Hey guys, this is the first story that I've ever written, so I would really appreciate some feedback. It's set in my hometown of Mobile, Alabama.
Nelson
Here she goes again, and it’s only 8 AM.
“Now Nelson, you understand that you’ll be putting your whole family in danger when you go around announcing to people that you goin’ to college in Chicago. Why not a college down South, where it’ll be safer? You know you have family upstate.”
I’m too tired for this. But I’m definitely awake enough to know that my education sure as hell isn’t going to come from that newly desegregated University of Alabama.
She says, “You remember what happened to those four innocent girls at that church last year in Birmingham? Killed! Just because they was black! No imagine if the KKK got word that a black boy is planning to leave the south for Chicago. They kill us all!”
Lately, she’s been calling me a boy too often. Is it to make me feel younger than I am, so I won’t feel ready for college now, or at all? Or is it so she can remind herself of what I used to be, a carefree child only wishing to keep up with Hank Aaron’s batting average? Or, is both?
“Mama, I’m going to be the first member of this family to go to college. End of story. Whether it will be in Chicago or New York, I’m going to learn how to be a writer.”
She laughs, “People don’t learn how to be writers; they’re born that way. A’int no reason in you going over a thousand miles to learn to write when you could be making a decent living helping your dad in the auto-shop.”
She always feels the need to lecture while she’s cooking breakfast. There’s something about gas-house eggs fumes that conjure her motherly tendencies.
All the while, my father fidgets his cardigan’s sleeves and fixes his eyes on his cup of coffee. He knows that it’s useless to intervene.
He’s had three sons before me, and they didn’t come close to completing high school – partly because of the segregation barriers, but mainly because of the extra money needed in our household. He wants to see me unlock my potential and provide my own family with what he was never able to.
He sips his coffee slowly and observes my mother attempt, for the umpteenth time, to persuade me to stay in Mobile with my family. He’s persistently tried to convince her otherwise, but she’s too scared. Too scared that I’ll never return, that I’ll never be fully grateful of the hard work she does cooking for ditsy white women in order for her own family to have food on the table.
Mama serves the gas-house eggs and places my plate on the table, a little harder than normal. Usually I can taste the love that was put into my favorite meal. But today, there’s something else. Maybe disappointment; maybe regret – regret that she has allowed herself to live in the same conditions her entire life and now sees that there is a way out, a way to harmony.
Nonetheless, the eggs are perfect. I look across the table to Mama staring at me with her glassy, brown eyes.
“I just don’t want to lose my last boy.”
I say, “Mom, I have to close in on the opportunities that are offered to me. Ever since I was a boy, you told me to take advantage of an opportunity before the white man steals it. I am mailing in my application today.”
After she hears this, a tear begins to slide down her pudgy cheek. I’ve been preparing myself for this ever since I completed my application two weeks ago.
I say, “Mom, you have to look at it from my perspective. I have the chance to attend one of the most prestigious universities in the United States. I have the chance to create a name for myself, and bring enormous respect to our family. Do you not want that?”
I have been explaining this to her for the past few weeks. She just continues to stare at me. I’m convinced that she longs to support my decision, but her fear and shame hamstring her from doing so. She gives me the familiar apologetic look and cleans my plate.
As she turns to the sink, I make the short walk down the hall to my bedroom. I can’t help but stop along the way to eavesdrop on my parents’ conversation.
Mom whispers, “I can’t bring myself to tell him that those white folks won’t be any different than the ones here. He can be so blind sometimes.”
Looking in my direction, Dad says, “Give him a chance to figure that out on his own.”
“But Elijah – ”
“We don’t know just how people in Chicago are. Some may be like the racist people in Mobile, some may not. That’s how it is everywhere; you search until you find people that fit you. That’s Nelson’s job, not ours.”
He nods towards my direction. Mom takes in a long breath and begins to aggressively scrub her hands. She works herself up when Dad tries to convince her to open her mind.
I push my door open and walk to my small, wooden desk. Whenever I feel uncertain about a decision, I gaze at the two framed pictures sitting on my desk.
The one on the left is of me and Dad downtown posing with one of my heroes, Hank Aaron. Whenever I look at that picture, I’m reminded of his ability to be the best baseball player there is. His being a black man rising from the segregated Mobile and an all-star player since 1955 gives me the strength and wisdom to never deter from my ambitions.
The second picture is my prized possession. It’s a photograph of my mother, father, three brothers and I huddling around our tiny, black and white television. We were watching Dr. Martin Luther Ling’s speech in Washington D.C. That was a very emotional day for our house on Davis Avenue. If you had walked into our home that day, you would have immediately witnessed tears flowing from both my mother and father. My mother’s behavior was expected – she is an adorer of Dr. Ling, but her fear of white people restricts her from joining the non-violent protests in Mobile. My father’s reaction, however, is what makes this picture special. He stared and nodded at the television like he was listening to one of Reverend Douglass’ fiery sermons. The ignored tears and stain his cheeks. His reaction offered a tiny glimpse, a tiny window into his more dormant, optimistic personality. It was surreal.
Every time I look at that photograph, I know that if a black man can lead over 200,000 people in the heart of our divided nation, I can pursue my college dreams in any city, and my father will support me.
Feeling more confident, I grip the copper handle of my small square drawer and slowly open it to retrieve my college application. I stare at the address.
The University of Chicago
5801 South Ellis Avenue
Chicago, Illinois 60637
Suddenly, hesitation slaps me in the face like a cold front in August. By mailing the application, I am choosing to be reborn. Reborn into a world where a racist isn’t in the majority. A world where a black man can sit in the front of the bus, use the same water fountain and be educated by the same teacher as a white person.
However, that same world won’t wake me up every to the sweet fumes of maple bacon, lock my family’s arms around me during church’s closing hymns, pitch baseballs to me every day after school, or console me by reminding me of my blessings.
Maybe Mom is right. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself by planning to move, like she said, almost a thousand miles away. Maybe I shouldn’t be so insistent on leaving behind everyone that loves me.
I set the application in front of the family photo around the television. I can’t help but think of Dr. King pointing out that, after one hundred years of emancipation, the Negro is still chained by the “manacles of segregation.” A future in Mobile would only keep my potential locked away from me. I would be wasting my life working menial jobs, being forced to respect my white “superiors,” and attending the funerals of friends murdered by the Klan.
I reach for some stamps from my drawer and stick them on my application. I stand, breathe in deeply, and walk outside towards the mailbox. On the way, I can’t help but hum that old gospel song:
Oh, deep in my heart
I do believe
We shall overcome
Some day
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