he wasn’t exaggerating. Seven years ago, I was there for a conference. You could look out the window of the hotel and see the flames. I remember the sound of sirens and the smell of smoke.
Bill draped an arm around the back of Sister’s chair and frowned. “I thought all that stopped after the Million Man March.”
That’s what I had thought too. I remember pictures of black men in groups of three and four standing, unarmed, on the corners of their communities, keeping watch, keeping peace, doing what good men are supposed to do, keeping an eye on the others so they don’t act a fool.
“Two years.” Nate shook his head like he was still incredulous at how quickly things went back to normal, if burning down your own neighborhood can be classified as normal, even in Detroit. “That’s as long as the brothers could sustain the effort. First year, they had patrols on every corner. Second year, they had less than half that many. By the third year, we were the only people on the street again. Just cops, and a few little kids whose parents didn’t care that they were out trying to trick-or-treat on a battlefield.”
Raising sane children in a place like that must be like learning how to swim in a whirlpool, I thought. Maybe it’s not impossible, but close enough.
“I think,” Bill said into the silence, “that every generation of men looks to test itself in battle. These young brothers didn’t have an outside war, so they made up one in their backyard.”
I never understood the idea of war as a manhood test. It requires and develops such a specific set of skills that the nextquestion has to be how do you translate the things that make a great soldier into the things that women want and children need from that very same man once the war is over?
At this point, brothers usually remind me that the war is not over, and I can’t argue with that, but I also know the most lethal campaign being waged by black men is not against white men. It’s against the women they say they love and the children they don’t make time to care for—and what kind of manhood test is that?
This line of reasoning was not going to do much for my disposition. Besides, Sister had said no worrying allowed tonight, so I turned to her for assistance.
“You think they’d be open to another kind of manhood test,” I said, hoping she’d follow my lead. “A dance contest or something?”
She grinned at me like she knew exactly what I was doing. “How about karaoke?”
“Good one,” I said. “Or bid whist.”
“Double Dutch,” she said, nodding. “Snow shoveling.”
We were on a roll. Bill and Nate, unsure of the proper response to this sudden swerve toward frivolity, looked at each other uncertainly.
“Hula-Hoops,” I said, looking at Nate. “Pie eating.”
“I think,” Bill said slowly, “this means it’s time to change the subject.”
Nate looked at me real hard and then he grinned a grin as big as he was and held out his plate to Sister. “Speak for yourself, man. I’m a pie-eatin’ somethin’ when I put my mind to it!”
We all laughed then, partly because it was funny, but partly because forgetting how to have a good time on Saturday night is as lethal as smoking crack. It just takes a little longer to kill you.
TEN
all i can do
“I LIKE HIM,” SISTER said after we had all reluctantly decided it was time to say good night and Nate had headed back to the Motel 6.
“I liked him too.”
Bill, as always the perfect combination of liberated partner and traditional husband, had gone outside to brush the snow off my windshield and warm up the car. The idea of staying inside his cozy kitchen while I scraped the back window would never have occurred to him. He saw me watching out the window and blew me a kiss. Bill loves an audience.
“I thought you might,” Sister said.
She was holding my coat with a look of pure innocence, which didn’t fool me for a second.
“Stop matchmaking. I’m old enough to be
Bill draped an arm around the back of Sister’s chair and frowned. “I thought all that stopped after the Million Man March.”
That’s what I had thought too. I remember pictures of black men in groups of three and four standing, unarmed, on the corners of their communities, keeping watch, keeping peace, doing what good men are supposed to do, keeping an eye on the others so they don’t act a fool.
“Two years.” Nate shook his head like he was still incredulous at how quickly things went back to normal, if burning down your own neighborhood can be classified as normal, even in Detroit. “That’s as long as the brothers could sustain the effort. First year, they had patrols on every corner. Second year, they had less than half that many. By the third year, we were the only people on the street again. Just cops, and a few little kids whose parents didn’t care that they were out trying to trick-or-treat on a battlefield.”
Raising sane children in a place like that must be like learning how to swim in a whirlpool, I thought. Maybe it’s not impossible, but close enough.
“I think,” Bill said into the silence, “that every generation of men looks to test itself in battle. These young brothers didn’t have an outside war, so they made up one in their backyard.”
I never understood the idea of war as a manhood test. It requires and develops such a specific set of skills that the nextquestion has to be how do you translate the things that make a great soldier into the things that women want and children need from that very same man once the war is over?
At this point, brothers usually remind me that the war is not over, and I can’t argue with that, but I also know the most lethal campaign being waged by black men is not against white men. It’s against the women they say they love and the children they don’t make time to care for—and what kind of manhood test is that?
This line of reasoning was not going to do much for my disposition. Besides, Sister had said no worrying allowed tonight, so I turned to her for assistance.
“You think they’d be open to another kind of manhood test,” I said, hoping she’d follow my lead. “A dance contest or something?”
She grinned at me like she knew exactly what I was doing. “How about karaoke?”
“Good one,” I said. “Or bid whist.”
“Double Dutch,” she said, nodding. “Snow shoveling.”
We were on a roll. Bill and Nate, unsure of the proper response to this sudden swerve toward frivolity, looked at each other uncertainly.
“Hula-Hoops,” I said, looking at Nate. “Pie eating.”
“I think,” Bill said slowly, “this means it’s time to change the subject.”
Nate looked at me real hard and then he grinned a grin as big as he was and held out his plate to Sister. “Speak for yourself, man. I’m a pie-eatin’ somethin’ when I put my mind to it!”
We all laughed then, partly because it was funny, but partly because forgetting how to have a good time on Saturday night is as lethal as smoking crack. It just takes a little longer to kill you.
TEN
all i can do
“I LIKE HIM,” SISTER said after we had all reluctantly decided it was time to say good night and Nate had headed back to the Motel 6.
“I liked him too.”
Bill, as always the perfect combination of liberated partner and traditional husband, had gone outside to brush the snow off my windshield and warm up the car. The idea of staying inside his cozy kitchen while I scraped the back window would never have occurred to him. He saw me watching out the window and blew me a kiss. Bill loves an audience.
“I thought you might,” Sister said.
She was holding my coat with a look of pure innocence, which didn’t fool me for a second.
“Stop matchmaking. I’m old enough to be
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