man-up, and be a man
Help me to stop dying
If you don’t, this nation will continue to spill over with the black male’s blood
You’ll have to build more jails
There you go – I told you the deal
I spilled my guts
It is now your time to act
If you don’t act
I now believe that, America does not care if I exist, is a fact.
No more peace until we all get a piece (American pie)
Damn, my time expired. I’m gone.

Day 13 - Ink it, Brother Authors, Ink it

This is the final week of the 3rd annual African American Adolescent Male Summer Literacy Institute at UIC. We have written and shared poetic broadsides, black shorts, children stories, and book chapters. Now you have the opportuity to write in the genre of your choice. You will use the preamble and the platfomrs as your guidepost. Use this final week to write to define self, nurture resilience, engage others, or build capacity. This should be a really exciting week.

Be prudent and unapologetic.

I want to thank the young BA who introduced me to the graphic novel, The Sons of Liberty. I enjoyed reading it on the train.

We are lucky to have the playwright, Zell Williams, with us today.

I've decided to go back to poetry this week.








I wrote the following poem after receiving another email alert about a crime committed by young African American males in UIC's vicinity.


Crime Alert
5’ 9” – 5’ 11”

armed robbery on the corner of harriSON and morgan
weight/wait 170lbs to 195lbs
this is another descriptor of me
I’m in the police blotter although I teach at the university
I was pulled over at the university of merrryland/Maryland for driving a green sUv
Now, I am at uIc
the same mess is occurring
waiting to be pulled over because I meet the same PROfile
My phd can’t even save me
I need to grow taller or lose some weight/wait
this will be my great escape
man, who am i fooling
genetics got me trapped in the quagmire
I am afraid to open the next email alert
that’s alerting me to be aware of myself
feeling like a criminal
although I’ve never committed a crime
I’ll keep my knife in my pocket
just in case i decide to rob myself
ain’t that a damn shame


BA 5
Dramatization
I got words in my mind
Love in my heart
I’m one of a kind
A wonderful work of art
But my life’s startin’ to fall apart
 I’m eatin’ all da bullshit
I gotta full shoppin’ cart
Trynna have a good life
But the things I’m doin’ isn’t smart
But dass another story P
eople say I chose this life
But I feel like it came up on me
I didn’t want it
My life’s been a mess
my life’s been a wreck
And the bad thing is
I still got lots of more years left
Drama follows me
It’s like my cologne
Even when I think I’m alone
It’s right there beside me
Even when I walk with me head down in deep thought
There it is walkin’ backwards lookin’ directly at me
Too much goin’ on
I think god is mad at me
I know my mom is not happy
My friends’ heads are still nappy
My people expected me to bring them out the hood
 But I got to get myself out of this environment
Hot on the block it’s a different climate
But in my head it’s foggy

Day 12 - The Third Chapter - Khalil is Back

We will add another chapter to our novels. For the novel chapters that follow, I was initially going to write about boys in group homes who find themselves moving in and out of the juvenile justice system, but I decided to bring a different level of sensitivity to the gun violence occurring in Chicago. I introduce you to Khalil and his letters. I write short chapters to build and keep the momentum.

I believe violence is a symptom of a much larger problem that needs to be unearthed and addressed. I challenge each of you to use your pen to unearth something and strive for a better humanity for all. I know I am asking a great deal of you, but someone has to do the work.

Senior Brother Author Tatum

Khalil’s Letters

By

Alfred W. Tatum

Chapter 1



I wanted to reach out and grab the bullet the moment I heard the bang. Too late. I heard the screams. I am now running scared trying to convince myself that a killer is not supposed to have feelings. We are supposed to hate, hate everything. Right now, I hate myself. I killed someone else’s son, someone’s brother, and someone’s nephew. I killed somebody who looks like me. I killed myself twice.



I don’t want your sympathy. I think I deserve to die for what I did. The only thing I can offer in return is my own life, the ultimate and only fair penalty for taking someone’s life. All of my fourteen years have come to this point - wasted. I am writing this because I want you to understand me. I would rather be riding a bike or learning a new language. I would like to see different parts of the world like Central America or China. For some reason, I think Chinese kids are cool. They write with those funny symbols and eat with chopsticks.



Please no pity.



Do not start feeling sorry for me.



Just read the letters and try to understand me.



Chapter 2






Letter # 1 from Khalil Upchurch the 3rd



Science



April 13. 2007



Dear Reader,



i am not from a group home and I am not a crack baby. i have two parents who love me. They always bought me new clothes and my favorite gym shoes, New Balance. Everyone else love Nikes, but i love New Balance. i always kept them clean. i had a pair on the day i pulled the trigger. As the car i was in drove away, i glanced back and saw his face slam into the concrete. He did not try to catch himself or turn away. His body simply titled forward and picked up speed as it dropped. My body jerked as if i felt the thump of the ground. Bam!



i saw his picture on the Internet the next day. He was laying slumped over in a pool of blood, and a lady was screaming in the background. The boy’s name was Justin. He was thirteen, a year younger than me. It is something about a young person being dead that is not right. A kid will be placed in a cold, hard coffin because of me. I can only imagine how dark it is when the lid is sealed shut so close to someone’s face. They will bury him in a cemetery with a lot of old people. I hope they put him somewhere in the middle, not alone near the edge of a dark road.





Not too long ago, i was in class looking at a periodic table of elements. i could tell you about all of the earth’s precious metals. AU is the symbol on the periodic table used for gold. It has an atomic number of 79. Most of my friends only know that water is called H2O, but they do not know that it is made up of two atoms of hydrogen and one atom of oxygen giving it an atomic number of 3.



i started learning about the periodic table at a university science camp held during the summer. The university is only fifteen minutes away from my house. i killed somebody over the atomic number 79, a funky gold chain. Gold and iron clashed. The symbol for iron is FE and it has a chemical property of 26. Iron has a silver color, the color of the barrel of the gun.



My granddad, Khalil Upchurch, Sr., was born in 1953. He was a follower of the Black Panther Party that started in Oakland. He wanted to join the Panthers when he was sixteen, but my great grandmother would not let him. She was afraid he would become angry like my great granddad who was mistreated after returning from the army. He wanted to buy a house in a segregated neighborhood on the far south side, but he was denied because he was Black. He eventually moved to the west side where I was born born in 1993.



My daddy, Khalil Jr, was twenty when I was born. He started and coached in the Jackie Robinson youth baseball league. I started playing for him when I was nine. Before every game, he told us, “We will win this game with our hearts, but we will win in life with our heads.” Then he would say, “Let’s go get ‘em, Malcolm or Let’s go get them Marcus, or Let’s go get them Huey, or Let’s go get them Jackie. He learned about these people by reading the books my granddad had around the house.



My dad always had a book in his back pocket. He graduated from college after earning a science scholarship. He met my mother while in college. She also earned a college degree in science. They loved science. They brought me a book about Percy Julian, a well-known black chemist, for my tenth birthday. He won Chicagoan of the year in 1950. He received more than 2 million dollars for his work in the 1960s. The money, not my parents, convinced me to become a scientist.



My dad put me in the science camp each summer. He always told me that the real revolution is in the test tube. He drilled in me that I needed to know about science because the world cannot get along without it. Dad told me that science is in the food we eat, the air we breathe, and in the medicine used to save lives. He would say, "Everything is made up of chemical properties, and that my future lies in one of those properties." The mural on my wall, my shower curtain, and the curtains in my room were all periodic tables. By ten, i knew all of the elements. I could spell them and pronounce them. Some of my favorite properties are:


Potassium (K) chemical property 19


Hydrogen (H) chemical property 1


Aluminum (AL) chemical property 13


Iodine (I) chemical property 53


Lovium (L)






The elements have symbols that spell my name. L is not a symbol found on the periodic table so I made one up – lovium. I think love should be on the periodic table so I called my new element lovium. i knew more about the periodic table than my seventh-grade science teacher.






i am writing this letter with a small i. It is not a mistake. My dad always told me that i have to earn the right to write with a big I. He told me that there is power when a person earns the right to name himself. i am afraid that i will never be able to name myself. Others will name me. Murderer. Convict. Delinquent. Thug. Monster. None of these feels like they fit me. I am still my mother’s ‘baby boy’. That’s what she calls me.






i used to be called the science boy by the other students in my class because i won the school’s science fair every year since fourth grade. Last year, I won with a project on the human brain. My granddad started calling me brains after that.


He always described the brain as a maze with so many dark places to be uncovered. He also would tell grandma that cooking was like a maze because he did not want to do it. i like his chili though. He puts the largest tomatoes in what he calls his homemade-super-duper chili.






i wonder when i will be able to eat his chili again. i wonder if anyone will ever call me a teacher’s pet again. Murderer, convict, delinquent, thug, and monster do not seem to fit me. But, the law of physics tells us that for every action there is a reaction. That’s the left side of my brain working again.






i am getting scared now. i’ve heard stories about what happens to boys when they get locked up. The mistreatment. Their light is dimmed forever with no hope of being lit again. My dad always talked about the light of youth when we watched the news and a story about a young boy doing something he should not have been doing was talked about. He would tell me that it is not normal for young boys to be locked up.






i have an older cousin who is praised for doing time. He seems to have a special place reserved for him in the holiday conversations. I do not like it. How can i be so stupid to fall so low so fast? i know i am rambling, but i am scared. i can hear my uncle now, “Well you did the crime, do the time. Nothing you can do about it now.”






i wonder what the funeral was like. i wonder what they dressed him in. His family probably did not dress him in a suit and a tie because he was too young. i wonder if he wore a gold chain. i wonder what other people said about him at the funeral. How did the pastor explain God taking a life so young? I’ve only been to one funeral in my life. I know the family sits in the first row as people pass by to view the body. i wonder if his mother was crying or screaming. How can you describe the life of a thirteen-year-old in one of those funeral programs? I can only think of one way – Gone too soon. I can imagine a poem that someone may have written for Justin. I am using his name like I know him, but I do not.


Gone too Soon






Justin was a bright star that no longer shines


He made us laugh with his smile to be remembered for all times


He was our young prince with dreams to explore


We will miss you Justin forever more.





Chapter 3



Letter # 2 from Khalil Upchurch the 3rd

Different

April 14. 2007



Dear Reader,



My mother and father always wanted me to be different from those other boys. Every time they told me that I needed to be different I felt like should be ashamed on my skin color. I really did not pay too much attention to what they were saying when I was younger. But, their words started to bother me when I started middle school. It seemed like they were trying to cut me off from myself. How was learning science being different from those other boys? How was reading about the brain or the periodic table different from those other boys? I started hating feeling that I was somehow different because I was extremely smart. It seemed like they wanted me to be ashamed of being who I am and what I look like. They would not even allow me to wear braids in my hair because they did not understand why I wanted to look like all the other boys in school. They wanted me to be my own man. Dad always said, “we don’t need more stereotypes."



My teacher even made a comment about my being different. He said, “Khalil, you are different from a lot of the other boys in here.” What did he mean by different? Did he mean that I was better because I earned better grades? Does God judge us by grades? He told me that I should be very careful with the company I keep. I felt a sense of pride when I first heard his comments. Then, I thought about how young people are trained early in life to treat people different because of grades. Why can’t an A student hang out with a D student? Why can’t a student who lives with both parents hang with a student whose parents are in jail? Parents and teachers were putting these differences in my mind. Be different, Khalil. Be different. Be different from what?



I wrote about being different last semester when Mr. Carusso, the language arts teacher, gave us a writing assignment. He told us to write a two-page essay about an important moment in our lives. We could write about an event or experience that we thought would stay with us forever. He told us to keep it clean though. His important moment was the night his mother died when he was in the seventh grade. He was forced to become ‘a man’ at an early age. There was no one to pick him up from band practice after school and no one for him to rush home to talk about the good or bad things that happened. His dad left his mother when she was pregnant.



Mr. Carusso told us he started hating the world and hating God. Then, he met Dr. Barnett, a language arts teacher, who was a real writer. She just didn’t talk about nouns and pronouns in school and gave kids assignments, she actually wrote. She had three novels and a book of poetry published. Mr. Carusso told us how she encouraged kids to use words like steps on a ladder. “Each word should make you taller,” she said. He began to write his way out of the hate he was having. He told us he did this all the way through college, eventually deciding to become a language arts teacher.



I did not have an important moment at the time of the assignment, but I do now. I am now one of those other boys that my father was trying to keep me away from. I am now one of those other boys that my teacher was talking about when he told me to be careful about the company I keep. I am one of those other boys because I decided to become one of them because everyone told me to be different. I pulled the trigger, but society is the real murderer.



Now I have an important moment essay:



My important moment was being born in a society that judges young people who are just trying to find out who they are. This society separates us by race - our black students, our white students, the Latinos and the Asians. This society separates us by gender – boy’s line, girl’s line. It places us in different classrooms. You go to the top class so you can become great. You go to dummy class so that other people can laugh and be cruel to you. I was born in a society that tried to make me feel different because I am smart. I just wanted to be me. I stopped it all with one shot. I know this is not much of an essay, but I am still writing my story. Damn you society. Damn you.
 
 
Post your third chapter in this section.

Day 11 - The Novel Continues - Chapter 2

Today, I am wearing my brown socks. A.W. Laughter(rhymes with slaughter) has returned. After a night of reflection, the beginning of my story has changed. It now reads:

Senior Brother Author Tatum

“I’ll take your best whiskey, your darkest beer, and a glass of water.” He was a creature of habit. Brown socks. He wore the same brown socks that matched his somber mood. He would introduce himself like we were meeting him for the very first time. “Laughter. Professor, A.W. Laughter,” he would say without fail to any to those who knew him and those who did not. He had a low tolerance for listless, boring language. A boring tongue, he would say needs to be ripped from the mouth because it has no chance of playing a satisfactory role. He could not envision the role of bruised tongues in a society in which people are tethered to pain.


Purple tongues, he would call them, had no place in our society. It was something about colors that fascinated him He used them to - well – let me give you an example. This first time I entered the Den. He offered, “Laughter, A.W. Laughter. Welcome the Den. The days will be blackened like soot, soaked in red, but forever in search for permission from the Nile-like blue that flows upstream. The language was strange coming from a young professor. The beard overmatched his thin face and broad nose. The sprinkles of gray on his chin stood in contrast to his hair that was midnight-black; dyed for sure to secure his youthful gait. His language seemed to come from an earlier century. He refused to use our language because he thought it was too wasteful.

He became increasingly jittery. An unanticipated cough or unexpectant sound startled him. Noises would interrupt his writing, and invoke short-lived mumbling fury toward the object. It was odd to see him mumble, particularly because he was so posed and polished when he spoke.

I knew he would refuse to speak today. It troubles me to see him forced to sit here. His quiet, unassuming stance does not surprise me, but I am torn because I know his voice will give this room a different weight than I cannot offer. Professor Laughter is his best defense, but he’d rather die. It does not matter that his innocence will be later revealed. He would tell us, “A good writer never reveals his secret even when death is imminent.” The Den Master will never allow us to peel away his integrity. That would be more offensive to him than death.



“Professor Laughter, please speak to us, please.”

“Do not talk to the accused.”

“The accused to you, the Den Master to me.”

After experiencing the death of Sonya, his lovely wife who was so kind to us, he is reluctant to fear that which she faced so bravely. He refused to cry at her funeral, as she lay clothed in a warm brown dress that complimented her fair skin and natural hair.


“Laughter, Professor A.W. Laughter. Welcome to the Den.”


We also are fortunate enough to have in the building with us tomorrow- One of The Senior Brother Authors, Christopher Paul Curtis. I hope you enjoyed reading, Bucking the Sarge.

Post the next chapter of your novel here.

BA 8

Kelly Fredrickson
IBM Building
June 25, 2010; 2:59am

The office on the 32 floor of the IBM Building was quite large. 40 cubicles stretched from one side of the building to the other. The walls were covered in blue paint, unlike many offices. Each cubicle decorated with pictures of family, calendars, and mountains of paperwork. Kelly was working late tonight; she had to document some customer suggestions from earlier in the month. 487 slips of paper never seemed so daunting. Finishing the last suggestion, her phone rang. Her father’s picture appeared across the screen, he hadn’t called her in almost a month. Why was he calling at this time of the morning? She blew off the call and let it go straight to voicemail. She gathered her belongings and walked across the worn carpet to the staff lounge and clock out. Her 6 inch heels shuffled along the linoleum floor, the bright red reflecting the florescent lights from above, a brown trench coat draped across her shoulders, drenched in the rain from yesterday morning. Petite in all, she looked no taller than a teenager with a hormonal deficiency, who barely got any sleep. She reached the stairwell, stepping gingerly in case she slipped on a chip on one of the stairs. Normally, Kelly would be lazy and take the elevator, and ride down to the parking garage, but after hours but the cleaning staff shut them down. So she had to walk down 36 floors to get to her car—yippee. It took a few minutes but she managed to make it. No broken heels at all. The parking garage had terrible lighting, added with the fact that there was no sun out, it was nearly pitch black. Kelly clicked her Automatic Lock, she knew her car was near the door but she forgot where. The red lights blinked to her silver 2007 Mazda Impreza, a gift from her dad, he had gotten it for her with her grandfather’s inheritance. She began to walk in the direction of where she last saw the lights blink. Along the way her worst nightmares had come true, the last thing she wanted to happen…she had broken her heel.
“FUCK!” Kelly exclaimed. She reached down to take off the shoe, these 400 dollar Prada 50th anniversary shoes just went down the drain. Walking with one shoe off and a nasty limp, Kelly reached her car. She clicked her beeper one more time to check, her car was the next one over. Enraged with a broken heel and misjudgment of cars she casually walked over. She clicked unlocked and grasped the handle. Just then a soft hand grasped her shoulder, startled; Kelly twirled around to see a tall man, tall and scrawny. She had to arch her neck to look him in the face she was frozen in her stance, almost like she had been hypnotized by the mysterious man.
“Why the hell are you standing there, I don’t know about you but I have a bed waiting for me at home.” She tried to enter her car but the man had her by the arm.
“Lemme go”
“No”
Just then he began to pull her away from the car, despite her protests and profanity, he kept the grip.
“NO! PLEASE DON’T DO THIS, I DON’T WANNA DIE, JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”
At the sounds of her words the man hit her across the face, indicating he wanted to hear no more from her. He continued to drag Kelly as she began to think, broken heels, documenting paperwork, and getting kidnapped…perhaps the shittiest day ever. As she further was dragged into darkness, the more she regretted not answering her dad’s call, it was probably the last time she would have heard his voice.

BA 12
Bad Livin’ (Rough Draft)


“Yo man,” Matt said while stuffing some ravioli in his mouth, “fuck was you doing out on them streets bro, I told you to stay in the crib.”

Matt swallowed and stared at Andrew curiously.

“You been fuckin around out there?” he finished.

“Nah man,” Andrew said while looking down and pushing his ravioli around with his fork.

“Man, stop playing with yo food Andy, you fifteen and tell me what you were doing out on the streets when I told you to stay inside.”

“I was just drawing people man.”

“Drawing? You still doing that Andy?”

“Yeah, you’d know if you weren’t always gone.” Andrew said a little more viciously then he intended.

Matt put his fork and knife down on the table, sat straight up and eyed Andrew up and down. His voice took on a considerably softer tone from the deep roughness of usual.

“Andy,” he said while looking his little brother directly in the eyes, “you know I’ve got to live out my service and if I could quit believe me I would and I’d be here everyday taking care of you, making sure you good but I cant. The penalty for desertion is prison and that’s not gonna do anything for us. At least this way I’m bringing in some income so we can keep this shitty roof over our head and have some food to eat.”

“I know man, I know,” Andrew said calmly “its just what am I supposed to do in here all day?” Andrew was standing up now and he looked like he might snap at any moment.

“Andy calm down boy, sit down. Lets talk about it. What’s up with you?”

“I just feel like I aint doing nothing with my life, school is out and I don’t have a legit summer job, we struggling in this shit hole and I’m just living off of you and not helping, I’m fifteen I should be able to do something!!” Andrew was yelling and chocking back tears, tears built up from years of frustration ever since both they’re parents died when he was 11. Matt understood immediately and his face was streaked with the same tears. Matt took a deep breath got up and held Andrews shoulder firmly.

“I know bro,” he said, the same amount of years of responsibility evident in his voice, “ we gone be cool though, we got each other we don’t need nobody else. I’ll help you find a way to pull yo weight if it’s that important to you and we could use the extra bank.”

Andrew looked up at Matt and held his stare, a mutual feeling of love and respect passed between them.

“That’s why I been drawing and stuff,” Andrew began to say as he wiped the tears from his face, “ I do portraits and caricatures of people and charge for it. That’s what I’ve been doing Matt. Running my own business, look.” He was excited now as he pushed his hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out an abundance of crumbled and folded dollars and handed them to his brother. Matt took the money and stared at his brother wide eyed.

“Count it.” Andrew pressed.

Matt walked over to the kitchen table and spread the money out, straightening the crumbled bills and unfolding the folded ones. Five ten-dollar bills, six five-dollar bills, and two twenty-dollar bills.

“Andy, this is one hundred and twenty dollars,” he looked at his brother amazed, “you made this in one day?”

Andrew felt proud of himself.

“In four hours,” He exclaimed, “and this guy gave me this address to a tourists attraction hotel so I can draw for all the tourists that come by the lobby I suppose.”

“Andy that’s great bro, ill come with you tomorrow and make sure it’s legit.” Matt was shaking his head left and right in disbelief.

Andrew was beaming, he felt as if he was finally worth something to his family. Finally becoming a man. The two brothers sat down, finished the rest of their meal, and cleared the table. They prayed, brushed their teeth and took showers. Then they went to sleep in the bunk bed in the room they both shared. Andrew got on the top bunk and closed his eyes. Water dropped from the ceiling and fell on his face.
He couldn’t wait till tomorrow.

BA 13
Chapter Two

I walk in to my house and I’m instantly tackled by Carter our Doberman Pinscher. “Hey what’s up Carter” Carter wags his stub tail and his droopy ears lay flat against his head. “Hey dad I’m home, Is Stokely home yet?” “Ask him your self Calvin” his voice muffled saying that he’s still in his office working. “Bro where are you” I say as I walk down stairs to the basement/apartment that we transformed to a game room and guest area with their own room and bathroom. I see my brother playing the new Skate It game that we bought. He’s been waiting to get this game for almost a year.
“Hey bro”
“Shhh I’m in the zone”
“Whatever, stay black, I’m goin to get ready for….”
“Calvin take Carter to the Bathroom NOW!”
“O.K Dad”
I walk to the back door and grab Carter’s Squeaky ball. The small little squeak that the ball utters calls the dog like a siren and he’s down the stairs so fast I was scared he would run into me, but at the last second he swerves to the right and runs into the door. “Ha Ha!” Now your probably thinking that it’s harsh to laugh at your dog like that but honestly he could have broken that door and plus he’s really strong and smart so I’m not really worried. And just like I thought he was up and trying to get the ball from me in about two seconds. I open the glass and metal door that is now slightly dented and my dog sprints into our gated back yard. “Carter come,” Right when he is a foot from hitting me I sling the ball far down the yard but he’s their right after the first bounce. We do this simple routine over and over again until he’s finally too tired to run right when I take him in I get a phone call, Bri. Crap I forgot her mom was dropping us off today at . “Umm hey Bri”
“Where are you, were right outside your house?!”
“O.K one sec I’ll be out side in five minutes K?”
“Hurry”
I hang up and run to my room, I throw on a new green and black Alien Workshop T-shirt my Black skinny’s a black Sox hat to cover my uncombed Fro and my green Lakai’s while yelling bye to my dad and bro and run to her car. “Hey Bri, Hello Mrs. Ruby”
“Hello Calvin”
“You jerk!” Smack I feel the sting of an angry black girls hand across my face. Wow I always thought that people were exaggerating about how when you get slapped by an angry black woman that it was like getting hit by a railcar to the face but they were telling the truth.
“Dang, girl you crazy” I say trying to sound cool even though I can feel the red mark on my face shaped like a hand burn my skin.
“Fool were gonna be late now”
“Wow like two minutes man you act like the worlds gonna end gosh the party starts at 7:00 and it’s barely 8:00. Just calm down we’ll still be at least their for ohhhh maybe Four Hours!” She thinks of saying something but decides against it and were quiet for the rest of the ride.

Day 10 - BEGINNING OUR NOVELS

I am looking forward to this week and writing three chapters in my new novel, The Den. My main character is Laughter (rhymes with Slaughter), Professor A.J. Laughter. He is the Den Master who secretly kills or is accused of killing ten young writers who he mentors in the den. The den is located in the basement of an old university building. He is the only one who can prove his innocence, but he refuses. He believes a good writer never reveals his secrets even when death is imminent.


I begin with:

Senior Brother Author Tatum


My name is Laughter, A.W. Laughter. Welcome to the den. I find the following sentence beautifully written:

          Every time I close my eyes I see images of fluttering birds, small black birds flying over grass
          fields. I strain to remember the sounds of childhood. My broken and fragmented soul is in deep
          need of an autopsy that can only be granted by a willingness to move beyond a generic view. I
          ask, what happens when your whole way of life is interrupted.

We have come here to appropriate our language for a common cause. I am the den master, and you, the ten of you, are the den mates. 

Post your first chapter here today.

BA2

Black Power: Violent Beginnings

The afternoon day echoed with the loud footsteps of shoes pounding against the pavement. Jordan and Avery rushed through the neighborhood that their school was in. Drenched in sweat, the two turned a corner and ran into a 7-Eleven. A Mexican man stood at a register, smoking. “Can we hide in here, Pedro?” Jordan asked. The man nodded his head in response and the two dove behind a rack covered with out of date chips and pop tarts. Just then, six boys in a huddle busted in the store. One stepped out of the huddle. He was wearing a black leather jacket with navy blue jeans, white Nikes, and a black Yankees hat. The boy took his hat off revealing his face. He was African-American with blue contacts. He looked completely normal except for a long scar that ran down the left side of his face. His voice was deep and frightening. “Those punks come up in here, Pedro?” The boy demanded. Pedro smirked. “Just me an’ my boy,” he responded. Pedro groaned and held up a double barreled shotgun, the handle custom with pictures of ladies in bikinis. The boy chuckled darkly, motioned his hand, and he and his crew walked out going the way they came from. When they were gone, Jordan and Avery crawled out of their hiding place and leaned against the register Pedro was that. “Thanks, Pedro,” the boys said in unison. Before Pedro could respond, they ran out of the store.
On their way home, Avery shouldered his book bag and glared at Jordan. “What?” Jordan exclaimed. “You know what!” Avery said jabbing his finger into his brother’s chest. “We almost got jumped!” Jordan laughed. “Not with me around,” he said. Avery grew angrier. “You think you’re so tough, you think you can handle everybody, don’t you?” “Just because you’re so muscular?” It was true, Jordan was muscular. He wore a tight blue t-shirt to show it too. Also, Jordan wore light blue jeans with blue and white Adidas. On the other hand, Avery wasn’t as muscular as his brother. He had rimless glasses. He had on a green hoody unzipped revealing a white t-shirt with a gun on it. The gun was in the middle of a red circle with a line going straight through it. Avery’s black Levi’s were covered in dirt and so were his white And1s. Jordan laughed again. “Jamal isn’t that tough.”
“But he has a gun.”
“So?”
“He can shoot you.”
“Man that thing ain’t loaded,” Jordan snorted. “He’s a church boy, sweatin' in his $9.99 suit act’ a fool, “praisin' the lord” on Sundays.”
“What’s your point?” Avery asked. You still shouldn’t have done what you did.”
Jordan was going to say something, but Avery cut him off. “We have to get in the house,” Avery said grimly. So the two brothers jogged up to the big house which was their home. 

BA 10

My Tears Weapon

She fiddle with her keys, nervously attempting to open the door for us to enter her quarters and cap off our evening. I had her wrapped in my charm like a baby in a blanket. I deceived her with every word that I uttered since we first met. I cradled her and rocked her better judgment to sleep. She was in a reverie of my bewildering charm. My excitement overwhelmed my soul. My soul, upon entering the apartment, turned dark crimson. She looked back at me as she cracked open the door as if to say come in without a word. Her undergarments were calling to me even though their lips were shut and sealed. I answered back to her silent invitation by entering the corridor. I slid off my shoes on the rosy mat filled with her high heels. She finally spoke out, her voice nervous, “This way.” I followed her down the endless hallway holding to her fingertips to guide my way. She had no idea what I had in store for her.

“Sit over there?” she suggested to me.
I sat.
“Wine?”
I nodded arrogantly.
She walked to the kitchen so innocently. No swishing of her petite hips. No arch in her slender back. All it was, was a walk. But the innocence in her walk further revealed to me the innocence in her mind and her spirit. Oh yes, this would be easy. Her kitchen was immense. Cherry cupboards, marble counter tops, a stainless steel double sink to complement the refrigerator. She has it all, now I just have to take her from it. She returned to the cream couch and accompanied me. She sat fourteen inches away and handed me the crystal wine glass filled half way with white 1909 wine. I started the conversation, breaking the awkward silence she had created.

“You have a nice home,” I complimented her with a devilish grin. We talked for about an hour. I made her laugh until her stomach was in knots and she was forced to cry. She was having a magnificent time and I could tell that she had it set in her mind that this would be her best date ever. I was the only one in the room knowing the end to this illusory evening. She asked me if was I hungry.

“Yes,” I replied.
“Do you like red velvet cake?”
“My favorite,” I said with a smirk.

As soon as she turned her naïve hips and eyes away I struck her in the back her head with my wine glass. She fell to the floor in a rush. She had a scarlet gash right above her temple. I reached down and flipped her over and smacked and punched her with all my built up rage from this naïve engagement. She started to bleed from her lip and nose. She floated in and out of consciousness, while her eyes were steadily getting weary. I held her up and turned her away from my face. I held her arms to her side and took her to the bedroom as she struggled to resist me. As we entered the room, I kissed her tenderly on her neck. I threw her to the bed; my body soon followed.  I looked at her with so much wrath and hate for what she was. “Don’t make a sound.” Her eyes were stunned because of the fear I struck in her. I ripped off her white blouse and pulled off her mid-length blue skirt. Her body was beautiful and awe-inspiring to view. I stared at her and basked in her glory. I undid her creamy bra and slid down her panty hose. I couldn’t wait to suck on her soft and warm breast.
She started to moan. I clouted her. She shrieked in pain. I crossed the thresholded and enjoyed her screams from my violation of her. She stared to weep and her tears matched the tears of my face. I wept from the sight of her anguish. These painless tears I suffered in my endeavor to diminish, her I enjoyed.

BA 12
Planet Chicago (Rough Draft)

“Hey kid, you serious with this?” A tall Italian man about 6’3 with a dark blue suit and a red tie on grumbled to the boy sitting outside a Gallery37 building on Randolph and Wabash in a chair with a canvas in front of him. “This aint New York ya know.”

“Yeah, I’m serious,” replied Andrew.   "You interested?”

“Try to keep it under fifteen minutes kid, I got places to be.”

“Sure just sit down, portrait or caricature?”

“Eh? Both, let’s see what you got.”

“Sure.”

The man sat down on the stool in front of the canvas and Andrew flipped open his 11x14 bienfang sketch notebook. Andrew glanced up at the man once, then twice, three minutes passed and Andrew flipped to the next page in the book.

“H-hey! What are you doing kid, I’m not going to pay you for half-assed garbage!” the Italian man complained.

“Yeah, I know.”

Andrew put on his headphones and began to listen to Kid Cudi.He glanced up once at the man and never looked at him again. Three minutes passed. Andrew flipped back to the first page and ripped both out of the notebook.

“Here,” Andrew said as he handed the papers to the man.
The man stood up and snatched the papers disappointedly and looked down at them. His jaw dropped in awe.

“T-this is incredible,” he stammered, “How did you do this, and so quickly?”

Andrew stared up with apathetic eyes having experienced this same scene at least six times today.

“Ten dollars for the portrait, five for the caricature. that’ll be fifteen dollars sir.”

“Fifteen dollars for skill of this level and in mere minutes? You’re crazy!” the man exclaimed.

Andrew’s eyes flickered with confusion for just a moment then narrowed dangerously.
“Pay the amount asked…” “I'll not pay fifteen dollars for this work,” The man scoffed.

Andrew stood up to his full 5’11 height and removed his skull candy headphones from atop his head.

“Ill pay you fifty -  thirty for the portrait and twenty for the caricature.”
Andrew looked the man square in the eyes.

“Why?” he asked skeptically.

“Because, you shouldn’t be out here selling such refined services for such a small penance, if it interests you I own a hotel that serves as a tourist attraction here in Chicago.”

The man reached into his suit jacket's inner pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper and scribbled some information on it.

“That’s the address and directions from this spot and actually it seems like you should be in gallery37 instead of outside of it, maybe I can help with that. In the mean time…”
The man reached into his pants pocket and pulled out two twenties and a ten-dollar bill and handed it to Andrew. “Thank you for your services.”

Andrew took the money and stuffed it in his torn jean pocket lost in thought about the events that occurred.

“No problem,” he whispered and the man walked off into the camouflaged landscape of downtown Chicago. Andrew looked at the sheet of paper with the information on it, folded it and stuffed that into the pocket of his torn jeans as well.

“Another day, another dollar,” he said to himself as he gathered his things and headed home to his dingy one room apartment.

BA 1
I Hate You




I am D’mari, and I hate school! I hate them phony kids! I hate them fake teachers always trying too hate on my swagga and I hate that the food they be trying to feed us in the cafeteria. Today our English teacher gave us this bogus poem by Gwendolyn Brooks. It was called We Real Cool. it was like this:

We real cool. We
Left school.

We lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

I just thought to myself who does she really think she is, telling us we gone die if we do this. I wanted to call her a white supremacists right there but I promised my moms I would stay out of trouble since she just got a third job. She's been stressed lately.

BA 3
If for Just One Night


Chapter 1- ?Serenity?

“Okay. Please stop! Oh my gosh it's getting late look at the time. I really think you need to leave,” Amiya says. “Girl, stop playing with me. You know you want it just as bad as I do,” Exzante replies. “Yeah, you know I do. But baby, I told you I'm not ready to take it there yet,” Amiya exclaims. “A'ight, boo, I understand. Dang. Sometimes I wonder why I love you so much. I guess I love me some white girl,” he lovingly replies while kissing Amiya. She then puts an end to this madness by saying , “Exzante Cook, you need to go! I already told you. And my mom gets off at 11:00 p.m. It's nearly 12:00. Bye babes.” “Bye sweetie cake. Really I need you to be ready for this like tomorrow. A'ight?” Exzante dryly responds. She just kisses him goodnight, and he is on his way.



A straight A+ student, and charming person, Exzante has come to face a huge dilemma. He is a 17 year old African American boy, looking for love in the right places. All while making the wrong decisions. He is madly in love with Amiya Brook. She is beautiful, very intelligent, very optimistic, caring, and a great cheerleader captain. Although all his friends tease him because she is “white” he loves her still. Amiya is white, 5.7 in height, kind of thick, (plenty of meat on her bones) and is fine as heck. Exzante Cook; 6.1 in height, star football and wrestling player, 10th in class ranking, He is very popular, and a very outspoken person. This is where his issues arise. He is in love, with another girl; Mc’kayla Monroe also known as M.



It was a late summer day, when they first met. It was at football camp, Exzante was very parched. So he walked over to the drink stand to get some water. All the girls went wild, pushing and shoving, all trying to get to the water first, to be able to give him his water. It was crazy, like wild animals over a fresh piece of raw meat. While all this was going on, it was one girl who would not be taken so easily. Her name was Amiya Brook. She had a nice body, full round lips, and a behind that was out of this world. Instantly he thought to him self (she is defiantly going to be the one.)


 BA14
“Aaaaa, stop, get off him, it don’t take all of y’all,” a young lady’s voice echoed down the street as she yelled to try to get some guys off him. This wasn’t anything new for me, her either if she’s from around here I thought as I continued about my business.
“Dis shit don’t make no sense," she proceeded. I bet he would whoop all y’all ass one on one.” When she made that statement I knew she was a native to this more than corrupt hood we dwell within.
“Dis nigga shouldn’t talk like he tough den,” one of the about fifteen boys said as his foot landed on the slim boy's head, neck or shoulder area again.
“Dat’s what dis is about - talking, people can't talk these days?”
“Nah, now keep it moving broad 'fore talking get you hurt.” Just then I paused to see what would happen next.
“Yeah a'ight dis ain’t what you want lil, boy but  imma gone head and walk off. You a'ight?” she asked helping the boy up from the ground.
“Yeah, you decent,” she said.   His face was not badly bruised at all from where I was standing taking that so many guys were on him. The both of them started to walk in my direction and I slowed down gently so they wouldn’t notice. I wanted to hear what they might talk about, but they didn’t say anything. The female just walked alongside of the young man holding her arm around him. They continued walking in the same direction as I did but they were still silent. I came to the bus stop and so did they.  I got on the bus still wanting to hear the boy’s reasoning for those young thugs jumping him. I waited to see if the lady would ask him any questions; For a while, she didn’t. Although the bus was crowded and kind of loud it seemed to be silent even if just for the time of me waiting for conversation between the two. Finally, she got up the confidence which I couldn’t build up fast enough.
“So why were they jumping you young man? Why they pick you?” She double questioned the boy.
“It ain’t nothing,” he answered reluctantly.
“You can tell me, I want to help.”
“Dey just hating man it ain’t nothing.”
“So you the guy those dudes were jumping on?" I suddenly asked rhetorically.
“Yeah dat was me, dey ain’t do shit though I’m a'ight.
“Yeah you good, you wouldn’t be able to say you got jumped looking at your face.” I said trying to give him back some of the pride that was taken from him by answering questions he didn’t want to, but it was true as he had one truly visible scar across his jaw and a small cut in the corner of his lip. Otherwise he looked perfectly fine which made me laugh on the inside.
“You good though, don’t worry about it now. Dey look silly cause you barley look bruised and it was all of them on you.”
“What dey hating for?” The lady turned to him and asked when I finished talking.”
The boy hesitated to respond as the bus approached my stop. I wanted hear his answer badly just to see if it was the reason I somehow knew, but I exited the bus. I thought to myself that I’ll see him again.
“Watch yourself,” I yelled back onto the bus. 


BA 8
LoveSick

Officer Rodger Fredrickson
Chicago Police Department 11th District
June 25, 2010 3:11am

Silence ran rampant over West Harrison Street. Black bags floated along the curb, as vagrants loitered without a purpose. The daunting red bricked building stood as a constant reminder of order. Police cars filled the parking lot, for a Friday morning, it was usual, but the eerie feeling of something terribly eminent cast over the town.
“Oi! Fredrickson, we’ve got a big case here!” exclaimed McLaughlan, his heavy Irish brogue and 6’ 5” figure, and spiky, burgundy color hair was intimidating nonetheless, almost perfect for his job. The pearl white offline lined with desks and file cabinets looked boring. Only 5 people sat at the desks, and all were officers.
“Fax it over McLaughlan,”
The fax machine hummed and buzzed until several pieces of paper filled the tray.

BA 9

Chapter 1: De' Andre Lopez (D.S.R)

Ding! Ding! Ding! Dismiss. Sometimes I wish if I left my phone on vibrate I would still wake up but in a peaceful way. The sun found a way into my bedroom and right into my eyes. I groaned as I realized I was no longer in my dazed state of mind that most human beings would call 'sleep'. I call it D.A.Z.E: Dizzy Absentminded Zoo-like Events. That's what I call it at least.

"Hey dude you got to get up if you want to put this work in real quick."

"Hold on, give me a second Haze."

I sat up on the side of my bed and rubbed my eyes. I reached up to my head and scratched my D.U.R.I.N.G: Dumb Unusual Riled-up Insufficient Nappy God-given hair. I looked at my night stand to check the time on my charging iPhone. It was 4:23 a.m.

"Haze, are you kidding me bruh? You woke me up at 4 a.m. to put in work that could be done way easier after school?"


"Chill man, I been up since 1 making you this dope beat. You got to put in the hard work as an artist the way I put in the hard work as a producer. You feel me?"

"Work smarter, not harder." I leaned back on my bed getting ready to go back into my D.A.Z.E. I was closing my eyes. Closing. Closing.

"Do what you have to do now so you can do what you want to do later."

Awake. I sat up again in my bed and looked at Haze. He was smirking. Since I was clearly defeated I slowly climbed out my bed and onto the floor where I immediately slipped into my slippers. Haze walked out of my doorway as I followed behind him. Down into our basement. We call it the lab. I call it work. He calls it his personal heaven. He lays down the canvas. I paint him a picture. It's the special and spiritual bond between producer and rapper.

BA 11

Sitting on his dirty yellow sofa with orange daisies David takes another long drag from his cigarette. Flipping through the channels he sees an infomercial for a wallet made out of sandpaper and how it is supposed to deter criminals from pick pocketing you.
“If I saw some dude with a sandpaper wallet I would picket pocket him just for being stupid for thinking they actually work.” With a final grunt he began his journey for an interesting TV show on his six channels two of which were in Spanish. Sitting on the top of the kitchen counter top his cat watches him mummer angrily like it has for the last two days. This is because the cat is dead but David is to lazy to notice the now rotting corpse laying on his kitchen counter top. He could hear the volume of his next door neighbors TV through the thin drywall that separated his living from Gertrude’s living room a foot away. The whole in his wall from coming home drunk one night and drop kicking a fly on the wall did not help him to ignore the weather forecast Gertrude was listening to either. Finally ending his TV journey via remote Dave decides to watch Cheaters. He sees a woman coming at her husband from behind with a tight open hand. Dave begins to eat his bowl of Cheerio’s he prepared half an hour ago. “OOOHH!” he screams as he watches a woman slap her unsuspecting husband in the back of the head. He watches closely while he wipes the droplet of milk off his bottom lip. “She slapped that goofy smile right off his face!” he chuckles. “At least when my wife found out I was cheating I was ready.” With a few more quiet laughs Dave takes another gulp of his soggy Cheerios. Half an hour later the show finishes and Dave stares at the large load of wrinkled dirty laundry sleeping in the corner of his small apartment. Dave slowly gets up places his half empty bowl next to his cat and grabs a big bag of quarters from the top of his refrigerator. He grabs an empty laundry basket shoves his load of heavy clothes in and walks out of his apartment. Across the street he sees a brightly lit business with a big bold red sign that says Cleaners. Placing his basket on an open table he sees a woman ten years younger than him in her thirties folding her undergarments. Licking his lips he picks up his basket flips it upside down and throws the basket to the floor. It fails to catch her attention. He throws his clothes into a washing machine remembering he still had his wedding ring on. With a few twists and turns it slips right off. As he shoves his quarters in to the machine he sees her drop a black pair of underwear on the ground. With out any noise he goes over kneels down and picks them up with one finger. “These wouldn’t happen to belong to you?” Dave says twirling them on one finger. “Ummm yes they are.” says the large heavy set woman with an afro with a scared look on her face.

BA 13
Triple Threat

Chapter One

“

Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnggggggggggg”
“Ya know I used to like you like you last week” her black hair shaking as she talks. After hearing the shocking information me and my friend Scout laugh like crazy my navy blue Levi skinny’s making me trip into my locker, but we keep laughing. In my mind I think that we both probably look like the joker or something.
“What’s so funny huh?”
It’s just that well I used to like you a week ago.” I say while we all slowly walk downstairs toward the busses
“What, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well you never told me,” I say trying to be serious but I still have a smirk on my face from laughing so hard.
“Well you should have asked me first you idiot” She says harshly but her brown eyes show a kindness and reveal the fact that she never stopped liking me. In anger and surprise the thirteen year old Cuban girl stomps off her black hair swaying on the back of her sunshine colored dress. Even though she is probably crazy mad at me she’ll forget about it and begin liking me again by tomorrow. I wave goodbye to her once she reaches the bus and receive a middle finger in return. “I’ll miss you too Zoe” I reply which sets me and scout up for another laugh.
As I reach the yellow and black bus that I have to ride almost every day of school Scout asks for the hundredth time,
“Dude wanna hang out today?”
“Aint gonna happen bro you know that my parents are super strict about my safety, I probably won’t be able to hang out until next year”
“Crap, well see you later dude”
“Peace out”
As I walk onto the bus I decide to sit with my friends Leah, Brianna and their group of girls, instead of with my good friend Nikolaj and this new eighth grader named Tina. As I sit down I take off my blue and black hoodie to reveal my black Ed Hardy T-Shirt.
“Out my seat Calvin,” Zoe replies before I can even say what’s up
“Umm I need to sit hear I want Brianna across from me cause we need to talk”
“Whatever,” She replies, I’m kind of shocked I mean usually she would have tried to throw me out the seat or at least yell at me until the bus driver finally tells her to shut up. She takes the seat behind me and begins to talk to Olivia, a white girl that is really nice and kind of thinks off herself as the mom of the bus. When Brianna finally shows up I say robotically “You sit here across from me now.” Instantly she sits down straightening her tight sky blue shirt and yellow skinny jeans her tan skin is veiled by her brown hair.
“What’s up Calvin?”
“Nuthin much, just need to talk to you about well girls”
“You came to the right place, what advice do you need” Brianna replies trying to impersonate Dr.Phil.
“Well theirs this girl that I like and she said that she liked me and acts like she still does, but I’m not sure if she really does like me.” I say in a nice but also nervous tone. “I mean what’s wrong with me I like a girl and she likes me but I don’t want to take a risk and get let down.”
“Well just have someone who she wouldn’t expect ask her for you if she likes you.”
“Oh well then, I never really thought of that. Thanks Bri I guess” I reply nervously because even though Brianna has liked and dated lots of boys she has also been rejected lots of times.
As we reach my bus stop I stand up and give hugs to Tina, Brianna and Olivia which I do everyday and kind of have to if I don’t want to have every girl on the bus start trying to kill me.
As I walk to my house located on Marquette and Ingleside in the south side of Chicago, I think about how many great things I’ve missed out on because I can’t stay after school. How may times my friends have tried to invite me to a party or to go to the water tower but I was unable to because my parents won’t let me stay downtown without an adult that they know and trust. I shrug my shoulders as I approach giant brick house that is meant to be an apartment in the basement and a five family house in the top, but it now holds a five number family including our dog, I know that life’s gonna change tomorrow.

Day 9 - Young Agenda Builders

Can we use our pens to create a new public real estate, real estate that is intellectual, cultural, political, social, or humanitarian in nature.

Brother Author Aaron McGruder wrote:

     And I was very aware of how valuable that little piece of real estate in the newspapers had become when
     the so-called free press lost their minds and started censoring themselves. I knew on that tragic day
     that more tragic days were to follow, and I made the decision that I would use my little space to scream
     out louder against the great injustices the United States government was about to unleash upon the planet.

From the foreword of a Right to Be Hostile

His agenda was clear, and he used he pen to shape his agenda.

The Brother Author created two African American kids who are full of attitude, intelligence, and rebellion. These characters were created in his mind.

Meet Huey,

"Oppressors, run and hide! Fear the arrival of the Righteous! I, Huey Freeman, represent your darkest fear. I am a black freedom fighter! My knowledge of self shines boldly in the face of the beast."

p. 14 of a Right to Be Hostile

You will create a young agenda builder - young philosopher, young artist, young activist, young community worker, young poet, young dancer, young talker, young athlete, young politician, young ???? - who is keenly focused on some issue.

You will work with other Brother Authors to describe three events with your young agenda builder centralized in each event.

I am so looking forward to meet your young characters.

Day 8 - More Children Stories with a Triadic Thread

Let's continue to write children stories to help kids:

1. Appreciate their unique qualities
2. Trust their instincts
3. Enjoy the process of becoming
4. Employ their imaginative gifts
5. Fumble, make mistakes, and recover
6. Become the master of their young lives, rather than servants to adulthood
7. Experience a new word
8. Find mentorship in your words
9. Participate in shaping their own events
10. Live more fully, at least for a moment, as a result of your words
11. Love being young

Our guest,  Senior Brother Author Derrick Barnes, serves as a good guide for us.

Beautifully written paragraphs from the BAs (in need of minor edits)

Beautifully written paragraphs


BA9

Hakeem sat on his porch. He was in a deep thought. He was in a really deep thought – almost a trance.. At this point he heard nothing but the wind in his ear but now has become numb inside his head; it was an everlasting sound. The smell of garbage, grass, and mud snuck into his nose and the beaming sun only made it worse. It was like this because it had rained the night before. He felt the very meager amounts of water on his chair as he sat there. But he could care less; he was in a Trans of nature consuming his very body and mind. He felt seduced by the whisper of the wind, the water’s soft but almost sensual touch on his back. He was aroused by nature’s perfume of wet grass and mud. Yet as beautiful and sexy as nature was, it seemed that she forgot to take a shower. Did nature forget to take a shower before she put on that nice smelling perfume? Hakeem figured she didn’t; her scent of garbage gave it away. But just like nature was polluted with garbage Hakeem’s thoughts were polluted by in interruption. Later he will once again escape into his trance.


BA 12
The sky resisted light and ominous winds blew through watchful clouds, as Alessandro Massimo stood perfectly balanced on top of the Torre Dei Lamberti. Alessandro gazed intently at the piazza erbe, at the merchant stands crowded on the sides of buildings that have endured the ravages of time; from the maternal protector of Verona, Alessandro plotted his conquest. He eloquently strode to the edge of the tower and flipped over the wall, strong and yet delicate gloved hands gripped the rim as legs that seemed specifically toned for scaling the wonders of architecture kept him steady. He methodologically moved down the tower, so fluid were his movements that any spectators would not have any idea at what they watched. Perfectly fitted leather boots found footholds where others would not and in mere minutes he stood on the ancient rooftops of the houses of Verona. He could smell the flustered excitement of the merchants and their wealthy consumers. Wealth they did not deserve. Wealth he would soon acquire. He stared at his piazza, the buildings were of brown and red chipped and faded brick; many of these buildings still stood from the 14th century. He knew them all too well, the structures, the footholds, the weak areas, the balconies and stairs and secret passages through each home as if he had lived in each for a separate eternity.


BA 11
Wearing his favorite blue and purple striped tie Michael kisses his sleeping wife good bye and starts the early morning car ride to work. Pulling out of his drive way he opens his mouth wide and drowns his lungs in air. The scent fine leather consume his sense of smell while the picture of his twenty two year old son pinned to his dashboard cheers him up but is quickly followed by slowly lowered eyes of disappointment. His posture is poor, his shoulder are slouched and his eye lids are open just enough to the road. He pulls into a Starbucks drive through and patiently waits for his turn to place his order for a large coffee. As Michael receives his coffee he takes of the lid off to inhale the aroma. The warm steam feels good as it makes contact with his still somewhat frozen cheeks and nose. He begins to think about the long list of things at work he has to do today and the many employees that work for him. He thinks about the cold winter day to come in Chicago and how the sky will be shrouded in overcast clouds. The conversation in his mind is annoyingly interrupted by his loud cell phone. One look to see who it is and he presses ignore. “Third time this week.” he says in his head as he puts his phone back into his pocket.


BA 0
After fastening the Velcro straps of his Teflon vest, Tommy peered over the tall building and decided that he was not close enough to inflict the pain that he desired. “I can’t hit ‘em all from right here. Fuck I think I got… a John Muhammad .223 rifle with the scope? I gotta get up on ‘em and make ‘em feel me,” Tommy thought to himself as he planned his next move. The helicopter’s presence became stronger as its force blew around the gravel layering the roof of Robert F. Wagner’s Housing Project building. “This is the NYPD. Lower your weapon and place your hands in the air. This is your first and last warning! Failure to do so will result in deadly force,” the helicopter’s intercom firmly stated in a robotic voice.

Blatantly ignoring the command to surrender, Tommy headed toward the roof’s black door, zigzagging to nearly miss a vicious storm of gunfire being hailed from the city’s black sky. Tommy’s knees buckled up and down as his tight laced sneakers slid on off the edges of the grimy steps. After anxiously stumbling down sixteen flights of stairs, Tommy began hyperventilating while feverishly in search of a place to lay low until they pulled up. Tommy crouched behind a large green metal garbage can and cocked the chamber of the AK-47. As anticipated, the screeching tires grew closer to the alley; it was a sign of relief for Tommy because he was ready. “You can’t kill what’s already dead,” Tommy sprung up and screamed as thunderous bursts of power exploded from the fiery nozzle.

BA 2
Dante laid in the ground, his back stinging. Suddenly, a voice called him. “Dante?” Dante groaned in response. “You doin it again?’ Dante groaned again. “You need to stop,” the voice said. Or you’ll get killed. It’s cutting into your work time.” Dante got up and looked into the brown eyes of a beautiful young lady. “Afternoon, Abby,” Dante said casually. “How are you this fine day?” Abby rolled her eyes. She was wearing her dark hair down. She had on dirty pants and a shirt with dark pants. Her skin was caramel. To Dante, she was the most beautiful thing on the plantation. He gazed at her, ignoring whatever she was saying. Abby finally noticed Dante was not listening. “Dante!” She exclaimed. Immediately, Dante snapped out of his daydream. “You’ll get beat to death if you keep on that scribblin.” “It’s not scribbling,” Dante retorted. “It’s art..writing. And I’m tired of all the beatins…so I’m runnin away.” Abby opened her mouth, apparently about to speak. Instead, she grabbed Dante and kissed him passionately. When it was over, Dante glared. “Not even your kisses can make me stay, Abby,” he said darkly. “If I can get people to appreciate my writins, I can change the course of life for our kind.” Abby pressed her hand to her head. She finally looked at Dante and smiled. “If that’s what you want to do…then do it,” she sighed. “Just be careful.” “I will,” Dante assured.

Day 7 - Shaping the Literary Lineage of the Next Generation - Writing Children Stories

Writing for the next generation is a hallmark of literary leadership - A.W. Tatum

We will write children stories for those who come after us. Think about the young brother and sister sitting in the classroom, bedroom, or library bored because they are struggling to find a book that resonates with them. Let's write for them using colorful words and rich language. Help them smile, laugh, feel warm, get excited, or get lost in their imaginations. We can also write to empathize with them and show them that we care about their young pains.

I wrote the following to capture kids' growing pains and pleasures.

Could Barely
By
Alfred Tatum
July 13, 2010
11:20 am

I sat in the car.
I could barely see out of the window.

I went to the park.
I could barely shoot in the basket.

I went to the carnival.
I could barely reach the line.

I got a new bike.
I could barely turn the pedals.

I went shopping with my mom.
I could barely carry the bag.

I took a long trip.
I could barely stay awake.

I was racing my big sister.
I could barely keep pace.

I was playing baseball with my father.
I could barely throw the ball.

I watched a scary movie.
I could barely sleep.

I started doing things made for five-year-olds.
I could barely believe how much fun I was having.

My little sister came to my room.
She could barely do the things I do.

I could barely stop laughing.


I wrote the following to capture the feeling of a seven-year-old who lost his cat, Gizmo.


Gizmo’s Spot
Alfred W. Tatum
January 11, 2010
5:57pm on the Metra

This was his third trip to the doctor in as many weeks. The hope we once had was gone. Last night was the hardest for us as he lay in the dark basement in a spot that comforted him. He starved himself the entire weekend, refusing to eat, refusing to move. Nothing worked. I was not only concerned for him; I worried about his best friend, Andrew. The death of a friend is hard to swallow when you are really young.

“He’s going to make it dad.”

These were Andrew’s words earlier in the week when he heard about his friend’s disease. I tried to explain that some things are just God’s will. He covered his ears and refused to listen to me. This was the first time Andrew acted stubborn. He was usually an easy-going kid. The idea of losing Gizmo changed him.

“Look what I got!”

These were mom’s words when she surprised Andrew with a kitten. Frankly, we were all surprised. This was Andrew’s first pet. He had his very own kitten. Small. Cute. Playful. The kitten started reaching for the string on mom’s white coat.

“Mom look, he likes your string. I got a string.”

Andrew ran up the stairs and removed a string from an old shoe. He rushed down the stairs almost tripping before sliding on the floor to be close to Gizmo. He pulled the string and Gizmo chased it. He held the string over Gizmo’s head and Gizmo reached for it. They were in string heaven.

“This is the one,” I said.

“Mom, can he sleep in my room?”

“We have to help him get used to his litter box first.”

“How long will that take? I will take him to the litter box when he has to use the bathroom.”

“Cats are not like dogs, Andrew. They train themselves.”


Gizmo was going to his litter box before bedtime. Andrew left his bedroom door cracked and a nightlight on hoping that Gizmo would find him. The next morning, to his delight, Gizmo found a spot near Andrew’s feet.

“Mom, Gizmo slept in my bed. He likes me.”

For the next three months, Andrew found Gizmo at his feet when he woke up in the morning. Then one morning, Gizmo was not there. Instead, he slept in the corner of Andrew’s closet. He did not follow Andrew down the stairs to breakfast as usual. He did not chase after the string. Gizmo stared at Andrew with his adoring eyes, but he did not move.

“Do you think Gizmo is overweight,” my wife asked.

“I notice some bloating in his stomach, but the rest of his body looks normal.”

“We should take him to the doctor just to make sure everything is okay.”

Three days later, my wife took Gizmo to the vet. By this time, he had stopped eating. His water bowl was full at the end of the day. The bloating was not going away. Gizmo stopped running, stopped chasing the string; he stopped being, Gizmo.

The doctor shaved Gizmo’s belly to draw blood. It was a gray Friday afternoon, but Gizmo seemed happy in the doctor’s arms. His eyes turned toward Andrew as he was lying on the examination table.

“It’ll be okay, Gizzy. The doctor just needs a little blood. You’ll be better before you know it.”

The doctor decided to keep Gizmo overnight to run some more tests. This was Gizmo’s first night away.

“Is he coming home tomorrow, mom?”

“Yes, Andrew. The doctor just wants to make sure he’s okay.”

Gizmo came home Friday afternoon, but he was not better. We would have to wait five-to-seven days for the test results. Andrew was happy to have his kitten home.

“Mom, Gizmo made a mess on the floor.”

This was the first time Gizmo failed to use his litter box. He did not have the energy to go to the basement. My wife called the doctor and explained what happened. The doctor said he would rush with the test results. Gizmo was placed in the basement over the weekend because he did not have the energy to climb the stairs. We were really anxious to get the test results. It was a long weekend. Gizmo was starving himself to death. The smell of home cooked potpies did not entice him to eat. We blasted the music and danced around him with dangling strings. He followed us with his eyes, but he did not move. We were all sad.

I was at work on Monday evening when my wife called.

“Well, I just received the news that Gizmo has to be put to sleep. The doctor gave me the choice of a funeral or cremation.”

Immediately, I thought about Andrew. As suddenly as Gizmo came into our lives, he was leaving us. I asked to speak to Andrew before my wife shared the sad news.

“Hey, Drew.”

“Hey, dad.”

“How was school?”

“Not so good. I was asked to write about a problem and explain how I dealt with it.”

“What did you write?”

“Nothing. I just live my life. I don’t have any problems. I am just a happy kid.”

“We’ll talk about it when I get home tonight.”

“Here’s mom, bye dad.”

Gizmo had twenty-four hours left. We decided to let Andrew stay up as late as he wanted to be with him. He decided to sleep in the basement on the couch near Gizmo’s bed. I went down to check on them just after midnight. They were both sound asleep. Andrew and Gizmo were enjoying their last night together.

“How was it,” I asked my wife.

“It was pretty sad. It seemed like he knew what was going to happen.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Unlike the other times at the doctor’s office, he refused to come out of his carrying case. He just meowed and meowed and meowed. I never heard him sound like that.”

We shared the news with Andrew tonight. He did not say much at the dinner table. This was unusual.

“I think I am going to bed early tonight.”

“Okay, I’ll be up to tuck you in.”

I went upstairs twenty minutes later and found Andrew’s door shut for the first night in three months. There was no need to keep it open. I heard him crying softly. When I cracked his door, I saw him lying at the other end of his bed. Andrew was lying in Gizmo’s spot. I felt sad and shed my first tear in more than twenty years. My son’s best friend was gone and he knew it.

Day Six - Black Shorts that stimulate the senses

Brother Authors,

I can hear your voices, but I am struggling to smell, taste, or feel the environments in which your stories take place. Help me see what you see - feel what you feel - touch what you touch. Place that rich kernel in your black short that allows the reader to experience the full measure of your character's humanity. Don't tell the reader she's angry or despondent. Help the reader experience it through your words so that he can empathize or become frightened. Help him feel the wind, see the sunrise, smell the awkwardness, and swell up inside as he reads your words. Do the hard work required of all great writers. I want to stand on the rooftops and shout, "I found him - the next new legend."

Sample kernels from two BAs are below:

Charlie Johnson sat at his dining room table tinkering with his laptop before he left for school. The orange twilight poured through the window glowing against the table as his hands moved in a blazing speed connecting cables. He was an innovative thinker, always trying to find ways to fix and improve things. It was his favorite thing to do. Charlie began to put his tools and laptop away when his phone rang. Expecting it to be his mother calling to check in, being the overprotective mother she was. But an unknown number glowed across the caller ID screen. Probably a creditor, but they’ve never called this early in the morning before. Thinking, Charlie never answered a call from them, it seemed pointless. It was nothing but an automated recording that says the same thing each time; the phone had reached its last ring, Charlie picked it up.

From BA 8, The Man on the Phone

Sitting on the porch, Mallory’s eyes connected with fading sun as it fell behind the line of trees along with her tears. In her hand she tightly held a long letter inside an envelope with no address or postage stamp. All she could do was mutter questions and breathe to the rhythm of her heart beat. The expression on her face showed sadness while the still concentrated look in her eyes whispered anger. In her other hand was a gold ring.
As she sat there her mother came out for a smoke.
“Are you going to take those items to him?” Her mother quietly asked.
“Maybe”
“Well you should leave soon. I don’t want you out there when it gets dark.”
“Ok mom. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure what is it?”
“Did anyone notice?”

From BA 11, The Moon’s Property

I wrote the following short story. I was stimulated by a piece of bubble gum wrapper I saw resting on the ground as I approached the train.

Paper in the Wind

By

Alfred W. Tatum


The paper in the wind settles between two yellow lines outside of the train station. Its companion is a pink strip of unchewed gum. It hops to the left before crossing the tracks into a wide-open field with tall, brown grass and scraps of metal resting lazily after years of activity. The blades of grass sway to and fro. I can only imagine what rests beneath the soil thirty days out from spring. The thawing of the ground brings the dawning of a new season with cheerful sounds and colorful images suffocated by the region’s winters. I decided to track the path of the paper, to gather it in hopes of finding something, not exactly sure what, just something.

I raise my ungloved hand to wipe the snot from my nose before brushing my hand against my pants. The wind picks up and the paper is lifted from the ground. I break into a small trot. I feel like I am chasing a dream like I did when I was a child. The wind settles. Fortunately for me, I can take a breather. I haven’t had much exercise since my wife died nine years ago. How strange it might look to someone watching on old man in a barren field with a balding head. I simply smile at the thought. A quick westerly gust forces me to switch directions again.

“Pearl, why now?”

I remember asking my dear wife when she told me she wanted to leave the south.

“This is where our home is, our friends.”

But, she was persistent. Our oldest son needed us after running into a pocket of misfortune. Pearl couldn’t stand the idea that her baby was roaming the streets in the cold while she was enjoying the comforts of southern winds. Georgia was her home, but it did not feel the same.

“I got to go Frank. Either you coming with me or you’re staying.”

She was always a stubborn woman. So, I agreed to come behind her after I made arrangements at home. There was the house and the convenience store to deal with. We decided that she would find a small place and I would follow in three months time. Not one to put things off, Pearl was on her way the Tuesday next. The tossing and turning at night were more frequent. She became restless after not hearing from Frank Jr. for three days. The waiting and wondering were driving her mad.

I drove her to the train station for the 22-hour ride. She had one large bag and a small wooden box that fit comfortably into her purse. Pearl always carried that purse. In it was a pad she scribbled notes on about the store’s inventory. She also kept track of her banking account. Pearl didn’t have much money, but she kept track of every dime. When she died, I also found out that she wrote notes to Frank Jr. every night. They all ended the same way:

Dear God, please watch over my boy - a note from Pearl.

Pearl never made it to Frank Jr. The train derailed six hours out and two people died, a small child, only six months old, and my Pearl. She hit her head on a steel rail and lost consciousness before passing away. I never got a chance to say good-bye. I still decided to move north as I had promised only to find more bad news. Frank Jr. was gone, too. That’s when I starting riding the rails, searching for something, anything. Not much for an old man to do when those he loves are gone.

That’s how I ended up in the field today chasing a piece of paper in the wind. Now, I am close to it. I trap the paper, folded in a square, beneath my foot while I catch my breath. I lean over to pick it up. Suddenly, I have a change of heart about reading it. I imagine it’s another note from Pearl, a note for Frank Jr., or maybe a note for me. I lift it to wind, release it, before walking back toward the train. I feel a tear trickle over a smile.

Day Five - Black Shorts Continued

We can write short stories that pay attention to personal triumphs and personal injuries. We must find the rhythm to inform our writing. The following short stories were written with a sense of urgency - one to bring my father home and the other to remember those who have fallen prey to gun violence.

My Daddy’s Shrine
by
Alfred W. Tatum

My momma always told me my daddy ain’t nothing, but I still decided to love him. I’m his seed and I carry his name. It’s been three years since I last saw him. It was a perfect day. I remember waking up early on my tenth birthday. The blinds failed to block out the morning’s sunlight that crept into my room. The ray of light stretched like a rope across the tiny bedroom that I shared with my little brother, Fergie. I dressed quickly when mom told me that daddy was on his way over to take me to the game. I heard the horn and I rushed downstairs. Big Gib, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, was sitting in his new Chrysler. He looked perfect to me. I was excited to go to the north side to see the Cubs. Kids in my neighborhood lost interest in the game; the parks are now empty. It is rare that I get a chance to wear my jersey with the number 37 on the back, another gift from my father. He’s fourth generation and I am fifth generation.

My great grandfather moved to Chicago from Philadelphia in the 1920s. Philly was the black Mecca of baseball for a long time. As long as I can remember, dad always talked about the famous left-hand catcher, Willie “Gibson” Wells, who played for the Grays. Stealing second base on Willie Wells was like trying to steal a piece of fresh meat from a cage of hungry lions. He went by the name, ‘It just ain’t goin’ happen’. The depression forced great grandpa to move to Chicago. He got a job slaughtering hogs. Although he never played again after slicing off two fingers and a thumb in an accident, he never could get the game out of his head. His stories were passed down to me. I began to love the game like my dad.

Big Gib knew I loved the sound of the train going through the tunnel. He parked the car close the ballpark and we rode the El train the last few miles. It was crowded. He held my hand tightly as we snaked through all the people with Cubs and Brewer jerseys. We were special, the only two fans with jerseys from the Negro Leagues – the Homestead Grays and the Kansas City Monarchs.

“Today, we’re sitting in the left infield box seats right over the dugouts.”

I couldn’t believe it.

“It’s not everyday you turn ten, Gibby.”

My name rolled off his tongue with such affection. The Cubs were up by two runs, and I was glad that I did not have to share my cotton candy with Fergie. We were having our own special day until the bottom of the third inning. This strange lady walked up to Big Gib and kissed him on the lips. A boy who looked my age followed her. I hadn’t noticed the two empty seats until they plopped down next to us. He was wearing a jersey like my dad with the number 37. There were now two Grays vs. one Monarch.

“Introduce yourself Gibby. Robby knows all about you.”

How could he know all about me and I knew nothing about him? I was wondering if Big Gib shared all the same stories about the number 37. Big Gib told me, “It carries weight to wear that number on your back. Only 37 Negro Leaguers made it to baseball’s Hall of Fame.” He told me that the 37 hall of famers were not better than the rest, but they were able to breakthrough. He always called me his ‘Breakthrough Kid’. Now, there were two of us. He was sitting on Big Gib’s right side and I was sitting on the left side.

The game became a blur as I stared at the 400ft marker on the wall in centerfield. The innings went by quickly. It was the beginning of the seventh-inning stretch when I heard Big Gib say, “Time to stretch sons.”

“You mean son, right?”

“No, Gibby. Robbie is your brother. I thought it was time for you to meet him.”

“I don’t want to meet him. I wished you would have left me at home with momma.”

“I will next time. You and your mother deserve each other.”

“That’s not nice, Big Gib,” I heard the lady say.

I felt a tear roll down my face at the same time the fans around us started standing. A fly ball was heading in our direction. Big Gib managed to snag it out of the air with his huge hands.

“Can I have it dad?” Robbie asked.

“No, this is Gibby’s. It’s his special day.”

It was hard for me to refuse the baseball. Robbie may have had the same jersey, but I had the ball. The Cubs, up by six runs in the top of the ninth, needed three outs to win the game. The crowd began pouring out of the stadium, but as always, Big Gib refused to leave the game until the final out. He believes leaving early insults the game and the players. I was ready to leave, but I did not want the day with my dad to end.

Cubs win! Cubs win!

“Honey, I will see you and Robbie later,” dad said.

Dad leaned over and gave the lady another kiss before grabbing my hand and leading me through the crowd. He was all mine again just for that moment at least. I had the ball to prove that I was the special son.

That was the last time I saw Big Gib. He called and sent me a card for my eleventh birthday. We talked for a few minutes on my twelfth birthday. I did not hear from him on my thirteenth birthday. Maybe, he forgot how to love me the way he used to, the same way we forgot how to love the game. I will be ready for him when he returns. Until then, the shrine I have in my room – the jersey, the ball, the ticket from the game, the glove, and his photo – will keep us connected.

Black Bag
by
Alfred W. Tatum


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.
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.